Jake had known the name of his new world long before the Trial began. Brockwing Vale. The moment he'd first heard of the exam, the name had rooted itself in his imagination. A paradise, he'd always thought — a place filled with magic and wonder, where dreams could become reality. Creating it, however, would be the true challenge.
There was no ticking clock. No ten‑minute warning. No gentle reminder. He had to write as if time were slipping through his fingers, because it was.
He sat at a tiny wooden desk, a blank scroll unfurled before him like a challenge issued by the universe itself. The hall still held the other students, yet he couldn't hear a single breath from them. Even his own cough vanished into silence. For a moment, panic flared — he thought he'd lost his father's cherished fountain pen — but then he realised he was still gripping it tightly.
He exhaled, stretching his arms. It was past time to begin.
The moment the pen touched the parchment, the scroll reacted. A faint pulse rippled through the wood beneath his elbows, and the ink thickened as if testing him. Splashes of blue and green shimmered across the page as he wrote of vast tropical oceans teeming with life. The words sank into the parchment as quickly as he formed them, absorbed by the school's powerful magic. He wasn't just writing anymore — he was shaping.
And the shaping pushed back.
Sometimes subtly — a drag of ink, a tremor beneath the parchment. Sometimes sharply — a sudden resistance that made his wrist jolt. It reminded him of the training exercises in class, when the instructors warned them that creation magic was alive in its own way. It responded. It judged. It demanded structure.
He could almost hear his instructor's voice: "Creation is a dialogue, not a command. If you force it, it breaks." Jake had broken plenty of practice scrolls.
Beginnings had always been the hardest part. He wanted a large island, that much he knew, surrounded by endless seas. From those uncharted depths, mountains would rise, and rocky plains would stretch toward the horizon. The scroll resisted slightly at the mention of mountains, the ink dragging as if demanding justification. He added tectonic pressure beneath the ocean floor, and the resistance eased.
Rules. There were always rules.
He froze. Soil. Fertile soil. He'd nearly forgotten. Rich earth would need to cover the continent, with foliage flourishing everywhere. Trees of every size and type would litter the land, perfect for producing oxygen. He chuckled under his breath. Of course, they needed trees — his family would prefer to breathe when they arrived.
A sun and a moon. He needed those, too.
Without them, temperatures would plummet, storms would rage unpredictably, and life would be impossible. He wondered how many students would forget such a basic requirement. Hopefully, Asher and Violet weren't among them.
He rested his chin on his hand, thinking. Billions of stars would scatter across the night sky. One day, his family and friends might even explore them. The scroll warmed slightly at the thought — a sign, perhaps, that celestial bodies were easier to stabilise than ecosystems.
He wished he knew how much time remained. He didn't know what would happen after the exam — whether he'd be transported into his new realm to await his family, or left sitting in this silent hall.
Enough. He was wasting time.
The enforced silence made sense now. The examiner wouldn't be doing his job if he allowed even whispered distractions. Jake could almost feel the man's gaze on the back of his neck, as if measuring the stability of every line he wrote.
Brockwing Vale would have a pleasant climate, with scattered cloud cover and four familiar seasons. There would be frequent rain and occasional mild storms. Jake had always loved lightning shows as a child; his father used to take him outside to watch them. As he wrote, the scroll vibrated faintly — approving, perhaps, of the atmospheric balance.
He mentally tallied what he'd created so far, then gave up and wrote a list at the bottom of the page. He wasn't leaving anything to chance.
Brockwing Vale: Sun. Moon. Seas. Skies. Weather. Plants. Sealife. Land.
He slapped his forehead. Land‑dwelling creatures. Homes. His mother would have his hide if they ended up living in leaf tents.
Birds would nest in the highest canopies. Songbirds — his mother adored them before they vanished from Earth. Deer, for his father. They would hunt only what they needed. But Jake didn't want to stop at familiar species. He'd always dreamed of discovering something new, and now he had the chance to create it.
Cattle, dogs, cats, mice, chickens, frogs, monkeys, bears… dragons.
He paused. Why had he written that? A dragon in a peaceful world? The scroll's ink darkened, as if weighing the complexity. Perhaps a good dragon — wise, sarcastic, with a dark sense of humour. One who lived in the mountains, far from his mother's nerves. He was getting carried away, but the ink was already dry. He had to continue.
Their home would be a vast grey‑stone castle, overshadowed by a mysterious waterfall stretching from east to west. The water would collect into a natural moat, winding around grassy banks before feeding into a wide river.
A pivoting drawbridge would control access.
Magic would flow through the land, disguised as rivers, pools, and streams. Travellers from distant realms would visit, and those daring enough to drink the water might gain unique powers — no matter their species. The scroll pulsed warmly at that, as if recognising a foundational rule.
Open balconies would overlook the mist‑covered river. On certain nights, the yellow moon would loom so large it would feel within reach. Gardens of fruit and vegetables would sustain them for years.
The castle would hold over eighty bedrooms, each filled with intricate furniture and colourful tiles. The kitchens would be enormous, staffed by goblins, humans, dwarves, elves, and faeries — all free to come and go, bringing recipes and tales from across the continent.
A knot tightened in Jake's stomach. Friendship. He'd forgotten to include his friends. And time was running out.
Asher, Violet, and their families would always be welcome. He'd set aside rooms just for them. Violet, pure of heart and endlessly fascinated by elves, would probably move into the kitchens. Asher, ever the adventurer, would relish exploring Brockwing Vale.
Together, they would chart the massive cavern system beneath the island. Perhaps an ancient civilisation lived there. And werewolves — peaceful ones — would roam the northern plains, fully aware of their origins.
What was he missing? Think, Jake.
Anya.
He would build a romantic cabin for them beside a river, with a grassy path leading into an old forest. They could walk beneath a star‑filled sky, build a life together. One day, he'd get down on one knee—
A faint tremor rippled through the scroll, so subtle Jake almost missed it. The ink shimmered, then thinned, as if the parchment itself were hesitating. He frowned. That had never happened in practice sessions. Creation magic usually responded with clarity — approval or resistance — not uncertainty.
"Come on," he whispered. "What now?"
The scroll pulsed again, this time with a low hum that vibrated up his arms. His heartbeat quickened. He'd read about this in one of his father's old manuals — rare cases where a creator's emotions tangled with the shaping process, blurring intention and outcome. It was a sign of inexperience. A warning that the magic was slipping out of alignment.
Jake tightened his grip on the pen. "Focus. Just focus."
But the parchment didn't settle. The ink bled outward in thin, branching lines, like veins spreading across skin. The air thickened, warm and heavy, and a faint metallic taste coated his tongue. Something was building — pressure, expectation, maybe even anticipation.
He swallowed hard. Had he pushed too far? Added too much? Or worse… created something unstable?
The scroll gave one final pulse — sharp, decisive — and the ink snapped back into place.
Jake exhaled shakily.
Then the world tore open.
The world around him stretched. A keening noise rose, growing louder. Suddenly, he felt himself tumbling, as if pulled down a drain. A whirlpool of memories spun around him — people, places, moments flashing past.
With a thunderous clatter, he landed on his feet in a white void. There was no Brockwing Vale. No classroom. Nothing.
What was happening?
A crack split the silence. Light burst through. Heat washed over him. The roar of some monstrous creature shook the air.
He opened one eye.
Hundreds of sharpened yellow teeth filled his vision. Hot, toxic breath washed over him. His life flashed before his eyes.
He stood face to face with a giant red dragon.
And the worst part?
He recognised it.
It was the one he'd written — the one he'd created without thinking, without planning, without balancing its power. The scroll had absorbed every detail, every instinct, every careless flourish of imagination.
And now it stood before him, real and far too powerful for someone at his level.
Jake swallowed hard.
This wasn't just a creature.
It was his first test.
His first mistake.
His first challenge to overcome.
And if he wanted to survive Brockwing Vale — his own world — he would have to grow stronger. Much stronger.