Master Aldric’s methods were never gentle. Failure was not tolerated, and mistakes were met with consequences that left the apprentices bruised, exhausted, and wary of every misstep. There was no room for second chances. If an apprentice miscalculated a spell structure, they were required to redo the work tenfold, their hands cramping from endless transcription, their minds fraying under the weight of their errors. Hours of repetition dulled their fingers, their wrists aching from the constant pressure of quills against parchment. The ink blurred as exhaustion set in, and any further mistakes meant starting over again, their failures piling atop one another like stones in a collapsing wall.

  If one lagged behind in physical conditioning, they were assigned grueling endurance drills—running up the spiraling tower steps until their legs gave out beneath them, until they collapsed in a heap, gasping for air, only to be ordered to rise again. Some collapsed mid-run, their knees striking the cold stone with sickening force, their lungs burning with effort. But Aldric never relented. "Again," he would say, his voice devoid of sympathy, and they would force themselves upright, shaking, nauseous, but unwilling to be the next to disappear. Those who could not keep up were left behind, only to be pulled to their feet and driven harder than before.

  The physical toll was relentless. Bruises bloomed along ribs, blisters formed and burst, and muscles ached so deeply that sleep brought no relief. Hands shook too much to hold a quill steady, yet they were still expected to produce flawless transcriptions. The apprentices learned quickly that pain was not an excuse—it was simply another part of life at the tower. They endured because to falter meant to be noticed, and to be noticed meant to suffer.

  But it was the punishments Aldric reserved for true failure that instilled the deepest fear. He did not need to raise a hand to discipline his apprentices. Instead, he exerted pressure, an invisible force that bore down upon them, testing their resilience, their ability to withstand. Some described it as a weight pressing against their chest, making it hard to breathe, like an unseen force squeezing the air from their lungs. Others said it felt like hands gripping their shoulders, relentless and unyielding, grinding them into the stone. The pressure did not just weigh on the body—it crept into the mind, worming into thoughts, shaking confidence, reminding them that strength was the only thing that mattered here.

  The strongest among them, those with hardened wills and bodies built for endurance, stood their ground with clenched fists, their muscles locked against the crushing force. They trembled, their breath ragged, but they endured. It was a silent battle, one of will as much as flesh. Each moment spent standing was a declaration: I am still here.

  Elya always collapsed. It never took long. The moment the weight settled over her, her knees buckled, her arms trembled uselessly, and the world tilted as she fell. The stone floor was unforgiving, her cheek pressing against its cold surface as the pressure bore down, making it impossible to move, impossible to fight back. Every time, it was the same. No matter how much she braced herself, no matter how determined she was to endure, her body always betrayed her. And she knew, with every collapse, that Aldric was watching.

  The first time it happened, she had lasted no more than a breath. The invisible force struck her like a tidal wave, crushing the air from her lungs before she had even registered what was happening. Her knees buckled instantly, her hands splaying against the cold stone as she gasped, her vision tunneling to pinpricks of flickering light. It was like drowning, the weight pressing against her ribs, locking her chest in a vice that refused to let her breathe. It was like being buried alive, her limbs pinned under a force she could not fight, every inch of her body screaming in protest. The harder she tried to push back, the heavier it became, as if the magic itself was measuring her, finding her lacking, and punishing her for the offense of trying.

  Master Aldric had simply watched, his expression carved from stone, his eyes cold and distant, as if she were nothing more than an inevitable casualty of a lesson she had already failed. There was no flicker of disappointment, no anger, not even the satisfaction of seeing her break—just an impassive, measuring gaze, as if he were taking note of her limits and filing them away for later.

  “Pathetic,” someone had muttered, the word slithering through the air like a blade meant to cut. The voice was low, laced with amusement, but there was an edge to it—a certainty that she was not worth the effort it would take to pity her. Elya hadn’t been able to tell who had said it, but she felt their gaze, the weight of unspoken judgment pressing into her skin like a brand.

  Other apprentices whispered among themselves, murmuring that Aldric’s training methods were not those of a scholar but of a general preparing his soldiers. He was not shaping them into mere spellcasters, but into something far more dangerous. His lessons were relentless, his punishments precise, stripping away weakness with every grueling test. He did not care for their minds, their thirst for knowledge—only their ability to endure, to wield magic without hesitation, without fear. He was forging weapons, and weapons were only as valuable as their strength, their sharpness, their ability to withstand the strain of battle. Those who broke under the weight of his lessons were discarded, forgotten. Those who endured, however, would become something else entirely—something harder, something ruthless, something built to survive.

  One particular lesson had been the worst. Aldric had instructed them to hold their spells under duress, to shape their magic even as he bore down upon them with his oppressive force. The moment he extended his hand, the very air thickened, turning heavy and oppressive, like a storm pressing in on all sides. The room had filled with crackling energy, a force that licked against their skin, sending sharp pinpricks of heat through their bodies. The apprentices clenched their teeth, fighting to focus, to hold onto their spells even as the invisible weight threatened to tear their magic apart.

  Lina had stood unwavering, her magic pristine, her focus unbroken. She had not merely endured the pressure—she had conquered it. Her spell burned steadily in the air before her, untouched by the force that crushed the others. Her expression remained calm, her hands steady, as if she barely felt the weight at all.

  Jalen had faltered but refused to yield, his body shaking as he forced himself to endure. He was not unscathed—sweat dripped from his brow, his breathing ragged—but he did not fall. His magic wavered but never fully collapsed, the sheer force of his will holding it together. He fought through clenched teeth, his muscles coiled, his defiance written into every tremor in his arms.

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  And Elya—Elya had barely begun to form her spell before she had collapsed. The pressure swallowed her whole, sinking into her bones, stealing her breath before the magic had even taken shape. Her fingers had twitched, trying desperately to hold onto the strands of energy, but the weight pressing down on her was unbearable. Her knees struck the floor, her vision swimming as the spell shattered in her hands before it had even lived.

  She had not been given time to recover.

  “Again,” Aldric had ordered.

  Her arms had trembled as she pushed herself back up. Every muscle screamed in protest, her limbs weak and unsteady, as though she were made of nothing but air and exhaustion. She had tried, she had fought, but the pressure was relentless, crushing her back to the floor the moment she dared to rise. Again and again, she forced herself upright, only to be slammed down by a force she could not match. Her fingers dug into the stone, her nails scraping against the cold surface as she tried to find something—anything—to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just her own failing strength, her own body betraying her, proving once more that she was not strong enough.

  That failure had earned her a punishment unlike any other.

  “You will carry this to the top of the tower,” Aldric had said, placing a weighted pack in front of her. The leather straps were worn, the canvas stained with age and sweat, the weight inside shifting ominously as it hit the stone floor with a dull thud. It was heavier than anything she had ever lifted, heavier than the buckets of water she had hauled, heavier than the spellbooks she had painstakingly copied. A crushing burden that sent a bolt of panic through her already-weakened limbs, the kind of fear that rooted itself deep in her bones.

  She swallowed hard, her throat dry. She knew what was coming. This wasn’t just a test of strength; it was a punishment, a deliberate reminder that she was weak, that failure would not be tolerated.

  Aldric’s gaze remained impassive. “You will not stop. If you falter, you will begin again.”

  She had barely lifted the pack onto her back before her legs buckled beneath its crushing weight, the straps biting into her shoulders as if trying to pull her to the ground. Her muscles seized, already exhausted from the previous ordeal, but she forced herself to stand, to move. The first step was torture, her knees nearly giving way, but she gritted her teeth and climbed.

  Every step up the tower’s winding staircase was agony, her thighs burning as though fire coursed through them, her lungs clawing for air that never seemed to be enough. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, sweat dripping into her eyes, stinging, blurring her already spinning vision. The climb felt endless, an unbroken, spiraling nightmare of stone that mocked her weakness. She lost track of how many steps she had taken, how many turns the staircase had twisted around itself. It could have been a hundred, or a thousand. Each one felt worse than the last.

  Her knees wobbled with every movement, her legs trembling violently, her balance unsteady as though the ground itself were shifting beneath her. The world narrowed into nothing but the weight on her back and the endless ascent before her. Her vision blurred, dark spots creeping at the edges, threatening to swallow her whole. But she would not fall. Not yet. Not while there was still a single step left to climb.

  At one point, Jalen had moved as if to help her, his foot shifting forward, his hands twitching at his sides, as if torn between hesitation and instinct. The other apprentices held their breath, eyes darting between him and Aldric, silently pleading with him not to act. They all knew what interference would mean. They had seen punishments before, had endured them themselves.

  And yet, Jalen took another step, his expression hardening, defiance flickering behind his eyes.

  Before he could act, Aldric’s voice sliced through the dim light of the stairwell, sharp as a blade.

  “If you interfere, you will carry twice the burden.”

  The words landed like a hammer, cold and absolute. The air in the stairwell seemed to thicken, the weight of the threat settling over them all. Jalen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he looked between Elya and Aldric. For a moment, it seemed like he might still do it, might still step forward despite the cost.

  Then, with a slow exhale, his body stiffened, and he stepped back, his face unreadable, his fury contained behind a carefully neutral mask.

  Jalen hesitated. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightened—but he stepped back. His breath was slow, controlled, but his eyes burned with something unspoken. He watched, his expression unreadable, as Elya struggled onward, her body swaying, her steps uneven. The weight on her back seemed to drag her closer to the ground with each agonizing movement, but she did not stop. She did not cry out. She simply kept moving, one step at a time, as if sheer will alone could keep her upright.

  By the time she reached the top, she could no longer feel her legs. They had gone numb beneath her, her muscles beyond exhaustion, beyond pain. Her arms, locked around the straps of the pack, had lost all strength, her fingers barely gripping the rough material. The world around her spun, the torches along the walls blurring into nothing but streaks of dim light. She did not remember the moment her body finally gave out, only the sensation of stone beneath her cheek, cold and unforgiving, and the distant realization that she had made it—but only just. The weight was still there, pressing down on her back, as if mocking her efforts. She had reached the top, but it did not feel like victory. It felt like survival, and barely that.

  She did not cry. She did not beg for reprieve. She simply lay there, her body motionless against the stone, feeling the tremors still running through her muscles, the dull throb of exhaustion pulsing beneath her skin. Every breath felt like a struggle, shallow and uneven, but she forced herself to take them, to hold onto something tangible. The weight of failure pressed against her heavier than the pack ever had, a crushing, inescapable truth whispering in her mind: she was still weak, still fragile. And if she wanted to survive, that had to change. It was not enough to endure—she had to become something else entirely, something harder, something unbreakable.

  That night, when the others slept, she dragged herself out of bed, her body protesting with every movement, muscles trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion. The ache in her limbs had settled deep, a constant reminder of her failure, but she refused to let it stop her. If Aldric’s methods were meant to break her, then she would find her own way to fight back. She would reclaim what strength she could, carve it from the endless hours of suffering, steal it from the pain that threatened to consume her.

  She would train while the world was silent, where no eyes could watch her stumble. She would trace spell structures over and over in the dim glow of a single candle, committing every curve, every line, every pulse of energy to memory until the shapes lived behind her eyelids, burned into her mind even when she closed her eyes. Even when her body was too tired to hold a spell, her mind would keep working. She would learn the angles, the precision, the unseen threads that bound magic together.

  She would push herself until exhaustion became nothing more than an afterthought, until she no longer collapsed beneath the weight of expectation. Until the magic that crushed her became something she could command.

  Because if she didn’t, one day, it would.