The training yard smelled of sweat and steel, but this time the recruits were not led to the sparring rings. Instead, they were herded down a narrow corridor beneath the dormitories, their boots echoing on stone steps that twisted into the earth.
Kaelen frowned as the air grew cooler. Torches sputtered against damp walls, their flames painting long shadows. He exchanged a glance with Deren, who shrugged, grinning as if any mystery promised mischief.
At last, they stepped into a chamber unlike any Kaelen had ever seen. The ceiling was vaulted, carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Shelves laden with jars of chalk, bone dust, and strange minerals lined the walls. A wide circle was etched into the floor, its grooves filled with powdered silver.
"Not swords today," Deren muttered. "Looks more like a place to summon ghosts."
"Quiet," snapped one of the wardens.
A robed figure entered from the far side of the chamber. Her mantle was deep crimson, clasped with iron. Age had carved lines into her face, though her eyes gleamed sharp as glass.
"I am Magister Elowen," she said. "Some of you will learn from me. Most of you will fail."
The recruits shifted uneasily.
Elowen gestured to the silvered circle. "Magic is not granted by gods or whispered by saints. It is the shaping of will into form. Today you will attempt the first spark. Place your palm on the circle. Call the flame. If you cannot coax it forth, then you are useless to me."
She turned, pointing a bony finger. "You first."
A pale boy knelt. He pressed his hand to the silver grooves, shut his eyes. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint wisp of fire licked across his palm before vanishing. The recruits murmured, impressed.
Elowen gave no praise. "Adequate. Next."
One by one, recruits stepped forward. Some failed outright, their palms remaining cold. Others coaxed faint sparks, enough to pass. A rare few drew brief but brilliant flames that lit the chamber with sudden brightness.
Kaelen's stomach twisted. He had never tried magic before. Lyra had teased him often in the underground library, holding a candle and saying he'd be the sort to trip in the dark. He had laughed then. He wasn't laughing now.
"Next," Elowen called.
A girl stepped forward, her dark hair bound in a loose braid. She moved with quiet confidence, her eyes bright and alert. Kaelen hadn't noticed her much among the recruits until now.
She knelt, pressed her palm to the circle, and without hesitation whispered a word under her breath. The grooves of silver flared. A flame rose in her hand, not a weak flicker but a steady burn, golden and sure. Gasps echoed around the chamber.
The girl smiled faintly, almost smug, before releasing the flame. She looked toward the line of recruits and her eyes caught Kaelen's. They were sharp, green as forest glass. For a moment, it felt like she could see right through him.
Elowen gave her a curt nod. "Maeve. Promising."
Kaelen shifted on his feet. Promising. Of course she had a name. Of course she had talent.
Elowen's gaze swept the line. It landed on Kaelen. "You."
His throat went dry. He stepped forward, kneeling before the circle. The cold silver pressed against his palm. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.
Breathe. Will. Flame.
He thought of torches in the barracks. Of the hearth in his mother's home. Of Lyra holding a candle in the dark library, shadows dancing against the walls. He thought of warmth, of fire, of everything he could conjure.
Nothing.
Sweat prickled on his brow. He clenched his jaw, forcing every bit of strength into his hand. The grooves remained lifeless.
A faint chuckle reached his ears. Someone in the line whispered.
Kaelen gritted his teeth. Come on. Anything.
Still nothing.
"Enough," Elowen said flatly.
Kaelen lifted his hand. His palm was damp with sweat, but cold as stone.
"Little to no talent," Elowen declared, turning away as though he were already forgotten.
Laughter flickered again through the recruits, hushed but cruel.
Kaelen stood, his fists tight. His ears burned.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Maeve watching him. Not mockingly, but curiously. She tilted her head, as if studying a puzzle. Then, as he returned to the line, she leaned close enough for him to hear her whisper.
"Couldn't even light a candle," she murmured.
He shot her a glare. She only smirked, a spark of amusement in her eyes.
That night in the barracks, Deren plopped down beside him on the cot.
"Don't sulk," Deren said, nudging his shoulder. "You've got a blade arm. Not everyone needs fire in their hands. Me, I'll settle for not setting my breeches alight."
Kaelen managed a laugh, though it was hollow.
"Still," Deren went on, "that Maeve girl looked like she'd been born with a torch in her fist. Did you see that flame? Half of us nearly pissed ourselves."
Kaelen scowled. "I saw."
"She's sharp, though," Deren added. "Sharper than she lets on. Careful with that one."
Kaelen didn't answer. He lay back, staring at his hand. He curled his fingers into a fist, wishing a flame would appear — even the faintest spark.
But nothing came.
The following days were filled with whispers. Some recruits already called Maeve "the prodigy." Others repeated jokes at Kaelen's expense, some lighthearted, others cruel.
Kaelen threw himself into the yard with renewed ferocity, his sword arm growing surer by the day. If he could not conjure fire, he would master steel. Yet at night, when the torches flickered low, he could still hear Maeve's voice:
"Couldn't even light a candle."
And though her words stung, he found himself listening for them.