Breaking Point

The midterm examinations arrived like the tolling of a funeral bell. For weeks, the Academy had buzzed with nervous energy—students staying up late in the library, practicing spells until their voices cracked, comparing notes and tips in hushed whispers. For most, the exams meant prestige, advancement, and recognition. For me, they meant something else entirely.

They were my chance to claw back what I had lost.

After Serenya’s kidnapping, after her faint, damning words—“he is not human”—I had been released from detention but only under constant watch. The staff never said it aloud, but I could see it in their eyes: they believed me guilty, just clever enough to hide it. The royals, my supposed friends, were no longer a shield. Amara still defended me, though her voice wavered more often now. Cedric looked at me as though every breath I took offended him. Duric cracked fewer jokes in my presence. Selindra was silent, and Serenya, though she had awoken, remembered nothing of her ordeal—or so she claimed.

So this exam wasn’t just about spells. It was about survival. If I could prove myself—cleanly, flawlessly—I might yet salvage their trust.

The exam hall was the Academy’s central arena, a vast circular chamber lined with banners of each kingdom. Hundreds of students filled the seats, chattering nervously. Professors sat at long tables, quills ready to record results. At the far end, looming like judges, stood the student council. Their presence wasn’t required, but no one dared question it. They stood with folded arms and carefully neutral expressions, as though they were merely here to observe.

But I felt their eyes. Always on me.

“Candidates will demonstrate control over basic sequences of their chosen magic,” the headmaster announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. “Precision, stability, and composure will be assessed.”

One by one, students were called. Some wavered, their spells sputtering with nervous energy. Others dazzled, conjuring perfect spheres of flame or water, drawing polite applause. The royals each took their turns—Amara with her graceful flame-dance, Cedric with his steady wall of water, Serenya with a luminous light construct that drew gasps despite her recent trauma.

Then came my name.

“Alexander Redcliffe.”

The murmurs began instantly. “That’s him.” “The cursed one.” “Let’s see if he explodes again.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my legs to move. The arena floor felt vast and empty as I stepped into the center. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to breathe evenly. This was my chance. I wouldn’t fail.

I bowed toward the judges’ table. “With permission, I will demonstrate the elemental sequence.”

The headmaster gave a curt nod.

I raised my hands, feeling the familiar pull of mana, the comforting rhythm of spellwork I had practiced a hundred times. “Wind,” I murmured, conjuring a small, contained spiral of air. It swirled gently around my arm—steady, calm. A good start.

“Fire.” A small orb of flame bloomed above my palm, heat licking at my skin. I willed it into balance with the wind, the two elements swirling in harmony.

Then—“Water.”

A stream of liquid coalesced, completing the triad. My heart soared. For a moment, everything worked perfectly, exactly as it should. The flames flickered but didn’t rage. The wind carried but didn’t overwhelm. The water flowed smoothly.

Then it twisted.

Without warning, the fireball flared, growing wild and unstable. The water boiled into steam, the wind whipped into a gale. The control I’d maintained snapped in an instant, and the combined forces detonated outward with a roar.

I was thrown to the floor. The explosion slammed against the arena’s protective barrier, rippling it violently. Screams erupted in the stands.

By the time I scrambled to my knees, coughing in the acrid smoke, the damage was done. The protective barrier still held—but only barely. Charred scorch marks spiderwebbed across its surface.

Gasps and shouts filled the hall.

“Dangerous—!”
“He could’ve killed us—!”
“I knew it—he’s a monster—”

The headmaster’s voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp. “Enough! Silence!”

The chamber quieted, but the weight of every eye pressed down on me.

“Alexander Redcliffe,” the headmaster intoned, “your display was reckless beyond measure. You are hereby suspended from all practical casting until further notice.”

My stomach dropped. “No—please! It wasn’t me! I had it under control—someone—something interfered—”

The words sounded desperate even to my own ears.

From the judges’ table, professors shook their heads, muttering about irresponsibility. Students in the stands jeered or whispered. And at the far end, the student council stood impassive.

Except for Valen.

Just for a moment, as the smoke cleared, I caught his expression. A flicker of satisfaction, quickly buried beneath a mask of cool composure. He leaned toward the council’s vice president and murmured something, and the other student smirked faintly.

No one else noticed. But I did.

I turned desperately to the royals, seeking even a shred of support.

Amara’s face was pale, stricken. She shook her head, as if torn between belief and doubt. Cedric’s jaw was clenched, his glare sharp enough to pierce armor. Duric, uncharacteristically grim, said nothing at all. Selindra’s gaze was cold, assessing—as though filing the incident away as evidence. Serenya, seated still pale from her ordeal, flinched when our eyes met.

Not one of them spoke for me.

The guards moved to escort me from the arena. As they took my arms, I heard the whispers rising again, louder than ever.

“Monster.”
“Not human.”
“Demon.”

And in that moment, I understood: it didn’t matter how carefully I walked, how hard I tried. Someone had already decided my fate.

And I was falling straight into their hands.