The testing pavilion blazed white against Eastford's muted browns and greens, an imperial tent erected overnight at the village center. Edge stood in line with two dozen other eighteen-year-olds, the morning sun already baking the dirt beneath their feet.
"They say the ink responds to your mana signature," whispered Tomas, a blacksmith's son with arms like tree trunks. "If you have none, it remains black."
"And if you do?" asked someone behind them.
"It changes color based on your affinity. Red for fire, blue for water, and so on."
Edge remained silent, observing the two imperial mages who administered the test. They wore the crimson and gold robes of the Arcanum Academy, their movements precise and economical. Unlike the elaborate depictions in village tales, they displayed no obvious signs of power. No glowing eyes or levitating objects, just the confidence of those who wielded authority without question.
One by one, the line shortened. Each potential candidate approached the table, pressed their palm into a shallow dish of black ink, then pressed it against parchment. The process took less than a minute per person. Most walked away with nothing but stained hands; a few received a polite nod and directions to wait by a separate tent.
When Nella's turn came, Edge watched her square her shoulders before approaching the table. The female mage instructed her calmly, and Nella pressed her palm into the ink. When she placed it on the parchment, there was a momentary flicker. The black ink shimmered with a faint greenish tint before fading back to black.
The mages exchanged glances. The woman made a notation. "Interesting, but insufficient. Next, please."
Nella's face fell as she stepped away, her eyes finding Edge's in the line. She gave him a small, disappointed smile before moving to rinse her hand in the provided basin.
Three more candidates tried and failed before Edge's turn arrived.
"Name?" the male mage asked without looking up.
"Edge Regius."
"Occupation?"
"Laborer. Farm work. Whatever's needed."
The mage nodded absently. "Place your dominant hand palm-down in the ink, then press firmly onto the parchment."
The ink felt cold against Edge's skin, colder than it should be on such a warm day. Something in it seemed to pulse against his palm, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. He pressed his hand into the black liquid, coating his palm evenly.
When he placed his hand on the parchment, the world went silent. The distant conversations, the birds, the wind—all ceased in an instant.
The ink beneath his palm wasn't just changing color; it was moving. From the center of his handprint, threads of silver and gold and crimson spread outward, interweaving in patterns that hurt his eyes to follow. The parchment grew hot, then cold, then seemed to vibrate against the table.
The female mage gasped. The male mage stood so abruptly that his chair toppled backward.
"Impossible," he whispered, his composure shattered.
Edge tried to pull his hand away, but it seemed fused to the parchment. The colors continued to spread, now pulsing with a light that cast strange shadows across the startled faces of the imperial mages.
"What's happening?" Edge demanded, panic rising in his throat.
Instead of answering, the female mage hurriedly drew a symbol in the air. The parchment immediately stopped glowing, and Edge could finally pull his hand free. Where his palm had been, an intricate pattern remained: a central starburst of silver, surrounded by concentric rings of different colors, none dominant over the others.
The male mage looked at Edge as if seeing him for the first time. "Who are your parents?"
"Darien and Lienna Regius. They're farmers," Edge replied, confused by the intensity of the question.
"And before that? Your grandparents? Any nobility in your line?"
Edge almost laughed. "No. We've been commoners in Eastford for generations."
The mages exchanged another meaningful look before the woman carefully rolled the parchment and sealed it with wax. "You will report to the Academy caravan at dawn tomorrow. One trunk of belongings only. You'll be provided with required materials upon arrival."
"I'm... accepted?" Edge asked, disbelief evident in his voice.
"More than accepted," the male mage said, his voice dropping to ensure only Edge could hear. "I've administered this test for twenty-three years, and I've never seen a reaction like that. Never."
Edge stared at his palm, still stained with traces of the magical ink. "What does it mean?"
"It means, Mr. Regius, that your life is about to change in ways you cannot imagine." The mage handed him a sealed letter bearing the Academy's crest. "This contains your formal acceptance and instructions. Do not lose it. Do not show it to anyone outside your immediate family."
Edge took the letter with numb fingers. As he turned to leave, the female mage added in a whisper: "Be careful who you trust, even at the Academy. Especially at the Academy."
The walk home passed in a blur. Village life continued around him—chickens scattered from his path, children played in the dirt, women hung laundry on lines between houses—but everything seemed distant, as if viewed through foggy glass.
His family was waiting when he arrived, trying to appear casual but failing miserably. Miri immediately abandoned any pretense when she saw his face.
"What happened?" she demanded. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Edge wordlessly handed the sealed letter to his father. Darien broke the wax seal, unfolded the heavy parchment, and began reading. His expression remained carefully neutral until he reached the end. Then, to Edge's surprise, his father sank slowly into a chair.
"What does it say?" Lienna asked, her hands clutching her apron nervously.
"He's been accepted," Darien said, his voice oddly flat. "Full scholarship. They've assigned him to House Drakescale."
Miri squealed and threw her arms around Edge. "I knew it! I knew you were special!"
His mother's eyes glistened with tears. "House Drakescale? Isn't that—"
"The house for combat mages," his father confirmed, finally looking up at Edge. "They train the Empire's battle mages, magical knights, and royal guards."
Edge's head spun. "But I've never shown any magical ability. Not once."
"Sometimes it manifests late," Lienna said, but her tone suggested she was as confused as he was.
Darien folded the letter carefully. "There's more. The scholarship includes a stipend for the family. A substantial one."
The implications hit Edge like a physical blow. The stipend would change his family's circumstances dramatically. No more wondering if they could afford to fix the roof. No more stretching grain stores through lean winters.
"I leave tomorrow at dawn," Edge said, the reality finally sinking in. "They're sending a caravan."
That evening was a whirlwind of preparation. Neighbors stopped by with congratulations and small tokens of good luck when word spread through Eastford. Nella visited briefly, her expression a mix of genuine happiness for him and unspoken envy.
"You'll write to us?" she asked as she prepared to leave.
"Of course," Edge promised, though he wondered if life at the Academy would leave any time for letters.
Later, as his mother helped him pack the few belongings that seemed worth taking, she paused with a folded tunic in her hands.
"Are you afraid?" she asked softly.
Edge considered lying but couldn't bring himself to do it. "Terrified."
She nodded, understanding. "Your father won't say it, but he's proud beyond words. And worried too."
"The mage said something strange," Edge confided. "She told me to be careful who I trust at the Academy."
Lienna's hands stilled. "The noble houses have played their games for centuries. You'll be an outsider twice over—a commoner and someone with unusual power, if their reaction is anything to judge by." She took his face in her hands. "Trust your instincts, Edge. They've never led you astray before."
That night, sleep eluded him once again. His father had given him his old service dagger—a practical gift wrapped in unspoken concern. His mother had tucked a small cloth pouch of dried herbs from their garden under his spare clothes—rosemary for remembrance, lavender for calm, thyme for courage. Miri had gifted him her prized possession: a small, carved wooden fox their grandfather had made for her.
"For luck," she'd said, pressing it into his palm and closing his fingers around it. "And so you remember your way home."
Edge turned the wooden fox over in his hands now, tracing its familiar curves in the darkness. Tomorrow he would leave everything he knew for a world he couldn't begin to imagine. A world where, apparently, he possessed power he'd never felt or seen.
Outside his window, a shooting star streaked across the night sky—a brilliant flash of silver-white light that mirrored the center of the strange pattern his hand had left on the testing parchment.
Edge closed his fist around the wooden fox and made a silent promise to his family, to himself: Whatever power he possessed, whatever path opened before him, he would not forget who he was or where he came from.
The shooting star faded, but for just a moment, the air around his closed fist seemed to shimmer with the same silver light.