Sunset came painted in red and gold, like the sky couldn’t decide whether to celebrate or mourn.
Ayla folded her clothes carefullytwo dresses, both patched, both still too big. A blanket. A wooden comb. A small loaf of barley bread wrapped in cloth.
Not much else belonged to her.
Her mother tucked a tiny clay jar into the bundle. “Salt,” she said. “For flavor. For luck. For remembering home.”
Ayla tried to smile. It wobbled.
Outside, the village moved quietlydoors half-open, curtains shifting, neighbors pretending not to watch. People were always curious, but tonight their silence felt heavy, like dirt over a seed that might never sprout.
When they stepped out of the house, the sky was already dimming. The Academy carriage waited near the well, lanterns glowing like captured fireflies. The white horses stamped the ground impatiently, as though Stonehollow offended them.
Lami and her parents stood nearby. Lami wore a new dresssomeone must have sewn it quickly. She looked terrified and proud at the same time.
Ayla wondered what expression she had.
“Walk with me,” her mother said softly.
They crossed the village slowly, passing the places that built
Ayla’s childhoodthe cracked stone wall she used to climb, the stump she pretended was a throne, the field she once believed could grow anything.
Stonehollow wasn’t beautiful. But it was hers.
At the well, Ayla’s mother stopped. Her throat worked, searching for words.
“When you feel small,” she finally said, “remember this place. You survived here first.”
Ayla swallowed, blinking fast. “You’ll be alone.” 14
“I’ve been alone before,” her mother said, but her voice trembled. “Justwrite if they let you.”
“I will.”
“And eat,” she added, frowning. “Don’t skip meals.”
A surprised laugh escaped Ayla. “I’ll try.”
Her mother cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “I
love you. Whether you fail, succeed, or run away from both.” Ayla leaned into the touch, memorizing it. “I love you too.”
A throat cleared behind them.
Examiner Lyran sat on her horse again, posture impossibly
straight. “It’s time.”
Lami climbed into the carriage first, guided by her mother’s
shaking hands. Ayla stepped forward next.
“Wait,” someone muttered.
Jorin.
He stood near the well, arms crossed, trying to look
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boredfailing miserably. “Don’t come back crying when they kick you out.”
A few kids snickered, relieved someone said what they were thinking.
Ayla met Jorin’s eyesnot angry, not trembling, just calm. “Goodbye, Jorin.”
He blinked, thrown off balance. She didn’t give him more time than thatshe climbed into the carriage.
Inside smelled of polished wood and cold metal. Too clean. Too unfamiliar. Ayla sat opposite Lami, bundle in her lap, back straight, hands steady only because she forced them to be.
Examiner Lyran swung the door shut, sealing them in.
Ayla glanced out the small window.
Her mother stood alone in the square, hands clasped, head
liftednot crying, not begging, just watching, like she wanted Ayla’s last memory of her to be strength.
Ayla pressed her fingers to the glass.
Don’t forget me.
The carriage jolted, wheels crunching over the dry ground. Villagers stepped aside, silent as gravestones.
15
No cheers.
No applause.
Just two girls leaving because they had to.
Stonehollow shrank behind themhouses, fields, the old
welluntil it became nothing but a dark shape swallowed by twilight.
Alya didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until the carriage turned toward the open road.
Only then did she let go.
For a long stretch, neither girl spoke. The road rolled beneath them, the sky deepened to blue, and the first stars pricked through the fading light.
Ayla stole a glance at Lami.
The fire-root girl sat stiffly, hands folded over her knees, eyes shiny but determined.
“You’re not scared?” Ayla asked quietly.
Lami hesitated. “I am. But pretending not to feels better.” Ayla nodded. “That makes sense.”
Lami studied her for a moment. “You don’t seem scared.”
“I am,” Ayla admitted. “Just quietly.”
Lami smiledsmall, grateful, relieved that someone else was
human too.
A comfortable silence settled between them.
Outside the window, the world grew unfamiliar. Hills
replaced the flat plains. The wind smelled like pine instead of dust. Lanterns swung from the carriage roof, sending little circles of light racing across the road.
Ayla tried to memorize everything.
Her old life was behind her.
Her new life was ahead.
She didn’t fit in either yet.“Will they treat us differently?”
Lami asked suddenly. “At the Academy?”
Ayla considered her answer carefully. “Probably.” “Because I’m fire?”
“No,” Ayla said softly. “Because I’m five.”
Lami winced. “I’m sorry.”
16
“It’s not your fault.”
But Ayla could already imagine itwhispers, stares, assumptions. The girl with the weakest root. The student destined to fail. The one others could push aside without consequence.
Stonehollow prepared her well for that role.
Lami leaned closer. “Maybe... maybe it won’t be that bad.” Ayla didn’t agree. But she didn’t want to crush the hope
either.
“Maybe,” she said.
The carriage slowed.
Ayla straightened, expecting danger but instead, the
examiner opened the small window separating them.
“We’ll rest soon,” Lyran said. “Eat, drink, stretch your legs.” “Thank you,” Lami replied politely.
Lyran’s eyes shifted to Ayla. Not unkind. Not warm. Simply
evaluating.
“You handled the test well,” she said.
Ayla blinked. “By standing still?”
“Many panic,” Lyran said. “Panic is loud. Discipline is quiet.” Ayla wasn’t sure if that was praise, but her chest felt lighter
anyway.
Lyran shut the window.
Lami whispered, “She scares me.”
Ayla nodded. “She should.”
Outside, night deepened cold, wide, endless. Ayla pressed
her forehead to the glass.
She wasn’t sure if she belonged anywhere yet.
But she was moving and movement felt like possibility.
She let out a slow breath.
Whatever waited at the Academy mockery, struggle,
isolationshe would endure it. Not loudly.
Not recklessly. Not with fire. With patience.
17
18
With time.
With five quiet colors no one wanted. Yet.
