The Flame's Confrontation

The silence of the ceremony clung to him, long after the torches dimmed. It wasn’t just absence of sound—it was a residue. A weight. Like something sacred had died, and no one dared speak its name. Even now, as he walked the sterile corridors of the dormitory wing, it hadn’t left.

It clung to his skin. His lungs. His bones.

Marble floors gleamed beneath his boots, untouched by the chaos that had carved itself into memory. They were spotless—too spotless. As if no one had ever bled here. As if the echoes of spells and screams hadn’t once torn through this very stone.

Above him, pale-blue crystals floated in slow, deliberate rotations. Their dull glow didn’t flicker—it pulsed, low and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that didn’t quite belong to the living. A heartbeat trying to remember it was alive.

Everything felt… too clean.

Like none of it had ever been touched by pain.

Or if it had, it had been scrubbed away too thoroughly.

Elarion walked alone.

His steps echoed softly, measured but unhurried, the sound swallowed quickly by the stillness. No other footfalls followed him. No idle conversation. No voices. Just him and the hush.

The hall twisted once—twice—past darkened alcoves and silent statues of past Archmages whose names had long since turned to dust. He stopped in front of a tall oaken door framed in cold brass, the metal dulled by time and enchantment. Carved into the wood, in silver script that shimmered faintly in the crystal light:

Room 317

Elarion di Valtor

Tower of Valtor

He paused for a moment, reading the inscription like it belonged to someone else.

Then he pushed the door open.

It let out a long, low creak, as if even the hinges were reluctant to welcome him. The sound crawled into the hallway, then disappeared like it had never existed.

The room beyond was spacious, but spare. A single bed with crisp, untouched linens. A wardrobe in the far corner. A desk. A shelf lined with three empty glass bottles, dusty and unlabeled. Walls the color of washed bone. Cold. Unwelcoming.

It was neither grand nor humble.

Just… hollow.

Waiting.

Elarion stepped inside.

The crystals outside offered enough light; he didn’t bother with the lantern on the wall. He didn’t unpack. Didn’t check the wardrobe. Didn’t even close the door fully behind him. It remained ajar, as if some small part of him wasn’t ready to be shut in.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and sat—on the edge of the bed, hands clasped loosely between his knees, his gaze locked on the far wall.

But he wasn’t really looking at it.

He wasn’t looking at anything.

The silence pressed inward, thick and inescapable.

Not comforting. Not peaceful.

Just present. Like a second skin. Like breath you forgot to exhale.

The room had no smell. No warmth. No trace of life.

No sign of who he was, or who he had been.

On the desk sat a mirror. Small. Rectangular. Its silver frame was plain, functional. The glass was spotless—eerily spotless. He hadn’t noticed it when he entered. He was certain it hadn’t been there before.

He stared at it from across the room.

Something about it unsettled him. Not because of what it was.

But because of what it might show.

Still, he stood. Slowly. As though movement required permission.

His boots scraped against the stone—the only sound in the room.

He approached the mirror, each step heavier than the last. When he reached it, he didn’t sit. He leaned in, elbows braced on the desk, his breath fogging faintly against the cold glass.

There he was.

Pale. Drawn. The beginnings of a bruise beneath one eye—faint, but there. Eyes ringed with exhaustion, the whites tinged slightly red. Hair slightly unkempt. A faint smear of soot still clung to his collar, like a fingerprint left by fire.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the look in his eyes.

Not fear.

Not grief.

Just... emptiness.

A flicker of something hollow—like someone had scraped the inside of his soul clean and left only echoes.

Not broken.

Just distant.

Dislodged.

Wrong.

He stared at himself for a long time.

Then, without a word, he reached out and turned the mirror face-down.

The silence remained.

He returned to the bed, not bothering to remove his boots or cloak. He lay down stiffly, arms resting at his sides, eyes fixed on the ceiling above—a ceiling that stared back, blank and unmarred.

His body ached. But not in ways healing spells could fix. The damage wasn’t in the bones. It was somewhere deeper.

Somewhere quieter.

His thoughts didn’t drift to the trial.

Not the screams.

Not the voices.

Not the final words spoken in the circle of fire.

Instead, they went somewhere else.

To a moment.

Brief. Fragile.

The moment right before—when part of him had almost given in.

And how easy it had been.

His eyes drifted shut.

Sleep came slowly. Then all at once.

And for a while… he escaped.

Then—

Morning came, pale and cold—and far too loud.

Elarion awoke.

The light leaking through the curtains painted faint golden lines across his bare chest, rising and falling with each breath. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling—still, unmoving—as if the weight of the dream refused to let go.

Eventually, he pushed himself up and walked to the bathroom, dragging his feet like a soldier returning from war.

The hiss of the shower filled the room as steam began to curl around the edges of the glass. Elarion stripped down, tossing the thin fabric of his sleepwear aside. His body, lean and lithe, carried the story of someone far older than his years. Rigid scars crossed his torso—some jagged and brutal, others neat like surgical incisions. A brutal harmony carved into skin.

He stepped into the water.

Hot. Scalding, even. But he didn’t flinch.

The water traced the ridges of his muscles, slid down the slope of his shoulders, over his back where the worst of the scars lay.

He pressed his palms to the cold tiles.

“This is fucking tiring…” he murmured, eyes shut, voice rough and low.

Moments passed before he finally turned off the water. He stepped out, grabbing a towel, rubbing it through his hair in silence. His reflection greeted him in the mirror — tired eyes, defined cheekbones, a face too serious for his age.

He looked to the bed, where a set of clothes waited for him.

His new uniform.

The colors of Caelron Academy — dark charcoal, with silver-lined seams and a deep navy sash. The fabric shimmered subtly in the light, magically reinforced but light as silk. He pulled it on slowly, piece by piece—snug, formal, and far too clean. The cloak draped over his shoulders like a symbol he hadn’t earned yet.

A fresh start.

That’s what they’d promised him.

He adjusted the collar and stared at his reflection one last time.

But underneath the uniform, nothing had changed.

The scars were still there.

The halls of Caelron Academy were grand, lined with glowing crystal sconces and towering archways of white stone laced with ancient enchantments. Magic hummed faintly in the air, as if the building itself were alive—watching, waiting.

As Elarion walked through, the murmur started.

Low at first. Then spreading.

"That's him..."

"Isn't he the one who survived the Trial of Reflection without breaking a sweat?"

"No, seriously—didn’t he go toe-to-toe with the Crown Prince? And the Imperial Princess?"

"And lived."

Eyes trailed after him—some in awe, others in jealousy. Most kept their distance. A few whispered behind sleeves.

Elarion ignored them all.

He walked with the silence of someone used to being watched, yet unaffected by it.

Then he noticed a cluster of students gathered ahead, crowding around a glowing bulletin board in the center of the main hall. Magical ink shimmered on its surface, shifting as new names and updates flickered into view.

He stepped closer, parting through the crowd with nothing but presence.

Class D.

Class C.

Class B.

Class A...

Then—Class S.

His name was there. Etched in bold:

Elarion di Valtor, Tower of Valtor

Just below it—

Sevrien Aurel Duskgrave, House of Duskgrave

Lysaria Evanthe Duskgrave, House of Duskgrave

He stared at the names. “Interesting…”, he said under his breath.

Then—a voice cut through the crowd, sharp and slick as oil.

“Did you get your five minutes of fame, Valtor?”

The voice dripped with disdain.

Elarion turned.

A young noble stood at the edge of the circle. Hazel-brown hair combed perfectly back, eyes gleaming with condescension. His uniform bore the crimson trim of House Roenthal—old, powerful, and rich.

Flanking him were two others — arms crossed, grinning like wolves.

Whispers rose again, this time louder, more anxious

“That’s Lucien Roenthal.”

“He’s Class S too. The Fireborn Prodigy from the Western Province.”

Lucien stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

“Hope you enjoyed the attention,” he said, his tone smooth but venomous. “Because now you’re in Class S. And in Class S…”

He leaned in slightly.

“…nobodies like you get crushed.”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

No one moved. Dozens of eyes were locked on them now—watching, waiting.

Elarion’s expression didn’t change.

Not even a blink.

He took one step forward.

And the air grew still.

The crowd held its breath.

Elarion stared him down. Unreadable.

Not a single muscle moved—but the air shifted, thick with tension.

Like a blade being drawn.

Lucien’s smirk wavered.

The hallway had gone still. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

No one knew what Elarion would do.