Before sunrise, Alden woke, his body thrumming with restless energy. The room was stifling, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and wax. He tried to sleep more, but the exams loomed like a storm. Rising, he headed to the bathhouse, its stone walls slick with steam, its copper tubs empty in the pre-dawn hush. He soaked for nearly forty minutes, the scalding water loosening the knots in his muscles. His First Star heightened the sensation—the water's heat, the echo of dripping pipes, the faint hum of Aether in the pipes' runes.
Footsteps broke his reverie. Torren, the innkeeper, shuffled in, his beard dripping with mist. "Gods, lad, you're up before the roosters," he said, stripping for his bath. "Nervous for the exams?"
"Something like that," Alden replied, scrubbing his hair. "Habit from training."
Torren chuckled, splashing water over his shoulders. "Good habit. Get changed, and I'll cook breakfast. Fried rice with herbs, leek soup, and eggs—fuel for a warrior."
Alden smiled, grateful for the warmth. "Appreciated."
In his room, he donned a fresh tunic and trousers, their sturdy fabric a contrast to Bloodridge's silken nobles. The amulet pulsed as he tucked it beneath his collar, its whisper silent but heavy. Downstairs, Torren had set out a feast: fragrant rice flecked with thyme, a tangy broth that warmed his core, and eggs fried to golden perfection. They ate in the dim dining hall, the only sounds the clink of spoons and the distant hum of the waking city.
"Luck to you, lad," Torren said as Alden stood. "Bloodridge chews up dreamers, but you've got steel in you. I can tell."
Alden nodded, the words kindling his resolve. "Thanks, Torren. For everything."
The examination center lay across the government complex, a half-hour walk through streets stirring with festival cleanup. Scattered lanterns flickered weakly, their magic spent. The complex loomed, its obsidian walls drinking the morning light, its gardens alive with alien blooms that pulsed with Aether. By the time Alden arrived, a crowd had gathered—hundreds of candidates, their faces a tapestry of ambition, fear, and defiance. Some clutched study notes, others sparred lightly, their Aether auras flaring. Alden's First Star caught whispers of rumor: sabotage in past exams, candidates bribed or threatened to fail. He dismissed them, but the amulet's pulse quickened, urging caution.
As 8 a.m. neared, the throng swelled to thousands, a sea of youths from Bloodridge's far corners. A figure emerged on a raised platform, his frost-blue eyes slicing through the crowd. Kael, the guide from Alden's awakening, stood like a monolith, his black cloak rippling with subtle Aether. His voice, firm yet cold as a glacier, silenced the murmurs.
"Children of Ironhold," Kael began, his words carrying the weight of judgment. "Today marks the start of the Ironhands Royal Academy entrance exams. You are 1,012 strong, each bearing the spark of Aether. But sparks alone do not forge legends. These trials will test your mind, your power, and your will over three days."
Massive screens flickered to life above, their runes glowing with schedules and rules. The crowd leaned forward, breathless. Kael's Aether aura pressed against Alden's senses, a subtle force that set his First Star humming. He caught nuances in Kael's tone—authority laced with a trace of weariness, as if he'd seen too many dreams crushed.
"The exams comprise three stages," Kael continued, raising a hand. "Today, the first: a written test of theoretical knowledge. History of our demon wars, alchemical principles, spellcraft theorems, geography of Ironhold's fortified realms—your intellect will be weighed. Tomorrow, the second: Aether proficiency. In a controlled arena, you'll face lesser demons—goblinspawn and shadowhounds—bred for these trials. Each kill earns points, testing your magical precision. On the final day, the third: weapon proficiency, without Aether. Blade, bow, or fist—your raw skill will speak."
Murmurs rippled, but Kael's glare quelled them. "Your cumulative points determine your path. Most will attend local or regional academies, training to serve Ironhold's garrisons. A few will rise to mid-tier schools. But only the top four—four among a thousand—will enter the Ironhands Royal Academy, where the kingdom's elite are forged. There, you'll stand among prodigies, destined for greatness… or oblivion."
Alden's heart thundered, the Royal Academy's prestige a beacon. It was his path to mastering Aether, unraveling the Eidolon, and honoring Rowan's sacrifices. Veydan's cold stare flashed in his memory, a shadow on that path. He scanned the crowd, spotting him near the platform, surrounded by sycophants. Veydan's aura pulsed stronger than before, a Second-Circle storm.
Kael gestured to the screens. "Your group and classroom assignments are displayed. Find your place. The written test begins in one hour. Move."
The crowd surged, a tide of bodies pressing toward the screens. Alden navigated the chaos, his First Star sharpening his focus. He found his name: Group 7, Classroom 14, Sector C. As he memorized the route, a figure brushed past, deliberate and hard. Veydan stood there, his blue eyes glinting with mockery. "Careful, provincial," he said, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. "Bloodridge eats the unprepared."
Alden's fists clenched, the amulet flaring hot. The Eidolon stirred, a whisper of power urging him to act, but he forced it down. "I'll manage," he said, voice steady, and turned away. Veydan's chuckle followed him, a predator's taunt.
As Alden joined the stream of candidates, a cloaked figure in the crowd caught his eye—hooded, motionless, watching him. The amulet pulsed, and the voice whispered again: Beware the crowned shadow. Alden's blood ran cold. Was it Veydan? The figure vanished before he could act, leaving only questions. The trials loomed, a gauntlet of mind, magic, and steel. Alden's resolve burned brighter than ever. He was forged in Crimsonhold's shadows, tempered by pain and power. Whatever Bloodridge held—rivals, saboteurs, or secrets—he would face it and emerge unbroken.