Dusk painted the Academy's staging field in shades of gold and crimson as surviving teams trickled back from the forest. Sixteen candidates remained from the original twenty-four; eight hadn't returned.
Ethan sat with his team on the grass, sharing their last water while awaiting the final results. Nearby, other groups clustered together—some celebrating their survival, others nursing injuries from their encounters in the forest.
Aldric's team arrived last, the noble's arm bound in a makeshift sling. Dried blood stained his uniform, and his eyes promised violence as they locked onto Ethan across the field.
Master Donovan emerged from the Academy buildings, his scarred face unreadable as he surveyed the returning candidates. His gaze lingered on Aldric's obvious injuries before shifting to the broken hilt still clutched in the noble's good hand.
"Weapon failure?" Donovan asked with deceptive casualness.
"Training accident," Aldric replied through gritted teeth.
Donovan's expression suggested he believed otherwise, but he simply nodded and moved on to inspect other teams.
The candidates waited outside the Grand Spire while instructors deliberated inside. Nervous energy crackled through the group like summer lightning. Some paced, others sat in silent meditation, and a few whispered predictions about their rankings.
Tomas approached from another group, his uniform torn but his grin intact. "Heard you had some excitement out there."
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Ethan replied.
"Good. You've made a few enemies today." Tomas glanced toward Aldric, who was receiving healing attention from Academy medics. "Noble families don't forget slights."
"Neither do I."
As full darkness settled over the Academy grounds, Chancellor Thornfield emerged from the Grand Spire carrying scrolls sealed with official ribbons. Torches flickered to life around the staging area, casting dancing shadows across the assembled candidates.
"The trials are concluded," Thornfield announced, his voice carrying easily across the field. "Rankings have been determined based on performance, teamwork, and adaptation under pressure."
He unrolled the first scroll, reading the names in the order they were listed.
"Copper rank–the foundation upon which all advancement is built." Ten names followed, mostly commoners who merely survived their trials making a mark.
"Bronze rank–those who showed promise worthy of development."
"Marcus Brightwater. Finn Ashwood. Lydia Hayes. Ethan Cole."
A wave of relief washed over Ethan as his name was called. Bronze rank meant access to better training, improved quarters, and, most importantly, a pathway to the higher ranks where true power reside.
"Silver rank–natural talent combined with demonstrated leadership."
Three names were announced, including a few nobles who had performed adequately but without distinction.
"Gold rank–exceptional performance under extreme conditions."
"Aldric Vannon."
Ethan's jaw tightened. The noble who had broken Academy rules and attempted to injure his competitors was being rewarded with the highest freshman rank. It was clear that political protection was at play.
After the ceremony concluded, the candidates dispersed to their new quarters. Bronze rank meant shared rooms instead of barracks, and actual beds than straw pallets.
Ethan found his assigned room in the Bronze dormitory. A single candle flickered on a wooden desk beside a narrow window. His new uniform lay folded on the cot–gray fabric with bronze trim that signified his status within the Academy hierarchy.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Ethan tensed, instinctively reaching for his belt knife.
Aldric appeared in the doorway, his injured arm cradled against his chest. The noble's face was pale with pain and dark with fury.
"This isn't over, forge rat," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "My family has connections you can't imagine. Accidents happen to commoners who forget their place."
He limped away before Ethan could respond, leaving behind the scent of expensive healing salves and barely contained rage.
Ethan closed his door, sliding the simple wooden latch into place. He walked to the window and pushed it open, letting cool night air wash away the day's tensions.
Moonlight streamed across his outstretched palm, illuminating the faint sword-shaped scar that marked his connection to powers beyond Academy's understanding. The mark pulsed with warmth, responding to his proximity to the ancient magics woven into the very foundations of the academy.
He concentrated, feeling the familiar tingle of otherworldly energy.
The Kingmaker Blade materialized in his hand without flash or ceremony. Moonlight glided along its silver edge like liquid mercury, yet the weapon emitted no glow that might attract unwanted attention. Its weight felt perfect in his grip–not the awkward balance of training weapons, but the deadly precision of a blade forged for war.
Ethan raised the sword, settling into a combat stance shaped by decades of experience compressed into his teenage muscle memory. This wasn't about training: he had long surpassed the need to practice with basic forms. It was about reconecting with the truth of who he really was beneath his carefully constructed facade.
The boy who had died thirty years in the future. The man who had returned to prevent his own betrayal. The warrior who would reshape a kingdom's destiny or die trying.
His grip tightened on the weapon's hilt as moonlight painted his face in silver shadows.
No more waiting.