Chapter 12: The Academy's Maw
The academy gates opened at dawn like a throat preparing to swallow.
Orin stood among nineteen other conditional acceptances, watching stone and iron yawn wide enough to admit their futures. The purse of twenty gold marks sat heavy in his pocket, each coin a small betrayal of whatever he'd been before desperation started making his decisions.
Marrow had delivered the payment personally, pressing the leather purse into Orin's hands with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just purchased livestock at below-market rates. The contract sat folded against Orin's chest, terms inked in language that made property sound like partnership.
*Three examinations weekly. Blood samples, circulation mapping, structural analysis. The right to invasive procedures upon mutual agreement, which really meant upon Marrow's insistence and Orin's continued need for not starving.*
Small price for climbing. Everyone said so. But then again, Everyone lied.
"Candidates, forward!"
Instructor Kael stood beyond the gates, her purple birthstone catching morning light like a threat made jewel. She looked like she'd been carved from disappointment and military discipline, features arranged to suggest competence that had murdered softer emotions decades ago.
The group shuffled through, poverty and privilege mixing with the enthusiasm of oil meeting water. Green-stones clustered together, their family names sufficient introduction. Blue-stones formed a separate constellation, respectable but aware of their limitations. And Orin, singular blackstone, an anomaly that hadn't been expelled yet through administrative oversight or cosmic error.
Caius Vermillion detached from the green-stone cluster as they crossed into the courtyard. He moved with the particular grace of people who'd never questioned whether spaces were designed for their occupation.
"Fox. I heard you secured funding." His smile suggested he knew exactly how that funding had been secured and found the desperation entertaining. "Congratulations on your continued existence."
"Survival seems to be my primary talent."
"Apparently." Caius glanced at Orin's wrapped hand, at the cloth hiding his birthstone. "That and concealment. You're still hiding what you are. Smart, probably. Though I'm curious how long you can maintain the performance."
"As long as necessary."
"Necessity has diminishing returns. Eventually the cost of hiding exceeds the danger of revelation." He said it casual, like discussing weather or philosophy, but his eyes were calculating trajectories. "When that inflection point arrives, remember I offered sponsorship. Better to be owned by someone who values you than destroyed by someone who fears you."
He walked away before Orin could formulate a response, leaving implications scattered like landmines in conversational terrain.
*He knows too much. Suspects more. That's leverage waiting to become a knife.*
The courtyard was filling with students from the upper years. They watched the new arrivals with the predatory interest of established populations evaluating fresh meat. Hierarchies were forming already, social architecture building itself from birthstone colors and family reputations.
"New blood!" someone shouted, probably thinking themselves clever. Laughter rippled through the veterans, that particular cruelty that came from people secure enough in their position to find others' vulnerability amusing.
A girl approached, maybe sixteen, her green birthstone glowing softly as she channeled essence through habitual circulation. She was beautiful in the way weapons were beautiful, all sharp edges and purposeful design.
"You're the blackstone." Not a question. An observation delivered with clinical precision. "The one who passed every trial. People are taking bets on how long you survive before reality corrects the anomaly."
"What are the odds?"
"Three-to-one you're gone by midterm. Five-to-one you're dead before winter." She smiled, and it was like glass breaking in slow motion. "I'm Lyra Ashmont. Ice affinity, minor nobility, someone you'll regret knowing."
The name registered dimly. Ashmont was old money, military lineage, the kind of family that considered casual brutality a tradition worth preserving. But her eyes held something besides inherited arrogance. Curiosity, maybe. Or the particular loneliness that came from being surrounded by people who valued you for your birthstone's color rather than whatever lived behind your face.
"Orin Fox. Void affinity, poverty stricken, and I regret most things so don't worry about it."
That got a laugh, genuine and brief. "Void affinity? That's not a real classification."
"Tell that to my birthstone."
She studied him with increased interest, the way scholars examined texts in dead languages. "Show me."
Orin hesitated, then unwrapped his hand. The void stone glittered in the morning light, silver specks swirling beneath the black surface like captured cosmology. Her expression shifted through surprise toward something almost approaching wonder.
"That's not damaged, it just looks different... Wrong somehow." She reached toward it, stopped herself. "May I?"
He extended his hand. She touched the birthstone carefully, her own green stone flaring as she channeled essence into the contact. Her eyes widened.
"It's pulling. Not hard, just constant pressure, like your stone wants to drink mine." She released him, flexing her fingers. "What happened to you?"
"Collapsed half beaten in a forgotten shrine. Moonlight and broken mirrors did some weird shit. The usual origin story for things that shouldn't exist."
"Most things that shouldn't exist get disappeared by people who prefer predictable hierarchies." Lyra wrapped his hand again, surprisingly gentle. "You should keep this hidden. The wrong instructor sees it, you become a research subject in some noble's private laboratory."
*Too late for that warning. Already signed the contract.*
"Noted."
"I'm serious, Fox. The academy tolerates anomalies until they threaten the established order. Then tolerance becomes elimination disguised as necessary correction." She stepped back, adjusting to proper stranger distance. "But I'm curious to how this develops. Try not to die before I can study the interesting ways you break the norm."
She left him standing there, socialization complete, her curiosity cataloged for future reference.
*Everyone wants to study the anomaly. Nobody asks if the anomaly wants to be examined.*
"All first-term students, assemble!"
Kael's voice cut through courtyard noise like authority's favorite knife. The new admits clustered before her, nineteen futures waiting for instruction.
"Welcome to the military academy. You've passed entrance requirements, which confirms you possess baseline competency. Congratulations. That competency will now be systematically destroyed and rebuilt into something functional." She paced before them, each step measured. "The academy operates on three principles: hierarchy, discipline, and survival. Your birthstone determines your starting position. Your effort determines whether you climb or fall. Your choices determine whether you graduate or get buried in the memorial garden where we plant failures."
The speech was probably meant to inspire. However It arrived like a diagnosis of terminal conditions delivered by someone who found the prognosis boring.
"You will be assigned to combat groups based on birthstone classification and demonstrated capability. Green-stones receive advanced cultivation training and tactical instruction. Blue-stones focus on enhancement techniques and support roles. Blackstones..." She paused, eyes finding Orin. "Blackstones receive remedial conditioning and are assigned to logistics training, where your limited capacity can still contribute to collective function."
Translation: green-stones became officers, blue-stones became soldiers, blackstones became expendable labor with military structure.
*Except I'm not actually blackstone anymore. I'm something else wearing blackstone's skin.*
"Instructor Varen will handle combat training. Instructor Seles manages cultivation techniques. I oversee tactical theory and strategic implementation." Kael gestured toward the academy's main building. "Dormitories are assigned by birthstone tier. Green-stones occupy the north wing, blue-stones the east, blackstones the south basement level."
Of course. Hierarchy expressed through architecture. Can't have valuable students sleeping near defective ones.
"Classes begin this afternoon. Until then, familiarize yourselves with facilities, collect your uniforms and try not to kill each other." She paused. "That last instruction becomes optional after you've signed the combat liability waivers."
The group dispersed, fracturing along birthstone lines like social geology. Green-stones moved toward the north wing with proprietary confidence. Blue-stones headed east, respectable and aware of it.
Orin descended into the south basement alone, where the academy kept its charity cases and pretended generosity was happening.
The basement smelled like institutional neglect and old resignation. Narrow hallways, dim lighting, doors marked with numbers instead of names because naming implied personhood. He found his assigned room, a cell optimistic people might call accommodation.
Eight feet by six. Stone walls weeping moisture. A cot that had witnessed previous occupants and probably remembered their failures. A desk sized for people who wouldn't use it. A window too small and high for escape or adequate light.
*Home for the next however-long-I-survive.*
He set his few possessions on the desk: the contract with Marrow, the wrapped cloth for his birthstone, a knife he'd stolen from a contractor who wouldn't need it anymore. Everything he owned fit in a space smaller than most people's closets.
Footsteps in the hallway, approaching. Heavy boots, military cadence. Orin turned as a figure filled his doorway.
Instructor Varen, combat specialist, the man who'd taught him lessons through controlled brutality during the entrance exam. He looked larger in the confined space, his green birthstone visible on a hand that probably had killed more people than Orin had met.
"Fox. Settling in?"
"Admiring the amenities."
Varen's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Basement accommodations build character. Also build resentment, desperation, and occasionally homicidal tendencies. But mostly character." He stepped inside, the room shrinking further. "I reviewed your exam performance. You lasted three minutes against me, landed solid hits, showed technique that shouldn't exist in someone with your background."
"Read a lot of books. Observed fights."
"Books don't teach muscle memory. Observation doesn't embed combat reflexes." He studied Orin with professional interest. "You fought like someone with training. Not formal, not polished, but present. Where'd you learn?"
*Lately? From people I drained while they were dying. Stole their techniques along with their essence.*
"Streets. Survival education."
"Streets teach brawling. You demonstrated systematic approach to targeting, efficient movement patterns, tactical assessment under pressure." Varen leaned against the doorframe. "I'm not accusing, Fox. I'm curious. Blackstones don't develop those capabilities naturally because you don't have the strength, speed or duribility for the training required. So either you're an exceptional genetic lottery winner, or something else is happening."
The observation was dangerous, precise. Varen was experienced enough to recognize anomalies, connected enough to report them.
"Maybe I'm just trying harder than most blackstones, maybe I'm sick of being treated less than human."
"Maybe." He pushed off the frame, preparing to leave. "Or maybe you're smart enough to hide what you are until revealing it serves your interests. Either way, watch yourself. The academy tolerates diversity until diversity threatens established hierarchy. Then tolerance becomes correction."
Second warning in an hour. Consensus was forming: hide or die.
Varen left, his footsteps receding like judgment deferred. Orin sat on the cot, feeling springs that had given up supporting previous occupants. The void stone pulsed against his palm, satisfied with its accumulated essence, hungry for more.
Fifty-six strength. Fifty-three dexterity. Numbers that made him dangerous but forced him into performance. Pretending weakness while containing power. Threading needles made of other people's expectations.
*How long can I maintain this? How long before someone tests me hard enough that hiding becomes dying?*
The questions sat unanswered, academic until circumstance demanded resolution.
Outside his window, the academy continued its daily consumption of youth and ambition, grinding them into soldiers or corpses, calling both outcomes service. The memorial garden waited, patient as hunger, ready to plant whoever failed the transformation.
Orin lay back, staring at the ceiling stones that had witnessed previous blackstones' failures, and wondered which would break first: the performance, the system, or whatever remained of the boy he'd been before the void started rewriting his fundamental nature.
The void stone offered no comfort, just constant pressure, endless appetite, the promise that power would solve problems power had created.
Somewhere above, green-stones were laughing, their birthstones bright with inherited advantage.
Somewhere deeper, the void was patient, counting essence consumed and cataloging all the essence waiting to be devoured.
And in between, Orin Fox practiced being weak, practiced being harmless, practiced being anything except what he'd become.
The academy's maw had swallowed him whole.
Now came the digestion.