The morning of the assessment broke cold and brittle. Mist rolled low over the outer fields of the Lower Zone, clinging to boots and breath like a warning.

  Ilyari sat in silence, braiding her hair with fingers still raw from the previous day's harvest. Each twist steadied her. Each knot was a line of focus.

  Ma’Ryn stood behind her, admiring the braids and occasionally coughing softly into the crook of her elbow. Her skin looked pale, her breath thinner than usual. Still, she smiled and placed her hand on Ilyari’s shoulder when the braid was done.

  "Go show them what brilliance looks like," she rasped, then leaned more heavily on her cane as she walked away.

  Tazien grunted from the corner, trying to smooth a crease from his best shirt — one of Ma’Ryn’s old militia tunics, dyed dark to hide the patches.

  "Think this makes me look sharper or suspicious?"

  "Both," Ilyari replied, rolling her eyes.

  Ma’Ryn didn’t rise to see them out. She remained in bed, wrapped in the faded blanket she stitched herself. Her voice drifted from the back room, weaker now.

  "Neighbor's coming by... don’t you two... better not be late! I'm going to take my tonic, catch a nap and whip up a big feast for the both of you to celebrate. So come back hungry!"

  And so, they left.

  The Inner Gate Assembly loomed ahead — an old arena, repurposed for public testing. Rows of desks had been installed in neat lines across the floor. Test-takers filed in, their names called by district.

  Ilyari's name was called for the Noble Track Assessment. She was led to a section far from the others, her desk smaller, more isolated. There were three others who were risking the gamble — though by the way they carried themselves, they likely hailed from smaller noble houses trying to claw their way into relevance. They were polished, formally educated.

  She could barely see Tazien across the hall, his practice test laid out in front of him. He glanced over, gave her a small nod.

  She forced a smile.

  A proctor passed her a rune-slate and stylus.

  "Begin," he said dryly, casting them all a look filled with disdain.

  The exam began with mana theory — dense, intricate applications of spell structuring and ethical constraint logic. Ilyari moved quickly at first, confident.

  Until the Primordial Glyphs began to glitch.

  The rune-slate flickered.

  Her answers distorted on the screen, glyphs rewriting themselves before she could lock them in. She blinked hard. Her vision blurred. She looked up toward Tazien, panic rising in her throat.

  He was scribbling calmly. Not a care in the world.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it.

  ???????????

  Meanwhile...

  Ma’Ryn stirred earlier than usual. For the first time in days, her limbs didn’t feel as heavy. She pulled on her patched cloak and shuffled outside into the chilly dawn air.

  Their small garden gleamed with dew. Ma’Ryn bent slowly to pick the best of the rootfruit and squashes. A feast tonight, she promised herself. A celebration if her little royals did well.

  She moved to the chicken coop next. The latch stuck, and she leaned her weight against it.

  Above her, hidden against the rotted beams of the coop, a Rotspire Beetle crouched in stillness.

  Its mottled black shell shimmered faintly under the weak sun, veins of sickly green pulsing just beneath the carapace. Spiked legs clamped to the wood like barbed wire, while fine tendrils writhed silently along its underbelly, each trembling with latent toxins.

  Ma’Ryn froze the moment her eyes found it.

  Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, the air catching sharp in her throat.

  She knew this creature. Everyone in the Lower Zone did.

  Rotspire Beetles were common enough — cursed pests of decaying wood and sick crops.

  But to someone with weak lungs, even a breath of its spore cloud could mean death.

  Panic seized her chest. She stumbled backward, hand flying to her mouth in a desperate attempt to shield herself.

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  But it was too late.

  The beetle bloated, its shell splitting slightly, and with a sickening hiss, expelled a burst of thick, yellow-gray spores directly into her face.

  Ma’Ryn tried to scream. Tried to run.

  Instead, she crumpled onto the muddy ground, her vision narrowing to a spinning point of black.

  Across the field, Brinna Claybourne arrived — bringing extra cloth and spices to help Ma’Ryn prepare the feast.

  She froze, seeing Ma’Ryn collapsed in the dirt and the twitching beast lodged half-broken into the coop.

  Brinna Claybourne wasn’t the sort to scare easily. A plump widow with arms strong enough to lift a barrel and a heart just as wide, she flew across the field.

  Checking Ma’Ryn through streaks of fire-red hair stubbornly threading through gray, she quickly assessed the situation.

  Once she rolled Ma’Ryn over, Brinna’s face paled, and her hands flew to her mouth as the creature hissed again from the back of the coop.

  She bolted into action, shouting for help like she could move mountains if she had to.

  "Help! Soldiers! Now!" she shrieked.

  Soldiers stationed nearby and young men from the village rushed over. They tore the beast from the coop, burning its remains to stop the spread.

  But Ma’Ryn was already fading.

  They carried her gently back into the house, laying her atop her patchwork bed.

  Already, dark purple-black veins spread from her mouth, trailing up her cheeks and across her scalp.

  "Bring the shaman," Brinna ordered.

  One soldier went — but he did not hurry.

  The shaman finally arrived, out of breath, clutching his satchel of herbs and glimmering powders.

  He took one look at Ma’Ryn and paled.

  She struggled to speak, waving off everyone but Brinna and the shaman.

  "Leave," she croaked. "All but you two."

  The others hesitated, but the gravity in her voice sent them outside.

  Ma’Ryn turned to Brinna, pressing a small iron key into her palm.

  "For the children. When they come home. Promise me."

  Tears welled, but Brinna nodded fiercely.

  Then Ma’Ryn looked at the shaman.

  "I know," she rasped. "I know you were paid to... not heal fully."

  The shaman’s face crumbled in shame.

  "I… I was, but — I couldn’t live with it. I planned to heal you. Quietly. So no one would know."

  "Good," she whispered. "But… not yet. Hold me till after dinner. The children… they’ll accept it better... if I see her… cross."

  The shaman nodded, preparing a delicate healing weave.

  Ma’Ryn forced herself upright, bracing against the neighbor’s arm.

  But as the shaman reached out — a violent, unseen pulse ripped through Ma'Ryn's body.

  Ma’Ryn lurched, coughing violently. Blood splattered her chin, the bed, the floor.

  The shaman yelled for the tonic, fumbling with the cup.

  Ma’Ryn barely touched it before her body seized and collapsed back into the bed.

  The shaman froze, feeling for her pulse. Then grimaced.

  "She's gone."

  He picked up the tonic bottle, sniffing it once, then again. His face darkened.

  "This isn’t my brew," he said. "The herbs are watered down. The core ingredients are missing. Someone replaced it. Someone… wanted her to die slowly."

  Brinna stood, trembling, wiping her streaming tears with one sleeve.

  "No one should know that we know. We have to warn the children."

  She stepped outside, facing the soldiers gathered beyond the broken fence.

  Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  "Ma’Ryn’s dead."

  The soldiers exchanged grim looks. The youngest, barely older than Ilyari, grimaced, then sighed.

  "I'll go get the children," he muttered.

  He turned toward the Inner Gate Assembly, the heavy weight of the message following him all the way.

  ???????????

  Back in the Assembly...

  Ilyari blinked hard, trying to refocus on the rune-slate in front of her.

  The words blurred. Her hand trembled as she gripped the quill tighter, willing her mind to steady.

  Why can’t I concentrate? she thought, frustration and panic threading through her chest.

  A dampness streaked down her cheeks before she even realized she was crying. Silent tears, steady and unstoppable, falling onto the paper below.

  She sniffed, wiped at her face, but it didn’t stop.

  It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t fear of failure.

  It felt like something was leaving her — something warm and familiar slipping away, piece by piece, beyond her reach.

  She glanced sideways.

  Tazien was wiping his eyes furiously, blinking as if trying to clear away smoke that wasn’t there.

  His face was tight, confused, his free hand clenching into a fist against the table.

  Their eyes met.

  And in that single, unspoken look, they understood:

  Something was wrong.

  Very, very wrong.

  A hollow ache opened inside Ilyari’s chest, cold and vast and irreversible.

  And the world, for just a breath, felt heavier than it had ever been before.

  Then the door at the side of the arena opened with a sharp creak.

  A figure stepped in, whispered hurriedly into the proctor's ear.

  The proctor and the soldier seemed to argue briefly before the proctor, turning on his heels, walked briskly over to Ilyari’s desk.

  He knelt beside her.

  His voice was low.

  "Your guardian — Ma’Ryn — she’s in a bad way. If you want to see her, you have to go now."

  "If I leave..." she started.

  "You fail," the proctor said, not unkindly. "Especially since you're in the noble stream. There's no forgiveness for interruption."

  Ilyari stood.

  Across the hall, Tazien noticed. He rose, dropping his stylus.

  "What's wrong?"

  She didn’t answer. She turned and started running.

  Tazien followed.

  The rune-slate flashed red. The glyphs shattered like glass.

  FAILED.

  They ran all the way home, lungs burning.

  The door was ajar.

  Brinna waited on the stoop, Ma'Ryn's hat in her hands, eyes rimmed red.

  No one said it aloud.

  They just knew.

  Ilyari felt her knees lock, the world around her blurring into a gray, endless howl.

  And two of the most brilliant candidates the Lower Zone had ever seen watched their chance at freedom flicker and fade without even raising their voices in protest.

  Ilyari's heart broke, her plan crumbled before her and in her mind as returning home seemed to slip out of her grasp so quickly the word flashed across her mind again.

  Failed.

  She saw it just as she put the pen down. She knew what it meant. Her future was forever changed, but if Ma'Ryn, the only adult left of her family wasn't there to see her rise, it didn’t seem to matter. She had been arrogant, and now she was soon to pay the price.