Elya remained where she had fallen, her breath still ragged, her limbs too weak to push herself fully upright. The stone beneath her was cold, unforgiving, pressing into her skin as if the very foundation of the tower itself rejected her presence. Her fingers curled uselessly against the floor, her body aching with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache creeping into her chest.

  Around her, the other apprentices collected themselves, stretching stiff limbs, rolling their shoulders, shaking out the lingering tension in their fingers. Some exhaled in relief, while others grumbled in frustration, rubbing their temples as if trying to force the spell’s structure into their minds. They had struggled, they had faltered, but they had risen again. She had not.

  No one looked at her. No one spoke to her. Not in sympathy, not in mockery. It was as if she had become invisible, an afterthought in a room filled with those who had proven themselves worthy of continuing forward. The isolation stung more than their laughter ever could have.

  No one offered a hand. No one offered a kind word. And for the first time since coming to the tower, Elya wondered if she truly belonged at all.

  The instructors made no effort to comfort her failure. They merely watched, their faces unreadable, their expressions devoid of sympathy, as if her struggle was nothing more than an expected outcome, a confirmation of what they already knew. Elya had expected disappointment, perhaps even ridicule, but the cold indifference of their silence cut deeper than any insult. Their lack of reaction told her everything, that her failure was not shocking, not even particularly noteworthy. She was simply one more apprentice who had reached beyond her limits and fallen. Nothing more, nothing less. She was insignificant.

  Master Aldric stood at the front of the chamber, his arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed upon her like the tip of a dagger. His expression was unreadable, but there was no disappointment in his eyes, no frustration. That made it worse. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, precise, like a blade striking stone. "Understanding is nothing without strength. You are not yet ready."

  The words struck like a blow to her chest, more painful than any wound. Not yet ready. Not strong enough. They rang through her mind, each syllable heavier than the last, echoing with the finality of a door slamming shut. There was no kindness in his tone, no attempt to soften the truth. To him, it was simple fact, indisputable and unchangeable.

  A flicker of defiance surged through her, brief and burning, but it crumbled under the weight of exhaustion. She wanted to argue, to protest, to tell him that she had understood the spell in ways the others hadn’t, that her failure had not been from lack of effort. But what would be the point? Magic had refused her. Her body had collapsed under its weight. No words could change that.

  His words rang in her ears, settling into her chest like lead, each syllable a weight she could not lift. Not yet ready. The phrase echoed through her mind, twisting and curling into something worse. Not strong enough. Not good enough. The shame burned hotter than the strain in her limbs, seeping into every fiber of her being, spreading like ink through water. It was suffocating, an unbearable truth she could not escape.

  She had spent weeks proving she could endure. That she could work just as hard as the others, push herself beyond exhaustion, suffer through every blister and bruise without complaint. But none of it had mattered. When it truly counted, when she had finally reached for magic, it had turned away from her. It had refused her. And now, she had to sit in the wreckage of that failure, feeling smaller than she ever had before.

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  She had always believed that magic was a thing of the mind, a force that could be mastered through intellect, understanding, and control. She had thought that if she could see its structure, if she could grasp its intricacies, then she would wield it as easily as breathing. But now she understood how wrong she had been.

  Magic was not a puzzle to be solved, not a riddle she could untangle with sheer willpower. It was a living thing, untamed and demanding. It did not yield to knowledge alone; it demanded something more. It demanded endurance, resilience, an unshakable foundation capable of bearing the weight of its power. It was not enough to understand its form, she had to carry it, sustain it, endure the strain as it fought against her. And when that moment had come, when she had finally reached for it, her body had crumbled under its weight.

  She had failed that test. And in failing, she had learned the cruelest truth of all: knowledge without strength was worthless.

  She lowered her gaze, unable to meet the eyes of her fellow apprentices as they filed out of the room. Their exhaustion was evident, but they still walked with purpose, their backs straighter than before, the weight of the lesson settling over them in a way that felt like progress rather than defeat. They had struggled, yes, but none had collapsed the way she had. None had been forced to kneel under the weight of the very thing they had come here to master. None had felt magic recoil from them, slipping away like something untamed, unwilling to be claimed by hands too weak to hold it.

  The truth of it burned in her chest, curling in her stomach like something rotten. It was not just that she had failed, it was that she had failed alone. No one else had been cast aside so completely. No one else had to bear the quiet confirmation that they were not enough.

  She clenched her fists, nails digging into the tender skin of her palms, but it did nothing to steady her. The others moved ahead, whispering among themselves, already thinking of their next chance to prove themselves. But for Elya, there was no such certainty. Only the bitter aftertaste of magic slipping through her fingers, refusing to be held.

  As the last of them disappeared through the great doors, Elya remained behind, frozen in place. She stared at the empty space where the spell had once floated, its glowing lattice so perfect, so effortless, until it had shattered in her hands. The memory of it burned behind her eyes, replaying in agonizing detail: the way the energy had pulsed, how easily it had formed, how, for one brief, shining moment, she had felt the magic as something wholly hers. And then, how quickly it had all crumbled, slipping through her grasp like sand, dissolving as if it had never belonged to her at all.

  The remnants of its energy still lingered in the air, faint traces of brilliance dissolving into nothingness, like the dying embers of a fire she could not stoke. She reached out a trembling hand, fingers splayed, as if she could still grasp something, anything, of what had been there before. But the moment had passed. The warmth, the hum of power, the exhilarating pull, it was all gone. The air was empty and still, indifferent to her longing.

  A hollow ache settled deep in her chest, an emptiness she did not know how to fill. She had never felt smaller, never felt so far from the thing she wanted most. And worse, for the first time, she feared she would never reach it.

  For the first time, she felt the weight of her own inadequacy, not as a fleeting doubt, but as something deep and consuming, sinking into her bones like a chill she could not shake. It settled over her like a shadow, stretching long and inescapable, pressing against her chest with the cruel certainty of failure. The certainty she had carried, the quiet belief that she belonged here, that she had something special inside her, cracked under the weight of her shame. What if she had been wrong all along? What if the magic she had thought was hers had only been a glimpse, a moment of false hope before the inevitable truth revealed itself?

  Now, she wasn’t so sure. And that uncertainty was more terrifying than anything she had ever faced before.