Ignore the Anchor and distract himself by volunteering for an upcoming magical competition, hoping external pressure will help him focus.

The academy buzzed with energy as announcements for the **Spring Equinox Trials** lit up the halls. An age-old tradition, the Trials tested magical precision, endurance, and creativity in front of faculty and students alike. For many, it was a chance to prove their strength. For Elion—it was an escape.

He hadn’t returned to Vaelra’s office, though her words lingered. Instead, he signed up for the Trials the moment he saw the scroll pinned on the announcement board. Maybe if he won, or at least performed well, he could reclaim some control over his identity. He could *be* the prince everyone expected him to be. The one he was raised to be—firm, composed, powerful.

No more questioning. No more fluttering feelings he couldn’t name.

In the days that followed, Elion trained relentlessly. His instructors noted the sharpness in his spellwork—his elemental casting had grown more refined, his runes more fluid. But there was a tension in everything he did, like he was forcing the magic out of himself instead of letting it flow.

He worked late into the night, alone in the courtyard under flickering lanterns. His sleep suffered. His dreams twisted again—this time, he stood on stage during the Trials, only to find himself dressed not in mage robes, but in a delicate ceremonial gown, the crowd staring, whispering, laughing. He always woke before the dream ended.

Still, he pushed forward.

On the day of the preliminary Trials, Elion stood in a stone arena ringed with crystalline arches, each humming with magic. The audience gathered above in terraces—students, teachers, and visiting nobility. His heart thundered in his chest.

His opponent was a confident young woman from House Sylendria, clad in sleek black robes and wielding a staff of woven oak. She gave him a cool smile before saluting him with her wand.

“Elion, yes?” she said. “You’re the shy one. Let’s see if there’s any fire behind those pretty eyes.”

Elion bristled but didn’t respond.

The duel began.

Spells flew like streaks of light—shields flickered, fire cracked, wind coiled into spears. Elion was precise, focused, but too controlled. The girl from House Sylendria danced through his attacks with ease, flowing with her magic, not forcing it.

Midway through, she cast a binding hex that snared him in glowing tendrils. The spell shimmered unnervingly around his waist, not unlike a corset. The crowd chuckled. He felt his face flush.

“Careful,” she teased. “Some of us wear restraint well.”

He broke the spell with a blast of wind, but the damage to his pride had already landed. He heard the whispers again. His anger boiled—but so did something else, something confused and harder to name.

In the end, he lost. Not because he wasn’t strong, but because he couldn’t flow with his magic. He was too wound up, too afraid of what might rise to the surface if he let go.

After the duel, he sat in the locker room alone, staring down at his trembling hands.

The pendant at his chest pulsed faintly.

Maybe this wasn’t the way after all.