The court scribe barely glanced at the parchments as I placed them on his desk.

"House Dravoryn's catalyst records," I said.

He nodded, added the stack to a growing pile, and motioned me toward the examination chamber.

It was colder than I remembered.

Stone columns ringed the chamber in a perfect circle, each carved with the crest of a Great House. Seats had been prepared around the perimeter, one for each noble head. Beside them stood a mage and their chosen heir. Some wore full house colors. Others wore the softer tones of court neutrality. Their loyalties were harder to read than their faces.

House Caelisorn sat poised and polished. Their head, Lady Aeris, watched the room with a calm, pleasant expression. Her first son slouched beside her, eyes half-lidded but not unfocused.

House Theryn looked like a blade waiting to be drawn. Their head, Lord Marrek, wore severe dark robes. His second niece kept her gaze low, lips moving slightly as if reciting equations under her breath.

House Nirell stayed quiet. Vaelen’s seat was still empty, though his family was already in place. Their clothing was plain, a deliberate choice. Subtle power pretending not to care.

Then there was House Caelthorn. They looked like they had arrived directly from the battlefield. Their head, Lord Alric, wore the deep blue of command, with burn-scarred gloves and a posture that left no room for diplomacy. Beside him stood a young man with short-cut hair and a square jaw. I recognized him. Rylan. Alric’s second nephew. I had seen him around the military wing once or twice before my exile. All precision, no artistry.

I reached the Dravoryn section and sat beside Father and Arren. Sitting anywhere else would have drawn too much attention.

Father didn’t look at me when he spoke.

"What element did you choose? Arren said you would use magnesium. Is that true?"

"Yes, Father. I thought it would look the most elegant."

He gave a small nod. I was sure he knew what I meant.

A steward handed me a stack of tallies submitted by the other houses. I skimmed them quickly. Most stayed far below the cohesive particle and electric particle density margins. Safe. Predictable. I had been forced to push harder. Possibly too hard.

One set from House Nirell caught my attention. A slight inconsistency in the refinement ratio. Not enough to raise alarms, just enough to suggest someone clever had altered the numbers. I’d ask Vaelen about it later.

Father leaned closer and covered his mouth with his hand and asked, "How do they look?"

I did the same and whispered, "Clean. That doesn’t mean they’re all honest."

He had a look over it, then passed the page to Arren, who read for a while and gave a quiet hum of agreement. I wasn’t surprised. Most of the Court wasn’t trained to catch edits that subtle.

Once the scribe signaled readiness, the first demonstration began.

House Caelthorn was called.

Rylan stepped into the center of the chamber. Catalyst in one hand, gauntlet in the other. His equipment was practical and well-used. Caelthorn favored stability over flair. Their part of the army had no room for improvisation.

He slotted the catalyst into place and summoned a white flame. A faint yellow haze laced it. I noted the flicker. Close to magnesium, but slightly off. I checked their figures. Their catalyst didn’t have a high enough electric particle density to hold a consistent pure sample stable for long. Even so, it held.

After about a minute, he let it go. The flame vanished cleanly. The Court murmured. Then silence.

The next name called was House Theryn.

Their representative stepped forward. A young woman in silver-gray robes, marked at the sleeves with pale thread. Serel Theryn. Not the heir, but a cousin of Lady Sira. A deliberate choice. Theryn never put forward their best unless there was profit in it.

She moved with quiet confidence. No nerves. No need to impress. Her ring was older, the Auris crystal less polished than the others, but she wore it like it belonged.

She placed the catalyst on the stone pedestal and began without delay.

No flame. No theatrics.

Instead, a shimmer gathered. Particles drawn from the air began to compress and shape. Within moments, a bar of pure aluminum formed, clean and dense. She wasn’t here to dazzle. She was here to deliver something useful. Something that could be weighed, measured, and sold.

The bar settled on the stone with a metallic clink.

That was their style. Controlled. Efficient. Make something you can log and ship. Impress the Court scribes, not the crowd.

Serel nodded once, picked up the bar, and walked back to her seat. She didn’t need applause.

Arren leaned toward me.

"Think you can top that?"

I thought about it for a second.

"I didn’t know this was a competition."

One more house left before my turn.

The scribe called the next name.

"House Nirell."

A subtle shift moved through the chamber. Not sharp, but noticeable. It felt like everyone leaned forward slightly, even if they didn’t move. Nirell always drew attention, even in silence.

A young figure stepped into the center. Not Vaelen. This one was thinner, probably younger than me, with soft charcoal robes and Nirell's crest embroidered high at the collar. The thread caught light only at certain angles. Deliberate design. That was Nirell for you. Never loud, never careless.

His hands were steady, but his stride was careful. Too careful. Rehearsed. This was not the demonstration they meant to give.

The catalyst in his grip looked compact, denser than the others. Likely something built for layered synthesis. I leaned forward a little. Curious. Nirell didn’t waste time on showpieces. If they presented something, it usually had weight behind it.

He placed the catalyst on the pedestal, checked the bindings on his gauntlet, then began.

It started fine, it looked to be a combination of aluminium and chlorine. A shimmer of light, the soft crackle of controlled ignition. No flame. He was attempting transmutation. Probably a compound blend. A harder demonstration, but more impressive if pulled off.

Then the pattern broke.

The light inside the field twisted. Uneven compounds began to form. A spiral, then a snap of heat that dispersed too fast. I knew that shape. It was what happens when you over-saturate an element with cohesive particles. The mass ratios were wrong. Either the catalyst wasn’t refined properly, or the numbers had been forced. A failure all the same, but it proved the catalyst is safe. I wonder if that was the plan?

He tried to adjust, changing his stance and drawing tighter control, but it didn’t matter. The synthesis collapsed fully with a sharp crack. No fire. No smoke. Just a failed reaction and silence.

He didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, picked up the inert crystal, and walked back to his seat without a word. No emotion. No bow. That was the Nirell way.

No one spoke. The court scribe recorded the failure without comment. No one mocked. No one clapped.

I glanced across the ring. Vaelen was there now. He hadn’t been a moment ago, but now he sat behind his house’s section, hands folded, face unreadable.

Arren leaned toward me.

"A decoy?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe," I said. "Or someone didn’t check the math. What do you think?" I wanted to pick his brain like he had picked mine. "Do you think they planned this?”

“Possible, they did something similar last year as well.”

Interesting. I wonder what compounds they have made in secret. Either way, I was next.

I had one chance. Not to impress. To rewrite the story they told about me.

My hands were lightly sweating, breath quickened, but this was what I’d trained for.

And I wouldn't leave them without a response.