Chapter Five
The Great Hall was a cathedral of light and shadow with vaulted windows that stretched three stories high, arched like wings poised to take flight. The sky beyond them churned with amber and violet, the last kiss of sunset catching on the edges of distant floating islands.
Between the panes, the glass rippled faintly with magic, casting ever-shifting glimmers across the polished marble floor in sweeping, spiral patterns that mimicked flight paths of beasts in motion.
Above, iron chandeliers the size of carriages hovered unsupported, enchanted crystals threaded through their frameworks. The lights pulsed not at random, but in time with the rhythm of wings beating or hearts racing.
Long banquet tables stretched across the hall, their surfaces etched with hundreds of names and crests, legacies immortalized in polished wood.
Students were already filling them, grouped by year, their uniforms in perfect order, their voices a low tide of excitement and nerves.
Every table shimmered with illusionary decor tailored to each year’s crest: crimson for the fourth-years, deep violet for the thirds, gold for seconds, and silver for the new blood.
The first-years were guided to the nearest set of tables, new wood, unmarked. A reminder that nothing had been earned yet.
Cassara took all of it in, the ornate architecture, the fierce elegance, the whispered legacy of power built into every seam. Vallemont was built for steel and strength, and she had never wanted something more.
Julian’s hand once again pressed into the small of her back as they were ushered toward their seats. She almost shrugged him off but decided against it, not wanting to ruin the moment by having him sulk the rest of the evening.
Her attention had already drifted past him anyway, passing over the other students as they settled in, the upperclassmen moving with easy confidence while first-years clutched their seats like lifelines.
A tall figure passed between them, Darius Eravian, if the excited whispers were right.
Lean, sharp-featured, with a smile that promised both charm and danger.
A cluster of second-year girls trailed in his wake, not quite following but clearly angling for his attention.
Students parted as he strode through the hall, a plume-feathered raptor perched on his shoulder casting watchful eyes over the crowd.
Cassara’s attention drifted past Darius to the high table at the far end of the hall where the instructors sat, not yet introduced. Among them, unmistakable even in formal attire, was Auren Veth.
He looked different here. Younger than she’d initially thought, almost startlingly so compared to the gray-templed veterans flanking him.
His coat was impeccable now, no trace of the scorch marks or damage from the attack.Nothing in his posture revealed the man who had leapt into open air to catch her, who had taken on the corrupted beast without hesitation.
Their eyes met across the hall.
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw recognition flicker in his gaze, not warmth, certainly not approval, but awareness. Then it was gone, his attention shifting elsewhere as he leaned to speak with an instructor beside him.
She tried to ignore the heat of annoyance that prickled once more beneath her skin.
The moment the last of the first-years settled into place, the ambient murmur of conversation fell into silence. The lights above shifted hue, casting the room in a burnished amber glow, as if the Hall itself was holding its breath.
Then a single tone rang out.
Not a bell, not magic, but a whistle, sharp and commanding.
From the far end of the hall, the doors slammed outward in a rush of sound and smoke, revealing five figures standing beneath the arch.
Second-years. Clad in segmented training armor chased with crest-silver and wardsteel, their beasts beside them in perfect formation. The crowd erupted in whoops and applause, but it was the first year students who leaned forward the most, eyes wide with awe.
Cassara sat straighter.
The five second-years moved in a fluid, rehearsed arc, three darted into the open space between the tables, while two vaulted into the air with the help of their beasts.
Wings snapped wide. Talons scraped sparks from the floor.
A pair of razor-feathered falcons dove in tandem before pulling up at the last second, their arcane markings flaring in brilliant gold as they swooped over the crowd.
They weren’t fighting. They were performing. A choreographed display of perfect control, raw magic, and precision teamwork between tamer and beast.
It was breathtaking.
At the head of it all came a man in a sleeveless coat and char-patterned bracers, moving like a flame given form.
His wyvern dove low in a corkscrew of steel and scale, sweeping the field in a blazing arc.
He spun with it, not leading the charge, but dancing through it, his steps perfectly timed, his voice rising above the roar without any need for magitek enhancement.
“This is synergy,” he called, his words striking like drumbeats. “This is discipline. This is what it means to earn your crest. My name is Fenric Caldane, my job is to teach you how to stay alive.”
At the opposite end of the makeshift arena, a broad-shouldered bear-beast barreled through a series of enchanted dummies, swatting them aside like toys.
Behind it, an instructor advanced, tall and sure-footed, a multitude of dark braids swinging behind her as she twirled a gleaming halberd in her grip.
She laughed as one of the constructs lunged unexpectedly and pivoted in a clean sweep, knocking it flat before saluting the crowd with a flourish and a smirk.
"Lesson one," she called. "Be bigger, or smarter, and if you can't manage either, at least be fast. I'm Nareen Rythorn, and I'll teach you which fights to pick and how to win them."
The students cheered.
And then came the silence.
The third instructor didn’t announce her arrival.
She didn’t need to. She moved like a shadow cut free from its source, sleek, silent, wrapped in scar-patched armor.
Her jaguar-beast shimmered at her side, flickering between light and shadow.
They circled the edge of the performance pit without a sound, weaving between opponents as though they already knew how the fight would end.
She didn’t speak. Her eyes said enough, a single, sharp look toward the first-years that sliced cleaner than any blade.
A challenge. A dare.
Earn it.
Cassara’s heart thundered in her chest. Not with fear but with hunger.
This was what she came for. Not the lectures, not the titles. This.
As the demonstration ended, the lights shifted again, now a silvery pale hue that glittered like frost, and the faculty rose from the dais one by one.
Auren stepped forward first, arms folded behind his back, expression flat as stone.
“Don’t mistake theatrics for victory,” he said, voice low, cool, and razor-clean. “You’ll find out soon enough whether you’re a performer… or prey.”
A chill rippled down Cassara’s spine. Julian chuckled low beside her.
Then came Darius.
He didn’t walk, he prowled. Lean and golden, glowing like he’d stepped out of a painting. His coat was a vibrant blue. On his shoulder, Virex was perched, practically preening for the crowd.
“Welcome to Vallemont,” Darius said, spreading his arms like he’d built the place himself. “Where you’ll learn to fight, fly, and, if you’re lucky, survive. Preferably with all your limbs intact.” He winked. Several first-years tittered nervously.
The applause for Darius had barely faded when the chandeliers dimmed once more, casting the hall in flickering, anticipatory shadow.
Gasps rose from the tables and whispers cracked like sparks through the crowd.
At the far end of the dining hall, the floor shimmered, then split down the middle. With a low mechanical groan, a platform began to rise, seamless polished stone edged in glowing sigils. Tables shifted aside as if compelled by unseen forces, granting a clear view from every seat.
From opposite ends of the dais, Darius and Auren stepped forward—the golden showman and the ghost of the battlefield.
Cassara’s pulse quickened. Hours ago, she’d watched Auren leap through open air to battle a corrupted beast. Now here he was again, this time in controlled exhibition rather than desperate combat. Would he fight differently here? Would anyone else even know the difference?
The two men didn’t speak, they didn’t need to.
Darius gave a sweeping bow, theatrical as ever, one brow arched in playful challenge.
Auren didn’t return it. He simply rolled his shoulders back, twin daggers sliding free with a hiss of steel and intent.
Light caught on the mirrored etchings of the blades, one dark, one pale, glinting like twin truths about to be told.
The same blades that had cut through corrupted flesh, Cassara thought.
The same hands that had caught her mid-air.
She found herself studying his stance, looking for signs of fatigue or injury from the earlier battle.
There were none. Either he’d recovered completely, or he’d learned to hide weakness perfectly.
Darius’s weapon snapped into being with a flick of his wrist, its spear-point gleaming before unspooling in a ribbon of segmented chain. It crackled faintly with magical charge.
All around her the room seemed to hold its breath.
Then the duel began.
Auren struck first, no preamble, no warning. A blur of motion as he darted low and fast, blades singing through the air. Cassara recognized that same economy of movement from the attack, nothing wasted, nothing for show. This wasn’t a performance to him. Even here, this was practice for survival.
Darius twisted away, the chain spinning out in a wide arc to keep him at bay. Sparks flew where whip met dagger, the clash of magic and metal casting flares of blue light across their faces.