Chapter Two
TWO
Four Months Later
I’ve heard many stories about Valmora Academy.
My parents told me a few if I caught them in a talkative mood, but most came from my brother during the two years he studied there.
Each time he came home for a visit, I’d bombard him with questions, pelting him for as much information as possible, then I’d close my eyes at night and dream of the day I could experience it myself.
Finally, that time has come. But the stories I once loved are now tainted and twisted into something that tastes sour.
I stand, trance-like, in my pale grey ceremonial robes looking up – and up – at the colossal structure before me.
The glow of the full moon casts silver light on the magnificent building, illuminating pockets of finer details.
The academy is made entirely out of pale limestone, weathered from the winds of the ocean below the cliffs to the west. Four towering spires reach toward the moon like talons; nestled in between them is the domed rooftop of the Grand Hall.
While I want to feel detached from it all – from the place that took my brother from me – I cannot ignore the sensation that I am in the midst of something so much bigger than I ever could have dreamed of.
As if some ancient power resides within the stone walls, calling to whatever magic lays dormant inside of me.
I force my wide-eyed gaze into a glare and scowl up at the building.
The hood concealing most of my face threatens to slip off my head as I crane my neck, squinting to see the very top of the Grand Hall’s domed roof, searching for the opening in the ceiling my brother once told me about.
The moon has almost made its way to its apex, right above the opening, informing me that I need to get inside – the ceremony will begin soon.
My feet feel heavy, threatening to keep me rooted to the spot.
I lower my head and tug my hood back into place, over hair almost as pale as the moon above me.
A small group of first years make their way past me; chattering quietly as they walk the cobbled path to the front entrance.
The shortest of the group, a girl with curly dark hair and a deep complexion, pauses, letting the rest of them carry on without her before she turns to glance over her shoulder, as if I called her name. Her eyes find mine.
Time seems to stand still as I hold my breath.
Just turn around and keep walking, I silently plead. I’ve come this far without being recognised. I’d hoped to at least make it into the building before my identity was revealed, before students begin to curse my name like they do my brother’s.
Murderer. Traitor. Filth.
I heard it all as I walked among them earlier, as students ascended the steep winding path after saying farewell to their families at the drop-off point at the gates to the mountain.
My head was down with the hood covering my face, but my ears pricked at the mention of Lukas Nocthare.
The second-year Malachite student that killed four others in an attempt at dark magic.
Gossip like that doesn’t wash away after a handful months. Much to my dismay.
I’d left my father behind without a second glance.
I’m positive he only accompanied me to the gates in our carriage so he could reprimand me the entire journey.
Remind me of how hard he fought to secure me a spot within the academy.
Ensure that I knew I wouldn’t have been accepted without him and the gold he paid, since Lukas had ruined our family’s reputation.
I’d stared out the small window of the carriage, wishing I could open the door and roll out of it as his harsh words landed like physical blows.
This is your final chance to prove yourself, Arianell. After everything your mother and I have endured these past months, don’t screw this up.
He spoke as if I haven’t endured the same pain as him. As if I haven’t experienced the same loss. As if my grief doesn’t even register to him. Fuck rolling out of the carriage, I’d wanted to jump beneath it and let it run over me a dozen times. Maybe that pain would be easier to manage.
I watch the girl, expecting her to point and call the others who are almost at the doors, to inform her friends that a Nocthare is among them. But to my relief her attention is pulled away from me as one of the girls cries out:
‘Tilly, hurry. We’re going to be late!’
As Tilly’s gaze is pulled from mine, I feel my shoulders relax.
I wait a full two minutes after Tilly has disappeared before I make my way toward the double doors.
The moment I step foot into the Grand Hall my jaw threatens to drop.
The room is circular, a raised limestone dais in its centre, and three seating areas are spread out around the room.
Two out of three are empty, but the other is quickly filling with students in grey robes.
The seats are staggered upward like bleachers, separated by aisles that lead to the entrances of each of the four towers.
Each entrance resembles an archway, sealed with coloured stone stretching from the floor to the pointed top of the arch.
Within the archway to my far left, the stone is a myriad of green swirls that move about, blending into each other as if the stone is alive.
The archway to my far right is a kaleidoscope of browns, greys, oranges and reds, swirling around each other.
The one beside that, closest to me and right next to the seats that are being filled, shines an iridescent white, with flecks of every colour of the rainbow shimmering inside of it.
I look to my left, expecting to see a fourth archway, leading to the fourth tower. But my eyes meet plain grey stone. No archway or entrance, as if one either didn’t exist or had been paved over a long time ago.
I glance back to the seats and notice I’m one of the only students left standing. The first four rows are full, so I keep walking up the stairs until I spot an empty seat at the end of the fifth and final row. When I reach it, I falter. Tilly – the girl from outside – is in the next seat.
I half expect her to look over at me as I sink down, but her eyes are trained upward at the sealed hole in the ceiling. The deep groan of metal sliding against metal reverberates throughout the room, hushing everyone into silence.
The noise is coming from the hole in the domed ceiling above us and, ever so slowly, a sliver of light beams down as the roof opens to expose the moon looming perfectly overhead.
It takes almost a full minute for it to open entirely but when it does, silver moonlight pools downward to the middle of the dais where a man now stands.
He’s dressed in a deep blue three-piece suit with a gold brooch.
A quill crossing over an arrow; I recognise it from the stamps on council letters to my parents.
His salt and pepper hair is cut short, accentuating the sharp angles of his face and the deep lines of his forehead.
He looks older than my father, possibly in his sixties, but his air of confidence and the strong set in his shoulders has me sitting up straight.
‘I’m glad you decided not to run.’
I stiffen at the hushed voice from beside me, and cautiously glance over at Tilly, whose hazel eyes are trained forward. For a second I think I imagined it, but then I see one of her eyebrows rise.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You came inside,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t get me wrong, if I were in your shoes I don’t think I’d have been able to do it.’
‘Do what?’ I demand defensively.
‘Be here and face everyone after what happened. It’s brave of you.’
My stomach flips.
When I don’t reply, her head turns. Hazel eyes meet mine and just as I think she’s about to elaborate, a commanding voice rings out through the room.
Our heads whip forward to where the man on the dais looks up at us all.
‘Good evening, and welcome.’ His presence sucks the air from the room as all eyes fall on him.
‘Tonight, you embark on an ancient tradition. This is not just a ceremony but a rite of passage. Valmora Academy was created centuries ago to train the elite, the fierce, the most determined of our people. To be accepted means you have something unique to offer – potential to be harnessed into something great. In a moment, you will be called one by one to come forth and place your hand on a gate of your choosing.’
My insides twist as my eyes find the three arches once again. They seem to glow, burning brighter than before, like some deep-rooted magic is calling them to announce themselves.
‘Some of you already possess your element, which you will harness and feed into your chosen gate to gain access. If you are yet to uncover your element, you must use your blood. The magic within the gates will recognise the magic within your blood and place you where you need to be.’
A woman in a taupe-coloured robe ascends the steps to the dais and presents the man with a dagger. She kneels, holding it up to him like an offering with both hands, her gaze cast downward.
He takes it from her and holds it up in the air. The silver blade shines in the glow of the moonlight.
‘If the gate of your choosing does not accept your element or your blood, you will move onto the next gate until one of them accepts you.’ He turns then, using the dagger to point to the archway in the middle, the one with browns, reds and greys swirling within the stone.
‘Unit Leader of Agate, come forth and prepare to meet your new acolytes.’
The air around me is thick with anticipation. Everyone seems to hold their breath as the middle of the gate starts to darken.
I lean forward in my seat, unable to curb my curiosity, and squint as the dark shape takes the form of a silhouette. With a glow of orange light, a person steps through the archway dressed in a dark brown robe.
She looks only a few years older than me, with blonde hair coiled into a tight bun at her nape. She steps forward with her hands clasped in front of her and turns to us all.
In a loud clear voice, she chants, ‘The path to wisdom is carved in the rings of Agate.’
My skin pebbles with goosebumps. Agate has produced some of the most influential strategists and scholars in Valmora.
The strategists are sent to the war fronts while the scholars are sent around the continent to teach and train others.
Not only that, but the most powerful air wielders have stemmed from Agate.
I’ve only met a few in my life, one being the teacher Lukas and I had before my mother retired to homeschool us.
Agate makes me nervous, as it’s the unit I know the least about, and when you walk into a place like this, knowledge is power. The blonde leader nods to the man on the dais before retreating to the side of the archway, a mask of indifference settling over her features.
The dagger is pointed at the iridescent white archway next.
Tilly straightens beside me; a small smile curves her deep pink lips.
Excitement flashes in her eyes and I try to recall that feeling; I know I had it in me once.
But it seems so lost in the sea of every other emotion I have been wading through the past few months.
I hardly remember what it was like to want to be here.
Corvin refused his acceptance to the academy because he didn’t feel like he’d fit in, but the thing is, if he were seated here right now, he’d be more welcome than me.
‘Unit Leader of Opal, come forth and greet your new acolytes.’
A shadowy form appears behind the stone of the archway, as if someone is getting closer to it from the other side, before another student appears on our side of it, wearing a white robe.
He steps forward and faces the crowd before speaking.
‘In the prism of the broken, Opal weaves the light.’
The words ring a familiar tune in the back of my mind; memories of my parents uttering those words like incantations after difficult spells or whispering them during Solstice celebrations.
Small prayers to Opalus before sitting down to eat.
The words are familiar to my ears, but not to my tongue, having never uttered them myself.
The unit leader of Opal faces the dais, nods in acknowledgement and then retreats.
Finally, the third archway is presented. I feel my heart start to pound rapidly as anticipation and nerves fight for control beneath my skin.
‘Unit Leader of Malachite, step forward and prepare to meet your new acolytes.’
There is no slow build up this time. Instead, green flames burst up, as a hooded figure in dark green robes steps through the archway with long powerful strides.
‘With shield and flame, Malachite meets the edge unshaken,’ the figure chants, deep and clear, in a voice that I’d recognise anywhere.
My breath stills.
My mouth goes dry.
The voice beneath the hood finds root in my memories. A deep ache starts to build alongside the hopefulness I feel upon seeing him here, safe. Alive.
I’ve had no contact with him since Lukas died. No way to know how he’s been handling the situation. We never had a funeral for Lukas, so it’s not like I was able to see him then. It’s a bit hard to bury a body when you’re not given one. We weren’t even afforded his ashes after they’d burn t him.
If there’s one thing that’s been holding me together the past few months, it’s been the thought of confiding in Sebastian, in finding his familiar comfort at the academy among the unknown.
I let my hood slide back, just an inch, wondering if he suspects I’m up here.
The last time we saw each other was one month before Lukas died, when he travelled to our home with him.
Something he often did when Lukas put in his requests to leave the academy.
Students are allowed four home visits a year for up to three days at a time, other than Winter Solstice, which is a week-long holiday.
Lukas took advantage of every single home visit, and because Sebastian wasn’t close with his family, he was always a step behind my brother as they walked through our front door.
My heart leaps into a quicker pace than usual as his eyes scan the crowd, darting from face to face. I swallow thickly when he gets to the furthest row. My row.
It doesn’t take him long to find me. But when his green eyes connect with mine, what I see in them catches me completely off guard.