“Magic wasn’t something I asked for. It was something that answered me.”

Most days in Eldermire passed like drifting clouds, slow and easy to forget, blending one into the next. The sun would rise, the goats would scream, and the well would run low just when you needed it most. But the day the examiner came? That day carved itself into my memory like a blade against stone.

His name was Seron. A tall figure wrapped in crimson robes that shimmered with every movement, like embers dancing in the dark. His eyes were a pale gray, almost silver, and he didn’t so much look at people as through them. He bore the Moonstone seal on his chest, the unmistakable symbol of the royal family, and carried a scroll case of polished obsidian. When he spoke, it felt like the air itself paused to listen.

“Every few years, we assess outlier regions,” he announced from the village square, voice calm but commanding. “There may be one among you worthy of entry.”

Entry into Mistalin’s Academy.

The name alone sent whispers flying through the crowd like startled birds. Mistalin’s Academy wasn’t just a school. It was the crown jewel of the kingdom’s education, a place of swords, spells, and secrets. Though it had recently opened its doors to commoners, the odds of acceptance remained laughably low. Especially for someone from Eldermire.

I stood near the back, arms folded, watching the rippling excitement spread like fire. Lyra stood beside me, her expression unreadable as always.

“Do you think they’ll take anyone from here?” she asked, not turning.

I shrugged. “Maybe. We’re not exactly famous for anything but goats and dried fish.”

She gave a small laugh, the kind that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Still. Imagine it. Real classes. Arcane libraries. Sword training with actual blades, not sticks.”

I looked at her then. There was something alive in her eyes. Hope, maybe. Or longing. Probably both.

That evening, Master Eron stopped by our house. His arrival was always quiet, like he didn’t want to disturb the world unless he had to.

“You should try,” he said, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. “They need to see what I’ve seen.”

________________________________________

Three days later, the examination was held behind the schoolhouse, in a field of patchy grass and half-buried rocks. Ten candidates gathered, some with fire in their eyes, others visibly trembling. Seron watched each one with quiet detachment, taking notes in a book that seemed far too old for its clean pages.

When my name was called, the crowd fell into a hush.

The first test was magic. Seron handed me a sphere of flawless glass and instructed me to focus.

“Don’t try to force it. Let it find you,” he said.

At first, nothing happened. The surface remained cold, reflective. But then, something inside me stirred—a pulse, a ripple. Threads of light began to form within the orb, slow and deliberate, like smoke catching fire.

The examiner’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes lingered longer than they had with the others.

Next came swordplay. I was given a wooden training sword and paired with a much larger opponent—a traveling guard stationed in the village for the event.

We circled. He lunged. I sidestepped, pivoted, read his posture before the swing landed. It ended with my blade resting gently against his neck.

Seron raised his head from his scroll. “Efficient. Disciplined.”

Then it was Lyra’s turn.

She was brave. Calm. But when she tried the magic test, the sphere remained dull, unlit. Her shoulders stiffened. Her sparring went better—she fought like someone with something to prove—but the earlier failure weighed on her.

At sunset, Seron made the announcement.

Two would be accepted.

Me.

And a boy named Fenric. Broad-shouldered, confident, already boasting before his name had even been called. He flashed a grin at the crowd like he’d won a tournament.

We were both handed scrolls of acceptance, and told not to lose them and open them at the gate to the school.

Lyra didn’t say a word at first. That night, we sat beneath the old tree, staring at the stars above the treetops. I could feel the weight in her silence.

“You’ll forget all about Eldermire,” she whispered.

I shook my head. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

She tried to smile. “I was going to bring you river rocks. Hide them in your pillow. Keep you grounded.”

“I’ll write. You’ll know everything I’m learning. Maybe next year, you’ll apply again.”

She didn’t answer. But she stayed there, beside me, until the stars faded.

The following week passed in a blur of goodbyes.

The villagers gave me simple gifts—dried fruit, hard bread, packets of herbs. For the first time, people treated me differently. With respect, with curiosity. Even those who had once whispered about my family or mocked my quietness now smiled and nodded.

Master Eron handed me a worn satchel filled with scrolls and ink.

“Don’t forget to learn outside the classroom,” he said. “Books are only half the answer.”

My father helped me pack, fixed the strap on my boots, and grunted something that might have been approval.

When the day came, Lyra stood at the edge of the road. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, her lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“Try not to become insufferable,” she said.

“Too late,” I replied.

We both smiled, though mine was tighter than hers.

And then, with nothing left to say, I turned from the village where I had grown up, where I had been shaped, broken, and slowly remade.

Toward the capital.

Toward Mistalin’s Academy.

Toward the start of something far greater than I could yet understand.