Dawn crept over the Zandari peaks in a slow burn of color. The first light spilled down the jagged cliffs, striking the bronze domes and high spires of Arelian Keep until they shone like a beacon above the clouds. Below, the city of Kha’Zadun was already awake, the sound of hammers and merchants rising faintly through the mountain mist, but up here, at the very edge of the world, the morning began with silence, the kind of silence that came before something momentous.

The deep sound of a horn echoed through the Keep’s courtyards, summoning every recruit to the training grounds. Boots scuffed over stone, doors opened, the halls that had been hushed through the night came alive with motion.

Vela stepped out into the blinding light, squinting as the mountain sun broke fully over the horizon. The courtyard stretched wide before her, an expanse of pale stone bordered by towering columns and open arches that looked out across the valley. The air shimmered already with heat, though the day had barely begun.

Around her, dozens of recruits gathered in uneven lines, the exhaustion of travel still clinging to them, some looked nervous, others eager. Their chatter filled the air until one of the instructors barked for silence.

Vela swallowed hard and joined the throng, her fingers brushing the edge of her robe. The fabric was already sticking to her skin, the black of her hair absorbing the sun’s relentless glare. She tried not to think about how exposed she felt, her wings pressed tight to her back, folded under the weight of both cloth and scrutiny.

The Keep’s instructors stood at the front, watching them with measured eyes. Among them were the same faces from the ceremony the night before: Sabine’s senior apprentices, seasoned Guardians, and scholars draped in robes of dark teal and gold. They spoke quietly among themselves, making marks on their scrolls as the recruits arranged into loose formation.

By morning, the courtyard blazed beneath the sun, heat shimmered over the stone, and the mountain air, thin as it was, offered no relief. Vela said nothing as sweat trickled down her neck. She was directed into the group on the left, those with the potential to become Sahar. Around her, others were sent to the right, the chosen Guardians-to-be. Though it wasn’t clear exactly how the instructors were discerning their groups. She caught the looks on some faces, disappointment in a few, quiet pride in others. For many, it was a division that would define their lives.

Her gaze drifted across the courtyard… and there he was.

The Leonin stood beneath the shade of a wide cypress tree, the morning light catching the faint bronze sheen of his fur. His scimitar rested at his hip, his arms folded across his chest. He looked calm, at ease, too at ease, given the restless tension filling the air. His mane caught the wind, shorter than the other Leonin she’d seen, less a full halo and more a thick, untamed crest that framed his jaw and throat. It suited him, raw, young, unfinished.

Something about that made him seem more dangerous.

Vela’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t look away this time. His gaze swept the courtyard, lingering briefly, though not on her, before moving on. The movement was small, insignificant, but her heart still quickened all the same.

An instructor stepped forward, a tall man in ceremonial armor whose voice carried easily over the murmuring crowd. “Those of you on the left,” he called, “have the potential to become Sahar. Those on the right will be trained as Guardians. If you are not pleased with where you’ve been placed, you may leave now. There is no discussion.”

The silence that followed was heavy, taut with held breath. Then, from the Guardian’s line, an elf stepped out. He said nothing, simply turned on his heel and strode toward the gates, his pride cutting a clear path through the crowd, but no one else moved.

The rest stood rooted where they were, waiting, some uncertain, others defiant. The heat, the tension, and the sheer immensity of what lay ahead pressed down like a physical weight.

The first day had begun.

Vela adjusted her stance, wings relaxing slightly now that they were outside. The air was easier to breathe, though her robe still itched where it brushed her feathers. Around her, she could feel the faint hum of magic resonating through the gathered novices, threads of power that brushed against her own like distant echoes. No one else seemed to notice.

And beneath the tree, the would-be guardian watched in silence, golden eyes following her and the others as the first day of their fates began to unfold. 

After the recruits had been sorted into their paths, the next phase began — testing.

The courtyard had transformed into a proving ground. Training dummies stood in rows across the packed dirt, and small groups of recruits were called forward to demonstrate their abilities. The air shimmered faintly with the residue of magic as instructors observed and took notes, their expressions measured but sharp.

Tenzin stood in his usual place beneath the old tree, the shade cool against the midday sun. His sharp amber eyes followed the new candidates, assessing quietly as they took their turns. It didn’t go unnoticed that the winged girl from the day before, the one who had flinched under his gaze, had found him again. He caught her watching him from across the courtyard, her pale eyes hard and unflinching this time.

He pretended not to notice, keeping his focus on the instructors as they moved through the ranks. The soft breeze that drifted down from the mountain ridges stirred the edges of his Gi, tugging gently at the loose fabric. The garment was simple, a training uniform of dark linen, fitted to allow freedom of motion. It strained slightly across his shoulders when he shifted his stance, the material stretched over the muscle that years of training had forged into something lean and unyielding.

The open chest of the robe revealed the faint shimmer of his fur, golden in the sunlight. The faint scent of leather and oiled steel clung to him, grounding him amid the crisp mountain air. The slit in his trousers allowed his tail to flick lazily behind him, a gesture he couldn’t quite suppress, betraying the calm exterior he maintained.

If she was staring, he made no sign of noticing it. He had learned long ago that attention came easily to his kind, though rarely in ways that mattered. People looked at him out of curiosity, admiration, or fear, never understanding the discipline that lay behind the beast they saw.

Still, as the recruits fidgeted and murmured in the sun, his gaze wandered despite himself, settling briefly on the dark-haired woman among the Sahar hopefuls. Her wings were pressed tight, her expression strained, her posture rigid with something that wasn’t just nerves. When her eyes met his, for an instant, he thought he saw not contempt or awe, but recognition, and fear.

He looked away.

The mountain wind swept through the courtyard again, carrying the dry scent of dust and stone. The instructors called out names, their voices cutting through the murmur of the crowd, and Tenzin’s ears twitched toward the sound. He folded his arms across his chest, forcing his attention back to the proceedings, willing his thoughts to still.

It was foolish to hope.

But hope was a habit he had never quite managed to break.

Every year, when new recruits came through the Keep’s gates, that same small spark flared in his chest, the yearning to finally be chosen. To hear his name spoken by a Sahar whose magic resonated with his own, to feel the bond form between them, to serve as protector and partner as he had been trained to all his life.

Every year, he had told himself it would happen.

And every year, it hadn’t.

He told himself it no longer mattered. That the solitude of his path suited him. That his loyalty to the Keep itself was purpose enough. But still, when he stood in these gatherings and saw the light of connection flicker between new pairs, when he watched Guardians walk away beside their Sahar for the first time, a quiet ache stirred beneath his pride. It would be weeks before pairs were announced, but even so it didn’t ease the feeling.

So he stood a little straighter now, shoulders drawn back, his mane catching the light like burnished copper. He told himself he was only observing, assessing the new arrivals, as any senior instructor would, but deep down, the smallest part of him, the part that refused to die, still whispered that perhaps, among these new faces, fate had at last remembered his name. 

At the front of the courtyard, one of the instructors gestured toward the rows of dummies.

“Let’s begin,” he called. “Show us what you can do.”

The first few novices stepped forward. Some of the Sahar potentials already had a faint grasp of magic, enough to spark light or stir wind, but most stood uncertain, their potential still buried beneath inexperience.

Tenzin folded his arms, observing silently as the instructors explained the basics for the benefit of the untrained.

Magic — or myrridia, as it was properly known — was the manipulation of energy itself. Those gifted with it could use their life force, guided by word or thought, to alter the world around them. The greater the feat, the more energy it consumed. A spell could drain the body as surely as physical labor; to cast beyond one’s limits could mean collapse, or even death.

With proper knowledge, a Sahar could draw strength from the world around them, the earth, the air, the flow of living things, but the greatest power came from the bond between Sahar and Guardian.

Through that connection, their energies intertwined, each sustaining the other, their strength magnified beyond measure. It was a rare bond; the one Tenzin had spent years preparing for.

Across the training yard, Vela watched as the first of her peers stepped forward to display their skill. The morning sun had climbed high above the courtyard walls, its heat rippling in the air, turning the stone beneath their feet into a glowing mirror of gold and white. Each novice took their place before the practice dummies, straw and wood bound in armor of blackened leather, and the smell of ozone and sweat soon filled the air as spell after spell was cast.

Some were impressive, their control crisp and deliberate. Sparks of lightning cracked through the air, frost bloomed over shields, and illusions shimmered like mirages before vanishing in the heat. Others faltered, their incantations stuttering mid-word, their magic flickering out like dying embers. The failures left behind a residue of smoke and embarrassment that hung heavily in the air.

Vela stood among them, silent and still, she had little to boast of. Her training had been scarce, rough lessons learned from an aging mystic in her village, long before the raid. Her grasp of magic was raw, unpolished, full of instinct and emotion rather than discipline. She could teleport small objects and move stones, but anything beyond that escaped her. Water had always defied her touch, slipping through her mind like it did her fingers. Even the simplest transmutations betrayed her. She’d once tried to turn a rock into gold; it had exploded instead, scattering molten shards across the floor.
After the fire, it seemed everything she touched wanted to burn.

When her name was called, Vela stepped forward. The heat pressed down on her shoulders as she crossed the yard, every eye watching. Her wings twitched beneath the folds of her robe, an old, instinctive reflex, the kind that came when the body wanted to flee but pride kept it rooted in place.
She drew in a long breath, and the air around her shifted, thickening as if the mountain itself was holding its breath. Dust stirred at her feet. Her fingers curled as she whispered a single word under her breath, one she barely remembered learning, one that felt as natural as exhaling and the nearest dummy ignited.

Flame burst outward in a violent rush, gold and crimson entwined, the sound cracking like thunder through the courtyard. The force of it pushed the air from her lungs, heat sweeping across her face as the flames devoured the straw and leather with ravenous hunger. The other novices recoiled with startled cries, their robes snapping in the wave of scorching wind.

Vela opened her eyes to the inferno she had made.

The fire reflected in her pale, gold-flecked eyes, wild, alive, and terrible. She watched it consume the dummy until its form sagged into ash and ember, the smell of burnt straw curling thick and acrid in the air. The light painted her skin in shades of orange and red, and for a moment, she looked less like a novice and more like something divine and dangerous.

When the last of the flames guttered out, silence followed. Only the hiss of smoldering wood broke the stillness.

The instructor exhaled slowly, scribbling something into his ledger. His brow furrowed, but his tone carried a trace of reluctant admiration. “Controlled chaos,” he murmured.

Around her, the others began to edge away, whispering among themselves. Awe, fear, curiosity; she didn’t bother to tell them apart.

Vela’s expression remained calm, but her pulse hammered beneath the surface. She ignored the stares, lifting her chin slightly, schooling her breathing into stillness. She had been alone for years; she could remain so for more.

Still, unease tugged at her thoughts. If she succeeded here, she would eventually be assigned a Guardian, someone bound to her, always near, always watching. The idea twisted something in her chest. Constant companionship sounded exhausting… Suffocating.

And yet, across the yard, she could still feel him.

The Leonin stood beneath the shade of a distant tree, unmoving, his golden eyes unreadable. His tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, the only sign of life. He hadn’t moved once since she’d arrived, and she didn’t know whether it was vigilance or disinterest that kept him so still. Vela tore her gaze away and stepped back into line, the heat of her magic still clinging to her hands like a sin she couldn’t wash away.

The morning passed in waves of elemental display, a living storm of color and sound that rolled across the courtyard. Fire danced in spirals that shimmered like liquid sunlight. Gusts of wind howled through the ranks, tossing cloaks and hair in every direction. Ice hissed and cracked as frost crawled across the flagstones, glittering under the relentless sun. Blinding arcs of light flared and faded, each spell leaving behind the faint tang of ozone and burnt air.

By noon, the courtyard was cloaked in the residue of power, the smell of scorched leather and singed straw hanging thick in the heat. The dummies were blackened husks, the stone beneath them scorched and pitted. Even the air seemed tired, heavy with the remnants of spent magic.

At last, the instructors called for a halt. Recruits slumped where they stood, some grinning in relief, others nursing blistered hands and bruised pride. The spellcasters were dismissed for a brief reprieve, sent to wash and eat before the next phase. The magic had tested their spirits; now the body would be tested in kind.

When they returned, the courtyard had changed.

The air that had once hummed with magic now thrummed with the sharp rhythm of discipline. Wooden weapons lined the sparring ring in neat rows; swords, spears, staves, and shields gleaming faintly with oil and polish. The dummies had been cleared away, and the sound of steel meeting wood filled the air as instructors warmed up with quick, efficient strikes. Dust drifted in golden shafts of sunlight, each mote illuminated like a suspended spark.

Tenzin stood near the edge of the ring, his arms folded across his chest, tail flicking in quiet rhythm. The sunlight struck his mane, turning its bronze-gold hue to molten fire. He had long since learned patience, the art of watching without interfering, and he applied it now, his eyes tracking every recruit that stepped forward.

The first to enter the ring was a young man clutching a wooden sword too tightly, his knuckles pale. The instructor gave no warning, no count, no courtesy. He struck first, his blade cutting through the air with the weight of experience.

The novice parried once, then twice, clumsy but determined. The third blow came faster, the fourth harder, giving no ground or time to recover. Within moments, his defense was destroyed with bad footing and weak parries. The instructor’s final strike knocked his weapon from his grasp, the dull crack of wood echoing across the courtyard. He staggered, breathless, and bowed in defeat.

Tenzin’s gaze followed his retreat before shifting to the next pair. He made no comment, no visible reaction, but his mind cataloged every detail: stance, balance, awareness. The way one recruit favored a leg. The way another overextended a strike. He noted the tension in their shoulders, the fear in their eyes, the way that fear shaped their movement.

It was habit, the discipline of a soldier who had spent his life within these walls. For Tenzin, observation was as natural as breathing. Many of these recruits would eventually train under him before advancing further into the Order’s ranks. If they survived that long.

Sweat darkened the dust underfoot as match after match passed. Some recruits showed promise, others were swiftly humbled. By the time the Guardians’ assessments ended, the air was thick with heat and the iron scent of exertion.

“Next group!” one of the instructors barked. “Sahar candidates — into the ring!”

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. The Sahar were not known for their skill with weapons. Magic was their weapon, their shield, but here, stripped of it, they were expected to show courage, instinct, and endurance.

Tenzin’s ears twitched toward the sound of her name. Vela.

He watched as she stepped forward, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to her robes from the morning’s trials. Her movements were careful but deliberate, her jaw set in quiet resolve. The dark fall of her hair caught the light, and when the breeze lifted it, he saw the faint outline of her wings pressing against the thin fabric of her clothing.

She took her place in the sparring circle, small against the wide expanse of stone, but unyielding. Tenzin’s tail stilled.

He told himself he was only watching because it was his duty, because every instructor kept an eye on those who might one day stand beside them in battle, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Something in her presence, the stillness before her movement, the calm before the storm, drew him in.

He didn’t yet know what to make of her, but as the wooden blades were raised and the next test began, Tenzin found himself watching her more closely than anyone else.

Vela was convinced the sun itself was trying to kill her. Maybe it was her fault for wearing what she had, but she hadn’t exactly arrived at the keep with much to choose from. The journey here had taken years, and coin was scarce. For a time, she’d worked in a bakery, rising before dawn to knead dough and bake bread. Her forearms were still strong from it, though that strength did her little good now.

The wooden sword felt awkward and foreign in her hands, light enough to lift but unfamiliar in balance. She gripped it wrong, her hands too close together at the hilt, her stance too narrow. The sun beat down mercilessly, and her hair, once neatly braided, had begun to unravel, wisps clinging to the sweat on her forehead. Her pale skin flushed with heat, her freckles standing out sharply against the white of her cheeks, a night sky in reverse.

She was trying to focus on the instructor, on her footing, on anything but the massive leonin standing only yards away.

Too close.

His presence alone made her shoulders lock, her muscles stiff as though preparing to flee. Her wings were tucked tight against her back, feathers pressed flat beneath the robe. The one rule of combat training she remembered was clear, protect your wings. They were her greatest weakness. A single well-placed strike could cripple her, and she had no doubt a creature like him would know exactly how to do it.

Now, seeing her up close beneath the punishing sun, Tenzin noticed she moved with care, too careful, too deliberate. The wooden sword in her hands looked unnatural, the grip uncertain, her knuckles pale with tension that traveled up her arms and into her shoulders.

The instructor didn’t hesitate. His strike came fast, untelegraphed, the first lesson always cruel: the world will not wait for you to be ready.

Vela caught the first blow by instinct alone, the wooden blades connecting with a sharp crack that echoed across the ring. The second came harder, driving her back two paces. By the third, her defense had unraveled entirely. The final strike knocked her sword clean from her grasp; it hit the ground with a hollow thud, spinning across the dirt until it stopped near Tenzin’s feet.

The instructor lowered his blade with a curt nod. “Enough.”

Vela straightened slowly. Her robe clung to her skin, dark hair plastered against her neck, wings held tight to her back as though she could fold herself out of sight. Her expression remained calm, too calm, the kind of composure that came from long practice, from refusing to show weakness even when every muscle screamed to yield, but Tenzin saw the small betrayals: the tremor in her fingers, the sharp breath through her nose, the flicker of frustration in her eyes before she buried it beneath steel.

She turned without a word, retrieving her fallen weapon, and stepped from the ring. The other recruits shifted aside as she passed, some offering sympathetic glances, others whispering to one another. She ignored them all.

Tenzin’s gaze followed her for a moment longer than it should have.

There was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself, not pride exactly, but endurance. The kind born from surviving long enough to stop expecting fairness.

He exhaled softly, his tail flicking once in thought, before turning his focus back to the next match. More recruits stepped forward, some moving with confidence, others faltering under pressure. The Guardian prospects struck with precision and restraint, their training obvious. The Sahar, most untrained but not helpless, moved with instinctive rhythm, flashes of latent magic stirring in their eyes even as they fought without casting.

The instructors muttered to one another, taking notes and sharing low commentary. Tenzin observed in silence, his golden eyes sharp, his mind cataloging the patterns of movement, the balance between discipline and fear. It was instinct for him, this quiet assessment, this measuring of others. Many of these recruits would one day train under him if they survived long enough to reach that stage.

But as he surveyed the field, his gaze drifted back to Vela. She stood at the edge of the crowd again, her arms folded across her chest, the faintest scorch mark still visible along the hem of her robe from her earlier fire trial.

She wasn’t watching the ring; she was watching the horizon.

Tenzin didn’t know what to make of her yet, the quiet, the distance, the fear he had seen when their eyes first met, but something in her stillness held his attention. It wasn’t her failure that struck him; it was how unbroken she looked despite it, and though he told himself his focus was duty, that it was his role to observe, to evaluate, he found his gaze lingering anyway.

There was something in her that called to the part of him that refused to stop hoping.