Over the next couple of days, John found time between training sessions and the looming weight of the internal tournament’s final results to actually speak with the twins who had earned their place alongside him and Eleonor.

  The brother, Eryndor, was immediately easy to read — tall, broad-shouldered, light element practically glowing in every smile. He treated everyone in the Enclave like an old friend, whether they shared his year or not. Always ready with a word of encouragement or a laugh, he had a habit of clapping John on the back as if they’d fought side by side for years instead of exchanged a few sparring rounds. Conversations with him flowed easily, full of stories from his own training, friendly banter about the duels, and the occasional self-deprecating remark about the dangers of glowing like a festival lantern in night patrols.

  His sister, Serenya, was the opposite in every imaginable way.

  She moved through the Enclave’s bustling spaces like a shadow that refused to be touched by the sunlight. Whenever John saw her, she was dressed in deep blacks or muted grays, her ink?dark hair framing a pale, serious face that seemed carved from porcelain. She didn’t smile — not once. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, studied the world in a way that felt almost surgical, as though every glance took something apart piece by piece in silence.

  When she spoke — which wasn’t often — her voice was soft, even, and perfectly controlled, yet somehow managed to make anyone in earshot straighten as if they’d been caught doing something foolish. There was no cruelty in her manner, nor hostile intent… only a perpetual, unsettling stillness. She lingered at the edge of groups, neither seeking company nor rejecting it outright, her presence as much an absence as it was a statement.

  In the sparring rings, however, stillness gave way to precision. Serenya’s shadow magic flowed like water poured into invisible molds, sudden walls of blackness diverting attacks, thin veils tricking opponents into striking empty air. When she countered, it was with flawless timing and minimal movement — the barest snap of her fingers or tilt of her head, and an opponent would find themselves bound in shadow tendrils before they’d even registered the mistake.

  The twins’ synergy in practice bouts was a thing to behold. Light and shadow danced perfectly in sync — her illusions and traps placing enemies exactly where his blinding strikes could finish them in a single decisive motion. Among the seventh years, they were spoken of with the kind of respect normally reserved for famous alumni.

  Eleonor knew it, too. She had watched them perform in sparring sessions and duels, and though she stood at the top of her own grade, she was honest enough with herself to admit the truth: if she’d faced either of them in the bracket, her chances of victory would have been vanishingly small.

  That they were now her would?be allies for the capital’s tournament brought some relief… and, perhaps, just a little apprehension.

  The courtyard outside the Mage’s Enclave’s formal dueling grounds was loud with heated voices. The internal tournament had been decided—John, Eleonor, and the black?haired twins now stood as the four champions who would represent the school in the Kingdom’s Tournament of Juniors.

  But not everyone was satisfied.

  A cluster of seventh?years, still flushed from recent defeat, made their displeasure known.

  “It’s not fair!” one of them exclaimed, his voice rising above the others. “If I’d been pitted against someone else—not him, not one of the twins—I could’ve advanced! We didn’t all have the same chances.”

  “She’s right,” another agreed, glaring in the direction where the new champions stood. “Half of us were eliminated because we drew the worst possible match?ups. We never even got to show what we can really do.”

  The Principal, who had been watching the gathering from the steps with arms folded inside his robe’s voluminous sleeves, let the commotion run for a short while. The complaints were not entirely without merit—he had seen genuinely talented mages fall early simply because their first match had been against John, the light?bound twin, or the shadow?wielding sister.

  At last, he raised one hand for silence. His voice, when it came, was calm but carried that unyielding authority that ended all side chatter.

  “Very well. We will hold one more tournament—only for those not already selected. The winner of this supplemental trial will have the right to challenge any one of the four champions. Should they succeed, they will take that position for the Kingdom’s Tournament. Should they fail, the matter will be considered closed.”

  The protests died into a mix of grudging acceptance and rekindled determination. Students began sizing each other up all over again, just as they had before the first bracket.

  John heard the announcement but paid it little mind. His place was secure, and his focus was already drifting toward preparations for the capital. The secondary tournament, with its flurry of lesser grudge matches and rivalries, felt distant—a side drama playing out on another stage.

  It was only when the final duel of that extra bracket had finished and the challenge to one of the four approached that he took notice.

  The winner of the rematch series—a wiry, quick?thinking battlemage from the seventh year with a strong wind affinity—stood in the arena opposite Eleonor.

  The ensuing fight drew more attention than any match since the main bracket. The wind mage moved like a storm unleashed, hurling slicing gusts and darting just beyond reach. Eleonor answered with roaring waves of fire, her control precise but her stamina tested almost from the start. Several times, a sudden change of wind nearly turned her own flames back upon her.

  John, watching from the gallery, could see it plainly: she was fighting one of the hardest matches of her life. Her focus never wavered, but the strain was written in the set of her jaw and the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes.

  In the end, it came down to a single, desperate exchange. The wind mage launched a flurry meant to overwhelm her guard; Eleonor let it drive her back a step—then planted her feet and gathered everything she had left into one blinding column of fire. It tore through the incoming attack, seared across the dueling ground, and forced her opponent to drop to one knee, weapon clattering from numb fingers.

  The referee’s voice rang out:

  “Winner—Eleonor of House Montclair!”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The crowd erupted, some in cheers, others in the low, disappointed murmurs of those who had hoped for an upset. Eleonor stood in the center of the arena, chest heaving, her crimson?and?gold dueling robes scorched and torn at the edges—but unbowed.

  John allowed himself a small nod. She had held her ground, just as he expected… but barely.

  Two days later, the morning sun rose copper-gold over the Mage’s Enclave, glinting off polished carriage panels and the broad coats of the horses harnessed at the foot of the great western gate. The air was cool and dry, the kind that carried the scent of pine and stone from the mountains, a fitting farewell to the highlands.

  A train of large carriages, each reinforced with subtle runework to ease the ride and protect against the evils of the road, stood ready. The Principal’s orders had been clear: a dozen hand-picked students from the upper grades, four teachers, and himself would accompany the four champions to the capital. The remainder of the Enclave’s pride would follow weeks later, or not at all.

  A buzz of anticipation rippled through the group — not just for the journey to the west itself, but for the destination: Aurethrin, the sprawling capital of the Kingdom of Aurelia. Famed for its alabaster towers, five rivers, and the Grand Arena that would soon host the Kingdom’s Tournament of Juniors, it was the heart of both politics and spectacle.

  The champions were ushered into the front carriage.

  Serenya was there first, slipping into her seat with the quiet inevitability of a shadow falling over stone — long black hair bound neatly, eyes unreadable. Eryndor followed, all warm smiles and easy courtesy, greeting the driver, the guards, and even the horses. Eleonor came next, posture perfect, her House Montclair sash gleaming in the morning light; she acknowledged each of them with a nod. John climbed in last, boots dusty, travel satchel slung casually at his side, his expression neither solemn nor overly excited — just present, calm, observing.

  The Principal settled in opposite them, his midnight-blue robes falling into perfect folds, silver-thread runes catching each movement of light. When the doors closed and the carriage jolted into motion, the muffled clatter of wheels on cobblestone marked the start of their long westward journey.

  At first they rolled through the high plateau — frost-crisp meadows studded with heather, framed by distant peaks whose snowcaps glowed beneath the slanting morning light. By midday the pines thinned, giving way to gentler forests of oak and beech, their leaves whispering in the wind like soft applause. Between the trees, the land dropped away into valleys veined with silver rivers, glints of water threading toward the distant plains.

  The next days brought broader roads and fertile countryside: swelling fields of golden grain, orchards heavy with fruit, and low hills crowned with windmills whose sails turned lazily in the breeze. Villages came and went in the distance — whitewashed walls, red-tiled roofs, smoke curling from chimneys. Farmers would pause to stare as the carved and warded carriages passed, whispers rising as they spotted the Enclave crest.

  Life inside the champions’ carriage was not bad.

  Meals were better than any of them expected for the road. Each midday, the convoy stopped where shade and fresh water could be had, and the teachers unpacked neat lacquered boxes from insulated compartments built under the seats.

  For luncheon, they had dense rye bread still faintly warm from the morning hearth, thick slices of smoked river-trout, wedges of soft white cheese, pickled carrots scented with dill, and little jars of honey. There was even a small pouch of candied nuts, passed between them. In the evenings, campfires were lit under the supervision of a teacher versed in fire magic; iron pots simmered with lentil stew rich with spice and bits of cured sausage, served alongside crisp crackers and dried apple rings for dessert.

  Conversation over meals slowly chipped away at any reserve.

  Eryndor often steered the talk to light-hearted topics: funny dueling mishaps, glimpses of Aurethrin’s wonders from his last visit. His good-humored openness made it easy for John to relax and occasionally coaxed a reluctant smile from Serenya.

  Serenya, curt at first, began offering quiet insights about their potential opponents in the capital — details she had observed that others might miss. Her voice was soft, but her sharpness was undeniable, and bit by bit John caught himself respecting the precision of her mind.

  Eleonor balanced pride and curiosity. She spoke of the capital’s noble districts and their politics, sometimes with a faint sigh, sometimes with the excitement of returning to familiar ground. She also asked John — lightly, but genuinely — about the lands he’d seen since leaving the Enclave months before.

  The Principal mostly listened, occasionally interjecting with small morsels of strategic advice, reminders about etiquette before royalty, or an unexpectedly dry joke that left even Serenya blinking in faint amusement.

  The champions slept in large, padded cabins built into the rear half of the champion’s carriage — narrow but comfortable bunks stacked two high on either wall, lined with thick blankets and enchantments to keep them warm without fire. Eryndor took the upper bunk opposite John; Eleonor claimed the lower on John’s side (with the slight, muttered remark that she hated climbing in a moving carriage); Serenya took the other lower, directly below her brother.

  Washing was done at camp stops. Each evening a pair of fire- and water-attuned teachers conjured steaming basins behind privacy screens. They provided linen cloths, soap scented faintly with rosemary, and charms to rinse with cold if preferred. No baths, but they emerged clean enough, hair dried quickly by little whirls of heated air from one of the magic-adept attendants.

  Toilets were, inevitably, less refined, though the Principal’s carriage was afforded the minor luxury of a magically cleaned chamber pot tucked in a screened alcove at the rear. Most of the students — even the champions — preferred to make use of screened tents set up quickly during breaks, where scented herbs were scattered on the ground to keep things civilized.

  On the third night, with the moon high and the convoy camped near a willow-lined stream, conversation turned from tournament tactics to something looser.

  Eryndor reclined on one elbow, finishing the last of the candied nuts. “When we’re in Aurethrin,” he said, “promise me we’ll slip away one evening. There’s a place in the craftsman’s quarter — best meat skewers in the kingdom, and they serve them with a sauce so good it should be illegal.”

  Eleonor huffed in mock offense. “You’d drag the Enclave’s champions into some smoky alley for street food?”

  “Yes,” he grinned, “and you’d thank me for it.”

  Serenya looked up from the whetstone she was running along her dagger and, in her dry, toneless way, added, “If their hygiene is questionable, that would only make the evening more interesting.”

  That drew even Eleonor into a smile, and John leaned back against the wheel well, content just to listen. But when Eryndor turned to him — “What about you, John? Anything you’re looking for in the capital?” — the words slipped out before he could temper them.

  “Answers,” he said simply. “About myself. And about… what I am.”

  The others fell quiet for a moment. Eryndor nodded without prying. Serenya’s gaze lingered on him in a way that suggested she understood more than she would say. And Eleonor… she looked away, but the edge in her eyes softened.

  The Principal, who had been sipping tea nearby, set the cup down. “Aurethrin has a way of answering questions,” he said. “It also has a way of asking better ones in return. Be ready for both.”

  By the fifth day, the air had grown warmer and drier, the soil turning a rich ochre as the road curved toward the distant gleam of the western rivers. Serpentine strands of silver cut the plains, and far ahead, like a mirage, the white and gold of Aurethrin shimmered on the horizon. The champions spoke less now — conversation giving way to a shared, quiet anticipation.

  The road was bringing them into the heart of the kingdom, and whatever else happened, they would arrive as companions who had eaten, slept, and lived side-by-side for days. The tournament would test them… but the journey had already begun forging them into something worthy of being called a team.