The next week dissolves into a grey, agonizing blur.
Wake up. Eat the breakfast they provide us. Run until my lungs burn. Sit in a lecture hall until my ass goes numb. Fight until I bleed. Eat again. Study until my eyes water. Sleep for four hours. Repeat.
There is no room for anything else. The Proctors demand one hundred and fifty percent of us, and when we give it, they demand more. They are stripping us down, layer by layer, peeling away the soft civilian flesh and creating loyal unflinching super soldiers.
"The Abacus," Proctor Eve Melnyk announces on Tuesday, holding up a wooden frame filled with sliding beads as if it were a holy relic. "The foundation of calculation."
I stare at the wooden toy on my desk.
"You want us to count with beads?" a boy from House Umbra asks, skepticism dripping from his voice. "What is the point of this? Any math can be done via paper and quill if needed."
"And if you need to do the math quickly?" Melnyk snaps, appearing instantly at his desk to slam her ruler down. Whack.
The boy flinches.
"hmmm what if you're under attack and need to do quick calculations will you pull out a paper in the middle of battle boy?" She leans into his face, her voice a hiss. "Do you stop doing math? Do you tell the Siege Engineers you cannot calculate the counter-weight variance because you ran out of paper?"
She straightens up, addressing the whole room. "Paper is fragile. Ink is finite. Your mind will cloud with fear and exhaustion. And do not think for a second that these beads are your destination," she adds, her eyes sweeping over our confused faces. "The abacus is merely the training wheel for your consciousness. You move the beads until the movement is etched into your muscle memory. You learn the patterns until the frame itself exists behind your eyelids. Eventually, you will discard the wood. You will calculate five-digit multiplications and divisons in a heartbeat, visualizing the beads moving in the void of your own mind while arrows fly past your head."
She points a finger at the boy. "You use your brain, my young awakened. I trust you have one of those inside that thick skull?"
So, we learn the Abacus.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
The sound drives me insane. Three hundred and fifty seven first year students flicking wooden beads back and forth. It sounds like a legion of skeletons grinding their teeth.
Melnyk is a demon of mathematics. She moves from the Abacus to advanced calculus with a speed that gives me whiplash. She draws shapes on the board complex, impossible geometries that supposedly are really important we learn.
"Calculate the volume of the energy displacement," she barks.
I stare at the parchment. My brain feels like it's leaking out of my ears.
Kill her, the voices suggest helpfully. Make her Eat the beads. Choke her with them.
Not helpful, I think, rubbing my temples.
She transitions into the science of the crystals. She holds up a glowing blue shard, the light refracting through the lecture hall.
"The Architects," she lectures, her eyes gleaming, "spent decades analyzing the energy signature within these geological formations. They discovered a self-replenishing energy source that mimics the output of an Elite's power."
She pauses for effect.
"They dubbed this energy... Mana."
I let out a loud, involuntary snort.
Heads turn. Melnyk's gaze snaps to me.
"Something amusing, Ayato?"
"Just the name," I say, leaning back and spinning my quill. "Decades of research. The brightest minds in the Empire. And they came up with 'Mana'? Did they run out of words?" 'It's so simple"
Melnyk stares at me. A corner of her lip twitches. "It is efficient. Much like the energy itself. Hence the name Mana Crystals. Do not mock simplicity, boy. Usually, it is the simple things that kill you."
She turns back to the board. "Now. Integrate the flow rate."
I roll my eyes.
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If Melnyk attacks the mind, Proctor Dean Abrashi attacks the patience.
For reasons I cannot fathom, the man has decided I am his favorite chew toy. He has seemingly thrown his distaste for my commoner blood out the window or perhaps he has just decided that making me speak is a better way to provoke me.
Every class. Every single scenario.
"Awakened Ayato," Abrashi says, his voice cutting through the humid air of the Tactical Hall on Thursday. "Awakened Syle suggests that we prioritize protecting the supply train over the vanguard. Refute him."
I sigh, loudly. "Do I have to?"
Ten minutes later.
"Awakened Ayato. House Umbra suggests a retreat into the marshlands with his markless heavy cavalry. Why is this a death sentence?"
"Because heavy armor sinks," I say from my chair, not even bothering to look up from my doodle of a sword. "And marsh gas is flammable. One fire arrow and the retreat becomes a barbecue."
"Correct."
It goes on and on. He drags me into hypotheticals about naval blockades, about siege warfare, about diplomatic hostage exchanges. He pits me against the every single student, even when i agree with the other students decision he makes me dissect and it find the flaws. I'm not entirely sure what he gets out of it.
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Then, there is the afternoon.
If the mornings are mental exhaustion, the afternoons are physical demolition.
Proctor Evanora. Head Proctor. She still is the sadistic bitch I always knew she would be.
Her class is four hours. Four hours of hell on earth.
"Pain is information!" Evanora screams, pacing the training mats while we hold a plank position until my abs feel like they are tearing apart. "It tells you where you are weak! And right now, all of you are pathetic!"
She runs us through drills that make my lungs taste like blood. Sprints with weights. Climbing ropes until our hands are raw. Burpees until people are vomiting in the waste bins.
And then, we fight.
Hand-to-hand. Knives. Swords. Spears. Every weapon under the sun she drills into us.
I used to rely on Cain's Battle Art. Aether Flow. I enjoyed how he seemingly moved like the wind each strike intentional.
But here? Against Evanora? It's not enough. It doesn't fit how I want to fight anymore.
Sometimes, Evanora brings in more older students. We rarely see them around the academy—the years are kept segregated to prevent bullying (or perhaps to prevent the older students from killing us accidentally). Seeing them is a reminder of the gap.
"Predictable!" a third-year student shouts, swatting my strike aside like it was a fly. He's a massive boy from House Luxor, built like a brick wall. He slams a fist into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me.
I stumble back, wheezing.
I realize she's right. Cain's battle art—Aether Flow— was designed by him, for him. It was a style of fluid motion and sudden, explosive bursts, built entirely around his Mark of Wind. He used the air to lighten his steps and the breeze to guide his blade with an elegance that bordered on the divine. Cain fought with a sense of honor, a refined grace that made every kill look like a choreographed dance. But I don't have the wind. Without the ability to manipulate the currents around me. It was a good starting point to learn the sword and stances but now it is a lability to continue using it. I realize in annoyance now that Cain was completely holding back in every one of our sparring matches.
So, I stop trying to be Cain. I stop trying to be elegant. I don't care about the honor. I don't care about the beauty of the strike. I just want the person in front of me to stop breathing.
So, I stop trying to be Cain. And I let Evanora craft me into a glorious machine.
I am abandoning the art Cain taught me. I am making my own with the help of a psychopath.
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Friday morning brings a brief respite, though the sight of the instructor still gives me a mild case of cognitive dissonance.
Proctor Anastasia Solovyov, Head of House Vespera, is a giant. There is no other word for her. She stands nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of a woman with copper skin that seems to glow in the silver morning light. Her hair is a startling, vibrant orange, pulled back into a thick braid that hangs down her back like a heavy cable, and her eyes match it bright, predatory amber.
When I first walked into her class weeks ago, I stared at her in genuine disbelief. This woman, who looks like she could crush a horse with her bare hands, is the one the Academy chose to teach us about how the fucking law works.
She sits on the edge of her massive desk, which looks like a footstool under her frame, holding a steaming mug of tea that is dwarfed by her hand. The room smells of old books, cloves, and the faint, ozone-heavy scent of burnt ash.
"Relax," she says, and even her "quiet" voice is a booming resonance that vibrates in my chest. "Breathe. You look like rabbits waiting for the fox."
She lets out a short, bark-like laugh that echoes off the vaulted ceiling.
"The Empire is a machine," she explains, gesturing with a hand that could palm my entire head. "Laws are the oil that keeps the gears from grinding into dust. Without them, we are just a collection of monkeys with no order and that would allow Chaos to rise."
She walks us through the hierarchy of the state. She details the responsibilities of Elites and Spellbreakers, the local constabularies, and the terrifyingly broad jurisdiction of the Holy Inquisitors whose authority, as it turns out, is "everywhere the sun touches, and most places it doesn't."
Then, she sets her mug down with a heavy thud and the air in the room shifts.
"The Elite Compromise," she says, her amber eyes scanning the room, lingering on the noble-born heirs of the houses lingering on house Luxor.
"If you awaken a Mark," she says, her voice losing its jovial edge, "You forfeit your claim to your House and serve as an Elite in the Imperial Military ."
The silence that follows is absolute. I see Lucian's eyes widen. Across the aisle, the most of the Luxor students sit as if they've been turned to stone. I frown. Did their parents not inform them of this? Howard had known? Or did most nobles parents just leave the burden of shitting on their futures to the academy?
"An Elite belongs to the Empire," Solovyov explains, her massive arms crossing over her white robes. "You cannot serve two masters. You cannot rule a city, manage a tithe, and play politics while fighting on the front lines for the Gods. The distraction is too great. The power is too concentrated. A Duke with a Mark is a threat to the King's peace and mission"
She leans forward, her shadow stretching halfway across the lecture pit.
"So, you must abdicate. You pass your succession to a sibling. To a cousin. To whoever is next in line that hasn't been touched by the Gods. In exchange, the Military grants you immediate officer rank. You are given wealth, prestige, and the glory of fighting against Chaos. But you will never have political power outside of the army It's that simple!"
She smirks, a flash of white teeth against copper skin. "It is the price of power. Some of you will find that a blade in your hand is worth more than a dukes ring on your finger. But for others..."
She lets the sentence hang, watching as the realization sinks in.
I watch the faces of the nobles. Some look relieved, as if a crushing weight has been lifted freedom from the suffocating expectations of their bloodlines. Others look utterly devastated, watching their entire future as lords and ladies vanish into the smoke of military service.
I lean my head back against the cold stone wall, a small, bitter smile touching my lips.
I don't have a House. I don't have a title or a legacy to protect. I have no succession to forfeit, because I started with nothing.
Let them cry over their castles, I think, my eyelids drooping as the giant woman begins to drone on about the structure of the Royal Court.
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"Get up! Move! If you stop moving, you die!"
Proctor Afia Balogun. Head of House Umbra.
She does not believe in classrooms because she's a raging cunt. One day she marches us out of the Academy gates and into the lower foothills of the Sinwade Mountains.
It is freezing.
The wind cuts through our training fatigues like a knife made of ice. The sky is a flat, hostile grey. Snow crunches under our boots.
"Survival!" Balogun shouts. She is an, imposing woman who seems impervious to the cold. "The enemy will not fight you in a heated room! They will fight you in the mud! In the snow! In the dark!"
She forces us to scavenge.
"Find kindling!" she orders. "If you cannot start a fire in five minutes, you don't eat lunch!"
I am shivering so hard my teeth are chattering. My fingers are numb, clumsy claws as I dig through the frozen underbrush, looking for dry wood.
I hate nature.
I grew up in Lont. I know how to survive in a city. I know how to steal food from a vendor. I know which alleys are safe to travel through. I know how to pick a lock.
But this? Fuck this. Even as a rat I always found some type of shelter to take cover in.
"This sucks," Lucian chatters beside me, looking miserable. His breath puffs out in white clouds. "This sucks so much."
"Less talking," I snap, trying to strike a spark with flint and steel. My knuckles are bleeding from the cold. "More fire." I glance at Rye who had an expression of disgust on her face as she and the other fire marks were told explicitly not to use their marks. So stupid I sigh.
We spend hours out there. We learn to build shelters out of pine boughs. We learn to identify which berries will kill us and which ones just taste like dirt.
"Look at you," Balogun laughs, watching us huddle around a pathetic, smoky fire we finally managed to start. "You look like dying rats."
She grins. "Good. Remember this feeling. The cold is an enemy. Hunger is an enemy. Respect them, or they will kill you faster than any Federation soldier."
By the time we march back to the Academy, I can't feel my toes or fingers. I hate her
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By the end of the week I am exhausted and angry.
But as I walk down the corridor toward the Room of Ascension, a flicker of excitement wakes up in my chest.
Proctor Julian Boleyn. Head of my house.
This is the class I have been waiting for. Mark Mastery.
The classroom is different. It is circular, the floor engraved with strange marks. The ceiling a clear window to the sky, letting the pale winter light filter down.
I find a seat. The rest of House Apophis year ones is here, looking just as battered as I am, but their eyes are wide.
We are here for the power. Maybe this time he will actually teach us something.
The door opens.
Proctor Julian Boleyn walks in and walks to the center of the rune circle and smiles.
"So," he says, his voice echoing strangely in the circular room. "Let us continue from last class. Begin your meditation. Clear your minds completely.
I sigh in disappointment. Four weeks of this same order. What a shame.