The air felt heavy, like a storm was brewing—or maybe that was just me. The others shuffled around the table at the center of the room, where a crystal sphere sat in a perfect circle. It was smooth, clear, and filled with swirling metallic dust that glittered faintly.


    Andora stood beside the table, her crimson robes pooling like liquid fire at her feet. Her sharp eyes swept over us.


    “This sphere,” she said, her voice low yet commanding, “will reveal your magical discipline. Each discipline leaves a distinct mark—a signature that defines the way you interact with magic.”


    She reached to the sphere, resting her fingertips gently on its surface. The swirling dust froze—perfectly still—before curling into intricate runes and sigils that danced like constellations. For a brief moment, the sphere rose an inch above the table, pulsing softly before settling back down.


    “Each of you will manifest something different,” she continued. “Abjuration forms protective rings, Conjuration shapes tools or weapons, Alteration twists the particles into changing patterns . . . ” She gestured at the sphere as she listed the results—stable rings, flowing constellations, chaotic bursts—before finally pausing.


    “And you, King of Fire—” she said sharply, “have you any idea what awaits you?”


    Zeke’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.


    “Great things are expected from your title,” Andora explained. “The one who held that name led the generation of Mystic Knights before yours. You go first.”


    Zeke stepped forward. Unease written clearly on his face. He wanted to argue, but he didn’t.


    He rolled his shoulders back and stepped forward. “All right, let’s do this.”


    His palms pressed against the sphere. For a moment, nothing happened — then a burst of heat flared against my face as the particles ignited in a swirling blaze.


    The dust twisted into a burning sword, flames flickering along its jagged edge. The sword flickered, broke apart, then reshaped into a whip of fire, then a massive shield of glowing embers. The shapes were sharp, wild—powerful but unstable, like they might scorch the room if Zeke’s focus slipped.


    “Whoa,” Zeke muttered, eyes wide.


    “Enough,” Andora warned.


    He pulled his hands back, and the flames dimmed.


    “Conjuration,” she said. “And a potent enough to conjure solid weapons.”


    Zeke exhaled, still staring at the glass. “Potent, huh?” He grinned as he stepped back beside me. “You hear that? I’m potent.”


    I rolled my eyes as I let out a groan. “Congratulations on being dangerously flammable.”


    Amethyst went next.


    She pressed her fingertips against the sphere, and it immediately began to pulse—slow, steady beats, like a heartbeat. The particles glowed gold . . . but then something snapped.


    Cracks of lightning danced across the glass. The sphere flared, light sparking wildly as the gentle rhythm turned frantic. Amethyst gasped and pulled her hand back, shaking her fingers like they’d been burned.


    “Evocation,” Andora began, but her gaze lingered on the faint crack that now spiderwebbed across the sphere’s surface. “and Disruption.”


    “Wait, two?” Amethyst asked, voice tight. “Is that . . . bad?”


    “Not bad,” Andora said, but her tone carried a weight Amethyst clearly didn’t find comforting. “Uncommon. But not bad.”


    Amethyst swallowed hard and walked back to us, keeping her hands folded tightly in front of her.


    Hyacinth followed.


    When she took her turn, the particles didn’t react at all. The silence dragged on until I swore I could hear my own breathing.


    “...Did I break it?” she asked, deadpan.


    Then—without warning—the particles vanished. Gone. Like the sphere had been emptied out completely.


    “That can’t be good,” Zeke muttered.


    Before anyone could answer, the particles reappeared—distorted, like ripples distorting a reflection. The patterns flickered, dancing between forms like they couldn’t quite decide what they wanted to be. But only for a moment. The particles gathered in a swift motion, forming a sword. And then it shifted again. This time to a shield. And then a bow.


    “Curious,” Andora said slowly, almost to herself. “Planar magic, a magic that bridges the spaces between combined with Conjuration.” She chuckled.


    “I also get two?” Hyacinth remarked.


    Amethyst, her twin sister, just got two disciplines. It’s not really a surprise that she also got two.


    Andora nodded, and Hyacinth happily giggled back to us and stood beside her sister.


    And then, it was Viktor’s turn.


    Viktor rolled his shoulders like a boxer loosening up before a fight. “Let’s get this over with.”


    He pressed his palm flat against the sphere. The particles inside reacted instantly, twisting into jagged, spike-like shapes that bristled and shifted like they couldn’t stay still. For a second, they aligned into rows of sharp points—a crown of thorns—before liquefying into spiraling coils. The shapes kept warping, alternating between rigid and fluid, restless and unstable.


    “...It won’t stop moving,” Viktor muttered.


    “That’s normal for your type of magic,” Andora said, studying the sphere carefully. “Alteration thrives on constant change. Always adapting.”


    The particles briefly coiled around each other like twin serpents—then burst apart into jagged splinters again.


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    “Yours is focused on enhancement—strengthening what’s already there,” Andora added. “Your power won’t create something from nothing, but what’s already inside you” She met his gaze. “It’s only going to grow stronger.”


    Viktor flexed his fingers, staring at them like he might see something new. “So... what? I’m just a better version of myself?”


    “A dangerously better version,” Andora warned. “If you lose control, you might push your body too far.”


    “Yeah?” Viktor’s lips curled into a grin. “Sounds like my kind of magic.”


    Andora gestured for Viktor to return to our ranks. She then shot a glance at Andrew.


    Andrew stepped forward without a word. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious.


    The moment his fingertips brushed the sphere, the particles inside seemed to stick. They clung stubbornly to the glass, sluggish and heavy. Instead of swirling or flaring, they twisted into tight spirals — dense, layered coils that wrapped around the core like chains.


    The patterns never changed, never broke apart. They just . . . held. Solid. Unyielding.


    Andora exhaled softly. “Interference,” she said. “Your magic doesn’t flow like most others . . . it reinforces. Strengthens what’s already there.”


    Andrew’s brow furrowed. “So . . . what? I just sit there like a brick wall?”


    “It’s more than that,” Andora said firmly. “You can stabilize magic, even magic that doesn’t belong to you. Spells will struggle to break through you . . . or past you. What you hold? It lasts.”


    Andrew let out a breath—not quite relief, not quite frustration. “Good.” He turned away, muttering half to himself, “I know what those words mean... just not together.”


    I snorted and gently elbowed him as walked past me. I liked that funny self-deprating remark. He gave me a knowing smile as if understanding that our humor are similar.


    “Queen of Waters,” Andora called before I could say something to Andrew. “You’re next.”


    Gabrielle approached the sphere with quiet focus, her face calm but serious. She barely touched the glass before the particles rippled outward like rings in a pond—precise, steady patterns that overlapped and wove together like armor.


    The rings shifted, layering over one another until the sphere glowed softly, pulsing in slow, rhythmic beats. The air felt . . . calmer. Even my own anxious energy seemed to quiet in the presence of her magic.


    “Abjuration,” Andora said with a faint smile. “Your magic excels at protection—at keeping others safe.”


    Gabrielle exhaled, her fingers still resting against the sphere. She seemed reluctant to pull away.


    “You’ll be a natural guardian,” Andora continued. “But remember, protection doesn’t always mean control.”


    Gabrielle’s hand twitched slightly before she let go. Her face was composed, but I caught the flicker of doubt in her eyes.


    “Yeah,” she murmured as she rejoined us. “I know.”


    “Ah,” Andora exclaimed. “The Czarina of Senses,” she called Cassandra to move forward. “I wonder what discipline you have. Will you be the same as my sister?”


    Cassandra’s fingers barely brushed the glass when the particles inside began to shift—slow, delicate lines forming thin, glowing webs that stretched from the core to the inner surface. They glistened like strands of silver thread, curling and crossing in intricate patterns.


    The lines shifted constantly, reshaping into constellations—familiar stars one second, then twisting into unrecognizable formations the next. It felt like watching a puzzle assemble itself only to scatter again.


    “It’s . . . beautiful,” Cassandra murmured, her gaze fixed on the sphere.


    “Perhaps you won’t be as much of a fool as my sister,” Andora mused, smiling.


    “What does these patterns mean?” Cassandra asked.


    “Divination,” Andora chuckled. “Your magic sees what others can’t—glimpses of the past, present, or future.”


    Cassandra’s fingers curled slightly. “But it’s never clear, is it?”


    “Rarely,” Andora admitted. “Divination offers fragments, whispers of what might come to pass. The challenge is knowing what to trust.”


    Cassandra’s eyes stayed on the swirling lines a moment longer. Then she pulled her hand back like she was tearing herself away from something too distant to reach.


    “...I thought it would be louder,” she whispered, almost to herself, as Andora gestured her move back to us and waved at Sakura to move forward.


    Sakura stepped forward silently, her face calm as always. She placed her hand on the sphere . . . and the room seemed to breathe.


    The particles didn’t swirl or blaze—instead, they began to hum. A low, vibrating sound filled the air, rising and falling in quiet rhythm. The particles themselves barely moved, but the sound seemed to carry something deeper—like faint words whispering just out of reach.


    “What is it?” Sakura asked, a little panic drawn on her face.


    “What is it? Is it? Is it? Is it?” The sphere echoed. The sound of Sakura’s voice filled the chamber, repeating the words until the sound faded.


    Andora tilted her head, her expression sharpening. “...Invocation.”


    The hum deepened. I swore I felt something brush past me—like a distant presence stirring on the edge of my thoughts.


    Sakura’s fingers twitched, and her face briefly flickered with unease before she let go. The hum faded at once.


    “Your magic calls out,” Andora said softly. “To spirits, to names, to things that answer when they shouldn’t.”


    Sakura froze. I couldn’t tell whether she was scared or amused.


    “You need not worry, child,” Andora assured, “we will help you master your gift.”


    Sakura nodded and went back to our ranks without being told.


    Next was either myself or Pierre. I wanted to step forward. Planning to actually. But Pierre was quicker.


    Pierre sauntered forward, flashing the group a grin. “All right, let’s see what I get.”


    The moment his hand touched the sphere, the particles inside flattened into a thin, glassy layer—like liquid metal coating the entire inner surface. The silver sheen rippled, forming patterns like honeycombs, shifting his reflection into different shapes: his face warped, stretched, and split into twisted of himself.


    Pierre grimaced. “Ugh. I look like I fell out of a funhouse mirror.”


    “Transfiguration,” Andora said, her gaze steady. “You mask what’s real, create something false to hide what’s underneath.”


    Pierre’s reflection twisted again, morphing into an exaggerated version of himself—sharper jaw, broader shoulders, eyes gleaming like gemstones.


    Pierre snorted. “I mean... I do look good.”


    Andora’s expression hardened. “Be careful with that magic.”


    Pierre’s smirk faltered. “Why?”


    “Because change isn’t just about deceiving others,” Andora said quietly. “If you rely on it too much, you might forget what’s real yourself.”


    Pierre’s grin didn’t quite return as he stepped back.


    And then it was my turn.


    I swallowed hard and stepped forward. The sphere felt cold under my fingers—colder than it should have. The swirling dust inside paused—perfectly still.


    Then, without warning, the particles began to move.


    They didn’t pulse or spark like the others. Instead, they danced—delicate threads twisting into runes and sigils that traced along the inner surface. The markings shifted constantly, folding and breaking apart like living diagrams. Some looked like constellations; others resembled spell diagrams I couldn’t even begin to understand.


    The sphere trembled, then rose from the table, hovering an inch in the air. My breath caught as a cold wind swept through the room, brushing against my face like unseen fingers. The runes kept shifting, like a puzzle constantly being solved and rearranged.


    The sphere slowly settled back onto the table. My fingers were still cold when I let go.


    “Finally,” Andora whispered, almost to herself. “Someone like me.”