With the payment completed, and a final will mentally drafted, the receptionist escorted the pair deeper into the building. Now donning a black vest, with violet embroidery, she explained the qualifications of the combat authorizations. A set of tests to determine competence in magical arts. Teasing if the youngster desired to enter the public showcase or a private examination. Carried by enthusiasm Cymir jumped for the showcase, yet Menor intervened for a private test. Whilst silencing any protests.

  Through several doors and carpeted corridors they arrived. The staging grounds; where the tests were held. A spacious room covered in grass turf used for a variety of events. Akin to the testing grounds of Eastline's College the walls glistened with a slight shimmer. Lit by the usual skylights, crowds of people gathered on the open field. Within the mass several individuals threw around a plethora of magics.

  Weakly gesturing towards that direction, the receptionist explained with stare of discontent. Normally the showcases were for recruiters and usually drew little attention. However, coincidentally, esteemed individuals gathered today. Drawing some renowned groups hungry for talent and connections.

  Following the wall the trio moved quickly and quietly. Through a second pair of doors they avoiding the crowd. Compared to the commotion of the room prior, this spot held an uneasy silence. Although styled in a similar manner. A line of doors stretched along the far wall. Cymir guessed each led to private rooms. There the area's supervisor greeted them with a yawn.

  With no more than a dozen words an examiner appeared and escorted Cymir to one of the rooms. Beyond its door stood a design of a proper facility. Footsteps echoed under the fairly-stale air. Concrete and reflected light encased the room and reached far into the distance. Targets lined up at the other end. The goal of the first test looked obvious. However...

  "Isn't this... supposed to be private?" Cymir asked with a tilted head.

  "Moral support," Menor replied.

  "Boredom," the supervisor answered.

  "I'm on lunch break," said the receptionist.

  "Friends are allowed to watch," explained the examiner.

  "I don't know two of them!" Cymir replied

  "That is indeed a problem," the examiner agreed, "She's Roy, He's Molly. They're my friends."

  Blinking, the youth scratch the back of his head and paced around. What was the point of the test being private then? After circling a few times... Fine. Although the complete disregard of naming conventions, his desire for the public showcase lingered.

  As it goes, undesired emotions swiftly changed to a joyous one. Thumbs up indicated acceptance. Clearing his voice the supervisor explained the first test in brief words. To such Cymir closed his eyes with a breath exhaled.

  Afar stood the line of targets lacking visual variance. Plates of red carrying small tails for counterbalances. Each strung together by a metal rod. With his hands raised, scenes flooded his mind. To strike those beyond reach. To see the red of there... Picturing the star that shattered the last moon. He recalled those liberating words. With that, magical energy began to swirl- Menor smacked him.

  "What the fuck!" Cymir cried.

  "Don't do that," Menor replied.

  "Why did you do that!?"

  "You didn't hear me the first two times."

  "Still what the fuck!"

  Bitterness held his thoughts. Cymir mumbled a word of dissatisfied disagreement. If such a choice failed then another would do. Maybe a faithful arrow whose shot pierced a mountain. Once more magical energy began to gather- another slap and a cuss escaped his lips.

  By the third hit Menor shook his head with a sigh. Turning to the intrigued audience the man requested a few moments of much-needed review. Allowed, he dragged the oblivious, and angered, companion to the side.

  An inquiry was shot. Did the youngster know how examinations went? Letting out a huff Cymir returned the question. One of them had to be tested while the other did not. Such brought a wry smile to the prober's face. Despite that a bit of goading brought another question. Combat Authorization.

  Rolling his eyes, Cymir spat out a blunt answer. The authorization allowed the use of magic outside permitted locations and scale. Although correct, a stare pulled his tongue further. He elaborated how the examination aimed for its participants to display competence in magical arts via showcasing control and ability. All forms of magical arts were allowed from magi to gicma. Only the initial requirements needed to be reached.

  Another stare acted as the response. Irritated he turned away to resume the test. Only to be stopped when Menor agreed. The man emphasized that one of the qualities were clearly lacking. From a hand flick a burst of air rushed through the room. Such an action knocked over half of the targets while the rest swayed at different paces.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The quick ploy caught the attention of the examiner. Who threw warnings at the pair. Smiling Menor claimed to be helping his companion calm their nerves. A cool breeze comforts the mind as it's known.

  Finally, with bitter thoughts, Cymir began to think. The targets afar swung at different paces. Each stopping in sequence. The prior magics planned would of definitely worked. Enough to destroy- oh. Racking his brain he scoured for something else.

  While he pondered, Menor walked over to the chatting spectators. Such a situation only need patience. Taking the moment he inquired about the day's public showcase. If such a crowd gathered then the individuals partaking it should be renown. Although potential connections are rewarding, hearing a particular named spoiled the idea.

  Ready. Cymir called over the examiner. Once more standing at the shooting perch he began. Slowly closing his eyes he inhaled. The single breath of magical energy was all that he needed. Raising a hand he recalled...

  From those early times held a special moment. A conversation between childhood friends. They laughed under a pine tree coated in sunset light. The tranquil winds caressed a field of flowers near them. Leading an aerial dance of petals of all shapes and sizes. One of the two whistled a sweet melody as the other played with stones. Tossing them at panels of wood. Innocent and ignorant. That day they made a promise.

  Feeling warmth blanketing his body, of the precious moment, Cymir opened his eyes. Stones began to form in the air. Accompanied by scent of nectoret blooms they grew from nothing. Forming petals. Numbering just enough for each target. With confidence he pulled back his arm and swung. Akin to those who ruled the earth.

  Spinning through the air each of the petals hit their mark. One by one the targets fell, spinning around their binding pole. Each increased in strength compared to the prior. As the last stone shot true every target spun.

  Satisfied Cymir turned to the spectators. The examiner smiled as they noted down the results. The outsiders clapped with cheers. Hearing such an applause brought a grin of embarrassment to him. However, Menor... Where did he go? Saddened by the absence of the so called best he could only pout later. Perhaps nature called?

  Moving on the examiner tossed a small block of wood. It bounced to a stop by the youngster's foot. Pick it up. Such were the instructions. Even since he learned of the practice the youth could not help but ponder its bizarreness. Leaning over he collected the block and returned it. To the act the examiner reminded the task tested magical competency. Steadfast the youth nodded. Thus ended the second test.

  After such they returned to the main hall. For the third test the examiner walked to the center of the room. Once more tossing the wooden block into the grass before stretching. With a clap a he clasped his hand. Sounds, akin to falling stones, gushed out as the earth swallowed the block. Not a moment after the ground swelled, rose and compressed into a sphere. Smaller and smaller its size shrunk till no larger than a palm. Knocking on the ball the examiner grinned and tossed it over.

  Catching the sphere it slipped from Cymir's hands due to the unexpected weight and dull scent. The task this time called for the wood's retrieval from inside the ball. Sounded simple enough. With care he picked up the ball and rolled it from hand to hand. Despite feeling the rough texture, his fingers glided over its surface as if they were dipped in oil. The dirt had transformed into polished stone.

  Even after dropping the ball not a single blemish could be found. Such led to an impervious impression, but if magic created then it shall undo it. Yet how? He could split the surface with a blade or soak it with a liquid to loosen it. Perhaps slowly chipping away the dirt? Or even dehydrate the ball to create cracks. Dozens of solutions flew through his mind.

  However, if he remembered correctly, the issue laid with the wooden core. Taking note of the first task, the youth began to clear away the ideas. Slowly but surely finding the best method to ace the examination.

  A deep breath left Cymir. Cupping the ball in his hands he closed his eyes and followed the steps of prior magic. Drawing forth a gentle art. Artisan Arts. Recent memories began to mix. The scent bitterness from the study and the warm anticipation of pastries tied by a sea's smell.

  Under a focused mind magical energy rushed from his grasp and into the dirt. This moment he recalled the fading summer's festivals of a seaside town. A day of festivities and a river of drifting blossoms set out to sea. Through those scenes the dirt orb bloomed.

  Splitting from its top the dirt began to peel away. Layer by layer its crust opened akin to a flower. With no flamboyance nor fanfare the dirt petals continued to pull back. Revealing glimpses of its hidden core. Had it been minutes or maybe hours? Cymir could not tell. Yet once the final petal pulled back he gasped for air.

  The act had taken more than expected. Once he wiped the sweat from his face he gently plucked out the wooden block. With careful steps the blocked return to the examiner's hand with a toss. A conflicted smile appeared on their face while checking the results. Dense and muddied wood grains described the block. Outside of the initial compression nothing else stood out. Even the observing pair quietly commented.

  "I've seen enough," said the examiner, "But one last question before I let you go."

  Cymir tilted his head. He did not recall such extra necessaries.

  "What is arcadamain magi?"

  "The manipulation of the environment through external means?"

  Swiping the earthen flower, Menor asked, "Why do you always respond with questions?"

  "Where've you been?!"

  Menor waved a slip of paper and played coy. Paperwork took precedence he claimed. Slipping the page to the examiner he juggled the flower from hand to hand. With a few words of praise he nonchalantly tossed it to Roy while whispering to the examiner. As the thrown art stole everyone's gaze the examiner faintly refuted.

  As Roy caught the flower, Menor quickly pushed his close associate. Swift legs brought them out of the room. They had a schedule to keep he hollered back. To such the examiner shook his head. Writing down a single line on his clipboard.

  Half of the tests completed, testing finished early, results adequate.

  Moving at a brief pace Menor poked at Cymir's final response. For an individual who shot moonlight twice, the answer held no wit or expression. To such an acquisition the youth could not help but retort. He threw the question right back. Before the reply another individual announced their presence.

  A participant of the public showcase came running over. Her eyes, full of malice, aimed at Menor. Coarse words lined up along with his name. Yet only the simple dismissal of existence was given to the newcomer.

  However Cymir, as unknowns brought curiosity, turned towards the owner of the insulting lines. A single glance brought a description to mind. Of those eyes of pale snow her dim red hair shined with legacy. Wearing the sapphire cloak and weaved hat of her ancestry she stood tall. The insignia of a crown encased in waves displayed a hereditary might, yet the most notable of her description was the vain glare that cared not for all but herself. A prodigy of magic.

  Her name Annabella Brim Sol and she just challenged the best of her generation.