Page 10 of The Fifth Heir

The dark-stoned torc settled around his neck.

“Sebastian of the Veiled Archive,” the headmaster called. “Chosen heir of Shadow.”

Sebastian touched the torc with two fingers. The movement was brief, almost disbelieving. Then his gaze dropped to the rune beneath his boots as though being selected had made the inscription more interesting, not less.

He bowed to the Prism.

The third beam formed before the applause finished.

Silver light crossed the Storm candidates.

Rafe’s smile disappeared.

The beam found him immediately, passing over no one else. Lightning snapped across the silver embroidery at his cuffs and traveled up his arms without burning the fabric.

A low murmur came from the candidates. The Prism was not supposed to favor speed or certainty, but no one could mistake what it had done.

Rafe looked toward the galleries again.

Whoever he had been searching for was forgotten now.

The third torc changed in the air, its clear stones deepening to the gray-blue of an approaching storm. It locked around his throat.

“Rafe of the Western Tempest,” the headmaster said. “Chosen heir of Storm.”

Rafe recovered enough to bow, though he did it with less precision than Sebastian. When he straightened, the easy humor had not returned to his face.

Three heirs.

I looked toward Camilla.

Her hands had curled into fists.

Only one torc remained. Pale blue light shone from its clear stones, but the color had not yet settled. It could still change. The final selection did not have to be Frost simply because the torc had awakened that way.

It could become green.

I found myself holding my breath.

The Prism brightened.

A blue-white beam formed inside it and turned toward Leander’s line.

For the first time, he moved. Not much—only lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders—but the confidence of the gesture made it clear that he expected the light to find him.

It did.

The beam crossed the Frost candidates and stopped at the center of his chest. Ice spread over the floor beneath his boots in a perfect circle.

The fourth torc flew to him. Pale blue stones flashed as it fastened around his throat.

“Leander of the Northern Crown,” the headmaster announced. “Chosen heir of Frost.”

The Frost delegation bowed.

The galleries erupted.

The fourth selection released everything the audience had restrained during the first three. Families stood. Applause filled the Hall, accompanied by shouts from the military section for Torren and a rolling crack of thunder from Rafe’s supporters. The sound struck the walls and returned through the acoustical runes until it seemed twice as loud.