Читать книгу The Oyxia Chronicles: Shadow of Lorian - - Страница 3

“Are you Elissa Firell?”

The voice came without warning—dry, sharp, intolerant of delay.

Elissa flinched and looked up.

A mage stood before the gates of Lorian, clad in a dark robe threaded with crimson veins, as if the fabric itself had absorbed fire. His face was hidden beneath a hood, yet she felt his gaze—heavy, appraising.

“The Council has spoken of you,” he continued. “Show that you are worthy to enter.”

Something tightened in her chest. Not fear—more like the emptiness before a leap.

Elissa stepped forward.

The mage raised his hand.

A sphere of fire flared to life between his fingers—bright, dense, unnaturally alive. He cast it aside, and the flame froze in midair, shimmering like a captured heart of the volcano.

“Extinguish it.”

No gesture. No guidance. Only an order.

Heat struck her face at once. The air trembled, her palms grew slick with sweat. Elissa heard her own breathing—uneven, too loud.

Put out the fire.

She had done this before. At home. Alone. When no one was watching.

Now they were watching.

She extended her hand, trying to recall the sensation—not resistance, but compression, as if the flame should not be pushed away, but drawn inward.

The fire wavered.

For a heartbeat, she thought she had succeeded.

Then something slipped.

The flame flared brighter—and exploded, bursting into a thousand sparks. A wave of heat slammed into her, and Elissa staggered back, shielding her face. Her ears rang.

Silence fell abruptly.

She lowered her hand. Her heart hammered as if trying to tear its way out of her chest.

The mage watched her in silence.

Then he gave a slight nod.

“Interesting,” he said at last. “But insufficient.”

His words were even. Without anger. Without praise.

That made it worse.

He turned away, signaling the end of the exchange.

Elissa stood there, her face burning—not from heat, but from shame. Only then did she realize there were others nearby. Students. Mages. Those who had witnessed her mistake.

The stone beneath her feet was warm—obsidian held heat like the skin of a furnace. Thin cracks ran between the slabs, breathing out the volcano’s warmth. Lorian was alive. Watching.

“Don’t stand there like a statue.”

The voice came from beside her—calm, assured.

Elissa turned.

A woman approached, dressed in a scarlet robe embroidered with gold. She moved lightly, almost soundlessly, with no haste or doubt in her stride. Amber eyes swept over Elissa—quick, sharp.

“You’re Elissa Firell?” she asked.

Elissa nodded.

“I’m Ella Wiltsir. Your mentor.”

The words were spoken plainly, as a statement of fact.

Elissa blinked, not immediately trusting what she’d heard.

“I… failed,” she breathed.

Ella glanced toward the spot where the fire had hovered moments before, then back at Elissa.

“You didn’t fail,” she said. “You lost control. Those are different things.”

She stepped closer. Elissa noticed an old burn scar on her wrist—pale, uneven, the mark of pain long endured.

“Fire doesn’t tolerate hesitation,” Ella continued. “But it respects those who remain standing after a mistake.”

Elissa exhaled slowly. Her heart still raced, but its rhythm was steadier now.

“What should I do?” she asked.

Ella tilted her head slightly.

“For now—follow me. A room. Food. Sleep. Tomorrow you’ll face the flame again.”

She paused briefly.

“And next time, it will listen.”

She turned and walked away without looking back.

Elissa lingered for a moment—casting one last glance at Lorian’s gates, at the burning sky above the towers, at the warm stone beneath her feet.

Then she stepped after her mentor.

The trial had only just begun.