The first dawn in the tower was a lesson in humility. The apprentices had entered expecting knowledge, spells, and secrets that only the initiated could touch. They had envisioned days filled with incantations, mystical revelations, and the unlocking of hidden potential. What they received instead was toil, unrelenting and exhausting, a grueling initiation that stripped away their illusions within hours.

  The morning light barely reached the depths of the stone corridors, its golden touch unable to penetrate the perpetual cold that clung to the stones like a living presence. The air was thick with dampness, a chill seeping into bones still weary from restless sleep. The apprentices were roused not by gentle calls, not by the chime of a bell, but by the resounding thud of boots marching through the halls and the clipped, impatient commands of senior students. Harsh voices cut through the haze of sleep, offering no respite. There was no luxury of a slow morning, no moment to stretch aching limbs or gather one’s thoughts. They were expected to be moving before their minds had even caught up, their bodies obeying instinct born from necessity rather than conscious will.

  They were not guided to grand halls of learning or libraries lined with tomes of ancient wisdom. Instead, they were met with an unrelenting routine of labor, each task designed to wear down their expectations and test their endurance.

  The first duty was to fetch water, a simple task that soon proved its cruelty. The well stood at the farthest edge of the courtyard, the path uneven and treacherous with loose stones that threatened to turn beneath their feet. The iron handles of the buckets were unforgiving, biting into their palms as they filled them with icy water. The return trip was worse, the weight dragging at their arms, stretching muscles that soon trembled with fatigue. Spills were met with silence, but there was no mistaking the cold gazes of the senior apprentices who watched from the shadows, tallying each failure in their minds.

  Afterwards, they scrubbed the stone floors on their hands and knees, the rough texture scraping against their skin until their fingers were raw. The soap, strong and caustic, burned their nostrils, its scent lingering in the air long after the task was complete. Every stroke of the brush was met with the creak of stone, a rhythm of toil that seemed to echo through the vast halls without end. The more they worked, the more they realized the futility of their effort. No matter how much they scrubbed, the floor never seemed to gleam, never seemed clean enough to satisfy the unseen judges who dictated their fate.

  When the cleaning was done, their hands red and aching, they were set to transcribing texts,an exercise in precision rather than understanding. The quills felt awkward in their stiff fingers, the ink stubborn and prone to smudging at the slightest mistake. They sat hunched over parchment for hours, their eyes straining in the dim light as they copied passages written in symbols they could not yet decipher. If even a single mark was misplaced, the page was discarded, and they were forced to begin again. Their failures stacked higher than their successes, a quiet reminder that perfection was the only acceptable outcome.

  There was no explanation, no encouragement, only the ever-present weight of expectation, a force that pressed down on them like an unseen hand. It was in the unyielding silence of the instructors, in the cold stares of the senior apprentices who had once endured the same trials. It lingered in the empty halls, where no words of reassurance softened the relentless demands placed upon them. Each task was given without prelude, each failure met with nothing but the unspoken certainty that there would be consequences. It was a test not just of strength, but of obedience, of resilience, of the will to persist even when understanding was denied. It was a lesson: magic was not granted to those who sought it lightly. It had to be earned, endured, and claimed through relentless perseverance.

  Elya's muscles screamed with effort, her limbs trembling under the relentless strain of the day's work. Her hands, raw from scrubbing the stone floors, stung with every movement, yet she did not falter. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand taller, to push forward when every fiber of her being longed for rest. She glanced around and saw the same silent resolve in some of the others, their faces set with determination, but not all shared that same fortitude.

  Whispers of doubt slithered through the dormitories at night, hushed voices carried on the cold air like fleeting shadows. Some apprentices lay awake, their eyes hollow with exhaustion, their thoughts consumed by uncertainty. Their beds, little more than hard cots covered with thin blankets, provided no comfort. The air was thick with unease, every sigh, every rustle of cloth tinged with the weight of doubt.

  They had come expecting wonders, dreaming of the impossible. They had imagined themselves channeling fire through their fingertips, commanding the elements with a whisper, watching sparks of raw magic dance along their palms. They had seen themselves standing in great halls filled with floating orbs of light, spellbooks that turned their own pages, and instructors who would unlock the mysteries of the universe with a single incantation. The tower had been a beacon in their dreams, a promise of power beyond comprehension.

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  Instead, they found themselves broken under the weight of toil, stripped of the illusions that had once fueled their ambition. Their fingers bled from scrubbing floors, their arms ached from hauling buckets of freezing water, and their minds dulled from copying texts they could not read. The magic they had longed for remained distant, elusive, as though locked behind an invisible wall they were too weak to scale. The grandeur they had imagined was absent, replaced only with the suffocating burden of labor. Each day chipped away at their hopes, their excitement fading into something quieter, something uncertain.

  Had they been deceived? Had they traded their homes and families for nothing more than back-breaking labor? The question lingered in the stale darkness, an unspoken protest creeping into the hushed murmurs. A quiet rebellion grew in the silence between the labored breaths of the weary, a simmering discontent that had no outlet but whispered fears. Some murmured that they had made a mistake, that they should leave while they still could, before the tower ground them into something unrecognizable. Others dared not even speak of such thoughts, too afraid that voicing them might make them real.

  Among them, it was Cassian who spoke the loudest, his voice laced with the frustration that so many tried to suppress. He had been the first to arrive at the tower, a boy who had dreamed of bending the wind to his will, of harnessing lightning with a mere flick of his wrist. Yet here he was, scrubbing floors, his fingers raw and calloused, his back aching with exhaustion. He moved through the dormitory like a spark in dry grass, igniting doubt wherever he went. He whispered of injustice, of false promises, of the power that had been dangled before them like bait only to be withheld behind layers of meaningless toil.

  He was not alone in his discontent. Others gravitated toward him in the late hours of the night, drawn to the quiet defiance that shimmered in his voice. He spoke of leaving, of slipping away under the cover of darkness, of seeking out magic beyond the tower’s walls where it did not come at the cost of their pride and strength. He called their labor pointless, their suffering needless, and as his words took root, doubt grew like a creeping vine, tightening its hold on those who had once believed in the sanctity of their trials.

  Master Aldric said nothing. He did not admonish them for their doubts, nor did he offer reassurance. He merely watched. His gaze carried no warmth, no anger, only patient scrutiny, as if he were waiting for something, measuring each of them with a methodical precision that none of them could yet comprehend. It was not the look of a man who would guide them gently or soften their struggles. His eyes, dark and unwavering, saw beyond their aching limbs and weary faces, searching for something deeper, something unspoken. He was not interested in their complaints or their fears. He was waiting for them to decide—whether they would break or whether they would endure.

  Elya felt his eyes settle on her, and though his expression did not shift, she felt as though she had been peeled open, her thoughts laid bare under his quiet, piercing study. She did not know what he was looking for, but it made her stomach twist in knots. She thought of the way her father had inspected his tools before a long day in the fields, checking for cracks, for weakness. Master Aldric's gaze reminded her of that, calculating, assessing, weighing something unseen. It wasn't cruel, but it was unyielding, and it made her feel very small.

  Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the nails biting into her palms as if to anchor her against the wave of unease washing over her. She did not want to be found lacking, did not want to be cast aside like an old, splintered tool unfit for its purpose. The weight of Master Aldric’s gaze pressed down on her, cold and penetrating, as if he could see through her flesh and into the very core of her being.

  She thought of the way her father had examined the harvest, running his hands over the grain, testing its weight and quality before deeming it fit for market. Master Aldric's scrutiny felt the same, impersonal yet decisive, as though he were already determining whether she was worth keeping or casting aside. The thought sent a chill through her, different from the cold of the stone chamber, deeper and more unsettling.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, if only for a second longer, her breath catching in her throat. He did not frown, did not smirk, did not betray even the slightest flicker of thought. He simply watched. The silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire, until the weight became too much and she dropped her eyes. Her heart pounded, the sound loud in her ears, a rhythm of doubt and desperate hope. Whatever he sought, whatever invisible measure he held them all against, she could only pray that she met it.

  The first apprentice to openly voice his frustration was met with increased labor, his tasks doubled without discussion. Another, too exhausted to lift his bucket, was made to stand outside in the cold until his strength returned or his spirit broke. There were no second chances, no kindness for the weak.

  Elya understood. This was not cruelty. This was the foundation upon which magic could be built. It was not about learning spells or weaving incantations, it was about discipline. Magic was power, and power was not given freely. It was earned, through endurance, through sacrifice. The tower was stripping them down, burning away their softness. Only those who remained would be worthy of the knowledge they sought.

  And so, Elya did not complain. She did not question. She hauled buckets of water until her arms trembled from exhaustion, the cold metal biting into her reddened palms. She scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees, pushing the bristles of the brush against the worn stone with a determination that defied the fatigue gnawing at her muscles. Each stroke of her hand left faint trails of soapy water behind, the scent of lye stinging her nose as she worked.

  She endured. She let the hardship temper her, each aching limb, each exhausted sigh, each ink-stained fingertip reinforcing the lesson that this was merely the first test of many. This was not suffering for the sake of cruelty. This was preparation, the forging of something greater. She did not dare hope for praise, nor did she expect recognition. She simply worked, because to work was to prove she belonged.