Part One

-Knox's POV

The world snaps into focus, and I'm immediately on my feet, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Here we are, in the thick of it—the forest's canopy a patchwork of light and shadow above us. I take a moment, not to assess the threat, but to spot our 'king', the one who'll have a target on their back. Hmmm... who is it?

The air's thick with the scent of pine and anticipation. I lazily scan the group, Zephyr's eyes are already closed, attuned to the elements, while Lyra checks her gear, her demeanor calm but ready. Calder is running a hand along the flat of his blade, a small smile playing across his face, and Sylvie's scanning the treeline, already lost in thought.

Then my gaze lands on Azura. She's lounging against a tree, the crown resting on her head as if it's a casual afterthought. For a second, I mistake her for some—no, not some girl—a guy, the king, I correct myself mentally. The mix-up is almost amusing, but nobody laughs at Azura. Not if they want to keep their teeth. She makes it really hard for everyone, doesn't even try to hide her damn curves.

She catches my eye and smirks, a clear challenge without a word spoken. As usual, she's the epitome of nonchalance, sitting there with her legs spread in a way that takes up space—commanding and unapologetic. Her demeanor screams that she doesn't give a damn about the crown or the target it paints on her. That's just Azura for you.

Quinn steps up beside me, a small smirk on her face that says she's already ten steps ahead of the game. "So, our 'king' is all laid back and easy, huh?" She nudges me, nodding towards Azura.

I can't help but chuckle softly. "Easy isn't the term I'd use for Azura. More like... nonchalantly deadly."

Azura stands up, stretching, the movement fluid and full of a latent power that she wears as comfortably as her own skin. "Alright, let's get this over with."

Azura's arms sweep up in a leisurely stretch, her form casting a long shadow in the dappled sunlight that filters through the leaves. She yawns, a sound that seems to command attention, before fixing us with a look that's all business. "You bastards better not mess up like last time," she says, the words sharp but not without a certain camaraderie.

Her walk is confident, the stride of someone who's never known defeat, and she doesn't bother to check if we're following. We just do. "You fuckers embarrassed our academy last time," she continues, her tone casual but cutting. "Seriously, I didn't go because I thought you all could handle a little competition. Tsk, let's go see just how strong the people you lost to are."

She comes to an abrupt halt, spinning on her heel to face us, her grin sharp and full of challenge. "Oh, I forgot. If they are weak, you all better get ready for personal training from me." She claps her fists together, and the implied threat sends a collective shiver down our spines.

I turn to gauge the team's reaction and catch their collective wince. Training with Azura is no joke—it's a grueling, no-holds-barred session that'll leave you sore for days.

It's then I notice him—Eliot, a mage of our group, skinny as a reed with glasses perched precariously on his nose. He's trying to make himself as small as possible, a book clutched to his chest like a shield. His hair is a nondescript brown, always falling into his eyes, which he habitually pushes back up his nose. He's the picture of scholarly unease, his robes hanging off his frame, too large, as if he's yet to grow into them—and into his confidence.

Azura zeroes in on him with the precision of a hawk spotting a rabbit. There's a twisted kind of affection in her eyes, the kind that spells trouble for poor Eliot. "Come on, Eliot," she says, and it's almost gentle if not for the mischief lurking in her tone.

She strides over, grabbing Eliot by the collar and dragging him along. He stumbles, his protests lost in the rustle of leaves and Azura's chuckling. "Keep up, Four Eyes," she teases, but it's clear Eliot's comfort isn't her concern.

As they walk ahead, Eliot's shoulders hunched under Azura's firm grip, I can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy. The others share silent looks that speak volumes of their own mix of discomfort and resignation. It's a common sentiment in our class no one really approves of how Azura treats Eliot, but no one's brave enough to say it out loud. Not when Azura's the one running the show.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

-Thalia's POV

The world steadies, and I push myself up off the damp earth, a groan escaping my lips unbidden. I'm not alone in my discontent; my companions are a tableau of misery, laid out across the forest floor.

Dax is sprawled beside me, his normally alert orange eyes dull with disinterest. "Remind me again why we're doing this?" he mutters, plucking a leaf from his vibrant hair.

Rhea is sitting up, her silver eyes flicking over her gadgets with a despondent lack of her usual fervor. "Because the academy says so," she responds flatly, the words lacking her characteristic spark.

Gideon is the last to rise, his frame imposing even in defeat. He hefts his broadsword with a sigh, the weapon seeming heavier than usual in his grasp. "I'd rather be in the library," he confesses, and it's a sentiment we all share.

I dust myself off, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the crown atop my head. "Great, I'm the 'queen'," I say, the title tasting like ash in my mouth. This isn't what any of us signed up for—this senseless game of crowns and glory.

Dax finally stands, stretching with a nonchalant grace that belies his inward reluctance. "Well, your highness," he drawls, "shall we go through the motions?"

Rhea's gadgets clink together as she rises to her feet, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Might as well. It's not like we have a choice."

Gideon nods, his usual stoic demeanor in place, but the slight furrow in his brow betrays his true feelings. "Lead the way, Thalia. Let's get this over with."

And so, with heavy hearts and dragging feet, we move through the dense forest. Our steps lack the crisp precision expected from Celestial Heights Academy; we're not here to win, not really.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

-Luna's POV

A heavy sigh escapes me as I perch high on a tree limb, bow in hand. Nothing but an ocean of trees greets me, the greenery stretching endlessly. How bothersome. My grip on the bow is casual but firm; you never know what you might need to shoot at in a place like this.

Below, Nyssa is doing something that catches my eye. What's she up to? I leap down, my boots sinking into the soft earth below. I stroll over, curious. Nyssa stands and turns to me, her soft voice carrying a rare edge of seriousness. "Did you find anything?" she asks.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised at her tone. "Nothing... but what are you doing?" I can't help but probe.

She sighs, the sound deep and theatrical. "I'm just bored~," she drags out the word, a clear overemphasis on her usual cheerful demeanor.

We walk back together to where the others are waiting. Nyssa's been playing the part of the serious one for a week now, her levity buried under a facade of concern. Is it the competition that's got her acting out of character? It's hard not to be affected by it all, I suppose.

Elara greets us with a small, out-of-place smile as we approach. "Do you have any news for your queen?" Her tone is mock-serious, the crown on her head a shiny prop to her performance.

I can't help but crack a smile at her attempt to be regal. "No news," I admit. "Just trees talking to trees, and they're not saying much."

Elara's smile widens, and she can't maintain her act any longer. She breaks into soft laughter, the sound as warm as sunlight through the leaves. "Well then, we shall proceed," she says, her voice now a blend of her genuine kindness and the playfulness of our game. "Keep your eyes open, and let's find some adventure amid this monotony."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Marble halls, silent and imposing, carry the echo of footsteps that seem to resonate with a purpose darker than the shadows clinging to the corners. Kuza moves through the corridor, a solitary figure of cold determination. 

His uniform is pristine, a mockery of the institution's values he so deftly undermines. The silver serpent pin on his lapel catches the dim light, a silent ally to his deceptive cause. He's a harbinger of the storm to come, each step a quiet drumroll to the chaos that the cult will unleash.

He arrives at the door of Professor Alaric's office, its wood aged and varnished to a deceptive warmth. The professor, once a pillar of academic rigor, now reduced to a pawn in Kuza's meticulous game. Poisoned, or so Kuza made him believe—a leash made not of chains, but of fear and false hope.

With a hand that betrays no tremor, Kuza knocks. The sound is a knell that seems to linger in the air, more a summons than a request. The door creaks open, and there stands Professor Alaric, the lines of worry etched deeply into his face, a stark contrast to the youthfulness the academy's halls usually echo.

"Kuza," the professor greets, his voice a strained cord, taut with anxiety. "I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Time is a luxury we do not have," Kuza replies, his tone sharp as the blade hidden beneath his blazer. He steps into the room, his presence engulfing the space, a dark cloud obscuring the sun.

The office is cluttered, a testament to a mind preoccupied with more than just scholarly pursuits. Papers are strewn across the desk, and the musty air is thick with desperation. Alaric looks like a man on the brink, standing at the precipice of his own demise.

"I've done everything you've asked," Alaric begins, the tremble in his voice belying his attempt at composure. "Please, the antidote—"

Kuza raises a hand, silencing him with the ease of one used to command. "The antidote will be yours once you've served your purpose."

Kuza's hand, steady and sure, grazes the paper that Professor Alaric has just handed him, a sheaf filled with the security protocols recently tightened for the ongoing Test. His eyes flick over the lines of text, scanning for anything of value, anything that might serve the cult's dark agenda.

The desperation in Alaric's eyes is palpable as he watches Kuza read. "Is it... is it what you need?" he asks, hope mingling with fear in his voice.

Kuza's lips curl into a light, mirthless laugh. It's all useless. Basic precautions, nothing that he hadn't anticipated. No hidden gems among the mundane drivel of increased patrols and strengthened wards.

"You've given me nothing I didn't already know," Kuza says, the disappointment in his tone as chilling as the touch of frost.

Alaric's face falls, his last shred of hope withering under Kuza's cold gaze. "P-Please, I can find more. Just give me more time," he pleads, his hands trembling.

Kuza turns away, his eyes landing on the shelves lined with ancient tomes and dusty scrolls. "You know, Alaric," he begins, his voice as smooth as the silk bindings of the books, "there's an old story that I find... apt for this situation."

He pulls a volume from the shelf, feeling the weight of the leather-bound spine. "It tells of a creature, a loyal beast that served its master for years, fetching game, guarding the homestead." Kuza flips through the pages, not reading, but letting the sound of turning paper fill the room, a quiet prelude to the storm he's about to unleash.

"But as time wore on, the beast grew old, its senses dulled, its once-nimble legs now stiff and slow." He pauses, letting the words hang heavy in the air. "And when it could no longer perform its duties, when it had nothing left to offer..." Kuza closes the book with a soft thud.

He turns to face the professor, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "It's discarded," he finishes the tale, his voice the harbinger of doom.

Alaric's face blanches, a deep understanding dawning upon him. He stumbles backward, his voice a mere whisper. "No, please..."

Kuza taps his foot, and a dark magic circle flares to life on the ground beneath the professor's feet. Completely disrupting his mana. Alaric's screams pierce the air, a symphony of agony and despair as he sinks into the abyss that has opened beneath him.

With a sigh of disdain, Kuza steps over the circle, his work here done. "But don't worry," he calls over his shoulder, the door creaking shut behind him, "you'll make a decent meal."