Friday.
Combat duels and practical assessments. One of the two days the Palladium actually felt like an academy instead of a very expensive waiting room.
Students filtered into the main arena in clusters. Pairs, trios, whole factions moving like schools of fish. The observation tiers were already half-full, voices bouncing off the polished walls, someone's laugh cutting through the general hum.
Kevin Gregory walked in with his squad—six of them, Blue Marks mostly, shoulders back and chins high after his win three days ago. They looked like they owned the place. Or at least like they'd paid rent.
Leonardo Prince's faction entered from the opposite side. Same number. Same posture. Different energy. Leo's arm was fine—medics had fixed it an hour after the match, Apothecary healing was that efficient—but his people still looked at Kevin's people like they were doing math problems in their heads. Revenge math.
The two groups locked eyes across the arena floor. No one said anything. No one needed to.
Kevin grinned. Leo's jaw tightened. Someone in Kevin's faction snorted.
Alex watched from the edge of the observation tier, arms crossed, back against the wall. His usual spot. Invisible adjacent.
Factions, he thought. Actual factions. Over a 8/10 score.
Then Anastasia Collins walked in. Alone. Black uniform. Blonde hair pulled back. Eyes straight ahead. She moved through the crowd like water around stones—not pushing, not pausing, just... existing in the gaps.
She reached the section where the other Black Marks stood.
Ten of them, eleven including her. First years and second years, pressed against the walls, doing their best impression of furniture. Patrick Lenard was there—other first-year Black Mark, quiet kid, kept to himself. The rest were second-years who'd learned long ago how to be invisible.
Three slots per year. That was the Equity Clause. Three Black Marks admitted annually, assuming they passed the theoretical entrance exams.
So how were there twelve first and second years combined?
Easy.
Some of them repeated.
The Palladium ran on a four-year curriculum. First year, second year, third year, and final year. If your overall score at the end of the year didn't meet the threshold, you didn't advance. You repeated. Same classes, same drills, same duels, and same stares.
Some students repeated twice. Three times. However long it took to either pass or drop out from sheer accumulated shame. And the duels themselves were tiered; first and second years together in one pool, third and final years in another. The Palladium called it progressive exposure. Meant to help everyone keep up.
Really it just meant you could be a second year, good enough to advance, and still lose to a first-year like Marcus Sylvia in front of everyone.
That's the Palladium for you.
Alex let that thought sit for a second, then his gaze drifted back to Anastasia.
She was standing perfectly still, eyes on the arena floor, expression blank. She didn't look at Kevin's faction, didn't look at Leo's, and most definitely didn't look at him.
But he knew she'd seen him. She always looked away first.
Then Veronica walked in.
Conversations didn't stop—they just... lowered. Adjusted. Like the room was making space without anyone deciding to.
She stood in the entrance, black uniform, black long hair, red eyes already scanning the tiers like she was looking for a specific seat in a very boring theater.
Then she started walking.
Not toward the Gold section, not toward the empty seats near the front, just... walking. Like she knew exactly where she was going.
Marcus nudged the guy next to him. A Gold Mark, one of his usual cluster, mid-conversation about something unimportant.
"I'll be right back."
He was already moving. Smooth. Confident. The kind of walk that said 'I belong here and you're about to realize it.'
He intercepted her halfway across the floor. Easy smile. Chin high. Hands in his pockets like he didn't have a care in the world.
"Veronica right?"
She stopped, then looked at him with that flat, unhurried attention.
"Yes, I am."
His smile widened. Just slightly.
"Marcus Sylvia." He didn't offer a hand. Didn't need to. His name did the work. "Most of the Gold Marks are set up on the west side. Better view, even better company. You should join us."
"No thanks. I already found who I'm looking for."
Marcus's smile didn't drop, but something behind his eyes flickered.
"Uh." A beat, like he's recalibrating. "You don't get it, do you? Being seen with poster boy?" He tilted his head toward the wall where Alex stood. "That's not gonna do you any favors. People will talk. They'll think you're—"
"I don't care what people think."
Flat. Direct. No heat behind it—because heat would imply she cared enough to be angry.
Marcus opened his mouth.
She kept talking.
"And neither should you. It's embarrassing to watch."
She said it quietly. Not loud enough for everyone to hear, just loud enough for him, and the few people standing close enough to catch it.
Someone behind Marcus laughed. One of his own friends. He tried to cover it with a cough.
Marcus's face did something complicated. Veronica simply stepped around him and kept walking. Toward the wall. Toward the Black Mark standing alone with his hands on the railing.
Toward Alexander Archer.
Anastasia watched the whole thing. She didn't move, didn't even blink. Just watched the new Gold Mark cross the entire arena to stand next to the one person everyone else avoided.
Alex's jaw was tight. His heart was doing that thing again.
[EMOTIONAL MATRIX — UPDATING — ANCHOR WITHIN RANGE]
Veronica stopped next to him, leaned against the railing, and pulled out her tablet.
Alex stared at her.
"That was—" He stopped. Started again. "You know who that was, right?"
"Hm."
"Marcus Sylvia. Gold Mark. R-31. His family is—"
"Boring." Veronica cut in.
He looked at her.
[Curiosity: 20% → 20% —]
[Boredom: 82% → 83% ↑]
[Cognitive Engagement: 11% → 12% ↑]
She was scrolling through something on her tablet, expression unchanged.
"His face was funny, though." She said finally.
[Amusement: 4% → 7% ↑]
[Cognitive Engagement: 12% → 16% ↑]
[Boredom: 83% → 80% ↓]
Alex opened his mouth. Closed it.
Behind them, Marcus was still standing in the same spot, his friends pretending they hadn't heard anything, the laughter still burning in his ears.
Anastasia was still watching.
And somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered: Did she just—
Yeah. She did.
‡"‡
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The proctor walked in and the murmurs died.
Not completely—this was still a room full of students with opinions—but noticeably. Respectfully. The kind of quiet that acknowledged someone important had just entered.
Claudia Windsor. R-68. Same woman who'd overseen Alex's disaster two days ago. Same flat expression. Same aura of having seen it all and caring about none of it.
Behind her walked Professor Aldric Quill. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
They crossed to the raised platform at the edge of the arena—the official seating, the place where faculty actually sat instead of just hovering. Claudia took her seat like she owned it. Quill lowered himself into the chair next to her like it might bite him.
"Do I really have to be here, Claudia?" His voice carried. Not loud—he never needed to be loud—but he'd still be clear.
Claudia didn't look at him.
"They're your students, Aldric."
"They're all our students. You don't see me dragging you to faculty meetings." Quill bit back.
"You don't have faculty meetings. You have 'optional symposiums' that you skip."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
Quill muttered something under his breath. Claudia's expression didn't change, but something around her eyes suggested she was enjoying this. She always did. Five years older and twice as patient, she'd learned long ago that letting Aldric complain was easier than winning an argument.
The scoreboard flickered to life.
ROUND 1
MARCUS SYLVIA | YEAR: 1 | AGE: 22 | MARK: GOLD | R-LEVEL: 31
DARIUS VORM | YEAR: 2 | AGE: 31 | MARK: BLUE | R-LEVEL: 25
Marcus walked onto the stage like he was accepting an award. Darius followed looking like he'd rather be anywhere else—including Quill's chair, apparently.
The match lasted fifty-three seconds.
Marcus's chains wrapped around Darius's legs, pinned his arms, and lifted him clean off the stage. The Blue dangled there for a moment, struggling, before Claudia's voice cut through.
"Cease. Winner established."
MARCUS SYLVIA – SCORE: 8/10
DARIUS VORM – SCORE: 2/10
Marcus walked off without looking back.
ROUND 4
KEVIN GREGORY | YEAR: 1 | AGE: 19 | MARK: BLUE | R-LEVEL: 24
SIMON WADE | YEAR: 2 | AGE: 28 | MARK: BLUE | R-LEVEL: 31
Kevin lost.
But it was close. Really close. Simon had the level advantage and a year of experience, but Kevin moved like he didn't know how to quit. Two extra minutes past the usual runtime. A final exchange that left both of them breathing hard.
KEVIN GREGORY – SCORE: 6/10
SIMON WADE – SCORE: 7/10
Kevin's faction exploded anyway. He grinned through a bloody lip and raised a fist. Simon looked vaguely offended that he hadn't won by more.
ROUND 7
LEONARDO PRINCE | YEAR: 1 | AGE: 20 | MARK: GOLD | R-LEVEL: 27
ELARA WILSON | YEAR: 2 | AGE: 25 | MARK: BLUE | R-LEVEL: 26
Leo won. Textbook type win, but his eyes kept drifting to Kevin's section. His jaw stayed tight the whole time.
LEONARDO PRINCE – SCORE: 7/10
ELARA WILSON – SCORE: 4/10
The rounds continued. Wins and losses. Cheers and silence. The machine of the Palladium grinding on.
Then the scoreboard flickered again.
ROUND 12
ZIC TOBAN | YEAR: 2 | AGE: 29 | MARK: BLUE | R-LEVEL: 23
ANASTASIA COLLINS | YEAR: 1 | AGE: 22 | MARK: BLACK | R-LEVEL: 20
A ripple went through the crowd.
Not loud, not obvious, just... a shift. Heads turning, eyebrows raising.
Black Mark. First year. R-20.
That was... high. For a Black. Way higher than it should be.
A few Gold Marks near the front made faces, the kind that said something's wrong with that math without needing words.
Anastasia walked onto the stage.
Black uniform. Blonde hair. Face blank. She moved like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—shoulders slightly curled, eyes on the floor, steps quick and quiet.
Zic Toban was already there. He had the look of someone who'd been at this long enough to be tired but not long enough to be good.
He saw her Mark, saw her Level, and smirked.
Claudia raised her hand. Blue Mark, crisp and clear against her palm—the kind that said she'd earned every decimal of her R-68.
"Begin."
‡«»‡