"Eyes forward, all of you," said Master Jerrik, his voice knocking about the cramped study hall like a hammer against iron. The morning light slipped in thin as thread through the high, barred windows. A row of cadets stood in dusty half-dark, their uniforms pressed, chins raised. They knew this was the last lecture they'd hear as students, if fate favored them.
Krans del Leon stood near the front, arms lightly folded, a confident tilt to his head. He wore the Academy's brown coat with a small gold pin on the collar—earned in lesser trials—and his dark hair fell around his shoulders in a careful tumble. There was a calm intensity in him that made others step aside. He'd earned that space.
Master Jerrik paced before the board, chalk in hand, boots scraping the worn planks. A broad man with a silver streak in his beard, he paused and looked over them, lips pressed tight.
"Today you face the Fourfold Sanctum," he said quietly. "Only Summoners who prevail within its halls gain rank in the Emperor's service. Remember, a Summoner can command not just elementals, but spirits and creatures shaped from raw mana. A responsibility, not a privilege." He drew a half-circle on the board and tapped it once. "Pride means nothing if you fail."
Someone from the back coughed. Another cadet, Arrix, raised his hand—thin wrist, shaky voice, always nervous. "Master Jerrik," he said, "are the Summoners truly ranked above all other mages? I mean… we all serve the Empire, don't we?"
A tension flickered in the room. Jerrik turned, gaze steady. He lowered the chalk. "Arrix, mind your tone when asking about your betters," he said. "Summoners anchor the Empire's might. Few can bind creatures from nothing and fewer still can wield them safely. They stand above because the Empire deems it so, and the Empire knows what is required to hold its borders." His voice had no warmth.
A scoff at the side—Levara, a proud cadet, elbows Krans gently and mutters, "Arrix should know better. Krans, remind him." Her eyes spark, expecting Krans to slice Arrix's doubts with a few sharp words.
Krans del Leon straightened with a mild smile. He stepped closer to Arrix, meeting the younger boy's darting eyes. "Arrix," said Krans, voice low and measured, "we all have roles. Summoners command the creatures that shape wars, that guard our towns. We don't serve blindly; we serve by turning raw mana into living shields and swords. Without us, the Empire would splinter." His tone was gentle but firm, and Arrix nodded, cheeks flushed.
Master Jerrik watched Krans for a heartbeat, eyes narrowed in approval or perhaps curiosity. "Well said, del Leon," he acknowledged. Then he stepped away from the board, arms folded behind his back. "Now, listen. Your final trial commences at dusk in the Fourfold Sanctum beneath the eastern wing. Those chosen for the test will descend first." He squinted at a list he pulled from his sleeve. "Levara Salion, Arrix Velhar, Danek Torren, and Krans del Leon."
A hush followed, broken only by the distant shuffle of feet in the corridor outside. Levara's jaw tightened. Arrix closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. Danek just nodded, expression blank.
Krans couldn't help a small grin. His name spoken with finality—he'd waited for this. He had cut through lesser conjurations, bested mimic-summons in practice halls, and studied late into the night. He did not believe in luck, only preparation.
Jerrik began to tidy the board, smearing chalk dust with a broad sleeve. He glanced over his shoulder. "For those not called, you will remain cadets. Serve well in the regular mage lines. There's no shame in that." He faced them fully, voice gentling. "For those who will enter the Sanctum, remember what we hammered into you: a Summoner draws upon inner strength and clear intent. The Sanctum will test not only your ability to conjure but to command. Your creatures must trust your resolve."
A timid voice from the back: "Master… is it true the Sanctum's guardian spirits once served the Emperor himself?"
Jerrik smiled thinly, not denying it. "Some say so," he allowed, "but stories are cheap as rainwater. Focus on what's real. You'll need to breathe steadily and show no fear. The Sanctum can sense weakness. Achieve calm before you conjure." He turned to Krans directly. "Del Leon, a word after class."
Chairs scraped as some cadets moved restlessly. Many would never see Krans again, at least not as an equal. He noticed a few envious stares, some admiring smiles. He offered a subtle nod to Levara as she passed—she winked back, determined not to appear impressed. Arrix hovered near the door, uncertain, before leaving quietly.
When the hall emptied, Krans approached Jerrik, footsteps soft on old floorboards. He felt the air sharpen, as if words spoken now carried greater weight.
Jerrik waited until the last shadow of a departing student vanished. "Del Leon, I want you to understand one thing," he said, voice low. "Your lineage, your talents, they place burdens as well as grant honors. The Empire watches Summoners closely. Once you bear the rank, your actions—good or ill—won't be your own alone. Understand?"
Krans inclined his head. "I do," he answered simply, meeting Jerrik's gaze without flinching. His eyes held a warmth of confidence, as if this were all expected.
For a moment, the older man's stern mask eased. "Your father was much like that," he said softly, "before the frontier wars changed him." Then he shook himself, straightening. "Enough talk. Prepare yourself. Dusk comes sooner than we want."
Krans smiled, a slight lift at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, Master," he said, voice steady. He turned and walked out, shoulders back, coat shifting with each graceful stride.
In the corridor, bright daylight met him. He inhaled the crisp air. Soon, dusk would call him beneath the academy's old stones. He would prove himself, become a Summoner of the Empire, and shape the future with creatures drawn from mana's deep well.
He did not hurry. He took the steps slowly, enjoying the hush of corridors, the light tapping of his heels on smooth stone. Each moment tasted rich. By nightfall he would stand before the Fourfold Sanctum's sealed doors, ready to command what few dared conjure.
Krans del Leon knew who he was and what he intended to achieve. His time had come.