Four days had passed, but the battle still lingered in their bones.
Time didn't heal here.
It calcified.
The medical wing of the Dominion Institute was carved into the mountain's gut, tucked beneath layers of enchanted stone and reinforced magic. It smelled of ash, blood, and bitter herbs. The walls didn't hum with healing—they pulsed like they were holding something back. Something old.
Each bed was spaced with surgical precision. Not for privacy, but containment.
Nyra lay on her side, staring at the unmoving torchlight across from her. Her entire body ached—raw, stitched, bruised. Her ribs were bandaged so tightly it hurt to breathe. Her right arm was immobilized. Her shoulder burned from where the bone had been cracked and reset. Her legs were covered in runes still fading from the aggressive healing magic.
And yet… she hadn't made a sound.
Across the room, Riven groaned as he tried to sit up, failing for the third time.
"Fuck," he rasped. "If this place is supposed to fix me, it's doing a shit job."
"You looked better with your leg bent backwards," Nyra murmured.
He tilted his head toward her, half-grinning through a swollen eye. "Careful, I might start to think you care."
"Only about your suffering."
Nyra winced as she shifted slightly, dragging her arm across the bedding. Every joint felt like it had glass ground into it. Her lips were cracked. One eye was still ringed in bruised purple. But she was awake. Alert. Dangerous.
"Still breathing," she muttered.
"Barely," Riven replied.
Seraph sat propped against the far wall, legs folded beneath her. Her robe was open at the shoulder, revealing thick bandages wrapped in silver-threaded cloth. Blood had dried in her hair. Her fingers trembled every few moments—trauma she couldn't hide. Her eyes were distant, unfocused.
Until Nyx surged forward.
"GODS, this sucks," she snapped. "I'm bleeding from six places and I can't feel my ass."
Riven coughed a laugh. "We just survived a creature that evolved while we fought it, and that's your complaint?"
"My standards are complex," Nyx snarled.
Seraph returned slowly, voice soft. "You scared it, you know. That thing looked afraid when you smiled."
Nyx smirked. "Damn right."
Nyra exhaled slowly. "I'm never going to forget that screech it made when we cut into its ribs."
Riven shuddered. "It echoed through my spine."
"You're just mad it broke your leg," Nyx teased.
"And bit you," Nyra added.
"Fair."
In the far corner, Voss sat slouched against the wall. His torso was bare from the waist up, long strips of bloody bandages covering his chest and back. His right hand was wrapped in steel-threaded gauze. There were claw marks down his side, deep enough to make even the medics go silent. His breathing was steady—but raw.
He hadn't spoken.
But he watched them.
And when his eyes met Nyra's, something passed between them again.
A tension wrapped in exhaustion.
A current that didn't belong here—but was here anyway.
She held his gaze longer this time.
Then: "You're worse than we are. Why aren't you in a bed?"
His voice was rough gravel. "I don't lie down unless I'm dead."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "That's dramatic. Sexy, but dramatic."
Nyx whistled. "Who knew stone-face had a flair for the fatal?"
Voss almost smirked.
Almost.
Before the silence could settle again, the door creaked open. An instructor stepped in—pale-skinned, sharp-jawed, eyes like cut glass.
"You have one more day of rest," she said. "Then you're expected back in training. Rankings will be posted. Factions have already taken notice."
"Lovely," Riven groaned. "Can't wait to be judged while limping."
"Good," Nyra said darkly. "Let them see what survival looks like."
Nyx grinned wide. "Let them bleed trying to outrank us."
The door shut behind the instructor.
And the quiet returned.
Until Riven stirred and groaned. "Hey, Nyra…"
She tilted her head toward him.
He blinked slowly. "You've got healing abilities, right? Think you could fix this leg before it snaps off again next time I sneeze?"
Nyra arched an eyebrow, eyes glinting. "Do I look like a divine blessing? That monster nearly bit you in half, Riven. I heal bruises and burns—not snapped bones and torn tendons."
Nyx cackled from her bed. "Besides, she'd probably botch it and regrow your femur in your ass."
Riven grinned through the pain. "You're all heart, Nyra."
"Damn right I am," she muttered, pulling her blanket higher.
A bell tolled outside the infirmary. Not loud—but sharp. Final.
A new instructor entered—this one cloaked in deep violet, with a scroll bound in silver.
She didn't bow. Didn't speak with reverence.
Just unrolled the parchment.
"Assessment results have been finalized. Rankings and faction offers will be announced tomorrow in the great hall. All cadets are expected to attend at dawn."
She looked at each of them in turn—her eyes lingering longest on Nyra.
"You placed at the top."
No congratulations.
Just fact.
Then she turned and walked out.
Riven let out a long exhale. "Top, huh? I guess bleeding out earns points now."
Seraph lowered her gaze. "They weren't just testing strength. They were watching how we moved. How we didn't fall apart."
Nyx whispered, "Next time, we make sure they do."
Nyra said nothing.
But her jaw was set.
The fire behind her tired eyes refused to dim.
The morning was sharpened steel.
No birdsong. Just the faint echo of boots over marble, the drag of chains like breathless whispers. Nyra walked at the front—back straight, shoulders squared, eyes forged in silver. Her retractable ankle chains had been pulled in completely, leaving only her wrist chains to dangle, clinking faintly with each stride, swaying to mid-calf like a metallic heartbeat.
She wore black—combat-tuned fabric stitched for movement and silence. Her iron cuffs shimmered beneath her sleeves. The air shifted around her like it knew better than to touch.
Beside her, Voss matched her pace—silent, composed, wrapped in tension like a blade in cloth. His dark uniform was slightly open at the collar, revealing the sharp contour of a healing scar, evidence of a battle survived but not forgotten. His eyes, always unreadable, lingered on the way Nyra moved—smooth, calculating, untamed.
She moves like vengeance on a leash, he thought. And part of him wanted to see what happened if it ever snapped.
Riven trailed behind them, his smirk cocked despite the tightness in his limp. "So we're just gonna pretend we're not still held together with adrenaline and trauma?"
Nyx laughed low from Seraph's shared body. "Speak for yourself. I'm held together by spite and sarcasm."
Seraph blinked once, reclaiming control. "You're lucky spite isn't a healing salve."
They rounded the final corridor toward the Grand Hall. The heavy doors loomed—runed with glyphs that pulsed faintly.
Inside: First-years only. No instructors. No upperclassmen. Just the initiates.
The hall stretched wide, stone and obsidian swallowing sound. Students murmured—until the four of them entered.
Silence snapped into place.
They were watched. Studied. Envied.
An instructor emerged from the shadows—his cloak deep crimson, his face unreadable. Behind him stood a towering black veil, drawn across a massive wall of slate.
"You were tested," he began. "Not just in strength, but in strategy, instinct, and control. Many failed. Some fell. But four stood above."
He raised a hand.
The veil dropped.
OBSIDIAN RANKING WALL
Individual Rankings:
Kierian Voss
Nyra Vale / Seraph Vale
Riven Caelum
Celeste Drayven
Thalen Varis
…
The room erupted—gasps, mutters, outrage thinly veiled by shocked disbelief.
"Her?" someone hissed. "A slave?"
"She tied with the illusionist girl…"
"And beat Princess Celeste?"
Nyra didn't flinch.
The instructor continued.
Group Ranking:
Top Group: Vale / Seraph / Caelum / Voss
"You four worked as one," he said. "Unorthodox. Brutal. Effective. No one else made it to the final quadrant alive."
More murmurs. Glares. Silent curses.
Faction Offers:
Kierian Voss – Vortexa
Nyra Vale – Vortexa
Seraph Vale – Nyxborne
Riven Caelum – Dreadmoor
Celeste Drayven – Luxreign
"You have one week to decide," the instructor said. "Faction membership is voluntary. But remember—factions shape your path, your training, your political future."
He let that linger.
"Also—groupings are permanent. For the remainder of the academic year, your combat teams, simulations, and field assignments will be conducted in these units."
A collective intake of breath swept the room.
"Locked?" someone whispered. "We're stuck with them?"
Riven chuckled. "Hope you don't snore, Voss."
Nyra's chains jingled softly as she shifted weight.
From the shadows in the rear, Celeste Drayven stepped forward, arms folded.
Her blue eyes landed on the rankings. Her lips curled.
But not in a smile.
In a promise.
Nyra met her gaze without blinking.
Celeste's voice cut through the silence, low and perfectly poised. "Enjoy the attention, Nyra. It fades faster than blood dries."
Nyra's chain shifted with her weight, the clink sharp as a blade unsheathing. "Then I'll carve my name into the stone. Let's see how fast that fades."
Riven grinned, leaning just enough to whisper past Seraph. "Gods, I love it when she gets like this."
Nyx surfaced, baring her teeth. "Back off, lover boy. I saw her first."
Seraph blinked slowly, rubbing her temple. "Why are you all like this?"
Celeste turned on her heel without another word, her silence more venomous than anything she could've said aloud.
And from behind her, Voss didn't look at the rankings.
He watched Celeste walk away.
His smirk curved slow and sharp.
Then, just loud enough for her to hear—his voice low, smooth, and laced with something darker—
"Careful, Princess. The way you walk, you'll have the whole damn kingdom on its knees."
Nyra blinked, her spine going rigid.
A strange feeling bloomed in her chest—hot, sour, unfamiliar.
What the hell was that?
She swallowed it down, jaw tight, chains twitching.
Riven leaned closer with a grin. "Is that jealousy I'm smelling?"
Nyx cackled. "Oooooh, she's burning. Someone's got green fire flaring in her eyes."
"I'm not jealous," Nyra snapped.
Riven raised a brow. "Right. And I'm not limping like I got run over by a mammoth."
Nyra didn't answer. She stared straight ahead, refusing to give them the satisfaction.
But inside?
Something burned.
And it had Voss's name all over it.
The Grand Hall had cleared.
Mostly.
Clusters of first-years lingered at the edges—whispering, forming the beginnings of new alliances or sharpening old rivalries. Some stared at the obsidian ranking wall like it had spat in their faces. Others looked at it with the devotion of zealots.
Nyra stood beneath the high arches with her team. Her chains coiled neatly at her ankles now, silent and still. But inside, she was anything but calm.
Voss hadn't said another word after the comment.
To Celeste.
And Nyra hated that she noticed. Hated that she'd felt something.
Riven was still grinning beside her, leaning against one of the tall obsidian columns like he had all the time in the world.
"Still stewing, Princess?" he asked under his breath.
Nyra gave him a withering look. "You want your other leg broken?"
Nyx barked a laugh from behind Seraph's soft expression. "She's adorable when she's homicidally possessive."
"I'm not possessive," Nyra hissed.
Seraph added gently, "You're bleeding emotions. Just less visibly than the beast's corpse."
"Can we not?" Nyra gritted.
Voss rejoined them in silence, his eyes scanning the few remaining students.
His presence silenced the group instantly.
That only made the air heavier.
Before the tension could thicken further, a flicker of movement caught their attention. Another instructor—tall, skeletal, and dressed in the veiled blacks of the Faction Committee—approached, flanked by two armored guards.
He didn't bow.
"Nyra Vale. Kierian Voss. Seraph. Riven Caelum," he announced. "The Committee requests your presence. Now."
Riven straightened with a sigh. "Do we get snacks this time?"
Nyra's hand tightened slightly on her wrist chain. "Let's go."
They were led through twisting back corridors—stone halls lined with torchlight and runes. The walls felt like they were watching.
Eventually, they arrived in a chamber of black glass and jagged thrones.
The Faction Heads.
All five of them sat like kings over a shattered kingdom.
Vortexa's Warlord-General, clad in obsidian armor etched with battle runes, his eyes glowing faintly with combat-born magic.
Nyxborne's Phantom Matron, veiled entirely, her presence more shadow than flesh.
Dreadmoor's Commander, a cold-eyed tactician with twin knives strapped to his chest.
Luxreign's Noble Archon, pristine, aloof, robes glowing faintly with holy runes.
Ashgrave's Embermark, silent, scarred, with flame-blackened fingers tapping the arm of his chair.
The air felt dense here.
"You have all received offers," said the Archon. "You are free to accept or decline."
"But know this," rumbled the Warlord-General. "Declining does not mean escaping our eyes."
"You'll be watched," added the Phantom Matron. Her voice sounded like dead leaves. "Favored or not."
Voss nodded once, nonchalant.
Seraph bowed slightly. Nyx didn't.
Riven gave a lopsided half-grin.
Nyra met all five of their gazes without flinching.
"I'm not here to be chosen," she said. "I'm here to prove why you all made the wrong offer."
A pause.
Then the Embermark grinned—a rare, unsettling expression.
"Interesting."
They were dismissed after that, with veiled warnings and thin smiles.
As they exited, Nyra exhaled slowly. The shadows didn't feel like shadows anymore.
They felt like jaws.
The walk back was quiet—at first.
The corridor stretched endlessly before them, carved from dark stone laced with veins of glowing red crystal. Enchanted braziers flickered every few feet, casting long, jagged shadows that danced like wraiths. Statues of forgotten warriors lined the walls—some cloaked in regal armor, others half-shattered and hunched in agony. The scent of burnt steel and ancient parchment clung to the air.
Every hallway in the Dominion Institute was designed to remind you of who had bled here before.
Nyra led the group in silence, her chains whispering against her boots.
"So. Factions," she muttered finally, her tone flat.
Riven stretched his arms behind his head. "Still thinking about Dreadmoor. It's chaos incarnate, but that suits me. No leash, no lies—just blades and sabotage."
Nyx chuckled. "You do love a good explosion."
Seraph added, "It's a chance to infiltrate from within. See what power truly tastes like."
Riven nodded. "Exactly. We don't need to be loyal. We just need access."
Voss walked slightly behind Nyra, hands in his pockets. "Vortexa doesn't care who you are. They care about what you leave in your wake. I'm not interested in politics, but their battlefield training? It's unmatched."
He paused. "I'll use what they give me. And then walk away stronger."
Seraph folded her arms. "Nyxborne fits our duality. They thrive on mystery, chaos, unpredictability. I don't trust them, but they understand what it means to be more than one thing."
Nyra remained quiet.
Riven glanced at her. "And you? Still ignoring yours?"
"I'm not joining a cage with a prettier name," she said coldly. "I've already worn one. I don't need their ranks, their rules, or their false promises. I'll make my own power."
Nyx smirked. "Gods, you're hot when you're defiant."
Riven snorted. "She's always defiant."
Voss glanced at her, unreadable. "You don't have to be owned by them to use them."
"I don't want their leash, Ruin," she said, voice like a blade. "Even if I'm the one holding it."
That silenced them for a while.
The hallway curved downward into a darker corridor—walls lined with etched glyphs that pulsed faintly at their passing. Their footsteps echoed, hollow and heavy. The Academy was alive in its own way—watching, listening, weighing every choice.
As they reached their dormitory wing, Riven muttered, "Well. If nothing else, at least we bleed prettier than the rest."
Nyx grinned. "Speak for yourself. I've got three stitches in my ass."
Seraph just sighed.
And as they passed through the last archway, the shadows shifted around them—not with malice, but recognition.
They didn't walk as students anymore.
They walked as threats.
The tension from earlier still coiled in their bones as they returned to their rooms. Even the walls seemed to breathe differently, as if the very stones had overheard their conversations with the Faction Heads.
They barely had time to sleep.
Because when the call came—it wasn't with fanfare.
It came as a single, unnatural chime.
It rang through the dormitory halls like a blade dragged across bone—long, slow, and resonant. Not a ceremonial bell. Not a training summons.
This was different.
Nyra's eyes snapped open. Her chains clinked softly as she rose, already dressed in black combat gear, as if her body had been waiting. Her ankle chains retracted fully in a blink, and her wrist chains swung free, whispering with lethal intent.
When she opened her door, Voss was already waiting.
His expression unreadable. His posture coiled.
Neither of them spoke. There was no need.
Moments later, Seraph and Riven emerged from the corridor. Nyx flickered in and out beneath Seraph's calm, and Riven's fingers already danced over the hilts of his daggers.
A faceless guard led them down the hallway—one they hadn't walked before.
Past the usual halls. Past the training courtyards. Down into something ancient.
The torches along the walls hissed and sputtered. The floor beneath their boots shifted from stone to rough-hewn obsidian, black and glistening like cooled blood. Etched along the walls were ancient runes, glowing red and pulsing like heartbeats.
It felt like descending into the underworld.
Then…
They arrived.
The Crucible.
A massive, arena-like cavern carved into the mountain's belly. Jagged obsidian spears jutted from the walls. Chains hung from the ceiling like ornaments of execution. The scent of scorched metal and old blood clung to the air.
Every first-year was already there.
One hundred students.
All silent.
And at the center of the arena, waiting like a shadow that had always been there, stood Headmaster Xypher Rhaegis.
His midnight-black armor shimmered with silver runes, and his onyx eyes held no light. He stood tall, like a statue of death carved by a god who'd lost all mercy.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Tonight is not about instruction," he said. "There will be no lectures. No theory. No ceremony."
He stepped forward, voice cold and hollow.
"This is your Trial of Allegiance. You stand here not as children, but as tools in the making. Some of you will become weapons. Some of you will be discarded as failures."
He let that settle.
"Half of you will die before dawn."
A few students gasped. One girl sobbed quietly.
Xypher smiled. It was not kind.
It was the grin of something that enjoyed watching things break.
"If that frightens you… good. Fear is a teacher. It reminds you what's at stake."
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping over them like a scythe.
"Prove you deserve to stay. Or die screaming."
And just before he vanished in a hiss of black smoke, he offered one final whisper:
"Good luck."
The ground shuddered.
With a groan of ancient chains, ten massive gates split open along the Crucible's perimeter.
From the shadows within, came the Wretches.
The air turned sour—like rot and sulfur, like dying breath caught in a sealed tomb. Each Wretch stepped forward with inhuman grace, their limbs wrong, jointed in too many places, bones popping beneath their grotesque musculature.
Their skin glistened like oil-slick hide stretched too tight. Jaws unhinged, revealing layers of misshapen fangs, each one stained with something black and viscous. Their claws scraped against the obsidian floor, sending shrill screeches echoing through the chamber.
One reared back and let out a howl that didn't sound like anything born of this world. It was a noise that clawed into the spine, made the air vibrate like it was trying to flee.
Students flinched. Others stepped back instinctively.
Even Nyra's heart skipped—but she didn't move.
She watched.
Analyzing.
The creatures were coordinated—feral but not mindless. Their eyes glowed like embers stoked in hell, searching for weakness.
Riven whispered, "That's not a beast. That's a curse given flesh."
Nyx licked her lips. "I want one."
Seraph inhaled deeply, grounding herself.
Voss cracked his neck, eyes narrowed, muscles shifting under his coat.
Across the arena, whispers rippled through the gathered students. Some clutched weapons with trembling hands. Others simply stared, paralyzed.
A boy broke and ran.
He didn't make it far.
One Wretch darted forward—impossibly fast. Its elongated limb shot through the air like a javelin of bone and muscle, piercing through the boy's spine and out his sternum with a sickening crack. The sound was wet and final—like flesh tearing over stone, followed by the splatter of entrails as blood gushed from both wounds in violent spurts.
His body convulsed once, then went limp as the Wretch lifted him into the air like a torn rag doll. Ribs cracked apart, his organs spilling from the open wound as the creature shook him, letting viscera rain down on the obsidian floor.
Gasps turned into screams.
The blood didn't just spray—it painted the arena in arcs of steaming crimson, soaking the stone with a stench so thick it burned the nose.
The Crucible had officially begun.
The boy's corpse hit the ground with a wet slap, entrails still twitching.
And the Wretches screamed.
It was not a roar.
It was a layered sound—like bone scraping metal, like a thousand insects shrieking in harmony, overlaid with the guttural screech of something ancient being reborn. It echoed through the Crucible like a curse, rattling bone and burning the lungs.
Some students dropped their weapons, hands clapped to their ears.
Others sobbed.
One girl simply stood there, frozen—until a Wretch disemboweled her where she stood, blood splashing her own wide eyes.
The Crucible erupted.
Nyra's eyes snapped to the panicked students stumbling over each other.
"Form a line! Get your backs to the wall!" she barked, voice sharp as a lash.
No one moved.
"Move or die!" she snapped, slashing a Wretch across the chest with her chain and stepping in front of a trembling girl clutching a useless spear.
Still, they hesitated.
Riven caught on quickly. "You heard her! Weapons up! You think hiding behind your magic will save you? Fight or get eaten!"
A boy raised his sword, hand shaking, but nodding. Others began to react, fear turning to desperate motion.
Voss stepped into the fray, calm and commanding. "Push left. Funnel them into the narrow corner. Use the terrain!"
He lifted one hand and crushed the gravity under a rushing Wretch, reducing it to pulp in front of the stunned students.
That got them moving.
Nyra caught another girl by the collar and shoved her toward the makeshift formation. "If you're not going to kill, get the hell out of my way."
"Is this what they teach you royal brats?" Nyx sneered as she twirled her scythe into another Wretch's throat. "Screaming and pissing yourselves until someone saves you? Adorable. Pathetic. Try not to choke on your own blood before we're done here."
Despite the venom, more students began to listen—because Nyra was protecting them. Her chains lashed out with brutal elegance, intercepting Wretches before they could reach the group. Her coldness was control. Her anger was direction.
She became the eye of the storm.
"Keep your weapons high! Aim for the necks and joints!" she shouted.
"Don't run—group up!" Riven added, throwing a blade over Nyra's shoulder into the chest of a Wretch lunging toward a straggler.
"Hold the line!" Voss commanded, driving his foot into the face of a fallen creature before dragging his blade free of another.
The students rallied—not all, but enough.
Those who didn't fall in line… fell to the Wretches.
And amid the carnage, amid the screams and shattered bone and rivers of blood, Nyra stood tall—chains snapping, eyes glowing.
Leading not by grace.
But by fire.
Nyra moved first.
Her chains shot outward like lightning, snapping across the throat of a Wretch with surgical speed. The metal links glittered with residual flame, and her body moved with the elegance of something trained by violence. She didn't run—she flowed.
Each motion was precise, venomous.
A flick of her wrist lassoed a Wretch's limb. A twist of her hip brought the chain around like a whip.
And then came the dance.
Nyra spun, ducked, twisted—her chains like ribbons of death, her daggers striking with fluid finality. She sliced through exposed joints, between ribs, beneath jaws. Every movement was calculated to cripple and kill.
To her right, Nyx had taken over Seraph's form and moved like chaos incarnate.
Where Nyra was fluid and graceful, Nyx was erratic and savage. Her twin scythes hissed through the air, one blocking a Wretch's bite, the other severing its arm at the shoulder. She laughed mid-spin, crimson spraying her cheeks like warpaint.
"Bleed for me, you walking abortions!" she howled.
Nyra and Nyx's styles clashed—one elegant, the other feral—but they didn't hinder each other.
They amplified.
Nyra's fluidity created openings. Nyx's savagery exploited them.
They wove together like a song of blood and fire.
Riven was behind them, ghostlike.
He didn't announce his kills. He vanished into shadows, reappeared with steel buried in spines, throats, kidneys. His daggers were like whispers of death—one breath, then a life ended.
"Left flank!" he called.
A Wretch charged.
Before Nyra could pivot, Voss crashed down from above—his gravity magic slamming the beast into the stone so hard its skull burst.
He rose from the impact, coat swirling, eyes unreadable.
"Watch your back, Princess."
Nyra scowled but nodded once. "You're late."
Their teamwork was honed now—organic and lethal.
Nyra would disarm. Riven would flank. Nyx would destroy. Voss would crush.
They weren't just surviving.
They were butchering.
One Wretch lunged, mouth unhinged.
Nyra slid under it, sliced through its belly with both blades, then whipped her chains up to wrap its throat. She pulled, flipped over its back, and landed behind it as its head came loose with a sickening snap.
More students died around them. Screams rose, faltered, and died in wet gurgles.
Then, the Alpha appeared.
It was twice the height of the others, hunched but powerful—its spine arched like a predator ready to pounce. Its mouth wasn't open, but the sound it made—a deep, vibrating hum that shifted into overlapping screams—pierced through every skull.
It wasn't just a sound.
It was memory.
Cracking whips.
Burning flesh.
Children sobbing in darkness.
Nyra's knees buckled. She gasped as images flooded her—her own past flayed open.
Chains. Flames. The brand.
"Don't listen!" Seraph's voice echoed in her mind.
Nyx snarled, "I'll flay its throat for that!"
She surged forward, dragging Nyra with her.
The Alpha advanced slowly, confidently.
Nyra lunged.
Her chain wrapped the creature's leg mid-charge. She yanked it back just as Nyx came in low, slicing its hamstring.
It screeched—a high-pitched sonic shriek that shattered nearby stone and sent lesser students clutching their ears, blood streaming from their noses.
Riven vaulted off a broken column, daggers aimed at the beast's chest, but the Alpha swatted him mid-air, sending him crashing into the wall with a brutal crack.
"Riven!" Nyra shouted.
"I'm fine," he coughed. "Just a broken ego."
Voss didn't hesitate. He summoned all his force, dropped gravity beneath the Alpha, and brought it crashing down.
Nyra and Nyx struck together.
Chains wrapped the throat. Scythe met tendon. Daggers pierced through soft underjaw.
Voss leapt—like a black star—and buried his sword deep into the creature's clavicle, cleaving into its chest cavity with a squelch.
The Alpha writhed.
Still not dead.
"Hold it!" Nyra growled.
"I am!" Nyx shouted.
"Not enough!" Riven snapped, appearing again, throwing a blade into the beast's eye.
Its head snapped back. It shrieked—louder, deeper, a banshee of bone and agony.
Blood fountained from its mouth, black and steaming.
But it still clawed forward.
Still fought.
Still hunted.
The Alpha Wretch bled black sludge, its body twisting in jerks like a dying marionette. It shrieked again—a higher-pitched, ear-splitting screech that reverberated through the obsidian walls, cracking stone and rupturing eardrums.
Nyra's blood ran hot. Her body trembled—not from fear, but fury. This thing. This grotesque echo of every nightmare… it was still breathing.
"End it," she growled, and they moved.
Riven came in from the left, silent as a blade of wind. He leapt, drove a dagger deep into the Alpha's thigh, twisting until flesh peeled away. "Now, now, now—move!" he shouted.
Nyx burst forward from the right, laughing like a wild animal. "Time to die, sweetheart!" She flipped into a spin, both scythes gleaming, and slashed upward in a deadly X across the creature's chest. The blades carved deep. Black ichor sprayed across her face.
Voss dropped from above, his gravitational force spiking—he landed with a seismic pulse, feet crashing into the Alpha's collarbone. Bones cracked like thunder. The creature roared, mouth split too wide, fangs shattering from the shockwave.
Still, it didn't fall.
Nyra surged up the center—her chains wrapping tight around its midsection, locking it in place. Her silver eyes blazed.
Something inside her snapped.
Not fear.
Not rage.
Something deeper.
A pulse of fire surged from her chest—raw, ancient, royal. The air around her warped, shimmered with violet light.
And then—the Amethyst Inferno ignited.
Purple fire erupted from her spine like wings of living magic—flames with violet-black undertones that shimmered like stained glass in moonlight. The heat pulsed in time with her heartbeat, coiling up her arms, down her legs, fusing with her chains, her blades, her very breath.
The Alpha froze.
So did everyone else.
Students staggered back, some falling to their knees as the flames rippled outward.
Riven's jaw slackened. "What… the hell…?" His hands trembled slightly—whether from pain or awe, even he couldn't say. He'd seen beauty, rage, magic. But this? This was something else entirely.
Seraph, watching from the depths of her shared body, whispered internally, "She's becoming."
Nyx, for once, said nothing.
She was watching—truly watching—entranced by the vicious grace Nyra embodied, her usual smirking commentary swallowed by reverence.
But it was Voss who stood completely still.
His breath caught in his throat.
His vision tunneled.
Nyra moved like a storm wearing silk—each movement perfect, burning with rage and brilliance. The fire around her didn't just destroy—it sang. It danced with her, cloaked her, bled from her soul.
And for a split second—Voss forgot how to breathe.
"Surreal," he murmured, the word barely leaving his lips.
Something pulled taut in his chest.
A warmth.
Sharp.
Terrifying.
His jaw clenched. What was this?
He had known war. He had known pain. Loyalty. Fury.
But never this.
Never her.
He didn't know the word for it. Only that something inside him was cracking—reforming.
And when her eyes blazed under the violet flame, his heart stuttered.
He hated it.
He needed more of it.
Nyra didn't register the silence.
She was dancing.
Her movement became a blur of light and motion—elegant, weightless. The flames shaped themselves into curved blades along her arms, twisting shields along her back, spectral wings that pulsed with violent grace.
Her body moved like water aflame—fluid, serpentine, untouchable.
With each spin, a lash of purple fire scorched the Alpha's flesh.
With each breath, the fire surged wider—warping shadows, distorting the arena like a fever dream.
And then she struck.
Not just with steel.
With soul.
Twin daggers plunged into the Alpha's skull as the Crownfire exploded outward, a burst of light and heat that incineratedthe beast's remaining energy.
Screeching. Thrashing. Melting.
The Alpha convulsed.
Blood fountained upward—hot and reeking of rot, instantly evaporated by the flames.
It let out a final, wet gurgle.
Then it dropped.
"For every scream," she whispered, voice low and lethal, "for every whip, for every chain—this is mine."
She pulled herself up, climbed the creature's back, twin daggers drawn.
And drove them down into its skull.
One. Two. Three.
The Alpha convulsed.
Blood fountained upward—hot and reeking of rot.
It let out a final, wet gurgle.
Then it dropped.
Hard.
The impact shook the arena.
Silence followed—real and deafening.
Only the sound of labored breathing filled the Crucible.
Riven collapsed to one knee, clutching his ribs. "I think I broke something important."
Nyx coughed, wiping her mouth. "Just one?"
Voss stood over the corpse, chest heaving. "It's done."
Nyra slid off the Alpha's back, boots slick with blood. She landed hard, knees bent in a fluid crouch, rising like a goddess forged in flame and fury. Her chains hissed as they retracted, her body aglow with residual amethyst light.
Blood streaked her face like warpaint, and her silver eyes shimmered against the burn of violet embers still trailing from her fingers. Her hair whipped around her in charred waves, the purple streaks blazing bright in the firelight.
She walked with slow, deliberate grace—hips swaying like a blade ready to draw blood, shoulders back, chin high. Regal. Lethal.
Whispers rippled through the remaining students.
"Who is she?"
"She looks like a—"
"—war goddess..."
"I think I'm in love."
Eyes followed her. Admiration. Fear. Awe.
Riven blinked, then stepped forward, staring at her hand as the last of the violet fire flickered. "What the hell was that?"
Seraph, calm but curious, tilted her head. "That flame… it wasn't magic. It felt older. Wilder."
"I don't know," Nyra muttered. She lifted her hand.
A pulse answered.
Fwoom.
Purple flame ignited in her palm—soft this time. Controlled. It danced gently across her skin.
Seraph stepped forward, reaching out.
"Don't—" Nyra started.
But Seraph touched the flame.
And smiled.
"It's warm," she whispered. "It's not burning me… it's healing."
A deep scratch along her forearm closed slowly, sealed by the violet light.
Nyra's eyes widened.
She turned.
The wounded students.
She didn't hesitate.
Lifting both hands, she exhaled—and a ripple of Amethyst Inferno surged outward.
The flames flowed over bodies like silk, washing over lacerations, broken limbs, bruised faces. Students screamed at first—terrified—until they realized they weren't in pain.
They were being healed.
One by one, the gasps turned to stunned silence.
Scars faded. Bones re-knit. Flesh sealed.
Nyra watched as the last tendrils of flame returned to her palms.
Behind her, Nyx gave a sharp whistle.
"Well damn, Princess. Set 'em all on fire and they thank you for it. That's one hell of a kink."
Nyra rolled her eyes but didn't stop walking.
Behind her, more students stared.
They would never see her the same way again.
Riven, still catching his breath, let out a low whistle as he watched Nyra walk away.
"Goddess of flame and chains... no wonder the whole damn school's got a crush now."
He turned toward Seraph.
Big mistake.
In a blink, one of Nyx's blades was pressed—not to his throat—but to his inner thigh, sharp and very intimate.
"Say that again, lover boy," Nyx purred darkly, eyes gleaming. "And I'll make sure you can't use what little charm you have left. Are you cheating on me with the fire goddess?"
Riven raised both hands in surrender, a crooked grin still on his face. "Touchy."
"Territorial," Nyx corrected with a sweet snarl.
Then Seraph slid forward, gentler, but her gaze cut just as sharp.
"We share a body," she said softly, "but not our affections. Tread carefully, Riven. You flirt with fire."
He winked. "Then it's a good thing I like getting burned."
Nyx withdrew the blade with a huff. "Idiot."
Seraph just shook her head.
But neither of them were quite smiling.
Not this time.
A cruel laugh echoed.
Headmaster Xypher stepped from the shadows, untouched, unbothered.
His voice coiled through the space.
"You survived. Most didn't. Consider this your welcome to the Dominion Institute."
He gestured, and glowing names flared into the air—projected with magic.
The rankings.
Kierian Voss
Nyra Vale
Seraph Vale
Riven Caelum
Whispers filled the arena.
"Wait—Nyra's second?"
"She's not even noble."
"What the hell is she?"
"Did you see her fight?"
"She's not human..."
"And Seraph… what is she?"
Xypher raised a hand.
"Your ranks define your placement. Your offers. Your future. You'll find your faction invitations in your rooms. You have one week to accept or decline. Decline at your own peril."
His voice darkened.
"One more thing: the groups you fought with? They are your assigned units for the rest of the year. Where one of you goes, the others follow. Fail together. Rise together. Bleed together."
He turned and walked away.
Nyra didn't move.
The blood on her face had already begun to dry.
Riven nudged her gently. "You okay?"
"I don't know," she answered honestly.
Voss stood silently nearby, eyes scanning her face.
Then, without a word, he smirked.
Not mockingly.
Devilishly.
It twisted one corner of his mouth, sharp and dark and intoxicating.
Nyra's stomach fluttered. She didn't understand the feeling—it was warmth wrapped in sharp edges. A flare of heat that made no sense.
She turned away quickly.
Riven noticed.
"Ohhh," he drawled. "Was that a blush?"
Nyx cackled. "Oh, this is delicious."
"Shut up," Nyra muttered.
She started walking. The others followed.
Behind them, the Crucible still steamed with death.
And ahead, the Academy waited—darker than ever.