The crowd funnelled into five rigid queues as they entered the reception hall toward the Registration Desks. The brothers filed into line, sorting themselves by number.
"School of Magic or School of Academia?" the clerk asked without looking up, taking Cedric's slip.
"School of Magic," Cedric answered with a polite nod.
"Proceed to Hall 2-8c. May the gods favor your pen."
The proctor fed the ticket into a small mechanical shredder and slid a flat bronze plaque across the polished wood.
Cedric glanced left, then right. Arthur scrutinized closely.
Is that the extent of the directions? Thirty-two separate corridors on the ground floor alone.
How are we expected to locate it?
Cedric turned back to Arthur. "Do your best!" he beamed, before striding into the crowd.
Why did he point his index finger?
Arthur followed the line of his brother's finger.
Gray hair combed back with razor precision. A silver monocle resting over his right eye. A mustache trimmed to immaculate symmetry above thin lips. The man wore a tailored black suit with a matching silk tie, a silver pocket watch chain looped through the lapel, and belted to his hip like a rapier—a gnarled wooden rod resembling a freshly stripped branch.
He stood perfectly still, cataloguing the room with glacial detachment.
Not an applicant. The perimeter guards wouldn't let a vagrant through with a weapon like that… He's faculty.
Why would a proctor linger at the threshold instead of grading in a chamber?
Unless the threshold is part of the evaluation.
A frantic roar shattered the hall's murmur: "Where in the hell is Hall 2-8d?!"
Arthur tracked the disturbance. The crimson-haired noble from two spots ahead.
The sound of graphite scratching paper pulled Arthur's gaze back toward the clerk in front of him. Arthur read the inverted strokes: Vicktor Vulivar.
Beside the name, a solitary strike.
We are being graded before we even touch a desk.
Arthur forced the tension from his shoulders and passed his slip to the desk clerk, whose impatient stare had already settled on him.
"Hall 2-8d. May the gods favor your pen."
The same chamber as that bellowing brute?
Arthur accepted the cool bronze card. "My thanks," he murmured, offering a fleeting, respectful bow toward the clerk before following Cedric's wake.
He locked eyes with me. Did my hesitation cost me points?
No, panic is fatal… but I took three seconds too long to surrender the slip.
A month of hellish training, undermined by a pause.
He let the frustration bleed out in a slow exhalation.
Keep moving. Cedric took the eastern stairs. The chamber begins with a two—second floor.
He climbed the stone risers, moving at an unhurried, measured pace as frantic applicants jostled past.
Hall 2-8d opened before him: an amphitheater carved with steep limestone tiers encircling a bare stone dais.
Standing precisely in the center of the ring was the gray-haired proctor with the monocle.
"Take your places," the proctor announced, his voice carrying effortlessly without a chant. "The trial begins once the final seat is claimed."
Arthur made his way up the left aisle, settling into the farthest corner.
Only one bench remains empty. Directly to my left.
Whoever drew that number is dragging their feet. I took my time, yet here I sit.
A boot slammed through the doorway precisely as the grandfather clock chimed eleven.
That scarlet hair. God damn it.
Arthur scanned the hall. The seats were full.
The empty slot beside him was the only sanctuary left in the room.
I want nothing to do with nobility. Bruise their delicate pride, and they'll unleash private retainers the second you cross the city boundary.
Do not engage. Avert your eyes. Be a stone.
Yes. Stones do not get lynched.
A broad shadow fell over Arthur's desk.
"Move. I'm taking the aisle."
"Understood." Arthur rose without argument, slid to his right, and claimed the inner chair.
Did that sound too obedient? Too dismissive? Is he measuring my neck for an executioner?
He's probably burning a hole into the side of my skull right now.
Brilliant. Truly brilliant start to the day.