Measures

The Academy bells rang at dawn, iron tones rolling over the spires and courtyards. For the first time since the trials, there were no summons to fight or defend. Instead, the aspirants were herded through marble corridors into a vast chamber Lucien had never seen before.

The Hall of Measure.

Pillars lined the walls, each etched with runes that shimmered faintly like veins of molten silver. In the center stood a great stone obelisk carved with symbols that shifted as though alive, light chasing endlessly across its surface.

Rowan stood near the front, arms folded. “You’ve shown us what steel can do,” he said, his voice filling the chamber. “Now you’ll show us what the invisible half of your strength looks like. Your mana will be measured today. For some of you, this will be a confirmation. For others… a humiliation. Accept both with grace.”

A low murmur ran through the crowd. Lucien’s stomach twisted. He had wielded mana before, yes — light sparking down his sword, fire answering his call in the trial’s heat — but he knew his control was unsteady. Arian had always been the one with precise, flowing magic, like music threading through his veins.

One by one, names were called. Each aspirant stepped forward to place a hand against the obelisk. Light flared, colors twisting upward, and a voice echoed the reading: rank, affinity, capacity.

“Darius of Kareth.” The broad-shouldered warrior stepped up. The obelisk glowed deep crimson and storm-gray. High capacity. Affinity: fire and earth. The hall buzzed with approval, though Darius only gave a curt nod before returning to the line.

“Elira of Stormvale.” Pale blue light burst upward, threaded with streaks of silver. Moderate capacity. Affinity: wind and steel. Elira grinned smugly, tossing her braid over her shoulder as if daring anyone to doubt her.

“Caelith of Elorien.” The crowd hushed. Elves were rare in these halls, and whispers followed Cael wherever he walked. His steps were silent as he approached the obelisk, journal tucked under one arm. When his slender hand pressed against the stone, light erupted — cool sapphire, dazzling and steady. High capacity. Affinity: ice, light.

Gasps broke out. Even Rowan’s brow lifted slightly. Caelith withdrew without comment, his expression unreadable as he returned to the line.

Lucien’s turn came. His pulse thundered as he pressed his palm to the cold stone. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then heat surged up his arm and light burst forth — golden fire, flickering unsteady but bright. The voice intoned: Moderate capacity. Affinity: fire.

Not low. Not shameful. But not what he’d hoped for either.

When he pulled back, he caught Caelith’s icy gaze lingering on him. Not judgmental — simply measuring. Lucien looked away quickly.

---

By midday the measurements were finished. Rankings were posted on parchment along the hall’s wall, names divided into tiers. Lucien found his own in the middle cluster — respectable, forgettable. Darius near the top, Elira close behind. And Caelith, glittering near the very peak.

“Don’t scowl so hard,” Elira teased when she caught Lucien studying the parchment. “You look like you’re about to set it on fire just to move your name higher.”

Lucien managed a dry smile. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

She laughed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Not bad, noble. Not bad.”

---

That evening, the aspirants were finally shown to their dormitories. The men were taken down a long hall of oak doors, each marked with runes of warding.

Lucien was led to a chamber with two beds, two trunks, and narrow windows that looked over the training fields. His roommate — Toren Malrik, the scarred boy who had fought alongside him in the trial. Toren gave him a single glance, grunted, and set about sharpening his blade. Conversation, it seemed, was not in his nature.

Lucien unpacked slowly, arranging what few belongings he had: a spare tunic, a worn book of histories, and the pendant Arian had once given him. The room smelled faintly of oil and steel, plain but serviceable.

Across the hall, laughter echoed. Elira’s voice carried, joined by another boy’s boastful tones. Somewhere further down, a healer scolded a group for setting off a minor spark of magic indoors. The dorms, it seemed, would never be quiet.

Caelith’s room was on another floor entirely. Lucien passed it once on his way to the baths — the door closed, pale light seeping from beneath. He paused, tempted to knock, but footsteps down the hall drove him on.

Later, in the common hall where aspirants gathered to eat, Lucien finally found Caelith again. The elf sat alone at the end of the table, journal open beside his untouched meal. Lucien slid onto the bench across from him, ignoring the curious looks from others.

“You didn’t seem surprised by your measurement,” Lucien said quietly.

Caelith’s icy eyes lifted. “Should I have been? Mana is what it is. Numbers only matter to those who fear them.”

Lucien frowned. “Easy for you to say. You’re at the top.”

A faint, almost sardonic smile ghosted across Caelith’s lips. “Do you think that makes me safe here? Strong mana paints a target on your back. Weak mana lets you vanish. Both have their uses.”

Lucien didn’t know how to respond. But as Caelith returned to his journal, a strange steadiness settled over him. The Academy was a labyrinth of rivalries and ranks, yet somehow, sitting across from Caelith, he didn’t feel entirely alone.

---

That night, lying in his dormitory bed, Lucien stared at the ceiling beams. Toren’s steady breathing filled the silence. Beyond the window, the towers of the Academy stretched into the dark, their runes glowing faintly against the night sky.

He touched the earring at his ear again, whispering into the dark. “Arian… if you’re out there, I’ll find you. Even if I have to claw my way through every wall this place builds.”

Sleep did not come easily.

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