Its been at least three hours. I try not to count the minutes, but every tick of the clock behind the proctors brands itself into my skull like a worm. A delicate chime sounds each quarter-hour, a chiming contralto note that should be soothing, but in this room it's just a reminder that we're still pinned beneath their gaze specimens pinned to a board, twitching under the magnifying glass.
The chamber is circular and tiered like an amphitheater, the walls are a nice marble. A dozen proctors in immaculate white cloaks occupy the lowest tier, arrayed behind a long desk of volcanic glass. How fucking fancy are they?
They sit stiff-backed, silent, eyes glittering their faces reflecting various forms of boredom and interest, they place quills to parchment in tandem whenever a fragment of our testimony interests them. I can hear the faint scratch every time one of us speaks. The sound sets my teeth on edge.
Evanaora Hilton presides at the center. She looks as though she belongs on a coin profile perfect, scar slicing from brow to jaw like a deliberate engraving. Her bright pink eyes gleam with poision. She grins as if she's enjoying something which right now that something is our pain. She balances her weight on the rear legs of an enormous leather chair, boot heels hooked on the lip of the desk.
To her left perches Julian. House Apophis's own proctor. Our proctor. His white hair is perfectly groomed, emphasizing the pallor of his skin. His milk white, pupil-less roam from face to face, or at least I think they do it's hard to tell.
The questioning began with normal inquiries: names, family houses, how many of us set out nine days ago etc. Then came the anatomization: what route we took through Sinwade, what weather we encountered and how we prevailed, why so many of us died, why did they die, what do we do to get away. The proctors demanded detail down to the flavor of our own blood. They listened to descriptions of friends' severed limbs with the same mild interest a vintner shows sampling a cask.
I recount, for the third time, how the thing exploded Ayil before anyone could blink and then killed another six in the time for us to realize one had died. We take turns explaining the monsters appearance and how we fought it, how I held it off. I refrain from mentioning anything about seeing the monsters past as a human nor do I mention my damaged soul orb. Some things are best not said.
But for every answer one of us gives, Evanaora raises a brow in wry delight and another white-robed proctor notes it down.
They are not shocked at our discovery of monsters. They are amused and vaguely intrigued at what type of powers it showed. My rage simmers, threatening to boil over, but I force it down.
Evanaora eventually exhales an exaggerated sigh, flips a page on her dossier, and leans back even farther. "Disappointing," she murmurs, lip curling in a pout. "Only 8 of you lived" poor yield.
My jaw tightens until my molars creak. Beside me, Niko's splinted arm trembles; his pain is turning inward now, becoming silent as he fights tears. Imara bites the inside of her cheek so fiercely I see a thin trickle of crimson slip down her chin. Even Vihaan, usually unreadable, looks like he might plunge a dagger into the nearest throat.
Julian says nothing. He hasn't spoken once. He stands a pace behind Evanaora's chair like a shade at her shoulder, arms folded into the sleeves of his robe. The contrast between their demeanors is maddening: Evanaora flamboyant, theatrical; Julian inscrutable, silent.
But finally we finish the account answered all their questions about the battle, flight, starvation, frostbite, the final crawl through freezing mountains. One by one the proctors cap their inkwells and set quills down. Satisfied.
I think, foolishly, it might be over.
Evanaora uncrosses her legs, sets her boots back on the desk with a thud, and claps her hands once in mock applause. "Well that is that. Regardless," she says, voice bright as spun sugar, "you children were late."
A flush climbs my neck. I taste copper at the back of my throat. Late. That is her verdict on the horror we endured. Late.
She turns her stare on me specifically, as though I'm her favorite. She must see the pulse hammering in my temple, because her lips part in a smile both amused and pleased. "Dear Awakened Daath. You remember what I said when you left?" Her tone is sing-song. "'There will be punishment for missing your hit time.'"
I remember. She'd smiled then too.
She sighs theatrically and swivels her head toward Julian. "Julian dear, they are your flock. You do the honors. How would you like to punish them?"
For the first time, Julian moves. Only a pivot of his head, but those blank eyes settle on us. He uncrosses his arms and steps forward. His boots make no sound; the marble seems to swallow it.
When he speaks, his voice is low, resonant, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Indeed," he says, as if confirming an unspoken premise. "They will participate in the Choosing."
Instantly the chamber shifts. Papers rustle, chairs scrape. The white-cloaked elites exchange glances laden with alarm. Even Evanaora's feet slide off the desk. She straightens, the mirth draining from her face in a slow ebb. "The Choosing?" she echoes, brows lifting. "Julian, that trial is reserved for year-threes. They've not even begun yet."
He does not bother to acknowledge her protest. He simply lifts a hand, indicating finality.
Silence re-clamps over the room.
I don't understand what The Choosing is but If it unsettles Evanaora, who revels in torment, it must be unspeakable.
I replay Julian's pronouncement in my head, tasting each syllable. Participate in the Choosing. Not watch, not study participate.
Beside me, Rye whispers, "What is that?" but no one answers.
"House Apophis," he intones, "has failed." His words are scalpel-clean. "You arrived beyond the mandated window. You arrived decimated, demoralized, and in disarray. All of which I can excuse. Failure is instructive after all." "However we must make sure to correct it, as we strive always to reach the best version of ourselves."
Finally, one of the older proctors a silver-haired man with geometric runes etched across his bald scalp clears his throat.
"Proctor Julian," he ventures, tone edged with unease, "perhaps you might clarify for these… first-years what, precisely, the Choosing entails."
Julian sighs " I was getting to that Proctor Charles" he claps his hands behind his back and continues "At dawn you will be led to the top of the Academy into a room known as the Sky Court. There you will stand before legends: Kharon and Saphiel. The last dragons."
My heart gives a violent kick. I remember those shapes in the sky.
Julian continues, voice unchanged. "Contrary to fables that exist in stories, dragons are not mindless beasts. They are elder custodians, woven into the fabric of the world itself. They are the closest things to Gods we can physically interact with on this mortal plain. They see forward and back along a thread of potential futures. When an Elite stands before them, they can see into their future and potential futures.
No one interrupts. Even Evanaora, chooses silence.
Julian folds his arms. "The twins will examine you. If they find worth they will bless you with dragon flames, all of us here have been blessed. Sometimes" his head inclines just a fraction "Sometimes however they do not like what they see."
That single sentence hangs, icicle-sharp: Sometimes, they do not like what they see.
Niko swallows, audible in the quiet. Lucian's shoulders lock; I feel the spike of tension through our partially open link. Even Vihaan's customary sneer has faded into a wary line.
A different proctor, a woman whose neck is coiled in tattoos of pale fire, leans forward. "You understand, Julian, that a rejection from the twins frequently kills the subject.
Julian doesn't blink. "I understand."
"They are first-years," the woman presses. "They have not even had the opportunity to adapt to being an Elite"
"They are House Apophis," he corrects smoothly.
Evanaora regains her tongue at that, though her tone lacks its earlier playfulness "If one of them dies, you will answer to the headmistress."
"I already have her approval," Julian replies. "And should they die, it will only prove the point of the test."
I'm no stranger to arrogance, but the cold certainty in Julian's words transcends arrogance. It is faith or the next best thing. He turns, dismissing the other proctors' concerns with a single pivot, and faces us again.
"You have until dawn tomorrow," he states " You will not be introduced to the rest of our house until after you pass the dragons. With that, he inclines his head barely more than a nod and strides toward the arched exit.
Evanaora swivels in her chair, reclaiming a scrap of her earlier poise. She crosses one leg over the other and raps her knuckles on the desk. "Well, there you have it, children. "Good luck"
She stands and sweeps out, humming again the rest of the proctors follow.
I open my mouth then close it. I'm still parsing my own reaction. Fear is there, yes, a dark flutter in the gut, but above it coils something else: a fierce, greedy anticipation. I wanted to meet them anyways. Now they hand me the chance on a silver platter, I really should thank Julian the next time I see him.