Chapter Nine – The Familiar Trials

Sierra’s POV

“Welcome, students,” said Professor Nivah, her voice clipped and musical, each syllable ringing sharp against the rune-carved walls. “Today, you will meet the soul-bound creature your magic resonates with. A true reflection of your essence—your deepest magic, your most dangerous self.”

The words dropped like stones into Sierra’s chest.

The Familiar Trials were held in a circular amphitheater of rune-marked stone, its walls crawling with shifting glyphs that pulsed faintly in time with the students’ collective nerves. Soft violet torches lit the arena, throwing the shadows too long, too alive. In the centre, a vast summoning circle gleamed faintly as if it had a pulse of its own—waiting, hungry.

Nivah’s robes whispered as she moved, a dozen silver stones rising from her satchel to hover above her palms. Each hummed softly, vibrating in a way that set Sierra’s teeth on edge.

“Place the stone in the centre of the summoning circle when your name is called,” Nivah instructed. “Your bond—if it forms—will be instantaneous. Remember, not all spirits manifest immediately. Some take… longer.”

She didn’t look at Sierra when she said it. She didn’t have to.

Sierra’s throat tightened, her chest constricting like iron bands.

She knew how this would go. She knew before she even touched the stone. How it always went.

Every year since she arrived, the magic scanned her—and recoiled.

She didn’t summon a familiar. Because she wouldn’t. Because she couldn’t.

Because if she did—if she let even a sliver of her real magic rise to the surface—

Someone might recognize it. Someone might name it. And everything would unravel.

The first students stepped forward, one after another. Silver stones rang softly against the summoning circle, each student greeted by a rush of light or smoke. Most got shimmering wraith-hawks with wings like fractured glass, spectral vulpes that purred like fire, or miniature drakes that snapped and curled like loyal guard dogs. A few ended up with stranger manifestations—elementals made of bark or ice, small shadowcats, a clever storm-fox whose lightning tail snapped against the air.

Each reveal was followed by gasps, murmurs, applause.

Then came them.

“Elara Vorn.”

The amphitheater hushed. Elara didn’t just walk—she glided, her every step measured like she owned the stage. She set her stone in the circle with a soft clink, and before the air could even shiver, a ripple of black smoke burst upward.

A crow—sleek, sharp-eyed, massive for a familiar—emerged with a crack of wings, feathers scattering sparks of shadow. It perched on her shoulder with eerie silence, head tilting, watching.

Gasps rippled through the amphitheater.

Gloria followed. Her crow was rawboned and mean, talons like shards of onyx, beak dripping a sheen of spectral oil. It let out a harsh, jagged caw that echoed through the rafters before taking to the beams above. Its eyes swept the room like prey.

Patricia came next, rolling her shoulders with an arrogant smile. Her crow was smaller, but its eyes glowed an unnatural violet—the mark of a mimic, a rare spell-weaver capable of channeling and twisting magic through its song. A weapon in its own right.

Three girls. Three familiars.

All crows.

The amphitheater erupted in whispers. Everyone knew the symbolism.

Three crows meant unity, omen, and blood-bound pact. And in the wrong hands? Control. Domination. A murder.

Even Professor Nivah tilted her head, studying the trio as though trying to decide whether it was coincidence… or design.

Then—

“Sierra Vale.”

Her name dropped like a blade across her shoulders.

Sierra rose slowly, every step toward the circle heavy, deliberate. The stone throbbed faintly in her palm, warm against her skin, as though it recognized her. Her heartbeat was a war drum in her ribs.

She stepped into the circle. The glyphs at her feet flickered like they’d been waiting.

The stone pulsed once in her fingers.

Recognizing her magic.

But as she knelt to place it down, something inside her snapped tight—an instinct sharp as a knife pressed to her throat. Not something external. Something within.

The shadows in her blood hissed in warning.

Not yet. Not here. Not while you’re being watched.

Her hand faltered. For a moment, she hovered. She could feel it—the truth pressing at the edges of her veins, begging to break free. The bond was there. Right there.

And she forced it back.

The stone touched the floor, rolling softly into the centre of the summoning circle.

Silence.

Nothing.

The circle remained dark. The air remained still. The stone just sat there—silent, unmoving, dead.

Professor Nivah’s face betrayed nothing. She only made a neat mark on her scroll. “No manifestation. You’ll have to try again next term.”

The words cut clean, but Sierra just nodded once and stepped away.

She could feel the eyes on her. Always the eyes. Elara’s smirk—satisfied, sharp as broken glass. Gloria cracking her knuckles, her grin feral. Patricia twirling her wand between her fingers like a knife.

But it was Malick’s gaze she felt most.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Curious. Worried. And—gods—maybe even impressed.

It burned hotter than the whispers.

Later, when the amphitheater had emptied, Sierra sat beneath the twisted black tree in the west courtyard. Its roots curled like claws through the stone, its leaves whispering in a language older than kings. She rolled the silver stone in her palm.

It still pulsed.

Very faint. Very deep.

She shouldn’t have kept it, but she couldn’t make herself return it. It was warm against her skin, warm in a way that felt almost… protective.

She leaned back against the bark, the shadows gathering around her like a blanket. Her chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shaky, uneven. She closed her eyes, replaying the scene.

The way the magic had wanted to rise. The way it had pressed against her ribs, her throat, her very skin, like a caged thing desperate to be seen.

And just once—when the wind stirred the courtyard, rattling the branches—she thought she saw it.

Not in the stone. Not in the circle. But in the corner of her vision.

Wings.

Not a crow.

Something bigger. Darker. A silhouette etched in the night sky.

Waiting.

Watching.

Hers.