"—concludes the written trial. Stand by rows, right to left, and submit your folios to the front."
Arthur jolted awake, rubbing the grit from his eyes. The clock on the mantle read precisely 13:00.
An exceptional nap.
"Applicants 100 through 199, report to Hall 3-1," the proctor projected. "Applicants 200 through 299, Hall 3-2. Applicants 1100 through 1199, Hall 4-1, and onward."
A youth in the second row raised a trembling hand. "Sir! What if we failed to memorize our assignment? The intake clerk confiscated our paper tickets!"
"Precisely as ordered, Applicant Newman," the proctor answered, his tone flat as slate. "If your faculties cannot retain three basic digits, you have no business manipulating mana. You have ten minutes to assemble in your designated wings in strict numerical sequence. A single minute late, or one spot out of alignment, and your candidacy is terminated."
The proctor reached out, plucked the bronze card from Newman's desk, and pressed his thumb to the metal. A spark of blue light flared. When he lifted his finger, the characters 13:11:26 were scorched cleanly into the bronze.
Incredible, Arthur mused, eyes tracking the transaction. No General Practice casting looks like that. Chantless, instant thermal inscription.
Arthur lifted his own bronze token, angling it under the chandelier. He ran the pad of his thumb over the metallic grain.
Smooth. No latent indentations or pre-etched tracks.
Predicting individual timestamps on this scale would be impossible.
The Mage Association's metallurgical control is terrifying. They manufacture uniform, mana-reactive alloys like common nails.
Could the metal be doped with dormant mana channels that bloom only under a specific frequency?
Arthur cupped the card between his palms, visualizing a steady pulse of orange flame to awaken the core. When he pulled his hands apart, the bronze remained cold and blank.
Nothing. Well, back to the grind. Cedric should be waiting in Hall 3-3.
Arthur joined the sea of bodies pouring into the wide galleries, climbing staircases and filtering through security checkpoints without glancing at the faces around him—until a slight, delicate touch grazed the fabric of his shoulder.
Fingers trailed down his sleeve, feather-light, before breaking away.
Arthur glanced back. A girl with chestnut hair woven into a single intricate side-braid was drifting past with her cohort. She offered a quiet, fleeting wave, her wide amber eyes gleaming with something unreadable before she slipped into Hall 3-2.
Alice…
He broke his gaze, rounding the final landing. Here it is. Hall 3-3.
The broad corridor was eerily quiet. Fewer than fifty students stood outside the doors.
Did the directions weed out that many?
He approached the boy anchoring the rear of the queue. "Excuse me. What is your assigned number?"
The boy started, turning with guarded eyes. "Three hundred ninety-nine. I'm the tail. What about you?"
"Three hundred twenty-one," Arthur replied.
Number 399 leaned out, nodding toward the head of the line. "You see that cluster of four by the door? The boy they're all circled around is number three hundred twenty."
Arthur took in the light-brown hair and radiant posture. "Thank you. My name is Arthur. Yours?"
"Derrick," the boy muttered, his jaw rigid. "Good luck in the ring, Arthur."
"Likewise."
Arthur made his way down the line, his stride smooth, though his gaze struck like an iron spike against the back of Cedric's head.
He's already formed an entourage. In ten minutes.
Arthur slipped quietly into the gap behind his brother, hoping to claim his post unnoticed. Cedric spun around instantly.
"Arthur!" Cedric beamed, waving as if they were standing in their family kitchen. Arthur forced his eyes to soften.
"You guys should find your marks," Cedric told the group around him. "The doors are about to unlock! Do your best!"
The trio nodded warmly, brushing past Arthur as they retreated to their numbers.
"How did the written go?" Cedric asked, turning back.
"Fine," Arthur muttered.
"Oh, stop pretending! You crushed it, didn't you? I bet you were snoring before the first hour was up!"
"I didn't. You're wrong."
I will never give you that satisfaction. Not today. Not in this lifetime.
"Aw, really? That means I lost the wager. What do you want as a prize?"
What do I want? I want the divine mark on your flesh. I want the open horizon you were handed at birth.
When did you pull so far ahead of me?
Why do I feel so small beside you?
Cedric observed his brother's downcast eyes, the cheer fading into gentle concern.
"Nothing," Arthur said quietly.
Only when the sun drops below the hills does the moon command the sky.
Yet the moon is merely stone reflecting the sun's fire—how can it appear so sovereign?
The light was Cedric's; Arthur was only the cold shadow cast behind him.
"Are you nervous?" Cedric asked softly.
"I told you I was."
"Do you still want to enter these halls?"
"Of course I do."
The boy's warmth surged forward, banishing the dusk in an instant.
"Then nothing else matters!" Cedric raised his chin, adopting a mock-serious soprano that clumsily mirrored their mother's cadence: "So long as you give it your very best, you cannot truly fail."
Cedric clapped a hand onto Arthur's shoulder, smiling broadly.
Arthur froze.
That wasn't her quote… but what is this?
My pulse—it's surging. The fatigue in my knees just vanished.
Why does the corridor look so vivid? The colors are sharper. The air smells like fresh rain.
Did his empty platitude actually fire me up? Ridiculous. It's the nap. It has to be.
When I get home, I'm sleeping twelve hours a day if it yields this kind of focus.
"Look at that!" Cedric laughed. "You're smiling! I haven't seen that face in months!"
Arthur's hand flew to his cheek.
I am smiling.
He smoothed the expression down, hardening his jaw. "Take your hand off me."
"Sure thing." Cedric stepped back, hands raised innocently.
Arthur rolled his neck. That was exhausting. Those muscles haven't seen work in weeks.
He glanced down the corridor. Including the four who had already been called into the testing room, there were eleven applicants ahead of them and thirty-seven behind.
Fifty applicants total. Where is the rest of the cohort?
Did half the register simply forfeit?
No. For commoners, this is their only chance to escape the plow.
Are we the dregs? The designated failure pool?
Cedric is here, so that makes no sense. Where are the others?
Arthur pressed two fingers against his lips, testing the width of his grin.
Worrying about strangers when my own neck is on the chopping block. Either I'm brimming with confidence, or I am a complete fool.