Alina's boots crunched against the thick snow.

The wind howled, biting at her exposed cheeks like tiny needles. She walked up the steep, icy stone steps leading to the main entrance of the Aethelgard Order.

The black iron gates were easily forty feet tall. On either side stood two massive gargoyle statues, their stone faces twisted into permanent snarls. The air around them hummed with a heavy, oppressive magical frequency.

Alina reached into her jacket and pulled out the blood-stained transfer contract.

Before she could step closer to the gate, a harsh grinding noise echoed through the freezing air.

The stone skin on the left gargoyle cracked and peeled away, revealing a scrawny, hunched man with pale skin. Pip Riddle.

A second later, the right gargoyle shattered its stone shell. A massive man with a thick neck and a scarred jaw stepped down. Brock Mason.

Pip snatched the parchment right out of Alina's hand. He unrolled it, his eyes scanning the runes.

He let out a loud, grating laugh. "A Prismatic Dud? Silvercrest sent us a defective toy!"

Brock threw his head back and roared with laughter. The sound bounced off the black stone walls. "We take the crazy ones, little girl. But we don't take trash that can't even light a candle."

Alina didn't blink. She didn't cross her arms. She just held her hand out, palm up.

"Give it back."

Pip stopped laughing. He sneered, holding the parchment high above his head. "This piece of paper is toilet paper here, princess. Go home."

Brock took a heavy step forward. His massive shadow fell over Alina. "Turn around before you freeze to death. We aren't opening the gate."

Alina slowly lowered her hand. She looked directly into Brock's eyes.

"The Founding Charter of Aethelgard, Section Four," Alina said, her voice cutting clearly through the howling wind. "Any bearer of a legitimate transfer writ holds the right to face the trial of entry."

Both men stiffened. Their mocking smiles vanished.

"How does a spoiled brat know about the old laws?" Pip muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Pip looked at Brock, then back at Alina. A nasty, cruel smile stretched across his face.

"Fine," Pip said. "You want your trial? You can take the Gauntlet of Will."

Brock sucked in a sharp breath. He looked at Pip, his eyes wide. The Gauntlet was a death sentence used for executing high-level traitors.

Pip ignored him, leaning in close to Alina. "It's a corridor of pure, unstable arcane energy. It will peel the skin from your bones and shred your mind before you take ten steps. Still want in?"

Alina felt the thrum of her Primordial Core in her chest. It was starving.

She didn't argue. She didn't flinch. She just jerked her chin toward the massive black gates.

"Open it."

Pip's jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to hit her. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a long, black bone key. He shoved it into the skull-shaped lock on the gate.

The ground shook. The iron gates groaned, slowly pulling apart.

A blast of violet light and violent wind exploded outward.

The air pressure was so intense it pushed Brock back a step. Inside the gates was a long, dark corridor. Swirling vortexes of purple arcane energy screamed through the space like trapped ghosts.

"Last chance to run, kid," Brock yelled over the noise, genuinely looking a little sick.

Alina tightened her grip on her canvas bag. She stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the violet storm.

Crack.

A sharp sound echoed over the roaring wind.

On the left wall of the corridor, an old, rusted iron lantern suddenly flared to life. A bright blue flame danced inside the glass.

Pip's eyes bulged out of his head. "No way. That's a soul-forged lantern. It only reacts to absolute mana purity."

Alina kept walking. Her posture was perfectly straight. The violent winds whipped her black hair around her face, but her feet never faltered.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three more lanterns ignited. The blue light pushed back the heavy darkness of the corridor.

The chaotic arcane energy in the air suddenly shifted. Instead of attacking her, the purple streams of magic violently rushed toward Alina's body.

Brock gasped, expecting her to explode into a mist of blood.

The energy hit her skin-and vanished. It sank into her body without leaving a single mark.

The heavy iron gates slammed shut behind her with a deafening boom, cutting off the guards' view.

Alina was alone in the storm.

The second the gates sealed, the Gauntlet escalated.

The howling wind solidified into physical blades of arcane pressure. They slashed across Alina's leather jacket, tearing the fabric with loud, ripping sounds.

Alina stopped walking. She closed her eyes.

She let go of the mental barrier holding her Prismatic Core in check.

The core spun. A terrifying, ancient vacuum opened inside her chest.

The deadly arcane blades flying toward her suddenly warped. They were sucked into the invisible vortex radiating from her body. The violent magic shattered into raw, harmless particles the second it touched her skin, flooding directly into her mana veins.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her veins stretched, burning as the massive influx of power forced them wider.

Alina bit down on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but she didn't make a sound.

Deep inside her, the chaotic colors of the Prismatic Core began to bleed out. They darkened, shifting into a deep, abyssal black. The true form of the Primordial Conduit.

She took a step forward.

The sheer density of the magic she was compressing leaked into the physical world. The heavy stone slab beneath her boot cracked, spider-web fractures shooting out in all directions.

The soul-forged lanterns lining the walls sensed the terrifying purity of her core.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

They ignited in rapid succession. Ten. Twenty. The blue flames roared, illuminating the ancient, blood-stained runes carved into the corridor walls.

Alina opened her eyes. The black of her pupils seemed to swallow the blue light around her. She could feel the fractured pieces of her soul from her past life slowly knitting back together, fed by the Gauntlet's energy.

A deep, guttural growl echoed from the darkness ahead.

Three massive Arcane Hounds, beasts formed entirely of unstable purple magic, materialized in the center of the path. They lunged at her, jaws unhinged.

Alina didn't chant. She didn't draw a weapon. She simply braced herself. The exact fraction of a second the beasts made contact with her skin, it was as if they had slammed into an invisible, bottomless black hole. The violent arcane magic comprising their bodies was frantically siphoned away. The three hounds froze mid-leap, letting out high-pitched, distorted whines as their forms rapidly destabilized. With a heavy whoosh, their bodies collapsed entirely, dissolving into a heavy rain of pure purple energy that was immediately sucked directly into her.

Alina breathed in sharply, sucking the fallout directly into her lungs. The energy hit her core like a shot of adrenaline. Her skin flushed with heat.

She picked up her pace. She walked faster, treating the deadly execution chamber like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Thirty lanterns. Fifty lanterns. Eighty lanterns.

The entire corridor was blazing with blinding blue light.

At the very end of the Gauntlet stood a set of silver double doors. The exit to the inner courtyard.

When Alina was exactly ten steps away, the Gauntlet's ultimate defense triggered.

All the remaining arcane energy in the corridor rushed to the ceiling, condensing into a massive, crackling bolt of purple lightning. It dropped straight down, aiming directly for the top of her head.

It was a strike meant to vaporize an Adept-level mage.

Alina didn't dive out of the way. She stopped, planted her feet, and threw her arms wide open.

The lightning struck her dead center.

A deafening explosion shook the stone walls. Blinding white light swallowed her entire body.

Outside the silver doors, three inner-sect disciples were staring at a monitoring crystal. The crystal flashed white, then cracked down the middle.

"She's dead. Vaporized," one of the disciples muttered, his face pale.

Inside the corridor, the light faded.

Alina stood exactly where she had been. Smoke curled off the torn edges of her jacket. Her muscles twitched, overloaded with raw power.

She swallowed the lightning.

A sharp, physical pop echoed inside her chest. The bottleneck shattered. Her magic reserves expanded violently, instantly jumping from a basic apprentice level to the absolute peak of an initial-tier mage.

Alina let out a long, slow breath. The smoke cleared from her lungs.

She took the final ten steps.

As her boot hit the stone in front of the silver doors, all one hundred soul-forged lanterns flared brighter than the sun for a fraction of a second.

Then, simultaneously, they all blew out. Pitch black.

The Gauntlet was completely drained.

The silver doors sensed her presence and slowly pushed open.

Alina brushed a piece of ash off her shoulder and walked out into the daylight.

High above the inner courtyard, in the top floor of the central black tower, Archmage Gallagher Vargas poured amber liquor into a dirty glass. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the messy office.

On his desk, a monitoring crystal linked to the Gauntlet of Will suddenly flared bright red. Then, with a sharp ping, it split perfectly in half, the light dying instantly.

Gallagher stopped pouring. The liquor overflowed, spilling over his knuckles and pooling on the wooden desk.

His cloudy, bloodshot eyes snapped to the broken crystal. The lazy posture vanished.

The heavy oak door to his office swung open. Eleonora Frye, his second-in-command, walked in. Her usually stoic face was pale.

"The Gauntlet's energy reserves," Eleonora said, her voice shaking slightly. "They just flatlined. Completely drained."

Gallagher didn't answer. He dropped the bottle on the desk and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. He looked down at the silver doors of the Gauntlet exit far below.

Eleonora looked down at the clipboard in her hands. "The transit time... it was exactly ten breaths."

Gallagher spun around. His boots scraped hard against the stone floor.

Ten breaths. That didn't just break logic. It tied the all-time record set by Julian Savage, the Order's most terrifying prodigy.

"Give me the file," Gallagher demanded, holding out his hand.

Eleonora handed him the crumpled transfer writ Pip had sent up via the pneumatic tubes.

Gallagher stared at the name. Alina Padilla. He looked at the classification. Prismatic Dud.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Gallagher's scarred face. He let out a low chuckle.

"Those old fools at Silvercrest," Gallagher muttered, tapping the paper. "They had a monster living in their house and they thought it was a stray dog."

"Should I have the Enforcers escort her to the Inner Ring?" Eleonora asked, stepping forward. "A talent like this needs immediate protection and resources."

Gallagher's smile vanished. His eyes turned cold and calculating.

"No."

He walked back to his desk, grabbed a quill, and dipped it in red ink. He crossed out the section labeled 'Inner Ring Assignment' with a violent slash.

In thick, heavy letters, he wrote: Menial Ward.

Eleonora gasped. "Archmage, you can't be serious. Putting a record-breaking prodigy in the Menial Ward? They scrub floors and clean beast pens. The bullying there is lethal."

"If she breaks from a few peasants throwing mud, she isn't the blade I need," Gallagher said coldly. He stamped the paper with his official seal. "Send it down."

Down in the courtyard, Alina stood calmly in front of the silver doors.

A group of inner disciples stared at her like she was a ghost.

A young disciple with a clipboard stepped forward, his hands shaking so hard the paper rattled. "N-name?"

"Alina Padilla," she said. Her voice was steady, giving away absolutely nothing.

A mechanical brass bird dropped from the sky, landing heavily on the disciple's table. It spat a rolled-up piece of paper from its beak.

The disciple unrolled it. He saw the Archmage's red seal. He read the assignment.

The fear in his eyes instantly evaporated, replaced by deep confusion, and then, a mocking smirk.

"Well, Padilla," the disciple said loudly, making sure the crowd heard. "Looks like you're assigned to the Menial Ward."

The courtyard erupted into whispers.

"Menial Ward? But she survived the Gauntlet."

"The Gauntlet must have malfunctioned. Look at her, she doesn't even have a wand."

"Bullshit," another apprentice scoffed, wiping down a table. "She's a Prismatic Dud. The Padillas must have given her some priceless, illegal family artifact to survive in there. The Archmage probably saw right through her pathetic trick and threw her in the Menial Ward out of sheer disgust."

Alina heard the insults. Her heart rate didn't spike. Her face remained a perfect, blank mask.

She understood exactly what was happening. Gallagher Vargas was a paranoid lunatic. He was testing her.

She didn't scream about injustice. She didn't demand to see the Archmage.

She reached out, took the assignment paper from the smirking disciple, and looked at him.

"Which way?" Alina asked.

The disciple's smirk faltered. Her extreme calm made him incredibly uncomfortable. He pointed a shaking finger toward a dark, descending staircase in the corner of the courtyard.

Alina adjusted the strap of her bag and walked toward the stairs.

Up in the tower, Gallagher watched her through a spyglass spell. He saw her walk away without a single complaint.

He threw his head back and let out a booming laugh. He slammed his hand on the window frame.

"She didn't even blink!" Gallagher shouted, turning to Eleonora. "She knows I'm watching. She knows it's a game, and she just called my bluff. I love her already."

Eleonora looked at the Archmage, then back out the window. A deep sense of dread settled in her stomach.

Alina disappeared into the shadows of the staircase, heading straight into the worst hellhole in Aethelgard.