Elya stepped forward, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence pressing in around her. The dim glow of hovering candles cast elongated shadows across the stone floor, flickering as if sensing her unease. Her fingers were damp with sweat despite the chill in the air, her palms slick against the coarse fabric of her robes.

  The moment she had feared was here.

  She had prepared for this. Had poured over every line of spell theory, traced the structures until her fingers cramped, whispered the incantations into the dark of night like a prayer only magic itself might hear. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, seen herself standing here, casting her first spell, proving that she belonged. But now that it was real, now that the weight of so many eyes bore down on her, the confidence she had carefully built unraveled like fragile threads in the wind.

  As she stood before Aldric, before her peers, the weight of expectation pressed down on her like an iron hand, cold and unforgiving. It constricted her breath, made her limbs feel heavier, as though failure had already settled over her, waiting to be realized.

  She forced a breath through her lips, trying to steady the tremor in her chest. See the structure. Feel the flow of magic. Control it. But the words, once a steady mantra in her studies, felt distant now, hollow against the suffocating weight of expectation. Her mind grasped at the spell, at the delicate weave of energy she had studied for years, but it was like trying to hold onto mist, slipping through her fingers before she could shape it into something real.

  Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she pictured the spell’s design, the intricate pathways of energy she had studied for years. She envisioned the invisible threads of magic weaving together, delicate but purposeful, an intricate lattice of light waiting to be shaped. She imagined the way the magic should move, like ink filling the grooves of a carved symbol, precise and smooth, the energy flowing in perfect harmony with her will. It was supposed to be effortless, a matter of focus and control. Her breath steadied as she lifted her hand, fingers slightly curled, and spoke the incantation, willing the spell to come alive beneath her touch.

  For a fleeting moment, something happened. A glow shimmered in her palm, faint and fragile, like the last ember of a dying fire. It flickered, struggling against the pull of the void, casting the barest whisper of warmth against her skin. For a heartbeat, hope surged in her chest—this was it, this was magic, she had grasped it…

  And then it vanished, snuffed out as if it had never existed at all, leaving nothing but the cold emptiness in its wake.

  A wave of exhaustion slammed into her, so sudden and overwhelming that her knees almost buckled. It wasn’t just fatigue, it was like something had been ripped from inside her, leaving a hollow, aching void where her strength had been. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, her limbs trembling as though she had just sprinted up the entire tower and then been asked to do it again. The air felt too thin, her vision blurred at the edges, and a cold sweat prickled at her skin. The energy had drained from her body in an instant, leaving behind only weakness, as if her very bones had turned to lead, pressing her downward, demanding she yield.

  Laughter erupted behind her, sharp and cutting, a jagged sound that made her stomach twist.

  "Of course," someone muttered, the sneer evident in their voice. "Featherweight can’t even hold a light. Guess magic’s too heavy for her, too."

  A few more chuckles followed, whispers slithering through the gathered apprentices like a venomous current. The words pressed against her skin, digging deeper than any wound a blade could leave, embedding themselves into the doubt already gnawing at her insides.

  Heat flooded Elya’s face, burning her skin hotter than any flame. Shame crawled up her throat, thick and suffocating, threatening to choke her. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood, forcing herself to stay still, to keep her head high. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter, of watching her flinch under their ridicule. But the words clung to her, burrowing deep, feeding the doubt that had already begun to take root in her chest.

  Aldric said nothing for a long moment. His piercing gaze lingered on her, dissecting her failure with the same cold precision he reserved for unworthy things. Then, slowly, deliberately, he shook his head. No words, no reprimand, just that single, damning gesture. The kind of disappointment that didn't need to be spoken to be understood. The kind that cut deeper than any insult.

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  Then he turned away, moving on without hesitation, as though she had already faded from significance.

  The silence of his judgment was worse than any words, a verdict heavier than stone.

  Elya clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms so hard she half expected to draw blood. The sting grounded her, kept her from drowning in the suffocating weight of humiliation pressing against her chest. No. No, she would not let it end like this. She refused to let this failure define her, refused to be the weak one, the apprentice everyone dismissed without a second thought.

  Again.

  She forced a breath into her lungs, ignoring the burn, the way her arms trembled with exhaustion. If she had to try a hundred times, she would. If it took everything she had left, she would find a way to make this work. Failure was not an option. Not anymore.

  She drew another breath, bracing herself against the tremor in her limbs. The spell was there in her mind, vivid and real, each thread of energy mapped out in painstaking detail. All she had to do was guide it, shape it, channel it into being. She curled her fingers, whispering the incantation, reaching for the light. For a heartbeat, she sensed the power responding, a faint glow trembling at the edge of her vision. But then, just as quickly, it slipped away. Her chest burned with the effort, her muscles quivering as though she had fought a physical battle.

  Again, it failed.

  She grit her teeth, trying once more, drawing the magic inward, shaping it into the form she had practiced. Another flicker, another surge of hope, and then it died, winking out of existence before it could fully manifest. A dull ache spread through her arms, exhaustion pressing on her like an unseen hand, and yet she pushed forward, refusing to give in.

  Again.

  Failure greeted her with every attempt, the flickering light lasting barely a moment before collapsing into nothing. Each defeat felt like a fresh wound, draining her resolve, leaving her breath ragged and her body trembling with the strain. Yet she could not stop. She would not. With every breath she drew, the voice in her head roared, demanding she find the strength, demanding she prove she was more than a sputtering spark.

  A second time. A third. Each time, the light flickered, dimmer and more fragile than before, wavering on the brink of existence before slipping away into nothingness. Her body felt as though it were hollowing out with each attempt, as if every spark of magic tore another piece from her already waning strength. She was too drained to hold onto it, too frail to sustain even this simplest of spells, and the realization clawed at her chest, sinking hooks of shame and frustration into her heart.

  Every failure was another cut, a fresh wound that deepened the ache in her soul. The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders like an iron yoke, dragging her closer to the edge of despair. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her vision dim at the edges, the torchlit hall blurring into a haze of flickering shapes and muted colors. Yet, even as her muscles quivered with exhaustion, she forced herself to keep going, to reach for that tiny, elusive spark once more.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered that she should stop, that she had given enough. But she couldn't. She wouldn't. The thought of walking away, of letting this moment define her as a failure, was worse than any physical pain. And so she tried again, her heart pounding, her body on the brink of collapsing, determined to prove that she was more than her weakness.

  Jalen, usually full of easy grins and playful arrogance, was watching her now, his expression drawn tight, his eyes clouded with a frustration he rarely showed. His hands remained fisted at his sides, knuckles whitening with every flicker of Elya’s failing spell. He looked like he wanted to say something, to step in and break the tension, but the unspoken rules of the hall held him back, the weight of Aldric’s presence more suffocating than the laughter of the other apprentices. For once, his carefree facade had cracked, revealing the concern simmering beneath. He shifted his weight, nearly taking a step forward, then stopped, jaw clenched. He had no words for this, no easy joke that could lift the burden from Elya’s shoulders. Not here. Not now.

  Lina stood nearby, her face unreadable, her posture composed in a way that made it difficult to guess what she might be thinking. She did not laugh with the others, nor did she avert her gaze, as though every flicker of Elya’s failing spell demanded her silent attention. But she did not step forward either, keeping her distance with a guarded calm that Elya couldn’t quite decipher. There was a quiet intensity about her, an unwavering focus that both comforted and unsettled. It was as if she were weighing everything, Elya’s trembling attempts, the jeers of the apprentices, the shifting tension in the hall, yet revealing nothing of her own judgment. Her gaze remained steady, a dark, thoughtful current beneath the surface, her thoughts hidden behind that impenetrable wall she always carried.

  Elya felt the weight of failure settle in her stomach like a stone, cold and unyielding. The others had already succeeded, their magic lingering in the air, warm and bright, a mocking reminder of what she could not grasp. And she—she stood alone, drained, humiliated, exposed. The fear that had whispered in her mind before now roared, tearing at her thoughts like invisible claws, wrapping around her heart like a vice and squeezing until she could barely breathe.

  She wasn’t good enough. The thought settled like a dark whisper in her mind, winding itself around every insecurity she’d ever had. She never had been, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many nights she spent pushing beyond exhaustion, clinging to the hope that someday she would prove otherwise. And maybe… maybe she never would be. The words echoed in her chest, hollow and unrelenting, a slow, crushing certainty that gnawed at whatever spark of courage she had left.