The sea breeze tugged gently at the edges of her cloak.

  Karin stood at the edge of the Azure Wind camp, where canvas met open field and the land sloped downward toward Ocean Tide. The city gleamed beneath the afternoon sun—rooftops gilded in gold and bronze, sails dancing in the harbor, the faint hiss of a distant train.

  Her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel.

  She hadn’t spoken to anyone since they arrived. The walk from the carriage had been quiet—too quiet. And there was nothing to say.

  The scent of food drifted from the cookfires. Laughter stirred in the distance.

  But none of it reached her.

  This was the edge—of the camp, of the road, of whatever came next.

  Footsteps behind her.

  She didn’t turn.

  Zafran stopped a few paces away, gaze following hers to the far-off spires of the city.

  “Going in already?” he said.

  Karin nodded once. “Yes.”

  Then, a pause—before she gave a small chuckle.

  “I’ll be back for the rest of your payment later. Don’t worry—I’m not planning to run.”

  He shook his head with a faint smile. “You wouldn’t get far, if you did.”

  A pause. He shifted his weight slightly, boots scraping dry grass.

  “…Do you want someone to go with you?”

  The words almost made it out.

  But he didn’t say them.

  Instead, he just said, “Be careful.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I know.”

  She looked down at the dirt, then back up—toward the city, glowing beneath the waning sun.

  Zafran didn’t reply.

  She breathed in. “I’m going to see this through.”

  He gave a slow nod.

  Then she turned and walked—no more words needed—toward the city gates, toward the Academia.

  He watched her go.

  And when she disappeared from view, he remained there a moment longer, eyes still on the skyline.

  The wind picked up.

  Then he turned, and walked the other way—back into the tents of Azure Wind.

  The city gates loomed tall—gilded with brass and crowned with sharp stone archwork that caught the late light like a blade. Karin passed beneath them, and the full scope of Ocean Tide unfolded before her.

  The air smelled of salt and spice.

  Streets swept wide, paved in pale stone, curving through districts marked by banners, gardens, and towers that reached like fingers toward the sun. Horses clattered past. Merchants called beneath canopies of deep red and green. A train whistle cried in the distance, trailing smoke along its silver track, just visible beyond the eastern wall.

  And here and there—perched atop posts or suspended from ornate brass holders—glowed the strange new orbs of light.

  Electric. Artificial.

  Few. Flickering. But real.

  Fyonar’s touch was spreading.

  She kept walking.

  Past the market rings. Past the old outer courts. Through Ocean Tide’s mage district, where the buildings grew stranger—arched roofs and floating glass, sigils carved into the flagstones underfoot. Magic hung thick in the air, like scent or heat—subtle, but unmistakable.

  And then she saw it.

  The Academia.

  Not merely a tower, but a fortress of knowledge.

  Its walls were white stone—polished smooth, and reinforced with lines of golden weave that shimmered faintly in the light. Gates of darkwood and steel stood guarded, and above them rose the main spire—tall, sharp, wrapped in spiraling metal veins, like a root reaching back to the heavens.

  Around its base stretched a manicured garden: spirals of trimmed hedges, reflective pools, trees that swayed without wind. A grove that curved like a quiet breath in the chaos of the city.

  She stepped through the outer arch and into that stillness.

  Her boots made no sound on the enchanted walkways.

  Eyes turned as she passed. Robed figures. Younger apprentices. Scholars in slow conversation.

  Their gazes lingered. Some whispered.

  “That’s her.”

  “The Flame-touched.”

  “Still can’t use anything but fire?”

  “What a waste…”

  Karin didn’t flinch.

  She kept walking. Eyes forward. Shoulders square. Not a glance to either side.

  She reached the central gate.

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  A single guard stood there—robed not in battle garb, but in deep Academia blues, etched with silver lines of office. He was younger than she expected—mid-twenties perhaps—but his expression was hollow with authority.

  “I’m Ka—” she began.

  “I know who you are,” he cut in, lips curling faintly. “Back to report your failure?”

  Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer.

  He raised one hand, fingers sketching a quick sigil in the air. A ripple shimmered outward—an enchantment that connected instantly to the upper floors.

  After a moment, he spoke aloud to no one in sight. “Karin of the Flame Path. Reporting per outer-circle summons.”

  A beat passed.

  Then, a soft glow spread from the stonework beneath her feet.

  “She’s expected,” a voice echoed faintly in reply. “Send her up.”

  The gate opened slowly—no creak, no sound, just silent motion on unseen hinges.

  The gatekeeper stepped aside, giving her a slow once-over. “Good luck in there.”

  Karin didn’t respond.

  She stepped into the tower.

  Silence enveloped her. The halls curved upward in spirals of marble and glass. Enchanted lifts hovered in still air. She entered one—and it rose with a hum, slow and steady.

  At the top, an attendant waited.

  “The council is ready for you.”

  Karin nodded once.

  And stepped forward, toward the judgment awaiting her.

  The chamber hummed faintly as the doors sealed shut behind her.

  Karin stepped into the round—lightless but for the glowing veins of magic that traced through the marble floor and the thrones above. The council sat in silence, robed in cold majesty.

  Six thrones in a circle bore the symbols of the elements: Order, Chaos, Flame, Geo, Water, Wind.

  And at the center, on a raised pedestal of silverstone and arcane runes, sat Vaelion, the Supreme Arch Magi—Arcane, the balance of all things.

  She bowed—barely.

  And waited.

  The Arch Magi of Flame, a man of hard eyes and a beard like braided fire, spoke first. “The Flame Ash?”

  “Gone,” Karin said evenly. “Taken before I arrived.”

  No one asked how she knew. No one questioned her proof.

  They didn’t need to.

  Already, the whispering began—not aloud, but mental threads weaving silently among the Arch Magi. Eyes flicked. Judgments passed without words.

  “Then the task was a failure,” said the Arch Magi of Water.

  Karin didn’t move. “I reached the altar. I fought through the ruins. The war beasts were already roused. There was nothing left to retrieve.”

  The Arch Magi of Order inclined his head. “Which is another way to say: you failed.”

  She stared at him.

  Then stepped forward.

  “You knew this would happen.”

  “You accepted the trial,” said Order. “A retrieval mission. You retrieved nothing.”

  “You sent me alone,” she said, her voice sharpening. “Into a ruin full of monsters, with no timeframe, no guidance, and no support. And now, because someone got there first—”

  “You failed,” said the Arch Magi of Wind, flat and final.

  Something inside her burned—not yet magic, but close.

  “You never gave me a fair chance.”

  The Arch Magi of Chaos offered a thin smile. “Now you want fairness?”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “You let other students in without trials—”

  “We test everyone,” said Order.

  “Oh?” Her laugh was bitter. “You test if their families can afford donations? Or if they come from the right noble line?”

  “Be careful, Flame-touched,” said the Arch Magi of Geo.

  “Or what?” Her eyes flared.

  The air tensed.

  The Arch Magi leaned forward—most of them still calm, but watching her now.

  “You didn’t reject me because I failed,” Karin said. “You rejected me because I scare you.”

  “Enough,” growled the Arch Magi of Flame, standing. “You are unstable. You burn without discipline. You cannot channel wind. Nor water. Nor stone. You are no mage—only a spark waiting to become a wildfire.”

  “And you?” she hissed. “Afraid your fire would look cold next to mine, Arch Magi?”

  The room shifted.

  Heat coiled between them. His brow darkened.

  “Watch your mouth.”

  The space between them shimmered.

  His power flared—not golden, but deep red, rimmed with black. A flame touched by chaos—rare, dangerous, only wielded by the most adept.

  Karin didn’t back down.

  Her fingers twitched. A flame bloomed in her palm—smaller, tighter, whiter-hot than his.

  Not a fire of chaos, but pure force and control.

  The Arch Magi of Flame took a step forward, jaw clenched, power simmering.

  And then—

  “Enough,” said Vaelion.

  The voice was calm. Soft. But it cut through the heat like a blade.

  Both flames vanished.

  The Arch Magi of Flame sat again, slowly, fury in his eyes.

  Karin exhaled—shaky, but still standing.

  She looked up at Vaelion—the one who had spoken least.

  “Just say it,” she said.

  His gaze was steady. “You are not accepted.”

  A silence followed—thick, final.

  Then he added, as if sealing a gate:

  “May you find a better place you belong.”

  Karin didn’t tremble.

  Didn’t cry.

  She turned, cloak whispering behind her, and walked out.

  No bow.

  No word.

  The chamber’s doors closed behind her.

  None of them called her back.

  The tower doors closed behind her with a whisper of finality.

  Karin stepped into the sunlit courtyard, the noise of the city distant again—like it belonged to another world. Her stride was steady, her hands curled at her sides. She didn’t look back.

  At the outer gate, someone leaned against the stone wall, arms folded, wide-brimmed hat tilted low.

  Kivas.

  He gave her a quick once-over, then pushed off the wall. “Figured you’d be coming out like that.”

  She didn’t reply.

  He nodded to himself. “Zaf told me you might need a place to land.”

  Her brow twitched, but she said nothing.

  He continued, as casual as ever, “Now, I’m not saying I run a charity—because I don’t. But as fate would have it, I just remembered you owe me about three hundred more gold.”

  Karin blinked. “What?”

  “For the carriage you helped ruin. The horses we had to replace. The travel expenses Zaf covered with caravan funds. And that incident with the spice crates that mysteriously caught fire near you.”

  “Wait—the last one wasn’t—” she stopped, then sighed. “Fine. How do I pay?”

  Kivas smiled. “Simple. You work.”

  He tilted his head toward the open road. “Caravan’s always got something—hauling, guarding, cataloging… or maybe even opening a stall. We’ve got a space if you want it.”

  She hesitated—just for a breath.

  Then nodded. “Alright. I’ll work.”

  “Good.” He turned on his heel, already walking. “You start tomorrow.”

  “At what?”

  “Lifting crates.”

  “Thought I was special.”

  He grinned without turning around. “You are. And also lifting the crates.”

  The next morning came with the scent of bread and horsehair.

  Karin stood by the supply wagon, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back in a hasty knot. A crate hovered uncertainly in her arms—heavier than it looked, but manageable.

  “Left side of the tent,” Elsha called out. “No, not that one—the one next to it.”

  Karin adjusted course, muttering under her breath, and dropped the crate with a dull thud. A puff of flour burst from the seams.

  “Better,” Elsha said, walking over with arms crossed. “That’s three. Only fifty-seven more.”

  Karin let out a breath and hoisted another crate into the stack. “Do you intentionally assign me to the heaviest ones because you hate me or because I’m the apple of Zafran’s eye?”

  Elsha, arms crossed, leaned against the post nearby. “Why not both?”

  Karin blinked—then grinned. “Oh, that hurt.”

  “You’ll live.”

  She dusted her hands off, looking up with a sly smile. “I mean, isn’t it hurt—for you? If he’s that good to every girl?”

  Elsha’s expression didn’t change. “Lift the crate.”

  Karin scoffed, but didn’t hide the small smile that tugged at her lips. “Thanks for the answer.”

  They moved to the next crate.

  Around them, the caravan came to life—tent poles clacking, wheels creaking, the hum of people settling into their daily rhythm. Somewhere behind them, Ysar shouted about a pot not being technically broken if it still held water.

  Karin wiped her brow with the edge of her sleeve.

  The work wasn’t easy. It wasn’t what she trained for.

  But it felt… real.

  Elsha glanced sideways. “You’re doing alright.”

  Karin exhaled. “Just don’t let Kivas put me on spice-crate duty again.”

  “Oh no, that one’s personal. He made a list.”

  “I’ll burn the list.”

  “You’ll burn the whole wagon if we’re not careful.”

  Karin gave her a sideways grin, and for a moment, it felt less like survival and more like a beginning.

  No flames. No trials. Just sun-warmed canvas, tired feet, and the quiet rhythm of life that didn’t ask her to be anything else.

  Not a prodigy.

  Not a failure.

  Just… her.

  And for now, that was enough.

  At the far end of the supply row, Zafran moved among the tents—silent, measured, his eyes scanning crates, ropes, and camp layouts with habitual precision. A quiet nod to one worker. A small adjustment to the weight on a wagon axle.

  Then his gaze drifted.

  For a breath, he paused—watching Karin and Elsha at the crates. She laughed at something Elsha muttered, brushing her sleeve against her cheek, a small dust mark on her jaw she hadn’t noticed.

  Zafran didn’t smile.

  But he stood there a moment longer.

  Then turned away, continuing his quiet circuit through the caravan.

  The sun climbed higher. The day moved on.