No sign of Arian

The Academy’s great courtyard was no longer the glittering stage of triumph it had been on the morning of the trials. Broken banners drooped from marble columns, the smell of scorched stone and charred wards still clung to the air, and healers hurried past with stretchers carrying bruised, bloodied aspirants.

Lucien sat slumped on the edge of the fountain, chest heaving. His sword lay across his knees, its once-pristine edge dulled with soot. His whole body ached, every muscle heavy with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the knot tightening in his chest.

Across the courtyard, Rowan stood tall despite his own battered state, conferring with the examiners. Even now the knight’s presence carried weight—commanding, steady, unyielding. Lucien was grateful for it. Without Rowan, he doubted he’d still be on his feet.

But what gnawed at him wasn’t his own exhaustion. It was absence.

No sign of Arian.

The trial had stretched over hours, group after group tested until most could barely stand. Some had triumphed, others barely scraped through, and more than a few had failed. Lucien hadn’t expected to emerge unscathed—but he hadn’t expected the silence afterward to feel so suffocating either.

A burst of laughter pulled him from his thoughts. A group of successful aspirants had gathered under one of the banners, congratulating one another with tired grins and clumsy embraces. Among them he spotted Elira—the wiry girl with quick knives and quicker temper—laughing as she nudged one of her teammates. Her pale braid was loose and dusted with ash, but her smile burned bright all the same.

Near her, Darius—the boy from the northern steppes who had fought like a thunderstorm—leaned against a pillar, arms folded, watching the healers move with a gaze as sharp as his twin axes. His bronze skin gleamed with sweat, and his dark hair clung to his forehead. Despite his stoic demeanor, he nodded respectfully when Lucien’s eyes met his. A warrior’s recognition of another who had endured.

Caelith was there too, though apart from the others. He sat beneath a tree at the edge of the courtyard, pale hair loose around his shoulders, the journal balanced on one knee. His icy eyes were cast downward, but every so often flicked up—measuring, observing, never quite letting himself be swallowed by the crowd.

Lucien’s throat tightened. The memory of Caelith’s calm voice during the trials lingered: “If Arian lives, he will come here. If you go blindly, you may never find him.”

Lucien wanted to believe those words. But as the day bled into dusk, belief was harder to hold.

Rowan approached at last, his armor bearing fresh scratches but his expression composed. He sat beside Lucien on the fountain, the stone groaning faintly under his weight.

“You held your ground,” Rowan said, voice quiet enough not to carry. “Better than some seasoned men I’ve seen.”

Lucien gave a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“That’s because you measure yourself against ghosts,” Rowan replied, sharp eyes narrowing. “You think of Arian with every strike, every breath. That weight can drive you forward—or it can break you. Which will it be?”

Lucien didn’t answer. His gaze wandered again, restless.

---

That night, the aspirants were gathered in the Hall of Spires, the vaulted chamber lit by hundreds of hovering flames. Names were read aloud, one by one, echoing against the marble walls. Those who passed stood to the left, those who failed to the right.

Lucien’s heart hammered as the examiner’s voice rolled over the crowd.

“Elira of Stormvale.” The girl strode forward, chin high, relief bright in her eyes as she joined the left side.

“Darius of Kareth.” The warrior moved with slow, deliberate steps, expression unchanged though his clenched fists betrayed the tension he hid.

“Caelith of Elorien.” A pause followed the name. Caelith rose quietly, drawing a few lingering stares. His kind were rare here, and suspicion always lingered in the corners of the hall. But he ignored them, walking with calm grace to stand among the accepted.

Lucien exhaled slowly. His turn was coming.
At last: “Lucien of House Veynar.”

He rose, legs stiff, and walked toward the examiner’s gaze. Whispers stirred in his wake—noble-born, yes, but battered, bruised, and bloodstained like all the rest. He met the examiner’s eyes and held them, refusing to bow his head.

“You pass,” the voice intoned.

The words hit him like a blade sheathed in ice. Relief, disbelief, a surge of triumph so fierce it left him dizzy. He joined the left side, forcing his breathing steady.

But even as the ceremony went on, he felt the hollowness gnaw at the edges of victory. The list of names dwindled. Arian’s never came.

---

Later, long after the hall had emptied, Lucien lingered in the shadowed cloisters. The moonlight spilled silver across the stone, painting the academy towers in pale fire. His fingers brushed the earring he wore—the twin to Arian’s.

“You should be here,” he whispered. His voice cracked in the silence. “You should be standing beside me.”

The sound of approaching footsteps made him stiffen. He turned to find Caelith emerging from the archway, journal still in hand.

“You were searching the list,” Caelith said softly. It wasn’t a question.

Lucien swallowed hard. “I kept expecting his name. As if it might appear at the last moment.”

Caelith’s blue eyes lingered on him, cool and clear. “Hope can be cruel,” he murmured. “But it is better than despair. One keeps you moving. The other makes you stop.”

Lucien wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come.

For a moment they stood in silence, the night wrapping them in its hush. Then Caelith inclined his head, faint as a bow, and turned back toward the dormitories.

Rowan’s voice drifted from behind Lucien, low and steady. “We passed the test, Lucien. But your true trial waits beyond these walls.”

Lucien closed his eyes, the ache in his chest deepening. He knew Rowan was right. Passing the exam was only the beginning.
And somewhere beyond the forest, beyond the reach of the Academy’s towers—Arian’s fate still hung in the balance.

•••