Chapter Seventeen #2
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the group.
“Your assignments,” he continued, gesturing to the projection crystal beside him, “are based on aptitude evaluations, projected compatibility, and combat behavior. These are not mere gifts. These are extensions of who you are. Fail to earn them, and they’ll turn on you just as easily as any beast.”
The projection spun to life: names and glyph signatures cycling in slow rotation. Students leaned closer.
“Try not to drool,” Fenric muttered. “Tremaine. You’re first.”
Julian stepped forward without hesitation, all perfect poise and aristocratic swagger. Fenric didn’t speak. He simply gestured toward a sealed rack, which hissed open with a click.
The weapon in question gleamed gold and crimson in the low light.
A high-alloy arc-saber with a collapsible lance extension, its hilt threaded with command runes. A plaque bore its name—Ceravolt.
Julian took it in both hands, and the blade hummed in response. Arrogant as he was, the resonance was undeniable.
He met her eyes and smiled. Cassara looked away.
“Delvanir.”
Gideon moved next. Quiet, unhurried. Fenric didn’t even glance up, just keyed a different rack. What emerged was a dense, layered gauntlet with expanding plates and a flicker of shieldlight already activating.
It’s name, Lockstep. A defender’s weapon.
Gideon slid it onto his arm like he’d done it a hundred times before. His eyes didn’t leave the glyphs as they stabilized.
“Halvorsen.”
Liri bounced forward, nervously wringing her hands.
Fenric arched a brow at her, muttered something under his breath about “overclocked optimism,” and motioned to two compact fans folded like flower petals.
She blinked. “Fans?”
He smirked. “Unfold them.”
She did and the fans snapped outward into graceful, razor-edged rings. Arc-thread lit along the rims, and for a moment, the blades shimmered like water kissed with moonlight.
Liri gasped softly. “They’re beautiful.”
“Nimbrush,” Fenric said. “Try not to stab yourself with them. Allencourt.”
Cassara stepped forward, pulse steady even as her hands felt too warm.
Fenric eyed her for a moment then he reached behind the console and drew out a long, slender case. It hissed open at a touch.
Inside lay a simple rod no longer than her forearm. It was sleek, rune-inlaid, polished to a mirrored gleam. She looked at him questioningly.
What exactly was she supposed to do with a stick?
“This is Spireglass,” he said, unbothered by her lack of enthusiasm.
She lifted it gently and found it was cool to the touch, cooler than expected, but not dead. Something stirred beneath the surface.
“It might not look like much,” he explained, “but don’t treat it like a toy. It’s a glaive-blade when extended. Syncs with movement. Partial resonance calibration built in, pending full beast bond.”
Cassara pressed the release.
The rod expanded with a low shhkt, unfolding into a full-length polearm of mirrored steel. Light caught along its surface making it gleam and the weight felt perfectly balanced in her hands.
A shimmer rippled across its surface, a faint pulse of energy, like it recognized her.
Fenric watched with a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “It responded. You’re not bonded yet. But it’s listening.”
Cassara said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.
“Control that,” he said. “It’ll cut through armor, beasts, and pride if you let it.”
She nodded.
As she stepped back into the ranks, weapon in hand, the others murmured around her, but she didn’t hear them. Her focus narrowed to the hum still alive in her grip. The reflection of her own eyes in the mirrored blade.
Spireglass. Hers.
Seven days to the Wildes.
Seven days to become what she was meant to be.
The ACS calibration wing was colder than the forge.
High ceilings. Silver-glass panels embedded in the floor. Rows of glowing nodes suspended above the platforms, each tethered to a magewired console manned by technicians in dark robes etched with diagnostic glyphs. The air buzzed with power, not magic, exactly, but the hum of something waiting.
“Welcome to your final preparation before the Wildes,” the lead technician announced, his voice carrying easily through the chamber despite its hushed tone.
“The Arcane Combat System calibration will determine how efficiently you can channel mana through your personal conduits. Over the past few weeks you’ve used training gear.
Today, you receive programmed units based on data collected from your instructors.
This affects not only your combat effectiveness but your ability to establish and maintain a beast bond. ”
“Allencourt,” he called, consulting his list.
Cassara stepped onto the platform.
“Your ACS unit will be calibrated to enhance this natural tendency,” the technician explained, selecting one of the harness systems from a specialized rack.
“Shoulder harness first,” he instructed, helping her slip her arms through the leather straps.
The harness settled across her shoulder and chest, its organic curves following the natural lines of her body.
Multiple blue crystals were embedded throughout the metalwork, each one pulsing gently with contained energy.
Next came the bracer component, which locked into place along her left forearm with a series of precise clicks. The moment the connection was complete, all the crystals flared to life, creating a network of magical conduits that ran from her shoulder down to her wrist.
Cassara gasped as power flowed through the system. It felt like her essence had suddenly been amplified and refined, every pathway enhanced and stabilized.
“The crystals will respond to your mana signature,” he continued, making final adjustments to several of the nodes. “Each one serves as both a conduit and a regulator, helping you maintain optimal flow even under stress.”
A middle-aged technician, lean, sharp-eyed, precise, gestured her forward.
“Reset your stance. Relax the wrist. Good.” He tapped his screen. “Running preliminary resonance scan.”
Light spilled from the arc anchors at her feet, crawling up her legs and spine in a quiet, shimmering wave. The ACS bracer lit with responsive pulse, steady at first, then flickering.
“Hm,” the technician murmured. “Interesting. High base capacity, but some… irregularities in flow pattern.”
Cassara kept her expression neutral. “What does that mean?”
“It means your baseline mana readings are all over the place. High peaks, sudden drops. Inconsistent." He frowned at the display. "Have you experienced any emotional stress recently?"
She nearly laughed.
Emotional stress had become her operating state. Kissing Auren. Kissing Julian. Running herself raw in the rain, trying to outrun the weight of things she couldn’t name.
“Some,” she said.
“Mm. Emotional turbulence can affect mana stability.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Try to center yourself. Think of something that brings you peace.”
Peace. Right.
She closed her eyes.
Instead of calm, she felt heat, mouths crashing, hands gripping, breathless want against stone and silence. Auren’s voice, rough with restraint. The tension that hadn’t left her body since that locked-door moment when it had almost been more.
The light flared.
Crystals around the platform brightened, casting silver patterns across her skin. The technician leaned in, eyes narrowing.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, making notes. “Your resonance is stabilizing under emotional intensity rather than calming meditation. Most unusual.”
Cassara opened her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means you may be what we call a stress channeler,” he said. “Someone whose magic tightens under pressure. A rare alignment. High potential. Higher risk.”
He tapped the bracer. “Push too hard without regulation, you’ll burn yourself from the inside out. But if you channel correctly?” He gave her a slight smile. “You could break records.”
Cassara stepped off the platform, the flickering glow of her ACS rig still dancing faintly across her wrist.
“Noted.”
She didn’t tell him that pressure was the only thing that ever made her feel clear anymore. That standing still felt more dangerous than anything she could face in the Wildes.
As she left the calibration wing, her reflection shimmered for a heartbeat in the polished wall panel, ghosted and bright, the bracer glowing softly at her side.
A girl built for the storm.
Evening had settled across Vallemont, the sky outside stained gold and rose through the tall arching windows of the second floor common room. The flicker of mage-light danced across worn rugs and deep cushions, casting soft shadows that made the wide stone space feel warmer than it was.
Liri and Evie were sprawled on the low rug near the central hearth, a game of charstone spread out between them, the rune-etched tokens flickering with elemental glow as they clacked across the board.
“I’m telling you, I don’t want anything with wings,” Evie declared, sweeping up a wind-glyph tile and smacking it onto the corner of the board. “Flight training is for sadists.”
“You say that now,” Liri countered, twirling a glimmering ember tile between her fingers, “but imagine bonding a phoenix serpent. You’d never have to wait in a line again.”
Evie snorted. “I’d trade that for something small and sneaky. Like a burrowling or a duskcrawler. Compact. Non-murdery.”
“You’re not allowed to bond anything ‘non-murdery.’ You’re already too nice.”
Cassara sat curled in one of the deep chairs beside them, legs tucked up beneath her. She wasn’t playing or participating at all, really. She hadn’t spoken in ten minutes, simply letting the gentle banter of her dormmates wash over her in a way that was oddly soothing.
She wasn’t thinking about beasts.
At least not the kind they would face in the Wildes.
She was thinking about Auren’s voice against her neck, the feel of his breath when he said her name, and what it meant that he’d stopped and she hadn’t wanted him to.
“Cass,” Liri called gently, not looking up. “If you had to pick, fangs or feathers?”
Cassara blinked. “What?”
“Beast traits,” Evie supplied. “Fangs or feathers. Which would yours have?”
Cassara glanced down at her bracer, the soft thrum of its recent calibration still pulsing in her fingertips.
“Fangs,” she said, quiet but certain.
Liri and Evie exchanged a look, both nodding solemnly like they approved of this savage leaning.
Before the conversation could shift again, the scry crystal mounted above the hearth flared to life, projecting light into the center of the room.
A few students stood while others whispered amongst themselves.
“What is it?” Liri asked, her voice low.
“That’s a Council-grade relay. They only light it that color if it’s bad.”
The crystal’s hum deepened. Then a voice, calm but far from comforting, broke through.
“This is an emergency transmission from Watchtower Fourteen. As of this hour, the southern floating isle of Kareth’s Edge has fallen.
Full breach confirmed. Leviathan presence, Class B, has overrun containment.
All tamer communications from the island ceased at 17:03 standard.
Last known beacon registered inside the perimeter. Status of defense team: unknown.”
The projection shifted to an overhead map showing Kareth’s Edge had gone dark.
The room fell silent.
“Kareth’s Edge?”
Evie’s brow creased. “That was a stronghold, one of the largest. It wasn’t…”
“It wasn’t supposed to fall,” Cassara finished, voice low.
The map faded, replaced with a static glyph—Council Lockdown Directive: Wildes Quadrant Three. Expedition Protocol Reassessment Pending.
And then the crystal went dark.
Liri set her game piece down slowly, her fingers trembling. “They had fourth years stationed there, didn’t they?”
“Graduates,” Evie said quietly. “Fully ranked. That was an elite deployment.”
Cassara didn’t speak.
Her gaze stayed locked on the now-dark crystal, her fingers curling tight into the fabric of the chair. Somewhere a girl was crying while another tried to console her.
“Her brother was stationed there,” Evie continued, voice cracking.
Goosebumps prickled across her arms..
Not quite fear, but the distinct understanding that what they were training for wasn't just a theory anymore. The Wildes weren’t a proving ground, they were a warzone, and one day soon, it wouldn’t be someone else’s island.
It would be hers.