The two who had failed—Ravina and a boy named Nabil—sat on the edge of the sparring platform, still catching their breath. Their faces were pale, eyes downcast. The wind-wile’s forced breath had revived them, but nothing could bring back their standing.

Nabil squared his jaw and looked up. The newest of the novices, he had often looked to Izzi for direction. He caught her eyes for a moment now, looking apologetic. She nodded an acknowledgement. She liked him, but his fierce determination had outmatched his abilities. 

Ravina had been even fiercer, quick with both wit and action, one of the few who had dared challenge Kalu’s logic aloud. Izzi was surprised—something about this task had defeated Ravina when she’d normally be among the first to triumph. She looked up too, her whitened face half hidden by the fall of her black hair, but Izzi could see her teeth pressing into her bottom lip. 

Their hands were limp in their laps, their silence expectant. They didn’t need Kalu’s verdict to know what came next. His withering glance was fleeting, and he turned away quickly to other matters, the flick of his robes as dismissive as a breeze scattering dust. They had lost. They must go.

Each remaining novice lined up to pat them on the back as they left, the usual ritual.

“Keep heart,” Beena said, her voice gentler than usual. “You’ll make noviciate again soon. You’ve shown you have what it takes.”

Ravina’s mouth was stretched into a smile, but her eyes hid behind her hair. Nabil only nodded, eyes steely. They both knew the truth. Few ever clawed their way back. Beena had, but it had taken her a year of relentless effort. Most who were cast down never rose again.

Izzi exhaled, watching them go, a rock hardening in her chest. She knew what that walk felt like. She had been an acolyte for four years, longer than anyone. At first, Kalu had claimed she was too young. Then, when she could no longer be called a child, the excuses had shifted. Her form was too wild. Her reasoning too unorthodox. Her instincts too reckless. Always, he found a reason to keep her down.

She had beaten every test he set before her. Yet Kalu didn’t measure success by results alone. To him, the lesson was in obedience—obedience to form, obedience to the rigid logic of magian magic. Izzi had never fit into that mould. She was quick to see another way, a shortcut, a shift in the rules he claimed were immutable. It was only when she’d finally understood that, and started to play his game with more care, hiding her own reckless ideas and everything she’d learned from her mother’s journals, that his excuses had run out, and he had grudgingly accepted her into the hall of novices.

Izzi felt Beena shift beside her, and when their eyes met, no words were needed. Kalu would begin remedial sessions for those who needed them, and that often meant other students demonstrated. They had no intention of being used as cautionary examples again.

Kalu caught their silent exchange and sighed. He shook his head, his hair failing to keep up with the motion. “Haven’t you two got studying to do?”

“Of course,” Izzi said smoothly. “We’ll get out of your way.”

As they turned to leave, she caught Nele watching her, eyes wide, missing nothing.