The next day, the skies over the Academy remained bruised with stormlight, the magic-soaked clouds refusing to disperse. Whispers had spread like wildfire through the marble corridors and jeweled balconies—about the girl who stopped time, about the storm that answered her will.
The Royal Houses had arrived in full force. High Lords in brocade and bone-stitched cloaks. Duchesses adorned with runes along their throats. Every box seat in the Coliseum was filled with power—nobles, senators, and foreign envoys leaning forward, hungry to see the rest of the so-called prodigies.
In the viewing balcony, Lady Virell of House Fen'dor clutched her fan with white knuckles.
"She didn't even touch Xarek," she hissed. "What is she?"
"She's a threat," muttered Lord Andryn of House Morhail. "And threats must be contained… or claimed."
The arena transformed again—stone fracturing and reforming into a volcanic field of obsidian shards and molten rivers. The heat shimmered.
Zerina stepped into the coliseum barefoot, crimson silk fluttering around her legs. Her hair was braided with gold wire, flames dancing at her fingertips. Across from her stood Voss, clad in ceremonial armor, his face carved in stern disapproval.
Avenya watched from the balcony, arms crossed.
"She's too calm," Kaelara muttered. "Either she's mad… or ready."
Serenya leaned over the edge. "I hope he burns."
Voss raised his staff. "You are a child. This is no place for priests or prophets."
Zerina bowed slightly. "Then I'll be neither."
He attacked first—hurling spears of ice and chanting binding runes. The crowd gasped as one of the bolts almost skewered her heart.
Zerina didn't flinch.
Instead, she whispered a prayer—and the ground split.
Flames surged upward, forming a phoenix that circled her like a shield. Voss's next incantation faltered.
"You hide behind tricks," he barked.
Zerina opened her eyes, blazing gold. "And you hide behind robes and fear."
The phoenix screamed, diving toward Voss. He conjured a barrier, but the fire seared through, igniting the hem of his cloak. He fell to one knee.
Zerina stood above him, lips parted.
She didn't strike the final blow.
She simply turned and walked away, her flames leaving burning footprints in the obsidian.
In the noble stands, murmurs broke into full-throated discussion.
"She's not just a flame-wielder," one baroness whispered. "She's a god's mouthpiece."
"Or a god in disguise," muttered another.
Later, the five gathered in the private stone chamber overlooking the arena—an old royal lounge rarely used by students. Pillows lined the floor. A bowl of cool wine sat in the center.
"You were magnificent," Avenya said quietly to Zerina, brushing a curl from her cheek.
Zerina turned to her. "So were you. I felt your storm echo through the stones."
Serenya flopped onto a pillow. "I'm not following that. Can't we just duel over who peels the most apples or something?"
Calla smirked. "Your trial's next, sweet temple thief. No apples there."
Kaelara stretched her legs across Avenya's lap. "You'll do fine. Just don't faint."
"I never faint." Serenya pointed a finger. "You fainted when I kissed you last week."
Kaelara rolled her eyes. "That was strategic swooning."
Calla raised an eyebrow. "Do we want to talk about last night?"
Avenya's gaze flicked to her, amused.
"Which part?" she asked.
Calla flushed. "The part where you ruined me on a balcony and refused to let me leave until I said I was yours."
Zerina coughed into her cup.
Kaelara leaned forward. "Wait. You're hers now?"
"I never said only hers," Calla replied coyly.
Serenya raised both hands. "Alright. Let's not forget the rest of us might want a turn with the demigoddess, hmm?"
Avenya chuckled low. "Patience. Trials first. Blood after."
Kaelara purred, "And maybe a little more sex in between."
The arena twisted into a dense, tangled forest—enchanted to be endless, wild, and living.
Kaelara walked in like it was home.
Her hair was braided with feathers. Her cloak lined with wolf-fur. Behind her, a massive white wolf prowled silently—eyes glowing silver.
Thorne appeared among the trees, flanked by blades and shadow hounds.
"You think beasts win wars?" he called.
Kaelara cracked her knuckles. "No. I think you lose them."
The trees moved to her will.
Vines struck first, binding Thorne's hounds. The wolf lunged, tearing through the nearest shadow-beast with a savage growl. Kaelara leapt, flipping from branch to branch until she landed behind Thorne and whispered, "Boo."
He spun, sword raised.
She caught the blade barehanded, blood dripping. "Nice steel."
Then she kissed him.
Gasps exploded in the crowd.
And while Thorne stood stunned, Kaelara slammed him to the ground, knee on his chest, vines tightening around his limbs.
"You should thank me," she whispered.
"For what?" he spat.
"For not letting my wolf finish you."
Above, the nobles clutched their armrests.
"That was seduction warfare," a general muttered in awe.
"And she made it look like foreplay," another said.
Serenya paced, fidgeting with her bracers.
"You ready?" Avenya asked, walking over.
"No," Serenya said. "But I'm going anyway."
Avenya touched her shoulder. "You don't have to win. Just show them who you are."
Serenya looked up at her. "And who's that?"
Avenya smiled. "The girl who made Kaelara faint."
Serenya laughed, then stepped forward and kissed Avenya softly.
"Wish me fire."
"You've already got it."
Ysolde was elegance incarnate—long knives, silver hair, poison at her nails.
Serenya looked… like she'd rolled out of bed and into a kitchen raid.
The arena became a ballroom—illusioned walls, chandeliers crashing mid-air.
Serenya stood barefoot on polished marble, breathing deep.
"You don't belong here," Ysolde said coldly.
Serenya raised a stolen spoon. "And yet… here I am."
Ysolde threw a knife.
Serenya threw the spoon.
They collided midair with a spark of magic.
Ysolde blinked. "You enchanted that?"
Serenya grinned. "The kitchen god loves me."
She danced between blows, singing. Her magic was trickster-chaos—illusions, duplicates, pie spells (literally). The crowd howled with laughter and disbelief.
When Ysolde stumbled on whipped cream, Serenya swept her legs and pinned her with a ladle.
"Yield," she sang sweetly.
The nobles rose in applause.
"She's chaos incarnate," Elvareth said, half amused.
"She's fun," one of the minor queens muttered.
The five met in the moon garden—white flowers glowing in the dark, crystal trees humming softly.
Avenya held the blade.
"One drop each," she whispered.
They cut their fingers. Blood dripped into the obsidian bowl.
The moment it mixed, the ground trembled.
A golden pulse lit the sky.
The nobles looked up from their feasts.
The Headmistress dropped her goblet.
And in the west, the sealed kingdom shimmered into being—spires rising above mist, a bridge of stars linking sky to sea.
Calla gasped. "Velharon."
Zerina whispered, "The Lost City."
Kaelara grinned. "I told you something wild would happen."
Serenya looked around. "Why can only we see it?"
Avenya stepped forward, voice ancient and deep. "Because it belongs to us."
From the city's highest tower, a light flared.
And every queen's mark burned—on shoulder, palm, throat, or heart.
They were chosen.
They were home.
They were awakening.