Chapter 45: Entrance Exam (7)
The days on the road bled into each other like a smudged painting.
At first, Lucien had tried to keep track, counting hours, logging terrain changes in his mind, even studying when the carriage ride wasn’t shaking the brain out of his skull.
But the road had other plans.
It started with rain.
A torrential downpour on the fourth day turned the dirt path into a bog of despair.
The carriage wheels sank with a sickening squelch, deep into the cloying, sticky mud.
No amount of coaxing would move them.
“Well,” the driver said, voice flat and deadpan, “either we wait for the gods to lift this carriage or we push.”
So they pushed.
Lucien, boots sliding and cloak soaked through, strained alongside the driver, his palms blistering as they heaved against the wheel.
The rain soaked his hair, ran into his eyes, and turned the world into a watercolor blur.
After an hour of grunts, curses, and near-accidental faceplants into the muck, the wheel finally jerked free with a triumphant lurch, right as Lucien slipped backward and fell into a puddle with all the grace of a stunned frog.
“...We did it,” he wheezed, flat on his back.
The driver grinned.
“City boy’s got some fight in him.”
Lucien groaned in response.
But the rain was merciful compared to what followed.
On the sixth night, the forest around them began to howl.
“Wolves?”
Lucien asked, already halfway to climbing back into the carriage.
“Worse,” the driver muttered grimly.
“Hungry wolves.”
The snarling came fast, five pairs of glowing eyes in the darkness, circling the light of their campfire.
There was no time for strategy.
The driver snapped the reins and the horses bolted, Lucien barely clinging onto the side as they barreled down the moonlit path.
One wolf lunged and scraped its claws against the wheel well, another bit at Lucien’s boot before getting kicked in the muzzle.
It was only after what felt like hours, after crossing a shallow stream, that the wolves finally peeled away, deterred by the current.
Lucien collapsed inside the carriage, chest heaving.
“Is this... Is this normal?!”
The driver lit a fresh cigar with shaking hands.
“Normal? Nah. This is travel.”
On the ninth day, things got worse.
They came to a fork in the road, and for once, the path ahead was clear.
No mud.
No wolves.
Just a straight line through an open grove.
But the moment their eyes fell upon it, both Lucien and the driver felt it.
That chill.
No wind, no scent.
Just silence.
Heavy.
Like the trees had stopped breathing.
Like the air was holding its breath.
Lucien glanced at the driver.
“You feel that?”
The driver didn’t answer.
He just turned the carriage around and took the longer detour without a word.
Neither of them ever spoke about it again.
But on the twelfth day, after cursed paths, restless nights, and enough bad luck to fill a grim fairy tale, they saw it.
Vadena.
The Capital city.
Lucien leaned out of the carriage window, jaw slack.
Fortress didn’t do it justice.
The city walls soared so high they seemed to pierce the sky.
Stone layered upon stone, enchanted and weather-worn, inscribed with ancient wards that shimmered faintly even under the daylight.
Archers patrolled the parapets like silent statues.
The main gates stood wide, flanked by twin statues of lions carved from pure obsidian.
It was less a city and more a monument to human perseverance.
“By the stars,” Lucien whispered.
“It’s enormous.”
“Twelve days of hell and here we are,” the driver said with a tired smile.
“Welcome to Vadena, lad.”
After a short wait at the outer checkpost and some brief questioning, they were allowed through.
The gates parted with a deep creak, and the carriage rolled forward, swallowed by the heartbeat of the capital.
Within the walls, the streets bustled with students in crisp uniforms, merchants shouting over each other, noble carriages gilded in silver, and strange constructs patrolling with arcane cores glowing like small suns.
Lucien stepped down once they stopped near a public square, his satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Well,” the driver said, offering his hand.
“Here’s where we part ways. I’ll be back in two weeks’ time, right here. Don’t be late, or I’m charging double.”
Lucien grinned, shaking the man’s hand firmly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good luck with that fancy exam. Don’t die.”
“I’ll try my best not to.”
And with that, the carriage rattled off into the crowd, swallowed by the river of life flowing through the capital.
Lucien took a deep breath, the scent of stone, steel, parchment, and roasting chestnuts filling his lungs.
Now came the next trial: surviving the capital, finding an inn… and preparing for the exam that could change everything.
He squared his shoulders.
“Alright, Lucien,” he muttered to himself.
“Let’s go find a hole in the wall you can afford.”
***
The heavens opened up again.
A cold sheet of rain came down without warning, as if the skies above Vadena had a grudge against travelers and dreamers.
Fat droplets pelted the cobbled roads, turning dust into slurry, ink into streaks, and Lucien's enthusiasm into regret.
"Not again," Lucien muttered, clutching his bag over his head like a makeshift umbrella.
His satchel swung on one shoulder, his luggage now repurposed as a waterlogged shield.
He tried to skitter beneath awnings and overhangs, but the street was a symphony of chaos.
Crowds surged.
Vadena was a city in motion, always.
People darted and trudged, weaving through each other with an unspoken rhythm, a tide of bodies that flowed through the main avenue like a river with a current.
Lucien, foreign and already half-drenched, was swept along with them.
“Hey! Watch it!”
He gasped as elbows jabbed and shoulders collided.
The rain slicked the stone underfoot, and for a second, he thought he might slip and be trampled.
This is how I die, he thought grimly.
Not in a magical duel.
Not in the exam.
Just trampled to death by middle-class foot traffic.
With sheer desperation, he shoved his way out of the current, stumbling into a side alley.
He leaned against the wet wall, catching his breath as the sound of the crowd muffled into a distant roar behind him.
That was when he saw it.
A small inn tucked between two looming buildings, almost hidden, The Hearthside Rest, its sign read in neat script.
Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, and the faint scent of bread and roasted herbs drifted from within.
Lucien didn’t hesitate.
He barged in, tracking mud and rainwater on the polished wooden floor, shivering as warmth rushed over him like a balm.
The hearth crackled at the far end.
A few patrons sat by the fire or hunched over bowls of stew, and behind the counter, a plump woman with tightly braided hair and sharp eyes looked up.
“I need a room,” Lucien said, wiping rain from his brow, trying not to drip on the rug.
“Three silvers a night,” she replied crisply.
“Breakfast included. Tea’s extra.”
Lucien let out a breath of relief.
That was reasonable.
Very reasonable for Vadena.
He reached for his coin pouch.
His hand met nothing but damp fabric.
His heart stopped.
He patted again.
Checked his belt.
Checked his satchel.
“No no no no no.”
Lucien muttered, frantically opening his satchel and flipping open the smaller pouch.
It jingled with coins, copper.
His decoy purse.
Just enough for snacks and toll gates.
The main purse, the one with the silvers and golds.
Gone.
He had been pickpocketed.
Right there in the crowd.
He hadn’t even felt it.
The realization hit him like the rain outside.
Cold.
Merciless.
“I... I don’t have enough,” he said slowly, turning back to the woman.
She frowned.
“Well, then you don’t have a room. You think I run a charity? Out.”
Lucien blinked.
“Wait, no, just, if I could-”
“Out.”
She pointed at the door.
Lucien stood there for a moment, soaked and shivering, a thousand emotions rising and dying behind his eyes.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out into the rain.
The door shut behind him with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
Back on the street, the rain hadn’t let up.
It poured, relentless, like the sky itself was laughing.
Lucien stood under a crooked awning, soaked through and through, watching the lantern lights shimmer in the puddles.
His luggage sagged with water, his hair plastered to his forehead.
The capital loomed around him, stone and steel and smoke, uncaring and immense.
He was alone.
Broke.
And cold.
“Welcome to Vadena,” Lucien muttered, voice flat as the clouds above.
***
The cold had teeth.
Lucien’s boots splashed through ankle-deep puddles as he dragged himself down the slick cobblestone streets.
The wind howled like it wanted to peel the skin off his bones, and each gust carried a fresh barrage of icy rain that sliced through his soaked clothes and straight into his muscles.
His fingers were numb.
His legs ached.
His breath came out in ragged, trembling gasps.
This wasn’t just rain anymore.
It was punishment.
The capital loomed around him in shadow and blurred lights, towering buildings, shuttered shops, chimneys coughing smoke into the storm.
People had vanished from the streets, sheltering in warm homes and busy taverns.
He was the only fool left wandering.
Lucien turned into an alley, legs wobbling, and leaned against a cold, wet stone wall.
He slid down it slowly, too exhausted to care about dignity anymore, until he was seated in the filth and runoff.
His luggage sat next to him, soaked and sagging.
His limbs shivered uncontrollably, muscles clenching and unclenching without rhythm.
“I just need to rest,” he muttered, hugging his knees.
“Just for a bit. Then I’ll… try again.”
But his voice sounded thin in the rain, swallowed immediately by the storm.
The cold was creeping deeper now.
Not just discomfort, but real, dangerous chill.
The kind that numbed the tips of fingers and blurred thoughts.
His teeth clattered together like dice in a cup.
He curled tighter into himself, trying to preserve the fragile heat his body still had left.
And then, suddenly, the rain stopped.
He blinked.
Not the storm.
The storm was still going strong, howling winds, hammering rain, distant thunder rumbling like an angry god.
But not a drop was landing on him.
Lucien looked up.
Above him shimmered a translucent dome, faintly blue, like glass fogged with breath.
The rain curved around it, unable to breach the barrier.
He was dry.
Or at least no longer getting wetter.
“What the hell…”
A flicker of warm light approached from the far end of the alley.
Lucien squinted.
Through the blur of rain and fog, a figure approached, hooded, cloaked, a softly glowing lantern in one hand and a bundle of groceries in the other.
A similar shimmering dome hovered over the figure, turning the rain into harmless streams that slithered down its sides.
The light of the lantern danced against the wet walls, casting long shadows.
Lucien tensed, unsure if he should stand, speak, or just vanish into the bricks behind him.
The figure stopped a few feet away, and for a moment, said nothing.
Then, finally, a voice cut through the downpour, calm, clear, and just loud enough to be heard over the storm.
“…Are you alright?”
Lucien swallowed hard.
His voice cracked.
“Y-Yeah. Just… enjoying the weather.”
The figure chuckled, gently, like someone who had heard that kind of stubborn pride before.
“You don’t look alright,” they said.
“You look like you’re about five minutes from turning into a statue.”
Lucien didn’t answer.
The figure took a step forward.
The lantern’s light now revealed more details, slender hands, neatly pressed gloves, the bottom hem of a coat that brushed the tops of ragged boots.
“Lost your room?”
The voice asked again.
Not accusing.
Just… understanding.
Lucien nodded.
“Lost my coin purse,” he admitted quietly.
“Guess I wasn’t paying attention in the crowd.”
The figure hummed.
“Pickpockets are worse during storm season. Everyone’s distracted.”
They looked at him for a long moment.
“Come with me.”
Lucien hesitated.
“I- I don’t want to be a burden, I just-”
“You won’t be,” the figure interrupted gently.
“You’re freezing. And if you don’t stand up now, I’ll have to levitate your half-frozen body through the rain, and I’d really rather not.”
There was a small, joking lilt to their tone, but Lucien saw the seriousness behind their eyes.
Still shivering, he nodded slowly.
His legs screamed in protest as he tried to rise, his hands barely responding.
But the figure stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm, hoisting him up with surprising strength.
“Easy,” they murmured.
“We’ll get you somewhere warm. Then we can worry about the rest.”
Lucien looked at the stranger.
The magical dome shimmered overhead, separating them from the misery of the storm, and in the light of the lantern, for the first time since entering the capital, Lucien felt something warm.
Not heat.
Hope.
***
