The harsh buzzing of the alarm cut through Emrys Seraphal's fitful sleep like a dull blade. His hand shot out from beneath threadbare covers, silencing the ancient clock before it could complete its first offensive cycle. 5:00 AM glowed in angry red digits, casting the only light in his cramped apartment.

  He sat up, running calloused fingers through dark hair that hadn't seen proper care in months. Sleep clung to him like a reluctant lover, but Emrys had learned to function on four hours a night. Time was too precious to waste on biological comforts.

  "First day of year three," he muttered, voice rough with disuse. The words hung in the stale air of his single-room apartment—a concrete box assigned to scholarship students who couldn't afford Nexoria's exorbitant housing fees.

  The walls told his story better than he could—plastered with hand-drawn diagrams of arcane circles, photocopied pages of restricted texts, and notes scrawled in moments of desperate insight. At the center of it all, pinned above his desk like a shrine, was a page torn from an ancient text: "Magic is neither inherited nor gifted—it is claimed."

  Emrys's gaze lingered on his most prized possession—a leather-bound journal stamped with fading gold letters that read: "MAGICAL THEORIES AND OBSERVATIONS." Two years' worth of forbidden knowledge, meticulous documentation, and relentless failures. Two years of breaking rules, crossing boundaries, and chasing something everyone told him was impossible.

  He flipped on the single overhead light, wincing as it flickered before stabilizing. The college housing authority had promised to fix the electrical issues last semester. Promises were cheap in Nexoria.

  The bathroom mirror revealed a face he sometimes barely recognized—angular features sharpened by too many missed meals, dark circles beneath blue eyes that burned with stubborn determination. Twenty years old but looking older, worn down by the grinding reality of being human in a world where magic determined your worth.

  "You look like someone who definitely isn't planning another restricted section raid," he told his reflection with a grim smile. "Absolutely trustworthy."

  The mirror, like the rest of the world, offered no encouragement.

  Fifteen minutes later, fueled by instant coffee strong enough to strip paint, Emrys shouldered his weathered backpack containing textbooks, notebooks, and his precious journal. He glanced once more at the wall of diagrams—his personal galaxy of forbidden knowledge—before stepping out into the pre-dawn darkness.

  Nexoria College sprawled across its grounds like a predator that had devoured the surrounding neighborhoods years ago. Ancient stone buildings with their ivy-covered arrogance stood beside sleek glass structures filled with the latest arcano-tech innovations. The contrast was deliberate, a constant reminder that magic evolved but never truly changed—and those who controlled it would always rule.

  The morning air carried the tang of ozone that lingered after the night's magical cleanup crews had swept through, erasing the evidence of student experiments gone wrong. Emrys moved with purpose through the awakening campus, avoiding the main paths where early risers congregated.

  The unofficial segregation was subtle but unmistakable. Elves dominated the northern quad with their flowing robes and casual displays of elemental magic. Dwarves claimed the engineering sector, their boisterous laughter carrying across carefully maintained distances. Elemental beings drifted through gardens specially designed to accommodate their unstable physical forms.

  And humans—relegated to the edges, grateful for scraps of education, constantly reminded of their biological limitations.

  Emrys had spent two years mapping the social topography of Nexoria with the same precision he applied to magical theory. He knew which professors sympathized with human students. Which administrative assistants could be bribed with homemade baked goods. Which security guards took extended coffee breaks at predictable intervals.

  Knowledge was power, even for the powerless.

  The library loomed ahead, its stained glass windows depicting the founding mages in poses of benevolent superiority. Emrys checked his watch—5:45 AM. Perfect timing. The night shift was ending, the day shift hadn't fully settled in, and the brief gap in vigilance had proved exploitable seventy-eight times over the past two years.

  "Morning, Ms. Lorelei," he called with practiced casualness to the ancient elven librarian who'd occupied the front desk since time immemorial. Her silver hair was pulled into a bun tight enough to give her a perpetual look of suspicion, and her fingers continued moving over a catalog crystal even as her eyes flicked up to identify him.

  "Mr. Seraphal." Her tone carried the unique blend of disdain and indifference reserved for human scholarship students. "The physics section won't be open for another hour."

  "Just returning an early assignment," he replied, patting his bag with a smile that never reached his eyes. "Professor Thorne's deadlines wait for no one."

  She didn't believe him—she never did—but the fiction served them both. She returned to her cataloging, the magic quill beside her scratching notes without her attention, and Emrys continued past the main desk with measured steps.

  The path to the restricted section had been perfected through trial, error, and two disciplinary hearings that had nearly cost him his scholarship. Through Historical Alchemy, behind the rarely-used Demonology stacks, past the broken security rune that had been "scheduled for repair" for eighteen months, and finally to an unassuming door marked "Faculty Research Only."

  The lock was insultingly simple for an institution that prided itself on magical security. Thirty seconds with the modified lockpicks he'd traded a semester's worth of meal credits for, and the mechanism yielded with a satisfying click.

  The restricted section wasn't impressive in size—perhaps twenty feet square—but what it lacked in dimensions, it made up for in forbidden knowledge. Shelves lined every wall, packed with leather-bound research papers organized by magical discipline: Elemental Theory, Spatial Manipulation, Biological Enhancement, Mana Conversion, and—his personal obsession—Theoretical Applications.

  Emrys moved directly to the last section, fingers dancing across spines until he found a folder he hadn't yet "borrowed": "Luminate: Applications Beyond Illumination."

  "Let's see what secrets you're hiding," he whispered, carefully sliding it from its place. The folder was heavier than expected, the leather cover warm to the touch in a way that suggested recent handling.

  Just as he tucked it into his bag, the door behind him opened with deliberate slowness. Emrys froze, calculations racing through his mind. Two disciplinary hearings, three warnings, and one academic probation. Another violation meant expulsion, no appeals.

  "Well, well," came a voice cold with amusement. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

  Emrys turned slowly to face a young man with silver-white hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, angular features that suggested elven ancestry, and violet eyes that radiated contempt. His uniform bore the silver-and-blue insignia of the Holy Magic Department—the most elitist magical discipline that prided itself on excluding non-mages.

  "Looking for something specific, human?" the mage asked, examining his manicured nails as if Emrys were barely worth his attention.

  Emrys assessed his options with the rapid clarity of someone accustomed to tight corners. Denial was pointless. Pleading would only feed the mage's superiority complex. That left defiance or diversion.

  "Just broadening my education," he replied, shifting to block the mage's view of his bag. "The general collection doesn't cover magical theory in sufficient depth."

  The mage's laugh was sharp and without warmth. "As if you could comprehend even basic magical theory. Your kind lacks both the capacity and the context." He stepped fully into the room, blocking the only exit. "I'm Varek Moonshadow. You should know the name of the person who ends your academic career."

  "Emrys Seraphal," he replied, chin lifting slightly. "And if you were going to report me, you wouldn't have announced yourself. You'd have called security immediately."

  A flicker of surprise crossed Varek's face before his expression settled back into practiced disdain. "Perhaps I enjoy watching prey squirm before the trap closes."

  "Or perhaps you're curious," Emrys countered, seizing on the momentary advantage. "Wondering why a human with 'no magical potential' keeps risking everything to access these papers. Wondering if maybe the established theories about human limitations aren't as absolute as you've been taught."

  Varek's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Your kind has been studied for centuries. The conclusions are definitive. Human mana capacity is barely sufficient to sense magical energy, let alone manipulate it."

  "And yet," Emrys gestured to the shelves around them, "these papers exist. Written by human researchers who clearly found something worth documenting."

  "Documentation isn't application," Varek said dismissively. "Watching and doing are entirely different matters."

  Emrys stepped forward, emboldened by the fact that Varek still hadn't called for security. "Then why does the system work so hard to keep this knowledge from us? Why restrict access if we're incapable of using it?"

  The question hung between them, resonating in the dust-filled air of the restricted section. For a moment, something like genuine consideration flickered across Varek's face.

  Then the moment passed, replaced by his customary smirk. "Perhaps for the same reason we don't let children play with fire. Incomprehension combined with curiosity is a dangerous mixture." He stepped aside, clearing the doorway with exaggerated courtesy. "Run along, human. I have actual studies to pursue."

  Emrys moved cautiously toward the door, expecting a trap. "You're not reporting me?"

  Varek shrugged, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "And deprive myself of watching your inevitable failure? Where's the entertainment in that?" His smile turned knife-sharp. "Besides, I'm curious how many more times you'll risk everything for knowledge you can never apply. That's a unique form of madness worth observing."

  Emrys slipped past him, clutching his bag close. "Or maybe you're worried I'll discover something that challenges everything you think you know."

  Varek's laughter followed him down the corridor, cold and mocking. "Keep dreaming, mortal. It's the one magic your kind has mastered."

  That night, Emrys spread the stolen research paper across his desk, journal open beside it. The single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting dancing shadows across diagrams that detailed how the Luminate spell—typically used for simple illumination—could be weaponized, disguised, or amplified beyond its intended purpose.

  According to the paper, the spell's versatility came from manipulating the wavelength and intensity of the magical energy. The incantation remained the same—"Luminate"—but the caster's intent and mana control determined the result.

  Emrys carefully copied the incantation into his journal along with the precise hand gestures illustrated in the paper. His notes were meticulous, cross-referenced with previous research on light manipulation and basic energy conversion. Two years of such documentation had transformed his journal from a simple notebook into a comprehensive magical reference that would be worth a fortune on the black market—if he ever considered selling it.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  He would rather burn it first.

  Pushing back from his desk, Emrys stood in the center of his small room, research paper in one hand. He positioned his free hand as shown in the illustration—fingers spread, wrist slightly bent, palm facing upward.

  "Luminate," he said firmly, focusing his will on creating a simple light.

  Nothing happened. The room remained dimly lit by the flickering overhead bulb, the shadows unmoved by his command.

  He tried again, this time closing his eyes and visualizing energy flowing from his core, down his arm, to his fingertips—just as the papers described. "Luminate!"

  For a brief moment, a tingling warmth spread through his hand, and the faintest sensation of... something... flickered at the edge of his awareness. But when he opened his eyes, the room remained unchanged.

  Emrys sighed, flexing his fingers to dispel the lingering warmth. Two years of attempts, hundreds of spells, and not a single visible result. Maybe Varek was right. Maybe this was all pointless.

  But then why did the incantations feel like words he'd known before speech? Why did the gestures seem like movements his body remembered from somewhere beyond memory? And most importantly, why couldn't he recall anything before waking in that hospital three years ago, identity erased, past a blank slate?

  He returned to his desk, flipping to a fresh page in his journal. At the top, he wrote: "Luminate – Attempt #147 – No visible result, but increased tactile sensation in fingertips and momentary awareness of energy flow? Possible progress or wishful thinking?"

  Below that, he sketched the hand position again, adding notes about his emotional state, the room's ambient magical background (minimal in human housing), and the exact wording and inflection he'd used. Details mattered in magic—or so the stolen papers claimed.

  The night deepened around him as he alternated between attempts and documentation, repeating the process with variations in stance, vocal emphasis, and mental focus. By 3 AM, his eyes burned and his voice had grown hoarse, but his journal had gained six pages of new observations.

  Tomorrow, he would return the research paper before borrowing another, continuing the cycle that had defined his education for two years. This was his real schoolwork—not the physics and mathematics classes he excelled in to maintain his scholarship, but the relentless pursuit of knowledge that everyone insisted wasn't meant for him.

  "One day," he promised himself as exhaustion finally drove him to his thin mattress, "something will happen."

  Two weeks later, Emrys had established a careful routine. Classes during the day, magical study at night, and carefully timed visits to the restricted section between guard rotations. He'd successfully "borrowed" and returned four more research papers, adding their secrets to his ever-growing journal.

  He was careful to avoid Varek, ducking behind shelves or changing direction whenever he spotted that distinctive silver ponytail. So far, the arrogant mage had kept their encounter to himself—no disciplinary action had come—but testing that tolerance seemed unwise.

  It was during his fifth mission to the restricted section that everything changed.

  The room was exactly as he'd left it the day before, dimly lit by magical sconces that cast more shadows than illumination. Emrys moved with practiced efficiency toward the Theoretical Applications shelf, intent on returning his current borrowed paper and selecting a new one.

  Then something caught his eye—a metallic glint from a shelf he'd never fully explored, labeled "Experimental Prototypes." Curiosity pulled him closer.

  A small device sat alone on the otherwise empty shelf, metallic and roughly the size of his palm. It was unlike anything he'd seen before—not quite a wand, not exactly an amulet, but something in between. Intricate runes covered its surface, shifting slightly under his gaze like living things trapped beneath ice. A note attached to it read simply: "Prototype ver. 3.4."

  Rational thought urged caution. Unknown magical devices were dangerous even for trained mages. For a human with no protective training, touching such an object was somewhere between reckless and suicidal.

  But Emrys had never excelled at rational thought where magical discovery was concerned.

  He picked up the device, half-expecting alarms to sound or wards to activate. Instead, it sat quietly in his palm, unexpectedly warm and somehow... familiar. The runes pulsed once, briefly, then settled into their shifting patterns.

  "What are you?" he whispered, turning it over carefully.

  No answer came, but the device seemed to grow slightly warmer in response to his voice.

  Without fully forming the decision, Emrys slipped the device into his bag alongside the research paper he'd come to return. "Just for one night," he justified to himself. "I'll study it and bring it back tomorrow. No one will even notice it's gone."

  That night, he was so entranced by the mysterious device that he completely forgot about the research paper. The prototype defied his attempts at classification—the runes matched nothing in his extensively documented notes, and it had no obvious function, activation method, or power source.

  Yet it responded to him somehow. When he spoke, the runes shifted more actively. When he held it closer to his chest, it grew warmer. When he set it down and walked away, it cooled noticeably.

  "Are you alive?" he asked it well past midnight, eyes burning from hours of examination.

  The runes pulsed once in a pattern that could have been coincidence or response.

  Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he fell asleep at his desk, the mysterious device clutched in his hand, dreams filled with symbols that matched the shifting runes.

  The next morning, he overslept and had to rush to his Advanced Theoretical Physics lecture, leaving both the device and the unreturned research paper in his apartment. "I'll return them tonight," he promised himself as he sprinted across campus, dodging groups of elemental mages practicing morning meditations.

  But when he arrived at the library that evening, his blood turned to ice in his veins.

  The entrance to the restricted section was blocked by not one but ten librarians, all wearing the distinctive blue sashes of magical security. Worse still, a team of technicians was installing what appeared to be arcane security cameras at precise intervals along the corridor—including directly above the ventilation shaft he sometimes used as an alternate entrance.

  "...most disturbing theft," Ms. Lorelei was saying to the head of security, her voice carrying in the hushed library. "The prototype was still in testing phases. President Caldwell himself has been notified. If activated improperly, the consequences could be severe."

  President Caldwell—head of the college and rumored member of the Arcanum, the highest magical authority in Nexoria. This was no minor security breach.

  Emrys backed away slowly, forcing his breathing to remain steady despite the panic clawing at his chest. He'd done it this time—not just borrowed but actually stolen a device important enough to involve the college president. And now, with the increased security, he had no path to return it without getting caught.

  He fled the library, keeping his pace measured until he was out of sight, then breaking into a run that didn't slow until he reached his apartment building. The device sat innocuously on his desk, looking far too ordinary for something that had just destroyed any chance he had of continuing his magical research.

  "Brilliant move, Emrys," he muttered, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "Stellar decision-making. First-class impulsiveness."

  For the next few days, he kept his head down, attending classes and avoiding the library entirely. Rumors about the theft spread through campus like wildfire, though thankfully no one seemed to suspect the unremarkable human scholarship student. The device remained hidden in his desk drawer, still as mysterious as ever—and now apparently irreturnable.

  It was nearly a week later when new rumors began circulating—whispers of an event so rare and prestigious that it temporarily eclipsed even the theft scandal. Emrys first heard it in the dining hall, where a group of elven students huddled in excited conversation at the table next to his solitary spot.

  "The Crucible of Fates," one whispered reverently. "It only opens once every decade."

  "My cousin competed last time," another added. "Said it changed her completely. Pure magical challenge at its most elemental."

  Emrys kept his eyes on his textbook while straining to hear more, years of eavesdropping having taught him the art of inconspicuous attention.

  "The medallions are being distributed tomorrow," the first elf continued. "Only the top mages from each department get them."

  "And winners get direct apprenticeships with the Arcanum," a third chimed in. "No applications, no waiting lists—straight to the highest levels of magical authority."

  The Arcanum. Emrys had read about them in his "borrowed" research papers. The most exclusive magical organization in Nexoria, with access to knowledge beyond what even the college restricted section contained. If he could somehow get into this tournament...

  "Dreaming of competing, Seraphal?"

  Emrys controlled his startle reflex with effort, looking up to find Varek standing beside his table, a knowing smirk on his face. The elven students nearby fell silent, watching with undisguised interest.

  "Just studying," Emrys replied, closing his textbook with deliberate casualness. "Some of us have to work for our grades."

  Varek's laugh was sharp and cold. "Always the dedicated student. I wondered if you'd abandoned your... extracurricular activities... since the security upgrades."

  So he knew about the increased security. Was he responsible for it? Had he reported the theft but not Emrys's earlier trespassing?

  "I've been focused on coursework," Emrys said carefully. "The Theoretical Physics midterm is notorious."

  "Indeed." Varek studied him for a moment, violet eyes searching for something in Emrys's carefully neutral expression. "But surely even humans have heard of the Crucible by now? The most prestigious magical tournament in existence, where only the most talented mages are selected to compete."

  He emphasized "mages" with particular relish, making his point clear: humans need not apply.

  "Sounds impressive," Emrys said, rising to leave. "Good luck to those competing."

  "Actually," Varek's voice stopped him, "the Holy Magic Department received three medallions this year. As top student, I was given two—one to compete with and one to bestow as I see fit."

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver disc etched with complex runes that seemed to shimmer with inner light. The nearby students gasped softly, eyes widening at the casual display of such a coveted item.

  "I could give this to any mage in the school," Varek continued, twirling the medallion between his fingers with casual arrogance. "But where's the entertainment in that?"

  Emrys narrowed his eyes, suspicion warring with desperate hope. "What are you suggesting?"

  Varek's smile widened, showing teeth too perfect to be natural. "I'm offering you a chance, mortal. Take the medallion. Enter the tournament. Show us all what a determined human can accomplish against true magical talent."

  The offer hung in the air between them, poisoned with mockery yet undeniably tempting. Emrys knew exactly what Varek was doing—setting him up for public humiliation, a chance to prove once and for all that humans had no place in magical pursuits.

  Yet the opportunity was too valuable to dismiss.

  "And why would you do that?" Emrys asked, making no move to take the medallion.

  Varek shrugged, his uniform shifting to reveal expensive enchanted fabric that probably cost more than Emrys's entire education. "Let's call it scientific curiosity. Or perhaps I simply enjoy a good show." He extended the medallion. "So? Will you take the challenge, or are you finally ready to admit that some pursuits are beyond mortal reach?"

  The surrounding students watched with barely concealed anticipation. Emrys felt their eyes on him—some curious, some pitying, all expecting him to fail spectacularly if he dared accept.

  With deliberate slowness, he reached out and took the medallion. It was surprisingly heavy, warm to the touch in a way metal shouldn't be, the runes beneath his fingers shifting in patterns reminiscent of the stolen prototype.

  "I accept," he said simply, pocketing the disc.

  Varek's laughter followed him as he walked away, the medallion weighing in his pocket like a promise—or a sentence.

  Back in his apartment that evening, Emrys examined the medallion more closely under the flickering overhead light. The silver disc was covered in intricate runes that shifted slightly when viewed from different angles, similar to the prototype but more organized, more purposeful. At its center was a symbol he recognized from his studies—the crest of the Arcanum, magical elite who guarded the highest secrets.

  "The Crucible of Fates," he murmured, tracing the edge with his finger, committing each rune to memory.

  As his finger completed the circuit, the medallion suddenly grew hot in his palm. Startled, he nearly dropped it, but instinct kept his grip firm as it began to glow with blue-white light that illuminated his sparse room more brightly than the overhead bulb ever had.

  A beam shot from the medallion toward the center of his living space, expanding into a shimmering vertical oval approximately seven feet tall. Within the portal, glowing text appeared in an ancient script that, impossibly, he could read:

  [CRUCIBLE OF FATES]

  Portal Active: 2:00:00

  Do you wish to enter? [YES] [NO]

  Warning: Medallion is single-use. Portal cannot be reopened once closed.

  Emrys stared, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted escape. The timer counted down with merciless precision: 1:59:58... 1:59:57...

  His gaze darted to his journal, filled with two years of theories, attempts, and failures. Then to the drawer containing the stolen prototype that had cost him his access to magical research. And finally back to the portal—an opportunity to either prove everyone wrong or confirm once and for all that his quest was hopeless.

  The choice was really no choice at all.

  "Yes," he said firmly, stepping toward the glowing text. "I wish to enter."

  The word [YES] pulsed once, and the portal's light intensified, bathing the room in cold fire that cast no shadows. New text appeared, scrolling across the shimmering surface:

  [PARTICIPANT REGISTERED: EMRYS SERAPHAL]

  [HUMAN: UNAFFILIATED]

  [MANA CAPACITY: ...]

  The text paused here, the dots pulsing rapidly as if the system was struggling with its calculation. Finally:

  [MANA CAPACITY: ANOMALOUS - FURTHER EVALUATION REQUIRED]

  [TOURNAMENT BEGINS: 3 DAYS]

  [PORTAL WILL REMAIN ACCESSIBLE UNTIL TOURNAMENT CONCLUSION]

  "Anomalous?" Emrys whispered, staring at the unexpected reading. Not "minimal" or "insufficient" as he'd expected, but "anomalous."

  The medallion in his hand dissolved, flowing like liquid silver up his arm to form an intricate band around his wrist—the mark of a registered competitor that seemed to sink beneath his skin even as he watched, becoming part of him in a way that should have been terrifying but instead felt like recognition.

  A fierce grin spread across his face as he looked from the mark to the portal and back again. "Anomalous," he repeated, tasting the word. "Not impossible. Not insufficient. Anomalous."

  He grabbed his journal and flipped to a fresh page, writing at the top in bold letters: "THE CRUCIBLE OF FATES - DAY 0" and beneath it: "Mana Capacity: ANOMALOUS (!!)"

  Then he began planning with the methodical intensity that had kept him alive in a world designed to exclude him. He had three days to prepare, three days to review everything he'd documented over the past two years, three days to figure out what "anomalous" meant in a system designed for magical absolutes.

  Three days until he either proved Varek spectacularly wrong—or spectacularly right.

  Either way, Emrys Seraphal, ordinary human scholarship student with an extraordinary obsession, was going to a magical tournament that had never seen his kind before.

  And nothing would ever be the same again.