The day dawned with a hushed reverence, as if the world itself held its breath. Even the ever-burning braziers lining the outer wall of Velstrae's academy grounds flickered a shade dimmer, their heat humming low and tense beneath the waking city. It was the week of the Trials.
And for the first time in centuries, a Null had bled for a place in the flame.
But no one was supposed to know that yet.
The courtyard near the servants' quarters was eerily quiet. Liora sat at the edge of the old fountain, its stone basin long dry, the moss grown thick in its cracks. She held her hand to the morning light, examining the scabbed cut across her palm—the mark of the ritual.
The blood had been accepted.
No one could explain it. Nulls weren't acknowledged by the flame. That was law, history, creed. Yet when Liora had dared to slit her palm beneath the obsidian altar, when her blood had touched the scorched stone, the runes had lit.
And not dimly.
They had roared.
She hadn't done it for glory. She hadn't done it for hope. She'd done it because she was tired. Tired of waiting for cruelty to come for her. Tired of watching her friends treated like less than nothing. Tired of feeling powerless. Of being a shadow in a world of fire.
Brisa had nearly fainted when she found out.
"You did what?!"
"Keep your voice down," Liora had hissed, tugging her friend deeper into the kitchens.
"No," Brisa said, eyes wide with horror. "No, no, you don't get to scold me when you've just bled on the Queen's sacred flame stone like it's some festival altar. What were you thinking?!"
"That I wanted to survive."
"You could die!"
Liora had looked down at her hands. Rough, calloused, cracked from work. From training. From defiance.
"I could die scrubbing boots, Bris. Or by accident. Or because some noble decided he liked the way I pour wine. At least this way, I die on my terms."
Brisa had gone quiet then.
Kael, of course, had known before anyone. He'd stood watch when she snuck out. He'd threatened to burn the altar himself if the flame refused her.
"They won't let you in," he had said. "You know that, right? Even if the flame acknowledged you. The Academy will still deny it."
"Let them try."
Now, as she sat in the cold morning light, the world already moving around her, she felt something tug deep in her gut. The trials were three days away.
And her name had been whispered. Quietly. Behind closed doors.
Rumors spread quickly through the servant halls. About a girl. A Null. Who'd bled and lived. Who the altar hadn't rejected. Some said it was a fluke. Others said it was a mistake. A cruel joke by the gods.
But some—a few—said it was fate.
The selection for the Trials was always a spectacle, an elite theater masked as tradition. Nobles from all ranks filled the Obsidian Forum, an open coliseum whose outer pillars hissed with sacred flame. Only those acknowledged by the flame through ritual sacrifice could even be considered for participation. The flame accepted blood or burned it. That was the test.
Hundreds bled every year. Few were chosen. Even fewer survived the first round.
It was the realm's way of filtering the weak from the strong. To train warriors not only of fire, but of will. And to supply Obsidian Academy with its future soldiers—weapons for the endless war raging across the volcanic borderlands.
There were ranks among the flame-born:
Sparks: The lowest tier, barely able to summon heat.Kindled: Those whose flames danced obediently to their command.Embersouls: Masters of flame, able to shape and manipulate it into devastating forms.Infernos: Rare. Feared. Born with flame in their blood. Fire incarnate.
Liora was not even a Spark.
Officially, she was a Null. She should have been invisible.
But her blood had burned the altar bright. And now the Queen's court was unsettled.
In the days leading up to the Trials, the palace became a crucible of tension. Servants whispered about a new girl, a Null who was being watched. Some said the Queen herself had demanded to see the list of accepted applicants. That she'd torn it in half upon finding Liora's name.
But no one removed her.
Perhaps they wanted to make an example of her. Let her die in the arena and silence the murmurs of rebellion.
Kael was furious.
"You're not ready," he said one night, pacing in their hidden courtyard. "They're going to kill you, Liora."
"Then let them try."
He stopped. His face was flushed, eyes dark with something heavier than fear.
"You think this is noble? Brave? It's stupid."
"I'm not trying to be brave," she said, voice quiet. "I'm trying to survive."
He crossed the distance between them, took her hand.
"Then run. We can leave. Go to the coast. Find work. Find peace."
Liora looked at him, at the boy who had been her shadow and sword, who had watched her break and refused to let her fall. She wished she could say yes.
But she couldn't run from herself.
"I have to see it through."
Kael's jaw clenched. He looked like he might scream. Instead, he kissed her forehead and walked away.
She watched him go. Wondering if she would ever see him again.
On the eve of the Trials, the servants' quarters emptied into silence. Brisa slipped into Liora's room and crawled into her cot like they were children again, afraid of the storm.
"Promise me something," Brisa said, voice barely above a whisper.
"What?"
"If you die... haunt me. I want to know you went out with style."
Liora smiled. "Deal. But only if you promise to cry really loudly and curse the Queen's name."
"Done."
They lay in silence a while longer.
"I think you were born wrong on purpose," Brisa said softly.
"Thanks."
"No, I mean it. Like the gods messed up. They gave the heart of an Inferno to a Null. Maybe this is their way of fixing it."
Liora didn't reply. But she held her friend's hand tightly until they both drifted into uneasy sleep.
The Trials were coming.
And the fire had begun to whisper her name.