The quiet after the celebration was heavier than the noise had ever been.
I lay awake long after the last footsteps had faded from the hall, curled beneath the weight of too many thoughts. The air was still tinged with perfume and mana — lingering traces of laughter, music, power. It hung on the walls like fog. Cloying. Familiar. Foreign.
There had been so many nobles.
So many people who didn't know me. Didn't care to. They'd come for Marcus, not for me. Come because a high-ranking commander said I was worth watching, not because I was.
Their mana had been loud — some restrained, some probing. Curious. Calculating. I'd felt them skimming across my skin, brushing at the edges of my blindfold like fingers against glass. Wondering who I was. Why I was here. If I was worth the name they'd been made to chant.
I wasn't sure I had an answer.
A part of me still felt like a child in borrowed shoes, standing in a room built for legends.
And Lincoln's shadow still lived in my bones.
Even now, lying still in the dark, I could feel it — a phantom ache, like the echo of a storm. His power had broken through the world like a spear through silk. Clean. Sharp. Absolute. I had survived it. Barely.
Dr. Lorre said I had the potential to match him. I didn't believe her. Not really. Not when I could still feel the way my ribs had cracked under the pressure of his presence — the way the world had twisted around him like it knew he belonged above it all.
How do you become something like that?
How do you become someone they fear, and not someone they pity?
I didn't have an answer. But maybe the road started tomorrow.
—
The morning came with a sharp edge — air crisp, sky cool, the world exhaling before it shifted again.
I stood near the mansion gates with my cloak wrapped around my shoulders, the edge of dawn warming the horizon in colors I couldn't see. I wasn't wearing my blindfold this time. After months of training in darkness, the blur of the world without it almost felt like light. I couldn't see details — not truly — only vague shadows, shifting shapes, and most importantly, the way mana clung to things. Outlines of people, the flow of spell-threaded currents along the ground, the brush of elemental hum in the wind. That was my vision.
The city was waking.
Mana drifted like river mist, curling soft and slow around the corners of streets. I could feel the cool stone beneath my boots, the metallic creak of hinges from a cart being opened nearby. Somewhere down the lane, a vendor lit his stove — the warm spice of roasted chestnuts laced the air.
Ramon was already waiting for me.
I didn't need to turn to know. His mana was calm, patient — like roots reaching deep into the earth, quiet but unshakable. He shifted against the outer wall, the motion sending a faint rustle of fabric and the muted clang of his belt buckles. Stillness with an edge. He was ready.
"Ready?" he asked, voice rough with sleep but steady.
"As I'll ever be," I said, adjusting the strap of my satchel.
There was a pause — then a cluster of approaching footsteps. Familiar ones.
I turned slightly, already recognizing the mana signatures reaching toward us — a soft pulse of warmth that held years of comfort and memory. Our parents. And close behind them, the now-familiar rhythm of Marcus, Maria, and Evelyn.
Our mother reached us first. Her mana always moved like water over skin — gentle, constant, threaded with something that reminded me of lavender and safety. Our father's presence followed — firmer, quieter, like stone that had held through countless storms.
They stopped just before us, their presence pressing close.
"We're proud of you both," Mother said, her voice warm, steady. "No matter what that test says today."
"Stay together," Father added. "The world's a little less kind when you start showing your power."
I gave a small nod, hands curling into fists at my sides. I couldn't read their faces — couldn't see their eyes — but their mana told me enough. Worry. Hope. Love.
Marcus's mana pushed forward next, crackling faintly beneath the surface. He always carried heat under pressure — like something waiting to strike but choosing not to.
"You're gonna be fine," he said. "Scare a few guild masters. Break a wall or two."
Maria's presence followed — more restrained, but no less grounded. "You don't need to prove anything. Just let them see what's already there."
Evelyn reached me last. She didn't speak but I felt her hand press gently to my shoulder. The brief contact hummed with quiet strength.
I straightened.
"Thank you," I said. "We'll make it count."
And just like that, the moment passed. Goodbye didn't need to be long to be heavy.
Ramon and I turned, our footsteps carrying us away from the mansion, the air cooling as we moved farther into the waking city. The Hunter's Association waited.
—
The building loomed like a fortress of stone and steel, shaped in long sweeping arches, its front flanked by statues of long-dead creatures carved in frozen motion. Mana hung in the air like tension before a duel. Old wards pulsed faintly in the walls, ancient protections sunk into the foundation.
We stepped inside.
The entrance hall was full of movement — boots on polished stone, voices low and clipped, power layered in every passing presence. Most here held their mana close, but it still bled at the edges — coiled, cautious, dangerous.
At the front desk, a woman sat with hands folded. Her mana was cold and efficient, her tone even colder.
"New applicants?" she asked, not bothering to look up.
"Yes," Ramon answered. "Ramon Valor. And Annabel Valor."
There was a pause.
"The girl?" she asked. Her mana shifted — a flicker of doubt beneath the surface.
I didn't flinch.
"Yes," I said before Ramon could speak.
The woman cleared her throat. "Magic aptitude test followed by combat evaluation. Rankings range from S to D. S is for exceptional candidates — magic at mage rank three or higher. A is four through six. B is seven through nine. C is 10 only. Anything below that, you don't get access to the training grounds. Too dangerous."
"Understood," I said.
"Testing chamber seven. Down the hall, follow the sigils."
—
The halls narrowed as we walked. Stone swallowed sound. Glyphs pulsed faintly along the floors, guiding our steps — the energy beneath them twisted in soft patterns, familiar and strange all at once. The deeper we went, the more the air thickened. I could feel the remnants of those who'd come before — the sharp edges of magic, of ambition, of fear.
Chamber Seven opened to a broad space. Cold. Wide. The hum of magic etched deep into the floor buzzed faintly in my bones.
A man stood by the glyph wall. His mana was thin and clinical — like a scalpel, not a sword.
"You'll approach the glyph when called," he said. "Push mana into it. Don't hold back. It will respond with classification."
Ramon went first.
I felt him move — the steady rhythm of his steps, the rising swell of his power. His mana gathered, clean and controlled, before rushing outward like a wave striking still water.
The glyph flared.
"Low-A," the examiner called. "Strong control. Good amplification traits."
Ramon stepped back. I didn't need to see his face to know he was satisfied.
Then it was my turn.
I walked forward slowly. The glyph tugged at my skin — like gravity, like breath held in too long. It wanted something from me. And I let it take.
I drew from my core. From everything I'd fought to hold together. Mana burned up my spine, surged through my limbs — wrapping me in breath, in fire, in memory.
I pressed my palm to the stone.
The chamber lit up.
Color erupted behind my eyes — not through sight, but sensation. The glyph screamed with power, light crackling across the walls. I felt the floor quiver beneath my boots, mana expanding outward like a storm.
Then, silence.
The air cooled. My heart still thundered.
"…S-Rank," the examiner whispered.
Ramon let out a low whistle.
I pulled my hand back slowly, letting the magic settle.
I hadn't meant to go that far. But maybe… maybe I had to. Not for them.
For me.
The silence after the glyph dimmed felt too large for the room.
I let my hand fall slowly. My pulse was a drum in my ears, but I kept my breathing even. Calm. I wasn't sure what I'd just done, only that it had reached deeper than I'd meant it to.
"S-Rank," the examiner repeated, louder this time, trying to reassert control over the space. "Confirmed."
I felt his mana flick toward me—brief and careful, like the brush of a measuring stick against skin.
"How old are you?"
"Ten," I said.
A pause. Then, under his breath: "That's impossible."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The glyph had already spoken.
Behind me, I felt Ramon shift slightly, his mana stirring with quiet satisfaction.
The examiner cleared his throat, then his voice sharpened into a professional edge again. "S-Rank mages are typically classified at Rank 3 or above. Rank 3 mages are the stuff of elite Hunters. Generals. Archmages."
He let that settle.
He tapped a stone plate at his side. "Now for the physical test."
—
We were led to a wide stone arena, the mana here denser, rougher—scarred with the residue of spells and blood and time. It reeked of past violence, even though the air was cold and clear.
Ramon and I waited near the edge while another test began.
The boy in the center moved like coiled lightning.
His mana burned low and hot—controlled, but dangerous, like a smoldering blade. I didn't need to see him to feel the pressure he exuded. Not quite like Lincoln. Not that suffocating. But close. A level below it, maybe. And he wasn't showing everything.
"That's Lycian," someone whispered nearby. "Tested A-Rank."
But that's no A.
He moved again, and the mana around him flared in sharp bursts. I followed it like a map, tracing each movement through its impression in the air. The spar ended in seconds.
His opponent, also A-Rank, didn't land a single hit.
Lycian didn't stay to bask. His mana withdrew as he exited, disappearing with a cool confidence that didn't care about applause.
I made a mental note of the shape of his power. I'd feel it again, I was sure.
"Ramon Valor," someone called.
Ramon stepped forward.
His fight lasted longer. His stance was solid, his movements deliberate, and his mana control tight. He didn't dominate the match like Lycian had, but he won. Barely.
I could feel the strain in his limbs when he returned to the edge. The ache he tried to hide.
Then it was my turn.
I walked forward, boots echoing faintly. The opponent waiting for me felt competent—high B-rank, steady, practiced—but not dangerous. Not to me.
I didn't say anything.
Just as I reached the center, a ripple cut through the air. Different. Sharper.
"Stop."
The voice didn't shout. It didn't need to.
I turned toward the source—older mana, rich and heavy like stone beneath pressure. It tasted like command. Authority honed over decades.
"I'll be her opponent," the man said, walking forward. "A B-rank won't do anything against an S. She deserves a real evaluation."
I could feel the other man step back instantly, not in fear, but in deference.
The new presence took his place—broader, more grounded, and almost relaxed. But beneath that, he was watching. Measuring.
"Annabel Valor," he said.
I inclined my head slightly. "Sir."
"I'm Harwick, head of the Association," he said. "Let's see what the girl that nearly blew my glyph test in pieces can really do."
I squared my feet. Let my cloak fall back.
And I reached for the fire in me.
The arena fell silent.
Harwick's footsteps echoed as he crossed the stone, each one grounded with practiced intent. I felt them more than heard them — the way the vibrations touched the soles of my boots, the faint shift of pressure in the air around us. His mana coiled low and wide, sinking into the ground like roots. Earth-aspected. Anchored.
I didn't bother raising my guard.
His approach slowed. Then — he struck.
He didn't open with a spell.
Good.
I felt the movement as a ripple in the mana, the twist of his body cutting air a second before the blow came. A feint to the left, then a real strike high — elbow first, hard, fast.
I tilted my head just out of range. Listened.
Another shift in the air — breath drawn through clenched teeth — and a low sweep followed, his leg cutting across the floor.
I stepped over it like stepping over a crack in the sidewalk.
There was a pause. I could feel him recalibrating.
"She's not even—" someone from the watching crowd whispered, voice cracking. "She's a child. How is she moving like that?"
Another voice followed, hushed and stunned. "Is she even seeing him?"
I wasn't.
Not with sight, anyway.
The blur of his outline was just a darker smear against a dim background. But his mana shouted. The wind of each strike, the way it stirred the air around him — the pressure told me everything I needed.
He came in again, quicker this time — a fist aimed at my side, then twisting upward into a snap-kick meant to knock me back.
I leaned away. Let it pass.
Then, just to be polite, I raised my hand and caught his next strike mid-air.
The silence that followed was louder than the impact.
Ramon's voice drifted lazily from the sideline, dry with familiarity. "Well. This was to be expected."
Someone near him muttered something under their breath. Ramon didn't let them finish.
"She always likes to show off," he added. "Even when she's holding back."
Harwick jerked his arm free and stepped back fast. I let him go.
He exhaled once, then shifted his stance. I felt the rumble before the spell began — the ground beneath us trembling with the build-up of power. He was done testing her with fists.
Mana surged down through his limbs, pooling into the floor. The stone buckled and rose, jagged shapes erupting toward me in sharp succession.
I moved once. A sidestep.
The first spike missed. Then the second.
Another tremor. He tried to cut off my escape — a half-circle of stone bursting up to trap me.
I pivoted and stepped behind it before it even finished forming.
His mana snapped in irritation. I didn't need eyes to know that.
"Interesting," he muttered, breath catching slightly, voice strained at the edges. "You've got a lot of tricks, don't you? Don't make me have to push harder, Valor."
I angled my head slightly toward him. His breath was heavy now, shallow around the edges.
"You sound out of breath," I said, voice level. "And I haven't even used a single spell."
A soft ripple ran through the watching mages. Shock. Disbelief.
"She's toying with him," someone whispered.
Harwick didn't reply — not with words.
He dropped low, and the ground split open in a roar, a wall of stone tearing toward me like a crashing wave.
I didn't flinch.
I waited. Counted the pressure. The breath between bursts.
Then stepped back one pace.
The attack missed.
Again.
The stone crashed down in front of me — power wasted on empty space.
I adjusted the set of my shoulders and brushed invisible dust from my sleeve.
"You done?" I asked quietly.
The space between us went still. His mana was draining fast now — not empty, but clearly worn.
He stepped back. I could feel the resignation in his movement.
"You didn't even move much," he said.
"I didn't need to."
Another long pause.
Then, finally, I felt the pulse of his approval — reluctant, but honest.
"Well then," he said. "That's one way to make a point."
The silence stretched. Not tense. Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
Harwick stood still for a breath. Two. Then I felt his mana shift again — no longer drawn up in combat, no longer measuring. It folded inward, quiet and steady, like a bow being unstrung.
Then, to my surprise, he moved.
The brush of fabric, the weight of a knee hitting stone — not out of defeat, but out of something heavier.
Respect.
He knelt.
Gasps echoed around the chamber, mana flaring in tiny sparks of disbelief. I couldn't see their faces, but I didn't need to. Their mana cracked like glass under pressure — old pride meeting something they hadn't expected.
Even Harwick's voice changed. It was quiet. Measured. Without a trace of arrogance.
"You don't owe this Association anything," he said. "But it would be an honor to have in our training grounds."
I didn't answer. Not right away. My fingers curled at my side — not from nerves, but from the weight of the moment settling across my shoulders. This wasn't about pride.
It was a door opening.
Harwick rose slowly. His mana settled with him, no longer testing, no longer doubting. Just real.
"Come," he said. "You've earned more than the title."
—
His office was carved from the same stone as the rest of the building, but everything inside felt older — deeper, like the room itself remembered every ranked mage who'd passed through.
He pulled two thick metal tokens from a warded drawer, each etched with layered glyphs. They vibrated faintly with bound magic — not decorative. Real permissions.
"These are full-access permits," he said, placing one in front of Ramon and one before me. "No area restrictions. No apprentice-tier limitations. If you're strong enough to walk into a zone, we won't stop you."
Ramon lifted his with a small nod.
I reached for mine carefully, fingers brushing the cold surface. The glyphs hummed softly beneath my touch — keyed to our mana now.
"You'll be watched," Harwick added. "S-Ranks always are. Especially ones who look like children."
I didn't smile, but I felt something settle inside me. A quiet acknowledgment.
"I understand."
He gave a short nod. "Good. Then I look forward to seeing what you learn here."
—
The training grounds stretched wide behind the Association — a vast open field bordered by cliffs, trees, and dense magical barriers that shimmered faintly even in my blurred vision. Mana clung to everything like fog, shaped and filtered through layered enchantments.
Ramon stood beside me at the edge of the entrance, his new permit clipped to his belt.
"Not bad," he said, glancing sideways at me. "First day out and you've already made a legend kneel."
I raised an eyebrow. "You jealous?"
He snorted. "No. Just hoping you won't make me kneel next."
Then I tilted my head slightly and said, "Oh, don't worry. You kneel for women all the time."
Ramon blinked. "What?"
"You sound like the type who enjoys getting stepped on. Choked a little. Called 'good boy.'"
Then Ramon choked. "Excuse me?!"
I shrugged, deadpan. "You give off the energy."
"I do not give off that— That's— Okay, no, what does that even mean?!"
"You're flustered. That kind of proves my point."
"I— You—"
"You're not helping your case."
He groaned, i could hear his defeat in his voice "You are ten. You're not allowed to make jokes like that."
"You're the one who made it weird."
"I hate this. I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
We stepped past the final threshold. The gate closed behind us with a low hum, the enchantments sealing like breath held tight.
I tilted my head toward the sprawling chaos ahead — the battlefield of possibility.
"Ready to get destroyed, big brother?"
"Oh, you are so lucky I have dignity," he muttered, and followed me in.