I wake to the smell of antiseptic and burning herbs. The pain is still there, a dull throb beneath my skin, but it is distant now, wrapped in cotton wool and something else, something warm that hums against my bones.

I lie on a cot, staring up at a canvas ceiling, the colour of old parchment. Striped light filters through gaps in the tent walls, painting the air in shades of gold and dust. It seems to be late afternoon.

"Finally," a voice drawls from my left. "I was beginning to think the lightning had scrambled your wits permanently."

I turn my head sharply towards the voice.

A young man leans against a wooden post at the mouth of the tent, poised between shadow and slanting afternoon light. He looks to be tall and perfectly aligned, with the sort of posture beaten in by private tutors. A faint taper at the tips of his ears catches the light, subtle but unmistakable. Elven. His hair is pale gold, cut in a style that requires coin and careful hands to keep so precise, and his eyes are the colour of winter sea ice- clear, cold, and unyielding. He is wearing a deep crimson tunic braided with gold at the collar, immaculate, especially compared to the chaos inside this canvas tent.

He just looks at me as though I am something he has scraped off his boot.

"Where..." My voice cracks. I swallow, tasting copper and ash. "Where am I?"

"The medical tent," he says, checking his fingernails. "Not that you deserve the attention. Do you have any idea how heavy you are? My back is never going to forgive me for dragging you out of that field."

I push myself upright. My body protests, but the sharp, splintering agony from before has dulled to a heavy, manageable ache. My leg bends without the scream of pain I was bracing for, even though I am certain I felt it snap between those creatures’ teeth. I reach for my shoulder, expecting blood and torn flesh, and instead find rough bandages and tender skin knitting beneath my fingers.

Trying to make sense of it, I take in my surroundings. The canvas walls, the smell of herbs and sweat. It’s a makeshift healer’s tent. A couple of cots sit on the other side, empty but unmade, as if the occupants have recently left. Crates and piles of supplies are stacked against the walls, each marked with hurried labels. Slowly, I turn back to the man.

"You were struck by lightning," he says, not looking up. "It is a miracle you are not a burnt smear on the grass. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of miraculous."

Before I can respond, the tent flap snaps open. A woman enters, robed in grey with a heavy leather satchel slung across her chest. She has the weathered look of someone who has spent decades squinting at ledgers and cares little for what they contain. She does not look at the young man. She looks at me.

"Name," she says. It is not a question.

I blink, confused. The tent spins slightly. "I... what?"

"Your name, girl." The woman taps a wooden board with her stylus. "I had twenty-five survivors from the eastern ridge and forty-three from the north. You are the last. Name, house affiliation if you have one, or shall I mark you down as 'unknown' and be done with it?"

My mouth opens, but the words catch. I do not know where I am. Giving my real name feels dangerous, like signing a contract I cannot read.

The young man sighs, as though the burden of my existence is personally exhausting. “You’re meant to state your name and title,” he says, each word clipped and precise. “Try to keep up.”

"Master Novordet," the woman says, not looking up from her board. "Do not antagonise the patients."

"I am not antagonising her, Professor Halloway. I am assisting with the administrative process." He leans back, crossing his arms. "She was feral when I found her. Probably cannot even write."

The professor ignores him, looking at me expectantly. Her eyes are tired. I can see that she has done this too many times today.

"Sera," I say, the name feeling strange in my mouth. Just Sera. No family name. No title. "My name is Sera."

"Survived the Harrowing," the professor mutters, scratching on her board. "Late arrival, unaffiliated. Wild Resonance confirmed."

I frown, still trying to make sense of any of this. She snaps the board shut and tucks her stylus behind her ear. "The assembly for sorting begins in ten minutes. If you can walk, you are expected to attend. If you cannot - crawl. VylThau does not wait for stragglers."

She then turns and leaves, the tent flap dropping closed behind her.

I shift to the edge of the cot and swing my legs over. The packed dirt floor is cool beneath my feet. That is when I notice my clothes are gone, replaced by a rough-spun tunic and trousers in undyed grey. My feet are bare.

"Welcome to the Vylerrian Institute of Thaumaturgical Arts," The man says, straightening. He smooths his crimson tunic with a fastidious hand. “VITA, as those of us who matter call it. You survived the Harrowing, barely, which means you have somehow earned the right to be sorted into a House. Try not to embarrass yourself by crying."

He strides towards the exit, then pauses and glances back at me over his shoulder. His gaze narrows, assessing.

"Wild Resonance," he says, as if he has bitten into something unpleasant. "How... provincial. Try to keep up, Feral. The assembly hall is on the upper ridge. If you get lost, follow the smell of desperation."

Then he is gone, leaving only drifting dust motes caught in the afternoon light.

As I stand, my legs hold. Whatever magic they worked here, whatever that lightning did to me, I am still standing. I grab a pair of boots from beneath an abandoned cot, shoving them on without checking the fit, and catch my reflection in a mirror propped against the tent pole.

I barely recognise myself. My wild black hair passes my shoulders, matted and tangled and utterly untamed. Leaves and ash still cling to the strands. My haunted eyes stare back, deep, intense blue, too large for my face. Light olive skin, weathered by sun and wind and war, speaks of months spent outside, sleeping rough, fighting and running. My body is lean, but I have slight muscle definition that shows beneath the grey tunic. I look feral. I sigh heavily as I move away from the mirror and step out of the tent into a world I do not recognise.

The campsite before me stretches out towards the tree line in the distance. White and grey tents circle the perimeter, crowded and restless. Young people hastily move between them, wrapped in bandages or crusted with dried blood, all of them dressed in the same rough grey. Their faces are drawn tight with shock, their eyes dulled by what they have endured. They have seemed to have survived something brutal, and it shows.

I hesitate only long enough to steady my breath before stepping into the flow. No one meets my gaze. No one speaks. I move among them unseen, just another body in a river of grey that winds towards a large structure perched on a ridge overlooking a valley.

As we draw closer, I see it is no valley at all, but a vast crater gouged into the earth, its depths seem never-ending. 

The building resembles a great hall carved from black rock, its arches high and severe, its pillars etched with intricate, curling patterns that seem to shift when I look too long. A single spire thrusts upward from its centre, dominating the skyline as we gather at its base.

We are driven up a broad flight of stairs and through two enormous stone doors. Inside, the air turns cool and carries the faint scent of old stone and ozone. The walls are lined with curved panels and pillars worked in fine detail, each surface deliberate and imposing. The floor is polished pale stone, smooth enough to reflect the movement of the crowd. 

We are herded into a vast hall where another group already waits. Hanging from the ceiling are crystal chandeliers, their crystals alive with light, pulsing softly. Hundreds of us now fill the space, the only sounds the rustle of fabric and the uneasy shuffle of feet. Above, a stone balcony runs the length of the chamber. Figures in robes of varied colours stand along it, watching us with the stillness of judges.

A human man steps forward. He is ancient, his beard white as frost. His robes shift between shades of blue and grey, like water sliding over river stones, and his gaze settles on us as if we are already measured and found wanting.

"Welcome to the Vylerrian Institute of Thaumaturgical Arts," he says, his voice carrying without effort, filling every corner of the hall. "You have survived the Harrowing. You have proven you can endure. Now, we shall discover your power."

He pauses, letting his gaze travel across the hundreds of grey-clad Initiates. His eyes, pale as winter mornings, seem to rest on each of us in turn.

"Four centuries ago, the Foundering Gods walked these halls. They helped shape the leylines that warm your skin, the power you will feel in your veins, and the possibility of what you may become. They may have left this school without a word over a decade ago, but we do not wait for them."

A murmur runs through the hall. I see older students standing straighter, as if this absence is familiar, accepted.

"We continue their work. We forge mages who need no divine blessing to reshape reality. You come from every corner of Eluvemar. You may be an elf or a dwarf, a dragonborn or even a human or something else that has blood that is touched with magic. You might be a werewolf, shifter, vampire, or unique in some other way, but here is a warning: your lineage matters less than your resonance. Your birth is less than your will."

He gestures, and the crystal lights brighten, casting sharp shadows.

"The VylThau does not coddle. We do not comfort. We test, and we teach, and we send forth those who survive to rule, to guard, to transform. The Culling comes in twelve weeks. Until then, you are all equal. After, you will be ranked, and your futures will begin to take shape."

Another pause. He smiles, and it is not kind.

"Some of you will die in training. Some will break and withdraw. Some will simply... disappear. This is not a tragedy. This is the selection. The world beyond these walls is harsher than anything we devise. Prepare yourselves."

"Now," he says, his voice softer but no less present. "We discover your houses."

He gestures, and the floor before us shifts. Stone grinds against stone as circular platforms rise from the polished surface, each one large enough for a single body. The sound reverberates through the hall, heavy and deliberate.

“Step forward when called,” the old man says. His voice carries without effort. “We will assess your Resonance, your element, and your Major. From this, your House will be determined. Let the sorting begin.”

Names echo through the chamber.

An elven girl is called first. She steps onto a platform with her chin lifted. A severe woman in silver approaches her and extends a hand. Colourful crystal shards hang from her fingers, suspended on fine chains, spinning as they catch the light.

“Water,” the assessor announces. “Secondary resonance: Scrying. House Sylmare.”

The girl is slender and pale, her hair the colour of wet slate. She crosses towards the blue and silver banners, and for a moment, faint damp prints mark the stone beneath her feet before fading into nothing.

A halfling boy follows. He is short and tense, his shoulders too broad for his slight height.

“Earth. Secondary resonance: Combat Praxis. House Drifthen.”

His skin is weathered brown, his hair cropped close. Mud cakes his boots, and a stubborn weed clings to his collar. He flinches at the sound of his House and makes his way towards the green and bronze banners without lifting his gaze.

Another name is called. A human boy with laughing eyes and restless hands steps up.

“Air. Secondary resonance: Enchantment. House Aelindra.”

He is slight and quick, his silk finery reduced to torn scraps. He moves towards the white and gold banners with barely contained energy, flashing a grin over his shoulder as though this is all a game.

Then a girl with a sharp iron-coloured bob and steady hands takes her place. She is compact and motionless, her grey clothing seeming to drink in the light around her. The assessor’s crystals slow as they hover over her, as though they struggle to recognise what they touch.

“Void. Secondary resonance: Memory Magic. House Sylmare.”

She walks towards the blue and silver banners without a sound. The others gathered there shifted subtly, making space for her without knowing why.

Then I hear it.

“Sera. Step forward.”

My name carries through the vast hall, striking the stone and returning to me altered, heavier. For a heartbeat, I consider not moving. Every instinct tells me to stay hidden among the grey-clad bodies, to let the name belong to someone else.

But there is no one else.

I force my legs to obey and step onto the platform. The stone beneath my boots is cool and faintly warm at once, as if something lives deep within it. The murmur of the hall swells and then thins, curiosity sharpening into attention.

The assessor approaches.

Up close, she is older than I first thought. Fine lines radiate from the corners of her eyes, carved there by long years of scrutiny. A streak of white cuts through her dark hair like a scar. The crystals suspended from her fingers spin lazily, catching the light from the high windows and scattering it across my skin.

“Hold out your hands,” she says.

Her voice is steady. Practised.

I lift my hands. They tremble despite my effort to still them. Fear pools at the back of my tongue, metallic and bitter. I do not know what they will see. I do not know what they will take.

She lowers the crystals over my open palms.

At first, they respond as they have for the others. They begin to turn, slowly, testing. A faint shimmer gathers along their edges. I hold my breath.

Then they accelerate.

The shards spin faster and faster, the chains whirring in tight circles. The air around us begins to hum, a low vibration that crawls along my skin and up my arms. The light in the hall flickers, as if uncertain.

Without warning, the crystals stop.

Not slow. Stop.

Colour drains from them in an instant. The brilliant inner glow that marked every other student gutters out. Their facets cloud and dull, turning grey and lifeless, as though something unseen has drawn the power from their core.

The assessor inhales sharply.

“Impossible,” she whispers.

A spark erupts between my fingers.

It is blue-white and blinding, violent as a storm tearing open the sky. The crack of it detonates through the hall like a weapon discharged too close to my ears. For a split second, I am no longer standing on polished stone beneath carved arches.

I am back in the dark. Teeth. Screaming. The smell of blood and wet earth. The sound of something snapping. My breath fractures in my chest.

The lightning writhes between my hands, not controlled, not summoned, but ripped from somewhere inside me. It burns without heat, sears without flame, crawling over my skin as if searching for a target.

I did not know. I did not know I had this.

The hall blurs. My vision tunnels. Every muscle in my body locks into readiness. I shift my weight automatically, lowering my centre of gravity. My hands curl as if I expect something to charge me. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the gasps that ripple through the crowd.

They think I did this on purpose. They think I want to do this.

The light flares once more, wild and jagged, before collapsing into nothing. The sudden absence feels like being dropped from a height. My hands are empty, but they still tremble as if the storm lingers in my bones. 

I rip them back towards my chest.

The assessor stumbles away from me, her composure shattered. Her heels scrape harshly against the stone. For a heartbeat, I think she might draw a weapon. I brace for it. My body is already preparing to move, to strike, to somehow survive.

She looks up at the balcony, then back at me, and when she speaks, her voice cuts through the rising noise of the hall like a blade through fabric.

“Fire,” she declares. “But not flame. Lightning. Secondary resonance: hidden by the leylines themselves.”

The word lightning echoes inside my skull, like a loud drum.

I stare at her as she studies me, and this time it is not the magic she measures. Her gaze travels over my bandaged shoulder, the way I brace my weight evenly on both feet, the way my hands curl as if ready to strike.

“Third resonance: Combat Praxis,” she announces. “House Valthar.”

A murmur ripples through the hall at the announcement of my House.

I glance around, trying to make sense of the reaction. Some students stare openly. Others lean towards one another, whispering behind raised hands. A few from the other Houses look almost relieved that it is not them standing on this platform with lightning still tingling in their bones.

My eyes drift towards the crimson banners.

At first, I only see a cluster of red and gold, sharp silhouettes and straight backs. Then I pick him out among them. The elven man from the tent stands slightly apart, as though proximity is something others must earn. His posture is immaculate, his expression composed.

I look away too quickly, annoyed at myself for seeking him out at all.

But something pulls at me. A prickle at the back of my neck. I glance back.

He is already watching me.

Not surprised. Not startled. Simply waiting, as though he expected this outcome long before I stepped onto the platform. His gaze holds mine without apology, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface. Not triumph. Not quite.

Calculation.

And something darker.

“Move along,” the assessor says, her tone quieter now. There is something almost like pity in it. “Welcome to the fire, girl.”

I step down from the platform.

My legs somehow carries me forward before my mind can catches up. The crimson banners seem darker up close, rich and heavy like drying blood. The students gathered beneath them burn with an intensity the others do not possess. Their gazes are sharp, their stances coiled.

I cross the invisible line and join them.

House Valthar.