“We don’t expect perfection, or anything even close to it,” Annika offers gently. “We just want you to try. Any reaction, no matter how small, will be helpful.” Wrinkles appear in the corners of her eyes. Signs of an age I’ll never reach. “Remember that being naturally inclined toward one ability doesn’t mean you can’t excel in the others. This is just a starting point, so we can help you reach your full potential.”

I look at each object, trying to figure out if I’m drawn to one more than the other. But I don’t feel any different. There’s no aura of light or magical energy buzzing in my fingertips. I don’t hear thundering drums or feel a rush of wind rippling through me.

I don’t feel like someone who can do any of this.

My body recoils, acutely aware that the entire room is watching me, waiting for me to live up to the title of Hero.

Stop second-guessing yourself and just do something. Anything! my mind scolds.

I position myself in front of the feather and try to push my doubts aside. Breathing steadily, I focus on its shape and its near weightlessness. The iridescent colors shift like oil beneath the light, and I will the plume to move.

But it remains on the wooden table, fixed in place.

Frowning, I try again. And again. And again.

I look up and find Annika watching me like she hasn’t given up on me yet.

I take a breath and move to my right, holding a shaky hand over the bowl. I wave my palm from side to side, trying to lift the veil, but nothing appears. I clear my throat and repeat the motion several times.

“Is something supposed to have happened by now?” My voice sounds like a plea.

Annika’s mouth hitches into a slight frown, but she nods toward the table with encouragement. “Keep trying, Nami. Focus your mind.”

So I concentrate on the veil and imagine it’s as simple as lifting a blanket to reveal whatever is hidden underneath. I wave my hand too hard—it knocks against the edge of the bowl, sending it scattering across the table.

“I’m sorry!” I yelp, lunging out of instinct. But I’m too nervous and my palms are sweaty, and the ceramic slips from my fingers and plummets to the graveled floor, shattering in heavy, chunky pieces. An apple rolls out of the veil, stopping at my feet.

Heart full of panic, I make the mistake of turning toward the crowd. All at once, my senses tune in. Hushed voices carry across the arena like waves of cicada cries, echoing inside my head. Their disappointment is palpable; I can see it in their faces.

I’m not who they were expecting.