The third test is over.
The war, for a single, precious night, is forgotten.
The Marble City is alive with a celebration of survival, of victory, of hope. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and the clean, electric tang of magic.
Floating lanterns drift like a slow, silent river of stars through the endless twilight sky. Their soft light paints the white marble buildings in shifting colors of crimson, emerald, and sapphire.
In the heart of the main plaza, Carter stands with his fellow recruits. They are no longer just students. They are graduates.
Their faces are flushed with a mixture of pride, relief, and the strong wine that flows freely from enchanted barrels.
Yulian is still loudly recounting his battle with Keyona to anyone who will listen, his deep, booming laughter echoing through the plaza.
Keyona forced to listen, is slightly annoyed.
Nico and Paige are in a quiet, intense debate about the tactical uses of botany versus kinetic energy.
Their earlier rivalry is now a comfortable, friendly debate.
Ruby joins the group, a wide, triumphant grin on her face. She hands Carter a wooden mug filled with a frothy golden ale.
“To the graduates!” she says, raising her own mug in a toast.
“You guys were all incredible today. Seriously.”
She turns to Carter, her pink eyes sparkling with a mischievous, almost manic energy.
“Except for you, Carter. You are a complete and psychopath.”
The others laugh in agreement.
“She is not wrong,” Yulian booms, clapping Carter on his still sore shoulder with a force that nearly makes him spill his drink.
“When you stabbed yourself with your own weapon… I thought… This man is either the bravest warrior I have ever seen, or he is completely insane.”
“Definitely insane,” Keyona says with a smirk, but there is a new, deep respect in her eyes.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. It was… hardcore.”
Two other figures approach their group, the winners from the earlier tournaments. One is the young Turkish archer, his movements still a blur of quick nervous energy.
The other is the older, master Chinese mage, his expression a mask of calm authority.
“We were just saying,” the archer begins, his voice a mixture of awe and respect as he looks at Carter, “that of all the battles we witnessed today, yours was the most impressive.”
“Even though you did not win the final match, your power, your strategy… it was on another level.”
“He is correct,” the older mage adds, his voice a low, steady baritone.
“You have a great and terrible power, young man. You will be a great warrior.”
Paige, who has been listening with a happy, almost giddy expression, suddenly points toward the main stage, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Oh, look! The band is starting!”
On the large, elevated stage at the far end of the plaza, a band of magical creatures sets up their instruments.
The lead singer is a powerful centaur, his upper body bare, revealing a swirl of intricate tattoos.
The drummer is a small, wiry faun with goat-like legs and a mischievous grin.
The lead guitarist is a massive minotaur, his fingers as thick as sausages, surprisingly nimble as they move across the fretboard of a custom made, Vastian Steel electric guitar.
“I still think she’s secretly a furry,” Nico mutters to Carter under his breath.
Earning him a sharp but playful elbow to the ribs from Paige.
The band launches into their first song.
A loud, chaotic rock anthem that sends a wave of pure, joyful energy through the crowd.
“They are all members of the Library,” Ruby explains, shouting to be heard over the music.
“Many of the magical creatures who survived the Order’s purges have found sanctuary here.”
“They are our blacksmiths, our farmers, our musicians…”
“In my home sector, in Turkey,” the young archer adds, “many of the older families, with members in the Library, have a magical creature at their service. It is a great honor.”
As the band plays on, the raw, energetic music is a perfect soundtrack to the celebration, three figures emerge from the crowd. Approaching the recruits.
The first is Monk Taichar, the Regional Director for Mongolia. He wears a simple tunic instead of his formal robes, but carries himself with the same quiet, dangerous confidence.
Beside him are Miguel and Killian, their expressions a mixture of pride and a veteran’s satisfaction.
“A fine performance today,” Monk says, his voice calm and steady against the loud music.
He gives each of the recruits a respectful nod, his dark, intelligent eyes lingering for a moment on Carter. He pulls him aside, away from the loud chatter of the others.
“I was impressed by your control over the darker aspects of your grimoire,” he says in a low voice. “The Mongolian magic bound to Archer… it is a hungry and volatile power. If you ever find that you require… specialized guidance in mastering it, the doors to my branch in Mongolia are always open to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Carter says, a look of genuine surprise on his face.
“I’ll remember that.”
Killian claps Carter on his good shoulder, a wide, almost fatherly grin on his face.
“It’s been a while, kid,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “You’ve gotten strong.”
Carter looks at the man who saved him. The man who pulled him from the wreckage of his old life and gave him a new one.
“Thank you, Killian. For everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Killian says. His grin fades slightly, a flicker of something darker in his eyes.
“You’re not on the teams yet. The real fight is just beginning.”
Miguel, ever the charismatic leader, is already recruiting. He claps Yulian on the back with a booming laugh.
“A warrior of the earth! You have the heart of a true guardian, my friend. A fine addition to any team.”
He turns to Nico, his expression filled with respect. “And you, the ballsy tactician. You fight with your head, not just your fists. A rare and valuable quality.”
The celebration continues. A beautiful, fleeting moment of peace in a world at war.
The recruits are no longer students. They are graduates, heroes of the hour, their futures bright with a promise they are only just beginning to understand.
Carter stands with his new friends, a mug of ale in his hand, and a genuine easy smile on his face.
He feels a sense of hope, of belonging, of peace.
In the distance, across the crowded plaza, he spots Akira.
The prodigy is not celebrating. He stands near the edge of the stage, speaking with Gabriel.
Their conversation looks intense. Serious. Their faces a mask of grim focus amidst the joyous celebration.
Ruby follows his gaze, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh.
She raises a hand to her mouth and yells, her voice cutting sharp and clear through the music.
“AKIRA! GET OVER HERE, YOU GRUMPY ASSHOLE! WE’RE CELEBRATING!”
Akira looks over, his red eyes meeting hers for a second.
A single, short shake of his head.
Without another word, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows at the edge of the plaza.
“He is always so grumpy,” Ruby says with a sigh, a fond, almost protective light in her eyes. “But that’s just how he is.”
The band on stage reaches the peak of their song, the music a loud, triumphant roar. The centaur lead singer throws his head back, his powerful voice soaring over the crowd.
A single, perfect note of pure joy.
The final note hangs in the air.
A perfect, beautiful, hopeful promise.
The crowd roars its approval, a single wave of sound and joy that washes over the plaza.
And then…. the music stops.
Not a gradual fade. Not the natural end of a song.
An abrupt, jarring silence.
The final, ringing note of the minotaur’s guitar is cut off mid chord. The steady beat of the faun’s drum ceases. The plaza, a sea of joyous noise a second before, is plunged into an echoing silence.
A confused murmur ripples through the crowd.
“What happened?”
“Did their equipment fail?”
“Why did they stop?”
Everyone turns to look at the stage.
On the stage, the faun drummer and the minotaur guitarist have collapsed. Lying in a tangled, unnatural heap on the floor. Their instruments clatter beside them. Their bodies are limp and lifeless, like puppets with their strings cut.
Panicked, horrified screams spread through the crowd as they realize what happened. The joyous atmosphere shatters in an instant, replaced by a rising confusion and terror.
But Carter isn’t looking at the fallen musicians.
His eyes are on the one still standing.
The centaur lead singer.
Standing in the center of the stage, the microphone is still clutched in his hand.
But the vibrant life is gone from his face. His powerful form is rigid, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle. His expression, joyful moments before, is now a blank, inhuman mask.
His eyes, once a warm intelligent brown, are now pools of pure, glossy black.
As the city watches in horrified silence, a single, thick trickle of blood wells up in the corner of his left eye.
It traces a slow dark path down his pale unmoving cheek.
Then another drop appears in the corner of his right eye, following the same terrible silent path.
In the viewing stands, the leaders are on their feet.
The celebratory mood is gone, replaced by a cold hard battle ready focus.
Gabriel’s face is a mask of grim fury.
Looking at the possessed centaur, at the chaos erupting in the plaza he understands.
This is not random.
This is deliberate.
He turns to Wulan, the grim faced Manzee warrior beside him. His voice is a stern final command that cuts through the rising panic.
“Wulan.”
“Get ready.”