After four hours of magical theory, Ella, Clayton, and I left class with more apprehension than when it had started. We’d already heard rumors that there were two parts to the trials, and Eloise’s announcement had just confirmed it.
I was relieved, in a sense. I was in very good standing compared to most of my faction. The downside was that now everyone else was going to be attempting to catch up. Until today, most of the students had been focusing solely on casting. Now that they knew half of our trials would be devoted to military tactic and strategy, derived entirely from Eloise and Isaac’s course, there was bound to a plentitude of sleepless nights ahead.
“So I think the both of us will be joining your late-night library runs,” Ella told me, as she and Clayton sat down beside me for lunch. The rest of our study group was still missing. No doubt Ruth was running late from her lessons with Master Ascillia, and I could see Alex at the end of the room flirting outrageously with a pretty girl from Restoration.
“Just make sure no one notices you when Barrius comes round to do the final dismissal,” I warned. The last thing I needed was to get caught because half the class had suddenly decided to take up late-night study.
“Does Darren still go there?” Ella asked abruptly.
My face burned. “Not since that kiss.”
Clayton’s goblet fell to the floor with a loud clatter. He ducked under the table to retrieve it.
Ella raised a brow, grinning, and I scowled in return. I knew what she was thinking, and I did not care to comment.
Clay had been going out of his way, recently, to try and make me laugh. He was thoughtful, kind, good-looking… but it didn’t matter one bit.
There was only one person I felt anything for, and he was the last one I ever wanted to see.
The next month slipped by far too quickly for comfort. If a student wasn’t in the library, they were on the field, practicing drills or conjuring spells out by the armory. Most of us weren’t even aware of the passing of days. We were far too consumed with our studies to take notice.
The trials were to be a weeklong affair. The masters had since broken down the exact schedule, and now that everyone knew what they would entail, we were frantically preparing for the worst.
For Combat, the structure would be almost identical to our midyear tourney. Each one of us would be taking part in a duel, and the competitions would span out across a day. This time our matches were expected to play out between fifteen minutes to an hour—however long it took for one person to concede. The main difference was that our opponent would be random, decided entirely by chance. Each student would draw from a bag of tokens, and whoever had the matching statuette would be the person we went up against.
I wasn’t sure if I was excited or alarmed by the change. I might not fight Priscilla, but I could end up sparring with someone far worse. Eve and Darren were the true contenders to beat, and it would be even harder to go up against a friend. There could be no victory to the latter.
Restoration’s first trial would be a healing demonstration of sorts. Students would be taking turns curing one another of projected ailments. It had sounded well enough, until Alex pointed out an unpleasant factor: the more he restored, the more complaints his or her partner would be forced to endure. “In other words,” my brother had noted, cringing, “you better hope you go up against someone who doesn’t know what they are doing because if they do, Master Cedric will be inflicting increasingly painful conditions for your partner to ‘cure’ you of.”
Ruth told us Alchemy would be the first trial to take place. Her faction’s section would consist of two parts: the brewing and application of various potions. The first half of the day, her class would be mixing their draughts according to the judges’ request. The final hours would be spent experiencing the resulting effects.
After the initial trials concluded, there would be two days in which every student was called before the judges for a private oral exam in the west tower of the Academy. That was the portion Masters Eloise and Isaac had warned us about.
On the seventh day, the judges would make their choice. They’d spend a good portion of the day before weighing one student’s performance against the next, and then, after the evening meal, they would call everyone to the atrium for the results.
It was bound to be the most nerve-wrecking week of our lives.
“I don’t think I am ready for this,” Ella confided over the course of a late evening in the library long after everyone else had gone to bed. She and I were pouring over a mountain of scrolls for the hundredth time while Clayton snored loudly on the study’s couch behind us.
“I don’t think we’ll ever be ‘ready,’” I told my friend, trying to stifle a yawn and failing. “If they wanted us to be ready, they would give us more than a year.”
Ella sighed. “Well, let us hope the time was not in vain.”