Chapter Thirty-One
O n and on and on the judgements proceed.
I watch nobles grovel after facing rejection.
Watch some throw tantrums from their first taste of being told no .
One wildly foolish examinee, who presents an essence flower with venom seeping through its petals—an essence flower known as the Abdite’s Bloom for its sure omen that a wielder will cave and access forbidden magic—actually attempts to strike at the captains with a lash of their magic.
It is met with an impenetrable shield of fire, ice, darkness, light, and air in an instant.
Within a blink, and with resounding force, a spear of darkness soars through the air and pierces his heart while an arrow made of radiant golden light shoots through his temples.
Chaos erupts.
Chaos that Draven immediately squashes. “ Enough ,” he snarls. “If you can’t handle this —” he points at the dead body for emphasis— “then you should walk out now.”
People remember themselves, settling down and thinking better of their loud murmurs. Two rejected nobles—I’m assuming friends of his—drag the body out of the arena, cursing the captains as they go.
I watch the lifeless body being hauled across the floor like nothing more than heavy baggage. A trail of blood follows it like a red shadow, and unlike most in the room, my eyes aren’t turned down with pity or wide with silent horror .
Maybe watching someone die once is all it takes to forever be desensitized. Maybe my heart simply stopped lurching at the sight of death after that night of fire and regret. Maybe plunging a blade through someone else’s chest—whether a mercy or not—makes me immune to the sorrows for the fallen.
Besides, his death had been quick. Painless. I will not waste my sympathies on such a pleasant way to go.
Though I will light a candle for him tonight so his soul may find its path to the afterlife. So that he will not remain in the dark, trapped.
Arden, now known to be a light-wielder, looks at Draven with amorous, expecting eyes after their display of teamwork. Draven merely gazes numbly at the lifeless body being dragged away. And that is something I’m not even going to attempt to dissect.
Fifty-five.
Of the one-hundred and nine starting examinees, and then after the seven who didn’t make it back, the captains had only passed fifty-five wielders from the left line.
Now it’s the turn of those in the right line to present.
“I can go first, if you’d like,” Gray offers.
Wordless, I nod my head, grateful for his offer.
Gray ascends the stairs and stands tall in front of the captains. His astounding posture is natural—his regal grace undeniable. As I watch him, all I can think is that he seems like he belongs up there.
At the sight of Gray, Kiran sits up straighter in his chair. His mouth quirks up, and there is a new alertness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Name,” Finlay drawls unpleasantly, not bothering to hide his disdain.
He is no longer addressing the nobles’ line, after all. Now, he addresses our line—those without titles or respectable bloodlines.
But only the former is true for Gray.
“Gray Nightenjoy,” he declares levelly.
Kiran doesn’t even bother trying to hide the smile spreading across his lips.
“Ah,” Finlay coos, his tone shifting drastically. “So you are the Nightenjoy who has come to us this year.”
Gray dips his chin. “At your humble service.”
Finlay peaks his fingers and presses them to his lips before pointing them at Gray. “You have quite the remarkable bloodline for magic. It is a baffling phenomenon why your line has not been officially titled.”
“My father denies the rank and titles.”
“Wise man,” Kiran chirps. “Perhaps he could teach us all a thing or two.”
Finlay shoots him an exasperated, pointed look. “Foolish is more like it.” He swats at the air. “But that is neither here nor there. We are not judging you based on the decisions of your father. Though…I do hear he is quite the advisor. Sought out by many, I’m told.”
With a clear, steady voice and a lifted chin, Gray replies, “I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t discuss such matters with me.”
Arden, her voice heavy with exhaustion, interjects, “What is your flower?”
Gray reaches into his satchel and pulls out a cloth.
He peels it away, revealing a medium-sized flower with petals resembling glass.
They layer and twist in a seemingly infinite pattern.
Within those translucent petals, light shifts constantly—vibrant blues melting into deep purples, transitioning into saturated greens and golds.
At the flower’s center rests an unchanging core of pure, brilliant light, encircled by intricate crystalline structures weaving together like a lattice of prisms.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s beautiful.
All the captains lean forward, their features twisted by equal measures of shock and awe. All except Draven, whose narrowed eyes are his only sign of interest.
“The King’s Reflection,” Nuha breathes. Her face scrunches together. “But that…that’s….” She doesn’t seem capable of finishing her sentence.
Finlay looks positively dumbfounded.
Not bothering to mask her growing irritation, Arden glances at Nuha and chides, “Care to explain to the rest of us how this is possible?”
“The King’s Reflection is a flower that only blooms for those deemed worthy to be a king,” Nuha elaborates. “Its lore and history date far, far back.”
“That much I know,” she responds in a short-tempered tone. “But deemed worthy by who ? And how ?”
“Does it matter?” Nuha counters. “The gods, the mystical forces at play in our world, the incomprehensible nature of magic…whatever it is, whoever it is, a person is deemed worthy. From there, the flower is meant to reflect the raw essence of that person and their relationship with magic. Who they truly are, down to their very soul. I…” Her eyes glance back to the flower then back up at Gray, curiosity framing her every feature.
“I’ve never seen one bloom with such clarity… with such purity .”
At those words, my chest swells with pride so immense, it nearly splits me open. I’ve always known these truths about Gray—have always seen the light and the goodness in him. Now everyone else knows, too. And it’s indisputable—made incontrovertible by an essence flower.
Nuha seems like she’s wrestling with a complicated equation. “What is your magic?” she finally asks, astonishment coating her every word.
Gray’s tone remains calm. “Illusionary magic, Captain.”
If Nuha, Arden, and Finlay weren’t floored before, they certainly are now.
Nuha’s brows knit together, as though trying to reconcile a glaring discrepancy. “But…that doesn’t make sense. Someone with illusionary magic should have found some hallucinogen variant, or Phantom’s Trap, or Murmuring Mirage.” Her expression hardens. “You swear this flower is yours?”
Kiran scoffs. “Of course it’s his flower. Have you, captain of an aggregate famed for its love of knowledge, suddenly forgotten that an essence flower blooms only in the hands of its rightful match?”
Nuha blinks, speechless, and Finlay remains uncharacteristically silent.
It’s unsettling, actually—seeing him so silent.
“You all know what this means,” Nuha murmurs so low, I can barely catch the words. “I’m not even sure when the last time something like this— ”
“—It’s only if it comes to that,” Finlay interrupts. “If he”— he jerks his chin at Gray—“wants that.”
Whether Gray understands the magnitude of his essence flower or not—though I suspect he does—his posture and expression give nothing away.
“I move to pass the Nightenjoy on to the second test,” Draven says, lifting his hand.
“I second,” Kiran chimes.
“Third,” Arden adds.
Finlay leans back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Fourth.”
Nuha stares at Gray, still visibly perplexed.
Arden prompts, “Nuha?”
A sharp inhale paired with a long blink has Nuha snapping her attention back into focus. “Fifth.”
Gray offers a deep bow at the waist. “Thank you for the opportunity.” Carefully tucking the flower back into his satchel, he descends the stairs to stand at the end of our line, flashing me a quick, assuring smile as he passes.
Which means I’m next.
My knees wobble as I ascend the stairs, but I roll my shoulders back and keep my chin high.
I wait for Finlay to ask my name as he has done with every other examinee, but it never comes.
He just stares at me with cold judgement brimming in his icy eyes.
Somehow, despite the growing tightness in my chest, I hold his scornful gaze and manage to suppress the urge to shift beneath the weight of it.
Finally, after an uncomfortable amount of passing silence, Kiran slices a disdainful glare at Finlay and addresses me. “Tell us your name, please.” His voice is gentle.
I swallow back any remaining nerves. If I am to not let people like Finlay Fjolla win—to not give them any power over me, or let them best me in any way—it starts with going toe-to-toe, gazing at one another on equal ground.
Or at least, presenting the illusion that that’s actually true.
I will not cower. I will not yield. I will not falter .
“Lyra Izacalli,” I supply, holding my voice steady.
“Where do you come from, Lyra Izacalli? I do not recognize the name.” Nuha’s question enters the air softly.
My heart squeezes as Nuha addresses me.
Does she know I am the one who plunged the blade through Meiji’s chest? That I am the reason the Abdite’s ambushed us, forcing us to fight? I wonder how much Draven and Kiran told her…
My bout of strength is diluted by the haunts of that night. But I blow out a stabilizing breath, clenching and unclenching my hands.
“Rivara Kingdom.”
Finlay makes a tsking noise and looks at me with such distaste, it’s hard not to feel like I’m covered in dirt and grime. “I have seen you before, fluttering about in King Alastair’s hall, entertaining drunken men for sport.”
Arden tilts her head with interest. “Are you a courtesan?”