Shadows between flames

The arena had dissolved into silence. The circle’s fires guttered out one by one, leaving only the faint shimmer of moonlight across the broken stones. Bodies—real and illusory alike—had vanished with the smoke, but the memory of them clung to every aspirant’s eyes.

Lucien’s chest heaved with the effort of holding himself upright. Sweat rolled into his collar, stinging his cuts, but he refused to stumble before the watching examiners. Seraine sheathed her bloodied daggers with a single fluid motion, though her jaw was clenched tight. Toren slumped against his axe, scowling at the smoldering ground.

Around them, groups were gathering in uneven clusters: some intact, some reduced to a single survivor. Marian’s spear still glowed faintly with flame as she stood tall, chin raised, Kalen at her shoulder and Caelith just behind them—pale and drawn, but alive.
Their eyes met across the arena.

Lucien’s breath caught. Caelith’s icy blue gaze was unreadable, yet there was something in it—a question, a pull—that made Lucien want to step forward, bridge the distance, shake off the weight of exhaustion just to stand nearer.

But Rowan’s voice cut through the haze.
“Form ranks,” he ordered, his tone sharper than before. “The Circle has not finished with you yet.”

A murmur rippled through the aspirants. Not finished ? The words tasted like ash on Lucien’s tongue.

---

The examiners advanced, robes trailing smoke. The sharp-eyed one lifted his staff.

“The Circle measures more than your blades. It weighs your loyalties.” His gaze lingered on the fractured groups, some survivors glaring at one another with blame.

“Tonight you fought as companies. Tomorrow you will be broken apart again. Bonds will be tested, severed, reforged.”

A few groans rose; Toren muttered something crude under his breath. Seraine only tilted her head, studying the examiner with narrow eyes.

Lucien, however, felt his stomach twist. Broken apart again? He had only just begun to understand how to fight alongside Seraine’s precision and Toren’s brute force. And Caelith—

He forced that thought down. Focus, Lucien. Don’t let them see your weakness.

The staff struck stone with a crack that echoed like thunder. “The night is yours. Rest—if you can.”

---

The aspirants spilled out into the Academy’s barracks, some limping, others silent with shock. Lucien dragged himself to the long hall of cots and collapsed onto one, barely able to tug off his boots. The scent of old wood and faint incense clung to the air.

He let his head sink back against the rough pillow, but sleep did not come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flames twisting into the shape of Arian’s smile, Caelith’s pale silhouette flickering on the other side of the arena.

When he finally stirred again, it was because someone had touched his arm.

“Lucien,” Seraine’s voice was low, close.
He blinked up at her. She stood by his cot, hair damp from washing, shadows curling beneath her sharp cheekbones.

“You fought well today,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

Lucien gave a faint laugh. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Her lips quirked. “Don’t get used to it.” Then, after a pause: “You held us together. Toren would’ve burned out on his own.”

Lucien frowned, sitting up a little. “And you?”
Seraine’s eyes lingered on him—too long, too intent. “I don’t need anyone to steady me.”

Something in her tone made his pulse quicken, though he didn’t know if it was from pride or warning. Before he could answer, Toren’s voice barked from the far end of the hall:

“Oi, Veynar! Stop whispering sweet nothings and get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll need every bone in our bodies intact.”

Seraine rolled her eyes, but there was the faintest flush at her ears as she turned away.

Lucien stared after her, unsettled. What was that?

---

He barely managed a few hours’ rest before dawn broke, spilling pale light through the barracks windows. The examiners summoned them back to the courtyard, where the mist had returned, curling thick as wool.

This time, the sharp-eyed examiner did not speak first. Instead, another figure emerged from the fog—a woman in silver-grey robes, her hair bound with iron clasps. Her presence was heavier, colder, as if the mist bent toward her.

“I am Maelira,” she said, her voice like frost on steel. “You endured the Circle of Steel. Now comes the Circle of Chains.”

A chill rippled through Lucien. Chains.
Maelira raised her hand. Illusions shimmered into being around them: phantoms of themselves, bound by iron shackles, kneeling in the dirt. Each phantom looked up, and Lucien felt his chest seize—the one before him bore Arian’s face.

“Chains,” Maelira intoned, “are not always forged of iron. They may be fear. Guilt. Desire. Betrayal. Break them—or be broken.”

The phantoms dissolved. The ground beneath their feet shifted, tilting into shadowed corridors.

Lucien stumbled, barely catching his balance as the courtyard melted away, reforming into a prison of black stone.

He was alone.

---

The corridors stretched endlessly, each one lined with cells. Within each barred chamber, figures writhed: some strangers, others faces Lucien recognized—his parents, Rowan, even Caelith. Their hands reached out through the bars, eyes pleading.

“Lucien,” Caelith’s voice whispered from one cell. “Please. Don’t leave me here.”

Lucien’s chest tightened painfully. The illusion’s icy eyes were wide with fear, and though some part of him knew it wasn’t real, another part screamed to act.

He gripped the bars, knuckles white. “This isn’t you. This isn’t—”

The phantom smiled suddenly, cruelly. “But it is what you fear. Isn’t it?”

Lucien staggered back. His blade felt heavy at his side. No. I won’t fall for this.

But then another voice echoed, low and taunting.

“You couldn’t save Arian.”

Arian's mother’s phantom stood just ahead, unchained, watching him with cold accusation.

Lucien’s knees almost buckled. He clenched his fists, fighting the tremor in them. “I… I will not break.”

The corridors pulsed, chains rattling all around. Somewhere deeper within, he heard the screams of other aspirants—Toren bellowing, Seraine cursing, Marian’s voice sharp with command.

They’re all being tested too, Lucien realized. Some of us will find our way out. Some won’t.

---

When he finally forced himself onward, he found another chamber—wider, the chains crossing like a web. And there, suspended within, was Caelith.

Not the phantom. The real one. His violet hair was tangled, his body bound in coils of iron. His eyes opened sluggishly, locking on Lucien.

“Lucien…” His voice was ragged. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Lucien’s pulse thundered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t leave you like this.”
Caelith gave a faint, pained smile. “This trial… it’s not meant to be passed together. If you waste yourself here—”

“Enough,” Lucien snapped, stepping closer. His blade ignited with golden flame. “I don’t care what they want. I don’t fight alone.”

The chains writhed like serpents, tightening around Caelith, striking toward Lucien. He slashed, sparks flying. Each cut burned his muscles, each step forward heavier than the last. But he kept moving.

Caelith’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with something warmer, something that made Lucien’s throat ache. “You’re a fool,” he whispered.

“Then I’ll be a fool who saves you,” Lucien growled, driving his blade down into the heart of the chains.

The web shattered, fragments of iron dissolving into light. Caelith collapsed into his arms, light and trembling.

For a long moment they stayed there, pressed together in the hollow silence of the shattered chamber. Lucien felt the frailty of Caelith’s frame, the warmth of his breath against his neck. His own heart was hammering far too fast.

Caelith stirred weakly. “Lucien… you weren’t meant to… This will cost you.”

Lucien only tightened his hold. “Then let it cost me.”

---

The chamber dissolved around them, mist curling back into the courtyard. One by one, aspirants reappeared—some standing tall, some collapsing to their knees. Others did not return at all.

Lucien still held Caelith against him when the examiner’s voice rang out again:

“Chains are broken by sacrifice. Remember what you gave, and what you lost.”

Lucien’s hand tightened around Caelith’s shoulder, his golden eyes burning. I will not lose him.

Not again.

•••