Dawn's pale light crept over the marble plaza as torches smoldered in iron braziers, their ember glow mingling with the morning chill. Novices stood in neat ranks, breath misting in the cold air, linen cloaks drawn tight. At the plaza's center, Lady Marielle—Temple Marshal and living embodiment of Illyra's discipline—stood upon a raised dais. Her steel-trimmed armor caught the last flickers of torchlight, and her voice, firm as sharpened blade, carried across the quiet courtyard.
"Each novice will perform a basic elemental display," she announced, eyes sweeping the circle. "Failure to demonstrate control will be met with corrective discipline." A hush fell, broken only by the scrape of shifting feet and the faint crackle of dying embers. Marielle's gauntleted hand rose in a precise arc, signaling the first attempt.
At her cue, a trembling apprentice stepped forward. He raised a tentative hand, and a slender breeze whispered to life, stirring the edge of his cloak and sending a swirl of fallen petals dancing across the flagstones. Knights murmured approval; the apprentice dipped his head in relief and stepped back, leaving the plaza charged with anticipation.
Then Ian moved to the center, the rune-etched collar at his throat a weightless reminder of the power he carried. His pulse drummed in his ears as he faced Marielle's unblinking gaze. Drawing a shuddering breath, he extended both arms. At his fingertips, a low rumble of wind gathered, rippling through the courtyard like distant thunder. The petals scattered by the first novice whirled into a spiraling vortex that crowned Ian in a halo of rose-pink blossoms.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath—then the current shifted. Ian's focus wavered, and the wind surged into a sudden blast. The armored sentinel beside Marielle staggered as if struck, the clang of her breastplate echoing ominously. Novices recoiled; petals and dust skittered across the stones in the violent gust.
Silence crashed down. Lady Marielle's eyes blazed. She descended the dais with measured steps, each footfall ringing like a verdict. When she reached Ian's side, her voice cut through the echoing hush. "Control your gift, boy, or it will destroy you—and us."
Ian's heart thudded against his ribs as the wind died away, leaving him trembling amid the settled petals. He tasted sweat and the faint metallic tang of ozone on his tongue. The plaza's assembled novices watched him with wide, fearful eyes; some pressed back in instinctive alarm, others leant forward in awed fascination.
Marielle's gauntlet brushed his arm—a strict, almost tender chastisement. "Gather yourself," she ordered, voice softening just enough to betray a flicker of curiosity. "Mastery is earned through discipline, not raw power."
He bowed his head, the cold morning air stinging his cheeks. Pride and fear warred within him, but he forced his spine straight. "Yes, Marshal," he murmured, voice steady despite the tremor beneath.
As the novices dispersed, whispers rippled through the courtyard—talk of the Gift of Illyra, of a power both wondrous and perilous. Ian remained at the plaza's heart, petals drifting around him like silent applause. He pressed a hand to his collar, feeling its runes pulse in tune with his heartbeat.
A single torch-flare caught his eye, dancing off the polished stones. In that glint, he saw both the trial's cost and its promise. Clenching his fist, Ian drew a slow breath, determination hardening in his chest. He would master this wind, no matter the scars it left behind.
Beyond the courtyard's arches, the day's challenges awaited—and with them, the bruises and bargains that would test his will. But in that moment, standing amid fallen petals and rising whispers, Ian vowed: he would remain unbowed.