The sun had just passed its peak, but the temperature in the testing arena was rising—not from the heat, but from the gathering tension.
The Year Five students—the most senior, most elite, and most refined of each of the four great institutions—were now standing in formation at the base of the arena, awaiting their turn.
Their uniforms were pristine, etched with glowing threads of their respective schools' insignias.
Each carried the weight of hundreds of hours of combat, spellcasting, and cultivation on their backs. They were not students. They were weapons waiting to be unsheathed.
From Crowgarth, the air was thick with smug arrogance. Their leading student, Vekar Dorn, a sharp-jawed boy with storm tattoos coiled around his neck and arms, glared toward the Thornevale contingent.
He wasn't over his junior's humiliating defeat in the impromptu duel earlier.
