The Grand Auditorium smelled exactly as it had fourteen months ago: a sterile blend of dried ink, freezing stone, and the lingering, phantom residue of evaluation briefings dating back longer than any of them had been alive. The soaring vaulted ceiling remained untouched. The sweeping tiers of seating were identical.
It was the class inside that had changed.
The gaps between the students were still there—the empty chairs that belonged to the dead or the failed, occupying space with a heavy, unspoken presence. But the survivors had learned how to occupy the room differently. The nervous, scattered clumping of their first year was gone. Today, they moved with deliberate purpose, claiming seats with optimal sightlines and tactical advantages long before the heavy wooden doors had even finished swinging open.
