The Trial

I dove left, more out of desperation than skill, tucking into a clumsy roll. My knee hit the ground hard, and instead of coming up in a dramatic crouch like I’d planned, I toppled backwards onto my ass. Real smooth, Quincy.

A flash of orange light cracked the air, searing past my face and exploding against the spot where I’d been seconds before. The heat kissed my cheek—a warning shot that could’ve been fatal.

Grace clicked her tongue against her teeth; the sound was sharp and full of disdain. She didn’t need words to cut me down—her contempt dripped from every gesture.

“You should just give up, Quincy,” she said, her voice a mix of boredom and venom. “You’ll always be a disgrace. Weak. Pathetic.”

Another bolt screamed through the air, striking the dirt inches from my shoulder as I rolled aside. Pebbles stung my skin as they rained down. My ears rang. My pride burned.

Gritting my teeth, I planted a palm on the ground and shoved myself upright, ignoring the ache in my ribs. I could feel their eyes on me—watching, judging, waiting for me to fail again.

No.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Fuego!” I shouted, focusing everything—fear, anger, shame—into a single desperate burst. The energy built in my chest, hot and pulsing like a second heartbeat. I hurled it forward.

What came out was… well. Not much. A weak burst of flame and a puff of smoke, more like a cheap magic trick than a spell. The kind of thing you’d use to light a campfire.

Laughter rippled through the crowd. First, a few chuckles. Then full-on amusement. It stabbed deeper than Grace’s magic ever could. My ears burned. I felt like I was shrinking inside my own skin.

Grace didn’t laugh. She just looked bored. Then, with the flick of her wand—effortless, dismissive—another bolt of energy launched at me.

This one hit.

A jolt slammed into my chest, and I felt my body lift from the ground before crashing back down. The breath left my lungs in a rush, leaving me gasping, stunned, humiliated.

Grace tilted her head, examining me like a bug under glass. “Absolutely pathetic,” she said, cold and final.

A long pause. Then, the instructor’s voice broke through the haze.

“Enough. Today’s round goes to Grace.”

I lay there, staring up at the sky, its pale blue expanse offering no comfort—just an empty canvas above my failure. Heat flushed my cheeks and coiled in my chest. It wasn’t from the impact. It was humiliation, thick and suffocating.

Once again, she’d made a spectacle of me.

Grace had been cruel since we were kids. She didn’t need a reason. She was born with a silver wand in one hand and a legacy in the other. A noble bloodline. Impeccable control. Magic flowed through her as if it had waited generations to return. She didn’t cast spells. She commanded them. The professors called her gifted. A prodigy. The golden child.

And she knew it.

As for me? I was the opposite.

Born in the slums district of Ackrum, the only magic in my blood came from sheer dumb luck—and it trickled, at best. My parents were human, with no spark of magic between them. We barely scraped by. The roof leaked. Dinner was sometimes just boiled water. My clothes were patchwork rags, stitched together from the charity barrel or snatched when no one was looking.

The day I discovered I had magic, I thought it would change everything. I thought the world might finally give me a chance.

Yeah. Right.

I should’ve seen it coming.

Grace held contempt for mixed-bloods—half magic, half human. But her true hatred was reserved for no-bloods: those born of two humans, with no lineage at all. Me.

I let out a breath and forced myself up. Every part of me ached, but the pain wasn’t from the bolt—it was from what came after. The laughter. The looks. The pity.

I brushed the dirt from my coat and slipped my wand into the inner pocket. My hand trembled. Whether from anger or exhaustion, I didn’t know.

I followed the others in silence, keeping to the back of the group. The old castle loomed ahead, all stone and shadow, its towers reaching into the sky like jagged fingers. A place of power. A place of privilege.

The anger simmered beneath the sting of embarrassment. I hated this place. Hated that I cared what they thought. Hated that no matter how hard I tried, I always ended up on the ground.

I clenched my jaw and looked up at the castle one more time, not with awe—but with defiance.

I’d never be like her.

But in ten years, I’d have to prove myself.

One way or another.

***

“Ready, begin.”

The world narrowed to just the two of us.

Grace and I stood opposite each other, eyes locked, wands ready. The air between us was sharp, charged, alive with tension and memory.

I could feel her energy—no, sense it. It radiated from her in slow pulses, like a coiled viper ready to strike. Not raw or reckless—controlled, cold, patient. Pure power, waiting to bare its fangs.

But I wasn’t the same fool she used to knock down.

I slid one foot back across the training stone—subtle, quiet—and reached down into the magic humming in the ground, the wind, the space between all things. Tendrils of my will wrapped around the raw energy of the world.

And then I pulled.

“Gustus!” I shouted.

The energy surged into my chest, coiling like a compressed storm. It funneled down my arm and through the wand. No flash, no boom. Just speed—silent and terrifying. The spell launched forward in a shimmering blur, nearly twice the speed of sound.

For the first time in years, I saw it—real surprise in Grace’s eyes.

She barely had time to react, muttering, “Scutum.” Her protection spell shimmered just in time, a transparent dome catching the brunt of my strike. The energy scattered in bright ribbons of light.

But it hit. Her feet skidded across the concrete with a screech as she struggled to stay upright.

I grinned. Not a win. Not yet. But close.

“Lucendi!” I followed up, my voice lower this time. A crackling arc of green energy sliced through the air like lightning—the magical twin of the bolt she’d used on me years ago.

The blast struck her barrier—still flickering—with a violent snap, green light splashing across its surface like acid. Cracks formed. The shift in the room was palpable. Everyone was watching her stumble… and me rise.

And that was my folly. I let it go to my head. Overconfidence is a hell of a drug.

My wand hummed as I readied the next spell—fire. Hard, volatile, demanding control. I’d spent years practicing it until my fingers blistered and my chest ached.

I slipped into a practiced stance, wand raised, energy swirling in my chest. I drew deeper, reaching toward the ley lines beneath the floor like roots seeking water.

And that’s when she struck.

“Vipera Percutiens.”

The words hit the air like a blade. I faltered. I’d never heard that spell before. Viper Strike? It didn’t make sense.

Then I felt it. The air changed. Crackling. The hairs on my arms stood up, my skin tingling like static. I took a step back, wand raised.

And then I realized—the attack wasn’t coming from her. It was coming from above.

From the sky.

There was no time to think, only to react.

From above, pure lightning manifested, a coiling, fanged viper. It shrieked as it fell, splitting the air.

My heart nearly stopped. I shouted, “Scutum!” just as it struck.

The bolt slammed into my shield like a freight train. Even behind the protection spell, I felt the weight. I hit the ground so hard I bounced. My back struck concrete and stayed there. The shield buckled, barely holding. Cracks spider-webbed beneath me.

Grace didn’t just hit me with magic. She hit me with something designed to break a mage’s soul and the ground they stood on.

After the spell, I lay there, chest heaving. I couldn’t move. I had her. And yet she was still ahead. Her natural talent still bested my rawness.

“Enough. Today’s round goes to Grace.”

But she didn’t stop.

Her lips curled into a sneer as she stepped forward, wand raised. A sharp arc cracked from its tip, snapping against my already-bruised body. I flinched.

That hatred—the kind she reserved for no-bloods—burned in every strike. The thought that she’d been nearly bested by one only fueled her rage.

“Just give up, Quincy,” she hissed. “You're trash. You don’t belong here. You never did. And when the Trial comes, I will win. It’s inevitable.”

My fingers twitched toward my wand, but my strength was gone. I opened my mouth, but no words came. Only the sting of copper and shame.

“Enough!” the examiner’s voice thundered. His wand was suddenly out, aimed at Grace. Energy pulsed at the tip like a warning.

She paused—but not out of fear. She smirked. And instead of casting another spell, she drove her boot into my ribs.

Pain exploded through my side. I gasped, curling instinctively into myself. The world blurred. I couldn’t breathe.

No one laughed this time. No applause. Just a thick, uncomfortable silence. Then whispers.

Grace hadn’t just become stronger over the last five years—she’d become crueler. More entitled. More dangerous. She didn’t want just to win anymore.

She wanted to destroy.

She held disdain toward anyone inferior, with hardly anybody approaching her level.

***

“Today is the Trial. The loser will forfeit their ability to cast magic.”

The judge said it lightly, like he was announcing the start of a friendly match—not the end of someone’s future.

This was our last chance. One final test. Magic… or nothing.

For those of the blood, losing magic didn’t mean losing everything. Their lineage would carry on. Even without power, they could pass it on to the next generation.

But for a no-blood, there was no legacy. No lineage. If they lost, it was over. Even if they won, there was no guarantee it would continue.

For me, this was about more than magic. This was about proving I was an equal. That I belonged.

For her, it was about prestige. Honor. Legacy. Power. But above all, it was teaching a no good no-blood a lesson. Even if she killed me.

We were twenty now. Fifteen years of blood, sweat, humiliation, and grit had all led to this.

“Ready… Begin.”

No hesitation.

No circling, no taunts, no posturing. The air between us exploded into violence the moment the word left his mouth. There was no time to think—only instinct, movement, and raw magical force.

This differed from the past, when we set our own pace, testing each other’s limits. No—this was power unleashed. Stripped down. The strongest would win.

The dueling grounds crackled with energy, bolts of magic hissing through the air. Hers shimmered crimson—hot, vicious, unrelenting. Mine burned blue now, no longer the chaotic green of my youth. It was steady. Honed. Calm.

Earned.

She wielded power like a hammer, trying to break everything in her way. Domination. Brutality. She didn’t ask the world to yield—she demanded it.

Mine was different. Mine was balance. Precision. I had stopped trying to be like her or anyone else years ago.

Now, I trusted my magic—and it trusted me back.

We moved in tandem, locked in a furious dance across the arena. Every strike, every dodge, was a beat in a rhythm we both knew by heart. We had studied each other for years, rising through the ranks side by side.

Now we collided as equals.

Bolts slammed into the ground where we had just stood. Others met midair, sparking and shorting out in brilliant flashes of color and sound. The air screamed with tension, heat, and willpower.

Neither of us was holding back.

But this time, I wasn’t scrambling to survive.

I was fighting.

Step for step.

Strike for strike.

And for the first time in my life, Grace wasn’t looking down on me.

We were eye to eye.

And I saw it—just a flicker in her expression.

Doubt.

Then I misstepped.

Her next strike came fast. The crack of magic tore past my face, slicing across my cheek. I staggered. Blood trickled down my skin.

She grinned.

She hit me with several rapid strikes, each one barely deflected by my magic. I was on the ropes.

Then she stopped. A sneer crept across her lips—and I knew, even before she moved, what her next strike would be.

Everything inside me went still.

I stopped mid-step, planting my feet, raising my wand upright before my forehead like a blade in a knight’s salute. My eyes slid shut as I centered myself. Breath in. Breath out. My heartbeat slowed to a steady drum, the sound echoing in my ears.

Her voice cut through the crackling air like a whip.

“Vipera Percutiens!”

Straight for the kill. No hesitation. No restraint.

And this time, I was ready.

The air shifted—electric, alive. Crackling.

The hairs on my arms rose one by one, my skin prickling with the familiar charge of a storm building overhead. My instincts screamed. I took a single step back, wand still raised, senses stretched to their limit.

This was it.

I nodded once, to no one but myself, and filled my lungs with a slow, deep breath.

Then I drew.

I reached down—not just to the ground beneath the concrete, but deeper. Into the bones of the earth itself. Into the air swirling around us. Into the invisible pulse of nature that had always been there, waiting for someone to ask. The power poured up through me like molten metal, searing but steady.

“Scutum Fuego!”

Her lightning fell—three times the strength of the spell she had struck me with five years earlier. It came screaming down, fangs bared, a viper of pure electric rage.

But it didn’t touch me.

My shield held.

The bolt slammed into my barrier, and fire burst around me, not from her, but from me—a spiraling inferno of controlled flame, wrapping the shield like a living thing. The fire consumed the lightning, devouring it whole.

That was the flaw in her spell. She thought lightning was untouchable, unstoppable. But lightning was just energy. And energy could be taken. Bent. Fed upon.

And that’s exactly what I did.

The viper writhed, its body unraveling as my fire drank it down, pulling every shred of its power inward. For a heartbeat, everything went silent.

Then I opened my eyes.

All the energy I’d drawn was there, coiled inside me, thrumming in my veins like a second heart. And I did the impossible. I didn’t use my wand.

I thrust my palm outward and released it.

What burst forth wasn’t a spell—it was pure magic. Raw, unfiltered, incandescent energy, shaped only by my will. The air shook as it tore free, a blinding surge of blue-white power that belonged to no incantation ever taught at the castle.

Once in a century, they said, someone of bloodline or mix-blood could do this without a wand.

That someone, right now, was me.

The first no-blood.

The weak one.

The street rat.

The boy who’d been nothing.

And I saw it in her eyes as the energy hit her.

Shock.

Not fear—not yet. Just disbelief.

With a frozen heartbeat, her confidence cracked. The mask she wore, the arrogance, the invincibility—it all shattered beneath the weight of reality.

She hadn’t seen it coming.

She hadn’t believed I could stand toe-to-toe with her.

But now she knew.

The blast collided with her barrier, and it was like the heavens themselves were falling. Her shield buckled instantly, splintering outward in a spiderweb of fractured light. It held for a breath—just long enough for her to realize she was outmatched.

Then it exploded.

The force sent her skidding across the dueling platform, boots tearing gouges into the stone. Sparks flared, and her body twisted midair before slamming hard into the ground.

Dust and smoke hung between us like ghosts.

She groaned. Not loud, not theatrical. Just real.

The crowd was silent. No cheers. No whispers.

For the first time in her life, Grace Everen had been defeated.

By me.

I lowered my hand slowly. My fingers still trembled. Power buzzed faintly in my bones like an echo.

But I didn’t smile.

This wasn’t about revenge. It wasn’t even about proving her wrong.

It was about proving me right.

That I belonged.

That I wasn’t weak.

That I had earned every ounce of power I carried.

The judge stepped forward at last, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Today’s Trial is concluded. The victor is Quincy Arlen.”

There it was.

A sentence I’d imagined hearing since I was six. But now that it was real, it didn’t feel triumphant.

It felt… quiet.

Final.

Grace didn’t get up right away. She turned her head and looked at me—not with rage or contempt, but something else. Something unfamiliar.

Maybe respect.

Maybe hate.

Maybe both.

I stepped toward her and extended my hand.

That’s when I saw it—the shift.

The hatred she’d always held for me—for being a no-blood, for having no pedigree, no place—had changed.

Not into kindness. Not even acceptance.

But something harder to earn.

Respect.

She may have lost her magic that day.

But she gained something else.

A chance.

A beginning.

A friend.