The gates

The Academy gates towered like a mountain of iron and stone, their arch engraved with constellations and ancient runes that pulsed faintly with restrained power. Beyond them stretched courtyards and marble halls, windows catching the new sun until they shone like fire.

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat.

He had dreamed of this moment—passing beneath those gates, walking among the chosen. But the ache in his chest made the air taste bitter. Arian should have been at his side, grinning like a fool, mocking Lucien’s nerves. Instead, the empty space beside him yawned wide as the sea.

Rowan’s steady stride kept him moving. The knight’s armor glimmered in the light, polished as though for war. His hand rested casually near the hilt of his sword, but Lucien knew the ease was practiced, ready to snap into defense at a heartbeat.

“Keep your head high,” Rowan murmured. “The examiners smell fear like hounds.”

Lucien huffed, though his lips barely twitched. “Easy for you to say. You’ve already proven yourself a hundred times over.”

“True,” Rowan said, the corner of his mouth quirking, “but I also know you. And you’re more ready than you think.”

The gates groaned open. A surge of aspirants pressed forward—dozens of youths in fine coats or plain tunics, some armored, others cloaked in mage-robes. Their faces burned with ambition, fear, and hunger. Crimson banners flared overhead, and officials in the Academy’s silver-trimmed attire called names, checking parchments against the flood of hopefuls.

Lucien moved with them, though his eyes strayed toward every pale-haired passerby, every frail frame in the crowd. None of them were Arian.

---

The outer courtyard swallowed them, vast as a parade ground. Tall columns ringed the square, carved with the three spires encircled by flame—the Academy’s sigil. Statues of old heroes loomed, some swords raised, others holding tomes or staves. The air vibrated faintly, magic woven into the very stones.

An examiner, sharp-eyed and severe, raised his voice. “All candidates for entry, gather!”

The crowd obeyed.

Lucien drew a deep breath, steadying himself. He had endured training under Rowan’s watch, bruises and exhaustion and late nights with a sword too heavy for his hands. He had faced bandits on the road, and worse things still. This was only another trial.

But when he touched the earring at his ear, his hands trembled.

---

“First trial,” the examiner declared, unrolling a scroll. His voice carried easily across the square. “The test of Resolve. The Academy does not desire only strength of arm or spell. It demands will.”

The ground shifted beneath them. Lucien staggered, heart lurching, as the cobblestones shuddered and dissolved into mist. The courtyard melted away. In its place rose shadowed woods, twisting trees dripping with silver leaves. A phantom world, conjured whole by ancient magic.

A murmur rippled through the aspirants.

“The labyrinth awaits,” the examiner intoned.

“Within lies your measure. You will face what you fear, what you desire, what you cannot easily name. Reach the flame at the heart of the maze, and you pass. Falter, and you are unworthy.”

A hush followed. Then, one by one, the aspirants stepped forward, vanishing into the living fog.

Rowan clapped Lucien’s shoulder. “Remember—you’ve weathered worse truths than any illusion can conjure. Trust yourself.”

Lucien swallowed hard. He had no choice but to try.

---

Mist swallowed him whole.

The world blurred, branches clawing from the haze. His boots crunched on unseen gravel. For a heartbeat, he heard nothing but his own breath.

Then—

“Lucien.”

His blood froze.

Arian stood a few paces ahead, pale hair catching the dim glow, violet eyes bright with relief. He wore the gloves Lucien had given him, unmarred, his smile soft and real.

“I knew you’d come,” Arian whispered, reaching out a hand.

Lucien’s heart cracked. The ache became unbearable. He wanted to run forward, to seize that hand, to never let go.

But a flicker of unease crawled up his spine. Rowan’s warning echoed in his mind: what you fear, what you desire.

Was this Arian—alive, found—or only the maze testing him with his deepest longing?

Lucien’s hand shook on his sword hilt.
If he reached for Arian and the illusion shattered… would he have the strength to keep going?

The mist curled tighter, as if waiting for his choice.

---

Lucien drew in a ragged breath. His fingers itched to close the distance, but instead he forced his hand to rest against the hilt of his sword.

“Arian wouldn’t be here.” His voice trembled. “Not like this.”

The illusion’s smile wavered.

“You’re not him.”

Arian’s image tilted his head, almost sadly. “And if I am?”

Lucien’s heart screamed to believe it. But he ground his teeth, shaking his head. “If you are, then forgive me.” He raised his blade. 

“Because I cannot let myself be deceived.”

The figure blurred, flickered, and dissolved into smoke.

The mist shuddered. Branches twisted, roots uncoiling like serpents. The path ahead stretched into shadow, narrow and treacherous. Lucien’s breath left him in a harsh exhale, but relief warred with grief in his chest.

He walked on.

---

The labyrinth did not relent.

Shadows crawled across the ground, taking form—bandits with wild eyes, their blades dripping blood. The shattered carriage loomed, fire flickering, the memory of screams pressing close. Lucien staggered back, lungs tight. He could smell smoke, hear Rowan’s distant shout, see Caelith’s haunted face.

“Not real,” he whispered, clutching the earring at his ear. “Not again.”

The phantoms advanced anyway. He swung his sword, steel cutting through mist that re-formed around him. They surrounded him, voices jeering, accusing—

You couldn’t protect them. You’ll fail again.

“No!” His roar tore from his chest. He slashed wide, pouring raw will into the strike. The phantoms shrieked, bursting apart like ash in wind. The path cleared.

Lucien staggered, chest heaving, but he did not fall.

---

Hours—or moments—bled together. The maze twisted, paths splitting and folding back upon themselves. Twice he thought he glimpsed other aspirants in the mist, but when he called, they vanished like mirages.

At last he stumbled into a clearing.

At its center burned a flame. Not fire as he knew it—this flame glowed white-gold, steady and unyielding, casting no smoke. It hovered above a pedestal of black stone.

The end. The heart of the maze.

Lucien sank to his knees, the ache of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. But a voice slid through the air, silken, sly.

“Is that truly what you want?”

The flame flared, twisting. From its light stepped a figure cloaked in shadow, its shape shifting, undefined. Eyes like molten gold burned in the dark.

“You long to save him,” it murmured. “Arian. Pale, fragile, precious. Yet you walk here instead, chasing your family’s ambition. What worth is Resolve if you abandon him?”

Lucien’s breath hitched.

The figure stepped closer, whispering like his own thoughts turned against him. “Throw it aside. Leave the Academy. Find him now, before it is too late. You know where your heart lies.”

The pedestal loomed before him, the flame pulsing like a heartbeat. His hand hovered inches from it.

To seize it was to pass. To turn away was to follow the voice, to plunge blindly into the unknown.

Lucien closed his eyes. He thought of Rowan’s vow: If he does not arrive by the exam’s end… then we go. He thought of Caelith’s quiet words: If you go blindly, you may never find him.

And he thought of Arian’s laugh, bright against all odds, fragile but alive.

His eyes snapped open, burning. “I’ll find him. But not like this.”

With a fierce cry, he thrust his hand into the flame.

Light consumed him.

---

When his vision cleared, he was back in the courtyard. Aspirants stumbled into place around him, each bearing the marks of their trial—ashen faces, trembling limbs, but eyes sharpened with new fire.

The examiners watched, inscrutable. One inclined his head. “Resolve… proven.”

Relief shuddered through Lucien, though the ache in his chest remained. He touched the earring at his ear, murmuring a vow too quiet for any to hear.

“Hold on, Arian. I’m coming.”

And in the crowd, he caught sight of Caelith emerging from the mist, violet hair damp with sweat, his icy blue eyes shining with quiet determination. Their gazes met. Caelith gave the faintest of nods, as if to say: You endured. I knew you would.

Lucien managed the barest smile in return.

But as the examiners prepared to announce the second trial, a sudden chill swept the square. The banners above them shivered though no wind stirred. For an instant, Lucien thought he saw a shadow ripple across the gates, dark as spilled ink.

It vanished before he could blink.

Yet unease gnawed at him. The labyrinth had shown him phantoms of fear and longing—but something else had looked back at him from the flame. Something that was no illusion.

And it knew his name.

•••