By the time the sun started dipping behind Arcana's skyline, the first day of tests officially came to a close. The Coliseum slowly emptied—students wobbling out, instructors disappearing behind enchanted panels, and custodial constructs rolling in to sweep up scorch marks, shards of illusion glass, and the occasional still-glowing glyph scrap.
Alex didn't rush. He watched for a while from the upper terraces before slipping through one of the private exits, heading back toward the outer ring.
The Academy Courtyard wasn't quiet—nothing in Arcana ever truly was—but it felt calmer. More grounded. The stones still hummed faintly from all the magic cast nearby, but the lanterns had started to flicker to life, and the evening breeze carried the scent of fried bread, ink, and mild anxiety.
Davor was already waiting beneath one of the tall silverleaf trees, arms crossed. Marell and Orin were seated on the edge of a low fountain, deep in hushed conversation, while Pallen handed out small, overly-sweet energy bars like he was a disappointed mother.
"You survived," Davor said, flatly, as Alex approached.
"I endured," Alex replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "How's our info pile looking?"
Orin snorted. "Messy. Loud. Some of it useful. Plenty of exaggeration. Few standout names, a couple of walking disasters, and one kid who may or may not have melted a part of Room 13."
"Gravity guy?"
"Gravity guy," Marell confirmed. "Still unconscious. But apparently, he smiled before blacking out."
Alex lowered himself onto the fountain rim, accepting one of the sugar bricks from Pallen.
"Any word from Kael?"
Pallen nodded. "He left a packet in the drop point. Three names we'd flagged showed up on different watch lists. He cross-referenced them against merchant traffic logs—one of them has ties to an illegal summoning ring."
"Of course they do," Alex muttered.
"Also," Marell said, flipping through a slim notebook, "the merfolk protesters outside the eastern records wing staged a sit-in. Minor skirmish, nothing serious. But they're getting bolder."
"Good," Alex said. "Let them make noise. Makes it easier for us to track who's uncomfortable."
Davor looked unconvinced. "That's assuming anyone's tracking them who isn't also building lists."
"We are," Alex said simply.
The conversation drifted from logistics to talent—rumors, standout performances, and offhand gossip from the instructors.
"The Glassmask instructor flagged four names. No details, but one of them apparently countered an illusion with ambient dream-state logic."
"And in Room 47," Orin added, "that Zin boy? The elemental whisperer? Quiet but focused. Left an impression."
"There was also a girl in Section A who handled a full council simulation with half the spell use of everyone else. Senna Vey, I think. Rural entry."
"A couple nobles embarrassed themselves," Marell said, not even trying to hide her grin.
Alex finally relaxed a little, watching the courtyard fill with murmuring students and flickering light. This was the chaos he could work with. Layered noise. Obvious ambition. Plenty of mistakes to exploit.
"Day One down," he said. "Let's see what gets thrown tomorrow."
Pallen nodded. "And if it's fire?"
Alex cracked a rare smile. "We get some warm heat out of it."
Above them, the first stars blinked through the enchanted city haze, quiet and distant.
And Arcana waited for Day Two.
But it wasn't just Alex and his team combing through the day's chaos.
In the main districts of Arcana—behind soundproofed doors and thick velvet curtains—the other noble houses were holding their own debriefings. House Yvellan had transformed their sitting room into a miniature strategy boardroom, with magic-etched figurines of promising candidates moving in slow patterns above a map of the Coliseum. One of the heirs leaned over the edge, swirling their wine, and muttered, "If that boy from Room 13 doesn't get recruited by someone, we're losing our edge."
House Dravelle, more subtle and decidedly more paranoid, had their report delivered by whisperer sprite. Their head archivist, a pale woman with eyes like glass chips, was busy cross-checking family lineages of standout performers against internal bloodline charts. "Talent's useful," she said, "but legacy is leverage."
Meanwhile, House Varn halved their attention between data projections and arguing whether they should fund one of the rogue array artists spotted improvising in Section D Formation Testing Chamber. "Chaotic," one noble snorted. "Yes," the matriarch replied with a smile, "but it worked."
In House Kelvran's lounge, a half-circle of elders reviewed footage on an enchanted wall. One younger member voiced interest in a flame user who managed to contain a controlled explosion. "Passion under pressure," they said. "The kind we can sharpen."
Every major House had its angle—some looking for loyalty, others for instability they could exploit.
In every hall, the tone was the same: control, acquisition, prediction. The scramble had begun—not just for the strongest but for the most moldable. Long tables lit by hovering crystal panels, glasses of fizzing tonic half-finished, and attendants scribbling on projection scrolls while heirs, cousins, and representatives debated over names and bloodlines.
Some were impressed. Some were irritated. All were calculating.
Because talent wasn't enough. The real game was finding talent before anyone else staked a claim.
Meanwhile, the instructors—supposedly the most relaxed people in the system—had gathered in a central staff chamber that looked suspiciously like a war room. Cups of herbal steam brews clinked against runed stone coasters while chairs groaned under the weight of seasoned mages, warriors, and academics arguing over grading protocols that technically didn't exist.
Nyss of the Verdant Vein was mid-rant about how too many students thought poison casting was about theatrics. "You're not performing, you're surviving. Most of them would accidentally gas their own allies."
Durnax grunted in agreement without looking up, lazily sketching gravity patterns into the mist above his cup.
Across the table, Nera Solvine just smiled quietly, her notes categorized not by power level but by personality types. "The boy from Room 42 cried," she said softly. "Still passed. Resilience matters more than ego."
Vaerel T'ryn, ever folding in and out of shadows, dropped three names into the rotating sigil mid-conversation. "They didn't panic when the room blinked. That's rare."
Other instructors exchanged their own thoughts—some grumbling about overconfident elementals, others quietly impressed by non-flashy students who adapted mid-failure.
All the sections had their stars. And all had their chaos. Some instructors encouraged the madness. Others tried to restrain it.
And so the room pulsed and hummed—not just with magic, but the quiet weight of future-shaping decisions.
A massive rotating sigil hovered in the center of the room, glowing with names, traits, exam results, and keywords. Instructors circled it with casual energy and quiet muttering, sorting students into categories.
"Refined but fragile."
"Potential tactical planner."
"Overconfident blaster. Needs grounding."
Lists were forming. Not official. Not yet. But the kind that meant future invitations, scholarships, or unexpected summons.
And while the candidates slept—tired, sore, and still processing the chaos of Day One—the people around them were already putting names in columns, tagging performances, and shaping narratives.
No final decisions yet. But the wheels were in motion.
The next day would bring more tests, more surprises, and more chances for someone to rise—or crash hard.
Either way, no one was walking into Day Two unnoticed.