The city hadn't slept properly in days. Even the sun, rising dutifully over Arcana's spires and floating bridges, looked like it wanted to call in sick.
The Coliseum had erupted into cheers, groans, stunned silence, and everything in between after the results lit up the walls. Students rushed around checking their names—some rechecking in disbelief, others dragging friends to see it with them. Recruiters prowled the walkways with intent, calm but sharp-eyed.
On one of the upper terraces, Alex stood quietly until his magi-comm buzzed with a soft blue glow and an all-too-familiar chime.
"—Alexidrin Finch, if you don't answer this call in five seconds, I swear I'm initiating a citywide trace—"
He tapped the receiver quickly. "Hey, Mom."
Aliena Finch appeared on the projection, sharp-eyed and still holding a steaming cup of herbal tonic like it was the only thing keeping her from flying to Arcana in person.
"You absolute menace," she snapped. "Do you know how many times I've refreshed the feeds today?"
"Seventy-six?"
"Seventy-nine. And you were supposed to let me come to Arcana."
"You'd have caused a scene. It's already tense enough."
"So instead, I sit here while my ten-year-old son casually walks into city-scale political drama. Wonderful."
She was upset, but more than that, she was worried. Alex could see it in her eyes.
"I'm okay, Mom."
"You almost weren't."
He nodded slightly. "But I am. I've got a team. Aiden's watching too. I haven't even blown up a hallway yet."
That earned a snort from her. "Just be safe. Please. I don't care about Houses or ranks. I care about you coming out of this whole."
"I had breakfast. I'll even let Jamie put a heating charm on my back later."
"You hate those."
"But you love them. So… compromise."
Her expression softened. "I didn't raise you to carry the weight of the world."
"Just to poke it when it needs poking."
The call ended with her smiling tiredly.
Alex took a long breath and turned back toward the city.
--✦--
Celebration didn't need permission in Arcana. With the exam results out, the entire city was alive with movement.
In the lower districts, celebration was loud and improvised. Someone lit up illusion fireworks with half-working glyphs. Tavern owners passed out drinks to any kid wearing a Coliseum patch. A goat with glitter horns became a sudden icon for some group that hadn't passed but still felt victorious. It was messy, but real.
In the middle-class zones, families booked entire corners of plazas. Magic-infused food stands handed out candy shaped like runes. Kids reenacted duels from memory—badly. Everyone was smiling, but eyes kept flicking to invitations and messengers.
The upper-tier Houses turned their rooftops into lounges and parties. Floating projection walls showed highlight reels. Well-dressed nobles floated between venues, delivering handwritten invites to top scorers. No shouting. Just a silent war of who could appear the most composed while scrambling for alliances.
Alex watched it all, hands in his pockets.
"This is the real test," he muttered.
--✦--
While the streets roared, Alex's team walked beside him along a quiet corridor in the Coliseum.
"Looks different when you're not panicking about test questions," Jamie said, peering over the balcony.
"More like the calm before the noble storm," Jenkins added.
"Down in the lower wards, people cry with joy," Marell said. "Up here, they calculate return on investment."
"Same goal, different budgets," Orin shrugged.
Alex didn't reply immediately. He was watching a boy hugging a girl tightly under a streetlamp and an older man holding his hands in prayer. Not far from them, another candidate sat with his head down, clutching a pendant until his knuckles turned white.
"For every name on the list," Alex said softly, "there's one that didn't make it."
"There always is," Davor replied, quiet.
A girl in a courtyard below dropped to her knees, stared at the screen for a long moment, then crushed her pendant under her boot. Another screamed into her hands before a sibling wrapped her in a hug.
The Coliseum AI's voice cut through the noise, emotionless and firm:
"The Arcana Celestalis Entrance Examination has concluded. Final scores are now public. All admitted candidates, please proceed to your assigned wings."
Every corridor lit up with lists. Every name glowed.
Celebration. Grief. Relief. Collapse.
The end of the exam wasn't quiet. But for many, it was final.
--✦--
At a bustling marketplace in one of Arcana's outer districts, a simple barbecue stall glowed with the flicker of charm-fire grills. The air smelled of seasoned meat, grilled rootfruits, and alcohol-infused glaze. A group of friends—seven in total—had commandeered the largest table.
Only two of them had passed the exam.
The rest… had not.
"This pork soulrib is insane," one of the passers said, mouth full, trying to cut the tension. He waved his skewer like it could change the subject.
Another clinked their beer mug against his. "We still made it this far. That has to count for something, right?"
"We're twenty-five," one of the others muttered. "Next year, we're out. There's no next time for us."
That line landed like a weight on the table. The sizzling of meat on the grill suddenly felt a little too loud.
The one who always joked—broad-shouldered, always wearing his patched-up robe like a badge of pride—grinned. "Hey, we still got each other. And a dozen reasons to get drunk tonight."
"Don't start crying while you're holding the sauce bowl again," another friend teased, trying to keep it light.
He chuckled. "Nah. No tears tonight. I'm too full for emotions."
But even as he said it, he didn't meet anyone's eyes. His grin was still there, but his hands were shaking just enough for one of them to notice.
"You sure you're okay?" one of the passed examinees asked gently.
"Man, I'm good. Seriously. Two of us made it—that means we didn't waste our time. You'll get inside, do your thing. And I'll start my beast meat cart. We'll call it 'Former Hope BBQ'."
That earned a laugh, but it was hollow.
One of them raised a mug. "To dumb dreams and good food."
"To failure that doesn't kill you—yet," another added.
"To friends who tried anyway," said a quieter voice, and this time, everyone went still.
The joker's smile finally cracked. His shoulders slumped. He stared down at the beer mug he'd been holding for the last ten minutes without drinking.
"Y'know… it just hits harder when you thought… maybe just one more push, maybe this time…"
His voice trailed off. His grin didn't come back. He wiped at his face quickly with his sleeve, pretending it was sweat, but no one bought it.
"Hey," the one beside him said, nudging his arm, "you made all of us keep going. Don't forget that."
He didn't say anything back. Just raised the mug, tapped it once against the table, and took a long drink.
Around them, the grill flared, more food was served, and laughter returned—quieter now, a little raw. They celebrated. They mourned. They remembered.
They sat together in that strange in-between.
Where winning and losing shared the same bench.