Chapter 2
Talia
The eastern wall offered a clear view of the Prism and almost no chance of being seen.
Usually, I preferred it that way.
Today, with hundreds of candidates gathered beneath the galleries and my sister standing among them, the shadows along the wall felt less like shelter and more like confirmation.
Camilla belonged at the center of the Hall.
I belonged beside the records door in a clean gray robe, ready to assist if anyone required oil, a translation, or an object retrieved from storage.
I had changed into my spare robe, pinned my keeper’s badge over the left side of my chest, and taken my assigned position between two senior assistants.
Master Orin stood several paces ahead of us with the ceremonial inventory tucked beneath one arm.
He had checked every item himself before allowing the bronze doors to close.
The final bar dropped into place.
The Hall fell silent.
Hundreds of candidates filled the circular floor in orderly rows, grouped loosely by known element but not separated by rank or family. The Prism stood at their center, dark and transparent. Without sunlight passing through it, it looked less like crystal and more like a tall sheet of glass.
Nothing about its stillness suggested it would decide the realm’s future within minutes.
The galleries above were full. Families occupied the lower levels, while academy officials, political representatives, and members of the royal court watched from the upper tiers. My parents sat at the front of our family section.
Mother wore slate gray to honor Camilla. Father had chosen the same color for the sash crossing his formal black coat.
Neither of them looked toward the keepers.
They knew where I was. I had shown them my assigned position when we toured the Hall the previous week. Mother had even remarked that the eastern wall would give me an excellent view of Camilla.
There was no reason for them to search for me now.
Their attention belonged to my sister.
Mine did too.
Camilla stood in the second row with the other Stone candidates, close enough to the Prism that I could see the bronze embroidery on her sleeves. Her hands rested at her sides, and her expression revealed nothing. If she still felt nervous, she had buried it well before entering the Hall.
Leander stood at the front of the Frost candidates.
He wore no jewelry or family crest, but he didn’t need either.
Anyone who followed royal affairs knew his face.
His bloodline had produced advisers, generals, and crown contenders for generations.
The current king was his grand-uncle, and every account I had read described Leander as the strongest candidate from the northern territories.
He looked as composed as Camilla. Colder, perhaps. His pale hair had been drawn away from his face, and frost dusted the shoulders of his blue uniform despite the warmth of the Hall.
Torren stood with the Fire dragons, broad-shouldered and motionless in the dark red uniform of the Ember Guard. A narrow scar cut through one eyebrow. Unlike the candidates looking toward their families, he kept his attention fixed on the Prism.
He had already marked every exit when he entered. I had watched him do it.
Sebastian had placed himself near the end of the Shadow line. He was studying the runes carved into the floor again. If he felt the weight of the ceremony, his curiosity had apparently won the argument for his attention. His lips moved once as if he were silently translating an inscription.
Rafe was watching the galleries.
His gray Storm uniform fit him too well to have been issued by the academy. Silver thread traced the cuffs and collar, flashing whenever he moved. I couldn’t tell whom he was searching for, but the corner of his mouth lifted when someone above caught his eye.
He was still smiling when the headmaster stepped onto the dais.
The old dragon wore a black ceremonial mantle edged in the seven elemental colors represented at the academy. He had led Crown Wing for almost sixty years, although his broad frame and clear voice made him appear younger.
Behind him came Keeper Malcolm, the Keeper of Trials.
His mantle was white rather than black, marked only by the golden crown embroidered over his heart.
A metal staff struck the floor with every measured step he took.
Malcolm’s face held the severe stillness of a carved monument.
When he reached the Prism, he positioned himself to its right while the headmaster faced the gathered candidates.
“One hundred years ago,” the headmaster began, “four heirs stood in this Hall and received the call you have gathered to witness today.”
His voice carried without effort. The old acoustical runes embedded in the gallery walls were doing their work, delivering each word to the highest seats without producing an echo.
“Those heirs entered the Dragon Trials as rivals. One emerged worthy to bear the crown. Under King Edric’s rule, our territories have prospered, our borders have held, and dragonkind has remained united.”
The candidates listened without moving.
“His reign approaches its natural end. The crown must pass before it becomes vacant. Today, as it has throughout our recorded history, the Prism will choose four heirs from among the realm’s most worthy dragons.”
A faint sound came from the galleries—the shift of fabric, a restrained breath, someone adjusting in their seat.
I glanced at Camilla.
She was staring at the Prism.
“The choice does not belong to bloodline,” the headmaster continued. “It does not belong to wealth, rank, military accomplishment, or the judgment of this academy. No dragon may claim the title of heir until the Prism has recognized them.”
Mother’s posture stiffened.
The words were part of every recorded Choosing address, but they sounded almost like a warning today. Preparation could place Camilla before the Prism. It could not command the light to find her.
Keeper Malcolm lifted the metal staff.
The base came down against the floor once.
All four ceremonial torcs rose from their display cases.
I had known they would move. I had cleaned their cases, verified the awakening instructions, and watched Master Orin test the runes beneath each stand. Even so, my breath caught as the torcs floated across the Hall and stopped in the air around the Prism.
For one suspended heartbeat, the clear stones in all four torcs remained colorless. Then light began to gather inside them, too faint and changeable to name.
Every candidate watched them.
Camilla watched the Prism.
“Those chosen will reside at Crown Wing Academy for the duration of the Trials,” the headmaster said. “They will be tested in power, judgment, courage, and command. The Prism chooses those fit to contend for the crown. The Trials reveal which heir will bear it.”
One crown. Four candidates. A century of rule resting on Trials no living participant had seen.
Keeper Malcolm raised the staff again.
This time, when it struck the floor, every lamp in the Hall went out.
Darkness covered the chamber.
A few startled breaths broke the silence. The candidates had been warned, but knowing the lamps would extinguish did not make the sudden loss of light less complete. Even the galleries disappeared.
The Hall’s low hum stopped.
For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then the Prism awakened.
A white spark appeared deep inside it.
The light was small at first, no larger than the flame of one of the western lamps. It brightened and expanded, illuminating fractures that did not exist in the crystal’s smooth exterior. Hundreds of shining lines spread through its center.
I forgot about the candidates.
I forgot about Camilla and the ceremony and Master Orin standing in front of me.
I had spent six weeks working around the Prism. I had measured the platform beneath it, cleaned the silver channel surrounding its base, and recorded every change in temperature during its awakening.
None of that had prepared me to see it alive.
Color moved through the clear column. Red appeared first, followed by blue, green, gold, silver, and violet. They twisted together without mixing until the entire Hall filled with shifting light.
Something beneath my keeper’s badge warmed.
I pressed my palm against the metal. The sensation vanished before I could be certain it had been there.
The candidates’ uniforms changed beneath the Prism’s glow. Fire red deepened; Frost blue turned almost white. The black stone walls reflected colors they had never reflected during our preparations.
The first torc turned bright red.
The Fire candidates stiffened.
A concentrated beam shot from the center of the Prism and swept across their line.
It passed over the first dragon, then the second. It crossed three more before striking Torren in the center of his chest.
His body jerked.
Red light surrounded him, outlining his broad shoulders and running down both arms. Heat rolled across the Hall. The candidates nearest him stepped back, leaving him alone within the beam.
The glowing torc flew toward him.
Torren did not flinch as it opened, circled his throat, and closed against the collar of his uniform. Fire opals blazed across the metal.
Keeper Malcolm struck the staff once.
“Torren of the Ember Guard,” the headmaster announced. “Chosen heir of Fire.”
The Fire delegation bowed.
Applause broke from the galleries, loud but brief. It ended the instant the red beam withdrew.
Torren remained where he stood. Only the movement of his chest showed that he was breathing harder than before. His hand rose toward the torc, stopped before touching it, then lowered.
The Prism shifted to violet.
I looked toward Sebastian just as the second beam emerged.
It moved more slowly than the first, sliding over the Shadow candidates with an almost deliberate hesitation. Several appeared to stop breathing when it reached them. The light paused on one woman’s shoulder, then continued.
Sebastian finally lifted his attention from the floor.
The beam struck him.