The infirmary always smelled of iron and restraint.
Cold stone. Cooler light. Runes carved into the ceiling that pulsed with a sterile rhythm meant to heal—but never comfort.
Nyra woke first.
Not violently. Not with a gasp or a jolt.
Her eyes opened like doors left unlocked. Quiet. Deliberate.
Silver irises gleamed beneath low lashes as the dark haze of unconsciousness retreated without protest.
The room was dim, the faint pre-dawn haze pushing through the frost-rimmed windows in pale gray streaks. A tray of old bandages and a forgotten scalpel sat nearby on a stone cart. Steam still curled from a cup of untouched tea.
She didn't move for a long moment.
Then she sat up.
Her bare feet touched the cold floor like memory, not habit. Chains hung loose at her wrists but didn't rattle. They were quiet now. Still listening.
She looked across the room.
Riven lay in the cot farthest from her, one arm flung over his face. Even unconscious, he looked coiled—like a blade set too close to fire.
Seraph and Nyx rested in a reclined position, sharing one body but already beginning to stir. Their breathing alternated in tempo. A slow, eerie cadence that almost sounded like a lullaby sung by opposite ends of a dream.
And then—
Voss.
He lay nearest to her, but his back faced the room. Shirtless. The burns across his shoulders glowed faintly in the gray light. The lines were jagged, but not crude. Almost like runes. Like something sacred had branded him in anger.
He was awake.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But she could feel him watching her from the periphery of his vision—tracking her, breathing in time with her—but not reaching.
The silence between them wasn't bitter.
It was heavy.
Like wet steel wrapped in silk.
Like regret with nowhere to go.
The air thickened.
And then—Riven groaned.
He rolled his head toward them, squinting against the ceiling.
"And here I thought you two would be kissing again by now."
His voice was rough, teasing.
But behind the grin—he was checking.
Checking that Nyra could still deliver a verbal slap. That Voss hadn't shattered into silence.
Nyra didn't even blink.
"Not everything needs repeating, Riven."
Ice. Steel. Precision.
He winced.
"Right. My mistake. Should've brought flowers."
Nyx's voice drifted in, layered over the rustle of sheets.
"Cold as a corpse, that one," she muttered. "But she burns when no one's looking."
Seraph stirred at the same time, her expression composed even in half-consciousness.
"It's good you're still yourself, Nyra," she said quietly. "Even when the world tries to remake you."
Nyra didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes stayed forward, her breathing calm. The chains around her ankles were loose but coiled—ready to strike, or vanish, or both.
A few minutes passed in tense quiet.
The door opened.
Kael Veyne entered with his usual thunder-footed presence. He wore his combat leathers—cracked at the knuckles, bloodstained at the shoulder.
His eyes swept the room once.
No emotion.
No ceremony.
"You're cleared," he said. "No healing needed. Not from us."
He tossed four scrolls onto the bed nearest Seraph/Nyx.
They unrolled mid-air.
"Next assignment. Obsidian Gardens. You know the terrain."
He paused.
"One target each. You'll be split. Standard field trial rules—kill or survive."
Nyra's eyes narrowed.
Kael met her gaze and shrugged.
"It's not my idea."
Then he turned and walked out.
The door shut behind him like a closing verdict.
Riven groaned, pushing upright and rubbing his ribs.
"Well. Nice to see we're so valued."
Seraph stood slowly, stretching like a panther. Nyx cracked her neck with a satisfied grin.
"Let's go play in the graveyard."
Voss finally turned his head—but not toward anyone.
Toward the window.
Toward the fog rolling over the treetops beyond.
Nyra stood, retrieving her boots from beneath the cot. Her fire remained silent, her chains still listening.
She didn't look at Voss.
She didn't need to.
She could feel him watching.
And choosing—again—not to speak.
Fine, she thought. Then I don't need him to.
Her fingers curled around her chains.
Seraph's eyes met hers briefly. Seraph's look held quiet understanding.
Nyx's look held something sharper.
"You're not gonna talk to him?" Nyx asked bluntly. "After what you just survived?"
Nyra turned slightly. "No."
Nyx tilted her head. "Because?"
"Because silence has more weight than words sometimes."
Seraph gave a slight nod. "She's not wrong."
Nyra finished lacing her boots.
"He made his choice. And I made mine."
Riven stood up, slinging his coat over one shoulder. "Gods, this is tense. Are we sure we didn't all die and come back meaner?"
"Speak for yourself," Nyx muttered. "I feel great."
Voss said nothing.
But the muscles in his jaw tightened.
He stood last.
He didn't reach for Nyra.
Didn't say her name.
But he watched her walk out the door with all the gravity of a man who knew he'd already missed something important.
The Dominion called it a test.
"Standard survival evaluation," the scroll had said.
But as Nyra stood beneath the pale morning sun, the fog curling over the clearing like breath held too long, she knew better.
This wasn't standard.
This wasn't training.
This was a setup.
The Obsidian Gardens spread out ahead like a graveyard reborn in mineral flesh. No green leaves. No gentle petals. No beauty.
Black stone twisted upward in jagged arches. Thorned vines, gray and glassy, pulsed faintly with dull red light. The ground shimmered with patches of crystalline moss that looked soft—but whispered when you stepped too close.
And the fog.
Gods, the fog.
It slithered through the garden with purpose, tinged with phosphorescent spores that glowed faintly when disturbed. Not bright. Just enough to mark movement.
Enough to expose.
Nyra adjusted the grip on her chains.
Her eyes scanned the clearing.
Kael's voice echoed in her head:
"One target each. No squads. No safety. Survive."
She'd known the moment they received their scrolls what would happen.
She'd be placed alone.
Not by request.
By design.
Riven stood across the clearing, already saddled with a girl from another faction—sharp-jawed, flame-tattooed, and loud.
"So what, you're supposed to be the 'golden shadow boy' or something?" the girl snapped, arms crossed.
Riven gave her a look that could strip paint.
"If you're lucky," he muttered. "Now shut up. We move on my mark."
Nearby, Voss was paired with a boy two years older but half his depth. The upperclassman's legs were shaking before they even stepped foot onto the garden path.
"I—I don't think we should separate," the boy stammered.
Voss didn't answer.
Didn't even slow.
He walked forward like the fog didn't exist.
And Seraph/Nyx?
They were assigned a healer.
Soft-voiced. Wide-eyed. Still trembling from the last assessment.
"I've never… I mean, I've seen wounds, yes, but never—" she began.
"We won't die," Seraph said gently.
"Unless you panic," Nyx finished.
The girl gulped. But followed.
Nyra stood last.
Alone.
Kael hadn't even pretended to assign her a partner.
She didn't ask why.
She didn't need to.
Nyra glanced across the field—her gaze locked with Voss's for half a heartbeat.
He looked back.
And then looked away.
Fine, she thought. Then I don't need him to.
She turned.
And entered the garden without a word.
Her chains didn't rattle.
Her fire didn't flicker.
She moved like smoke made solid—soundless, composed, untouchable.
The deeper she walked, the quieter everything became.
No birds. No insects. No wind.
Just the faint pulse of the mineral vines beneath her feet, like the roots themselves had been enchanted to breathe aura.
Fog drifted around her boots. The spores it carried floated upward in slow spirals, reacting to her motion.
But her flame burned so close to the bone now, even the spores seemed to hesitate.
Everything here wanted to feed.
Everything here wanted a mistake.
Nyra gave them nothing.
She passed a pool of black water ringed with flowers made of razor-laced petals. The petals twitched when she came near.
She didn't stop.
Didn't blink.
A single glyph pulsed at the center of the garden path. When she stepped over it, the fog surged higher.
She welcomed it.
The moment she disappeared into the haze, her aura vanished.
To the outside, she was gone.
But inside—
She was hunting.
—
A scream rang out from somewhere to the northeast. It was cut short.
She didn't flinch.
Another shriek. Then silence. The fog swallowed it all.
Her senses narrowed.
She passed under a twisted archway of jagged vine-choked stone. The plants along the edge of the path glowed faintly, whispering to one another in fragmented aura pulses.
She stepped off the trail.
Immediately, the ground felt different. Less stable. As if it didn't want to be touched.
Good.
She liked it better when the world fought back.
Suddenly—footsteps.
To her left.
Fast. Panicked.
She crouched low behind a mineral ridge.
A boy came crashing through the brush—upperclassman, armor loose, face pale with panic. His blade was gone.
He tripped. Scrambled.
Whispers followed him. Not human.
The fog moved wrong behind him.
Then something lunged.
She saw a blur of mirrored flesh—distorted, almost crystalline. It slammed into the boy and pinned him to the ground. No roar. No hiss. Just silence.
Then a sickening crack.
His body stopped moving.
The creature turned its head.
Nyra remained perfectly still.
Its face—or what should have been a face—shimmered. Not with light. With refraction. It didn't reflect her.
It watched her.
But not with eyes.
With mimicry.
She took one slow step back.
It tilted its head. And mirrored the motion.
Another step.
It matched.
She exhaled.
It inhaled.
She darted left. Feinted high. Dropped low.
It copied her with near-perfect symmetry—but its limbs stuttered.
It didn't flow.
It was trying to learn her rhythm.
Trying to become her.
Her lip curled.
"You're not me."
She unspooled her chains.
The air hissed.
And Nyra danced.
The deeper Nyra moved into the Obsidian Gardens, the less it felt like earth.
The terrain twisted. It folded in on itself like the land was unsure whether to be solid or dream. The flora no longer resembled plants—just jagged, mineral-wrapped hunger. Every leaf was a blade. Every vine a question.
The fog had grown thicker now.Too thick.
Even her fire dimmed as it burned. The spores ate light.
It wasn't natural.
She crouched behind a ridge of black-glass brambles, pulse steady, listening.
Everything had gone quiet.
Again.
Too quiet.
She'd already passed through two clearings. Her target should've been there—a slither-beast, according to the rune-coded trial scroll. Aura signature marked as mid-tier threat. Fast, venomous. Killable.
But instead, she'd found… nothing.
No claw marks. No scent. No sound.
And then—
A shape.
It didn't emerge.
It appeared.
Like it had always been there, perfectly still.
Its body shimmered with a liquid sheen, glassy and fractured like a mirror pieced together wrong. Its limbs moved not in muscle, but in mimicry. Its joints shifted based on what it saw.
And right now, it was seeing her.
Nyra inhaled through her nose.
The creature didn't.
It matched her inhale a second later.
She narrowed her eyes.
It blinked—after she had.
Her chains unspooled half an inch.
It crouched, limbs tensing in perfect reflection.
"A mimic," she murmured under her breath.
No response. But the beast tilted its head at the exact same time she did.
This wasn't camouflage.
It wasn't illusion.
It was studying.
Becoming.
She rose slowly from her crouch.
The creature rose too.
Its limbs didn't move with fluidity. They juddered in rhythm. Not a dancer—but a marionette trying to fake a soul.
She took one step forward.
The beast followed.
But not in aggression.
In learning.
Its face was the worst part.
No mouth. No eyes. Just a reflective curve where features should be. Like a mask carved from the memories of others.
"You're not hunting," she said aloud. "You're rehearsing."
And then it lunged.
No growl. No roar.
Just movement.
Fast.
Nyra twisted back, spinning her chains in a sharp arc. The left lashed wide—bait. The right cut low—precision.
The beast mirrored.
Its right claw snapped to the side—bait.
Its left slashed low—copy.
She ducked.
It ducked.
Her chain cracked the ground—so did its claws.
She moved like a ghost dipped in fire, bending, sliding, flipping backward across sharp-rooted terrain. Her movements were clean—her rhythm complex.
But it kept up.
Almost.
Almost.
Its legs twitched when it tried to copy her spin.
Its weight shifted wrong when it mimicked her second-step drop.
It was watching.
Not living it.
It didn't have her instinct.
It had pattern.
She could use that.
Nyra landed low behind a spire of glass-thorn rock. The beast prowled closer.
It didn't sniff.
Didn't listen.
It waited.
She inhaled slowly.
Then—
Let her knees buckle.
She collapsed to the ground.
The creature matched her fall—exactly.
And that's when she knew.
"You don't adapt. You repeat."
The chain in her left hand snapped up—high and wide.
The beast mirrored it.
Her right hand twitched.
That one, it didn't catch in time.
Strike.
She rolled toward it—not away—her back hitting its knee-joint. Her chain wrapped around its left leg in a blur of movement. It twitched, trying to follow—
Too late.
The glyphs on her forearms flared.
The fire didn't explode outward.
It spiraled inward.
Controlled.
Sharp.
Beautiful.
The flames bled down her chains like ink in water, wrapping around the beast's mirrored body with coiling heat. It screamed—not aloud, but through its form. Its body distorted—refractions shattered. Its limbs tried to reform.
She didn't let them.
Her hands moved in a precise dance. Circles, turns, spirals—not rage. Not fury.
Elegance.
Restraint.
Her fire took shape as it moved. For the first time in her life, it stopped being a weapon.
It became language.
The flames traced glyphs in the air—patterns she'd never been taught, symbols she'd only seen once—inside the Severing.
Nairavel's markings.
A crown of fire coiled over her shoulders. The rune carved into her collarbone pulsed once. Her eyes glowed pale silver.
The creature writhed.
It couldn't mimic her anymore.
It didn't understand what she was.
Because even she didn't—not fully.
But her blood did.
Her chains tightened.
The fire pulsed.
And the beast… burned.
Not in agony.
In silence.
No ash fell.
No body remained.
Only a ripple of air.
And the faint hiss of her flames retracting back into her palms like velvet smoke.
She stood there for a moment.
Not breathing hard.
Not gloating.
Her expression didn't change.
Her eyes drifted to the fog, now clearing from the heat.
And in the scorched earth where the beast had been…
One glyph remained.
A snake swallowing its tail.
The mark of eternity.
Or evolution.
Her palm hovered over it.
It flickered—once—and disappeared.
She exhaled.
"I am not yours to imitate," she whispered.
And turned toward the path.
The fog clung to the observation deck like memory.
It drifted between the columns, soft and silver, carrying the scent of ash, iron, and something older—something unspoken. Dominion instructors stood along the upper arc of the platform, expressionless, clipboards in hand, enchantment mirrors pulsing with recorded telemetry.
Kael Veyne stood at the edge of the glass railing, arms crossed, his brow furrowed. He hadn't blinked in three minutes.
Because they were coming back.
One by one.
Students emerged from the Obsidian Gardens like ghosts—scarred, scraped, gasping. One limped with a shattered leg. Another was unconscious, dragged by her teammate. Several reeked of blood, not all of it their own.
Kael didn't flinch.
He was watching for one face.
And then she appeared.
Nyra Vale.
She walked through the fog like it was her shadow. Not a scrape on her skin. Not a twitch in her step. Her fire was dormant, but it glowed faintly beneath her arms. Her chains didn't hang from her wrists—they coiled, slow and elegant, as if resting. As if they'd just fed.
Ash streaked her boots. Her eyes were silver and clear. She looked like a weapon that had been unsheathed and now refused to go back in.
She didn't look left.
Didn't look right.
Just walked forward.
Composed. Balanced. Untouched.
And yet the fog around her parted, thinned, obeyed.
She stopped in front of Kael without fanfare.
"You'll want to check the southeast quadrant," she said, voice even. "There's nothing left."
She didn't wait for a response.
She walked past him like he wasn't there.
Kael's jaw clenched.He said nothing.
In the stands above, Celeste Drayven leaned forward, her fingers curling over the edge of the stone balustrade.
Her eyes tracked Nyra like a hawk watching a storm and trying to pretend it wasn't afraid.
"She fights like silence made beautiful," Celeste murmured.
One of her peers scoffed beside her.
"You're not seriously impressed by that peasant—"
"Shut up," Celeste snapped without turning.
She didn't know what to make of Nyra.
She didn't understand her.
And that terrified her more than any blade.
Because when you didn't understand something, you couldn't control it.
And when you couldn't control it—
You couldn't stop watching it.
Behind the instructor line, Voss stood beneath a tall column, half-wrapped in shadow. His arms were folded. His jaw was tight.
He hadn't said a word since returning.
He hadn't needed to.
His body still hadn't fully stabilized. The gravitational pulse around him trembled every time his gaze found Nyra's back.
She didn't look at him.
He didn't call her name.
But every breath he took was a war.
He'd watched her vanish into that garden alone.Watched her return without a scar.Watched the world part for her like it knew better.
And all he could think about was the moment she'd passed him without speaking.
She's farther from me now than when we met.
He couldn't say that aloud.
But the pressure in his chest wouldn't let him forget it.
Seraph and Nyx emerged next.
They didn't speak.
Their steps were mirrored. Balanced. One hand rested casually on a war fan; the other held a fang-blade loosely.
They moved like dancers after a final bow—neither proud nor broken. Just finished.
Riven arrived after them.
His jacket was scorched. A shallow cut bled across his brow. But he walked with the easy swagger of someone who knew he'd done well enough to mock everyone else later.
He looked around.
Saw Voss in shadow.
Saw Nyra standing alone near the far railing.
He scratched his neck and smirked.
"Someone should probably say something," he muttered.
No one did.
Because the silence wasn't empty.
It was heavy with something new.
Recognition.
Not applause. Not praise.
Respect.
They hadn't just survived the Dominion's trial.
They'd transcended it.
And everyone watching knew it.
Moonlight glazed the rooftop of the House of Shadows in a veil of pale silver.
The garden here wasn't like the one below. No deadly vines. No illusion traps. Just sparse stones, wind-bitten herbs, and a low wall that overlooked the sleeping bones of the Dominion Institute.
The fog hadn't lifted—but it had thinned.
And for once, they gathered together with no one watching.
No instructors.
No commands.
No masks.
Just the four of them. Scars. Strength. Silence.
Riven leaned against the edge of the stone bench, tossing a piece of chalk in one hand like it was a dagger.
Seraph/Nyx stood beside him, arms crossed in twin posture. Their body still buzzed faintly with magic. One eye glowed brighter than the other, the balance between them shifting in quiet rhythm.
Nyra rested against the wall furthest from them, her hands curled along the stone railing. She stared out across the fog, chin tilted, face calm—but distant.
She hadn't said a word since the trial ended.
She hadn't needed to.
Voss stood in the shadows, just out of reach. His aura was finally beginning to settle, but his silence hadn't.
The rooftop felt… heavier with them here.
Like something ancient had stitched them together—whether they liked it or not.
Riven cleared his throat and stepped toward Seraph/Nyx.
"A gift," he said casually, but his tone was lower than usual. "Since I thought I might not make it out."
He opened his palm.
A pair of silver-threaded cuffs glinted softly under the moonlight. Etched with protective runes, delicately crafted—deadly beautiful. Ancient glyphs shimmered faintly along the edges, alive with energy that pulsed in rhythm with their shared presence.
"For both of you," he added. "One for each wrist. Not to bind. Just to… match."
Seraph blinked slowly, caught off guard.
Nyx raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a crooked smirk.
"You thought we'd die?" Nyra asked from the railing without turning.
Riven didn't skip a beat.
"No. I thought I'd never get the chance to do something un-stupid."
Nyx huffed and took the cuff with a roll of her eyes.
"This doesn't mean I like you."
"Sure it does," Riven grinned.
Seraph held the other cuff gently, fingers brushing the rune-work. Her smile was softer. A thank-you in expression, not words.
Riven nodded once, looking away like he wasn't used to gratitude. His bravado faded for a heartbeat, revealing the vulnerability behind the smirk.
The mood shifted—not lighter, but warmer.
Something almost… peaceful.
Almost.
Because Nyra hadn't moved.
Hadn't smiled.
Hadn't joined.
She stood at the edge like she belonged to another horizon.
But she was listening.
She always listened.
Voss watched her. His fists clenched and released, over and over. His jaw was locked tight, tension laced through his every breath.
He took a step toward her. Then another.
Stopped halfway.
She didn't look at him.
He stared at her profile, the silver edge of her eyes reflecting moonlight, the lines of her body carved from shadow and fire.
"You were brilliant today, Hellcat."
The words escaped him softer than he meant.
Nyra turned her head slightly, just enough for one eye to catch his.
The silence that followed was not cold.
It was carved from something deeper.
Hurt, maybe.
Or something he hadn't earned back yet.
Then—finally—her voice.
"Next time…" she said quietly, "don't make me walk into death alone."
The words struck like knives beneath his skin—quiet, but cutting. His mouth parted slightly, as if to respond, but the words didn't come.
Because the pain behind hers was too raw.
And the truth too late.
She stepped away.
And for once—she walked away first.
Her chains didn't follow with sound. Her fire didn't flicker in rage. But her presence left a crater in the space she vacated.
Voss stood there, breath caught, a storm muted in his chest.
Riven let out a long exhale from behind him.
"You had your shot, ghost-boy," he muttered.
Voss didn't reply.
Couldn't.
His hands trembled again—whether from residual magic or something heavier, no one could tell.
Seraph placed a gentle hand on his shoulder in passing.
Nyx followed with a mutter.
"You should've run after her."
"She wouldn't have stopped," Voss said quietly.
"Exactly," Nyx replied. "And she would've hated you less for trying."
The wind howled suddenly, curling through the rooftop garden like the night exhaling.
The fog thickened again.
But none of them moved.
Because even silence had its place now.
Even distance.
Even wounds.
The fog thickened. But their bond didn't falter.
Even silence, even distance, even wounds—couldn't sever what trial had forged.
And for the first time, they were not just surviving the Dominion.
They were becoming what it feared most.