There was a knock at my door.
Not the polite kind. Not the "may I enter" kind.
This was the kind that sounded like a warning—three sharp thuds against iron, not stone. Someone who either didn't fear me or didn't care.
The sun hadn't risen yet. My window still faced a sky bleeding violet. My tea hadn't even cooled. The mirror hadn't stopped whispering from the night before.
I opened the door anyway.
Caidros stood there, arms folded, sword strapped but untouched.
He didn't say good morning. He didn't say my name.
He just said, "They want to see what you are."
I leaned against the doorframe. "They've had weeks."
He didn't blink. "This time it's a trial."
"Ah," I said, "so it's murder disguised as curriculum again."
"No." He tilted his head. "This time, it's worse."
—
They called it The Gauntlet.
A rite reserved for anomalies. Monsters. Students who didn't fit the mold and couldn't be expelled quietly. A "test of virtue," wrapped in formal language and ancient rites.
Translation?
A bloodsport where failure wasn't scored, it was buried.
No one said that aloud, of course. The Headmaster's decree came with all the usual flair: a public invitation, official Academy banners hung across the walls, even a guest list of nobles and royals sent by airship to witness the event.
All just to see me bleed.
I wasn't offended.
I was flattered.
—
The arena beneath the Academy was called the Crucible.
A perfect circle carved into the heart of the mountain, surrounded by tiers of black stone and enchantments older than most nations. The sky above it was artificial—a magic dome reflecting the true sky above Duskfall, streaked with clouds that didn't move and a sun that didn't warm.
They made me wait in the center.
No weapon. No shield. No armor.
I wore my uniform and my smile.
Around me, the crowd watched in silence. Faculty. Students. Foreign observers. And near the highest tier, veiled behind a shimmer of protective wards, sat the Headmaster.
Beside him, sipping tea like this was a garden party, sat Ravianne.
Her smile? Practiced.
Her eyes? Burning.
She didn't wave. She didn't nod.
But I heard her voice all the same, clear as if it were whispered in my ear.
"Show them what I raised."
The announcer's voice boomed across the Crucible.
"Trial of Gauntlet, contestant: Ael of House Everdusk, bearing no title, no crest, and no oath."
Laughter stirred in the stands.
I didn't care.
Titles were for the afraid.
I had something better.
History.
Waiting to be written.
"Let the Gauntlet begin!"
—
The first monster was easy.
A stonehide boar. Eight feet tall, tusks like war picks, skin like granite. It charged with a roar.
I didn't move.
Didn't summon a spell.
Didn't even dodge.
I whispered.
"Fall."
The shadow beneath me obeyed.
It rose like a black wave and struck the boar mid-charge, lifting it off the ground, slamming it back down hard enough to crack the floor. The beast howled.
Then silence.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They leaned in.
Curious now.
Nervous.
Good.
—
The next three beasts came together.
A flamecaller, a screeching nightmire, and a dusk wolf.
Elemental. Illusion. Speed.
I let them come close.
Close enough to smell the smoke, hear the claws scraping marble, feel the illusions trying to tear into my senses.
Then I spoke again.
"Burn," I whispered to the illusions.
They did.
"Bleed," I told the wolf.
Its eyes went white. It collapsed mid-leap, twitching.
The flamecaller launched fire at my chest.
I didn't dodge.
The fire curved away before it could reach me.
The audience gasped.
That wasn't a spell.
That was authority.
And they knew it.
—
By the time the fifth beast entered, the arena was quiet.
No jeering.
No mocking.
Just the weight of realization settling across the tiers.
They hadn't brought a student to be punished.
They'd invited something they didn't understand.
The fifth creature wasn't a beast.
It was a person.
Young. My age. Blonde. Gray robes. Sword drawn.
They wore a blindfold over both eyes.
I felt the magic the moment they stepped forward.
Divination-born. Time-seer.
They didn't look at me. They didn't speak.
They just moved.
And I understood something instantly.
This one wasn't meant to test me.
This one was meant to kill me.
—
The duel was silent.
Their blade sang through air like it had a vendetta. Every slash came milliseconds before I moved, as if they were predicting me in real time.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
The blade kissed my skin more than once.
Not deep.
But deliberate.
I should've been impressed.
I wasn't.
Because something inside me stirred.
The Fallen blood, usually content to hum and whisper, growled.
I blocked the next strike with my arm.
The blade met skin.
It should've cut.
It didn't.
My veins lit up gold.
My shadow surged.
And I roared.
Not with anger.
With music.
With command.
The entire arena trembled.
The sword in their hand melted. Not from heat.
From pressure.
From will.
The blindfold tore off.
And they looked at me.
Not with fear.
With awe.
"I see it now," they whispered.
"What?"
"You're not a boy."
They knelt.
"You're a crownless prince."
—
The audience didn't know what to do.
Some clapped. Others stood. A few ran.
But up in the high seat, Ravianne Everdusk just sipped her tea.
Satisfied.
Victorious.
And in the corner of her eye, I saw something glint.
A tear?
No.
A memory.
Of power, reborn.
—
After the Gauntlet, they didn't cheer for me.
They watched me.
Different now.
Like I was something waking beneath their feet.
Something divine.
Or something damned.
I returned to my tower alone.
But I wasn't alone anymore.
Not inside.
My reflection now had wings.
And a crown.
Not gold.
Not silver.
Shadow.
But it gleamed all the same.