FATED TO REINCARNATE

The morning air was sharp with frost, stinging Elara's cheeks as she stepped into the wide stone courtyard of the War Academy. Towers stretched skyward, pale and cold against a backdrop of cloud-swept blue, and the academy banners snapped in the wind—silver, crimson, and obsidian, bold against the clean white walls.

Candidates gathered in clusters, their voices a low, nervous murmur beneath the rising sun. Some wore arrogance like armor. Others, like Elara, stood quieter, calmer—hiding nerves beneath a veil of quiet focus.

She adjusted the straps of her worn pack, eyes sweeping over the sea of unfamiliar faces.

"Candidates! Attention!"

A hush swept through the crowd as a towering figure stepped forward—broad-shouldered and commanding, his armor dull with age and purpose. His grizzled beard and hard eyes spoke of decades carved in steel.

Marshal Var.

"Welcome to the War Academy," he said, his voice like thunder striking stone. "You are here because you have potential. The future of this realm depends on those who fight with not only blade, but heart and mind."

He walked the line slowly, like he was already deciding who would last and who would break. He stopped at her, his eyes narrowing like he knows something she doesn't.

"This will be your crucible," he continued. "The days ahead will test everything you know—and everything you don't. Learn quickly. Fight harder."

Elara felt something stir in her chest. Not fear. Not even nerves. Readiness.

"First order of business: room assignments," barked a nearby sergeant, striding forward with a scroll. He read all the student's names one by one and their assigned room number.

Her name wasn't read for a room assignment and that made her worry.

Elara exchanged a glance with Fig, who remained invisible to all but her, perched casually on her shoulder.

"Well," he whispered, "maybe they are giving you the broom closet."

The sergeant continued, reading off names while scrolls were handed out—class schedules, maps, basic rules of conduct.

"Once you've settled," the sergeant added, "a tour will be conducted by Sergeant Kael Rendar."

The name sparked murmurs.

Kael Rendar. The name whispered through training halls like myth—known for his unmatched skill with blade and battlefield, and his infuriating ability to remain undefeated in sparring.

Elara wanted to talk to Marchall Var, but it seemed he had disappeared and when she asked another student, he just shrugged and pointed towards the main hall and told her to go wait there.

After the others unpacked, they joined them in the main hall, collecting scrolls inked with lessons in combat, tactical theory, magical discipline, and field survival. Elara ran her fingers along the parchment, excitement bubbling under her ribs.

When Kael Rendar finally appeared, he didn't need to raise his voice to command attention. His presence alone did the work—calm, collected, dangerous in the way a coiled blade is dangerous.

"Follow me," he said simply, eyes sweeping the room. "Let's see what you've gotten yourselves into."

Elara stepped into line, her heartbeat steady, the air charged with a sense of fate moving forward.

A sense of de ja vu hit her, but she already knew why- after all, this is not her first time being here.

She wasn't afraid.

The candidates moved through the ancient stone corridors of the War Academy in tight, tense lines. Their boots echoed against flagstone worn smooth by centuries, their breath still uneven from the grueling Trials the day before.

Above them, frescoes faded with time clung to towering ceilings. Banners swayed gently from columns that seemed carved for titans—each one marked with crests of noble houses and legendary warriors who had passed through these very halls.

Elara tried to drink it all in.

"It's like walking through history," she murmured.

"More like walking through a glorified tomb," Fig muttered from her shoulder. "Seen better castles. I once haunted a fortress that rearranged its hallways for fun. This place doesn't even groan properly."

She smirked but kept her eyes ahead. "You're impossible."

With a low creak, a pair of massive oak doors swung open at the end of the corridor, revealing a grand hall alive with heat, light, and the scent of food.

It was the mess hall.

And it roared with life.

Long tables stretched across the vast space, under chandeliers that glowed with golden orbs. Torches flared between stained-glass windows, and a crackling hearth lit the far end of the chamber. Platters hovered mid-air, brimming with roasted meat, baked bread, spiced roots, and steaming stews.

But it wasn't the architecture or the food that made Elara pause.

It was the warriors.

They lined the sides of the hall—veterans and upperclassmen, armored and scarred, hands calloused from years of war. As the new candidates entered, applause broke out. Some slow and mocking, others wild and joyful, like the returning of long-lost kin.

Elara's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she felt seen. Welcome. Like maybe she truly belonged.

"Oh look," Fig deadpanned. "They're cheering for me."

Up ahead, the tall, proud girl with golden hair and a tilt to her chin, walked like she owned the skies and strode into the applause like it was her due. Another boy, lean and dark-haired, gave an awkward wave, slightly pink in the cheeks. Neither of them acknowledged Elara—nor did they seem to recognize her—but something in their contrast was striking. One radiated fire. The other, quiet strength.

Before she could wonder more, a single raised hand brought the noise to a halt.

At the front of the room, beneath a sprawling tapestry of a coiled serpent wrapped around a blade, stood a tall man with braided silver-streaked hair and eyes like molten steel.

Headmaster Calren Verain.

He wore the robes of all five disciplines—magic, combat, survival, restoration, and tactics. And when he spoke, the stone seemed to listen.

"Welcome," he said. "You have survived the Trials. You have faced fear, flame, storm—and self. You have earned your place."

All chatter died. Even the most hardened candidates stood taller.

"I am Headmaster Verain. This academy has trained warriors for over three hundred years. Some became heroes. A few, legends. Most of you… will become neither."

A ripple of tension passed through the room.

"That is not cruelty. It is truth. You are not here to be comforted. You are here to be forged—into warriors who protect not only themselves but the realm."

He turned, and figures emerged from the columns like shadows given purpose.

"Your instructors. The hands that will shape you."

A woman in emerald robes stepped forward first, moss-green eyes bright with mischief.

"Professor Selene," she said. "Botany and Restoration. If you faint in my class, I will use you as compost."

Scattered laughter followed. She gave a wicked grin.

Next came the one they already knew—broad as a bear, scowling as if it was a second language.

"Marshal Var. Combat. If you don't learn to protect your bones, I will break them for you."

Then a wiry man smelling of pine and smoke.

"Instructor Clarence," he said. "Survival. My job is to teach you not to die in the wild. If you fail… eventually someone will find what's left."

A shimmer of magic, and the next instructor floated forward. A tall woman with hair like stars and robes made of living energy.

"Mage Lumia," she said. "Magic Control. If you don't listen, you will explode. Some of you still might."

Then came the last—a lean man in sleek black leather. His presence was sharp, silent, his eyes full of calculation.

"Commander Darius. Strategy. I don't teach you how to win. I teach you how not to lose."

Fig leaned into Elara's ear. "That one definitely watches people sleep."

She ignored him, though a shiver did run up her spine and caught in her chest, grabing around her heart and letting goosbumps errupt on her skin.

Headmaster Verain raised his hand again, and a glowing scroll unraveled beside him, inked with shimmering gold.

"The results of the Trials."

A breathless hush settled over the room.

"Top candidate: Elara Ashvine."

The world tilted.

Elara blinked.

People were clapping again—but this time, the sound was sharper, more focused. Heads turned toward her. A few curious. Some impressed. Others—less so.

Near the front, the golden-haired girl sat stiffly, her jaw clenched. Across from her, the quiet boy clapped politely but said nothing.

"Second: Lyssandra Velhart," the headmaster continued.

The golden girl—Lyssandra—lifted her chin, swallowing her fury. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table like they might snap it in half.

"Third: Roger of Bearmark. Fourth: Lillian Grey."

"Fifth: Teryn of Stagmark."

The boy gave a small bow, still modest.

Elara sat down across from him a few moments later, her tray heavy with food she could barely taste. Her stomach growled anyway.

"First place, huh?" he said, glancing at her with a crooked smile. "Didn't look like you expected it."

"I didn't," she admitted. "I just wanted to survive."

"Well," he said, nodding to her plate, "you might want to start eating like a winner."

Across the hall, Lyssandra's eyes burned holes through her.

"She's going to duel you in your sleep," Fig whispered.

Elara sipped her drink and smiled faintly. "She can try."

But as the hum of conversation resumed and the feast began, Elara's mind was far away. Not on the rankings. Not on the food.

But on the storm that still lingered inside her—one she had passed through, yes, but one she knew would return.

Because everything had shifted.

She was pulled from her musings when Headmaster Verain approached her, flanked by Professor Selene.

"Elara Ashvine, please come and see me in my office after you have enjoyed your meal." he said simply, then turned and walked away.

Professor Selene gave her an encouraging smile, but Elara's heart sank into her boots.

She was dumbstruck.

"Oh, this is just great." Fig grumbled, "If you get killed again, I am quitting. Let head office send some other poor sap to put up with you."

The fire princess - Lyssandra- gave her a wicked knowing smirk while the rest of the candidates where staring at her like she just grew another head.

Damn, she is in trouble.