The season has finally turned. The biting, frost-laden winds of the Sinwade winter have retreated, clawing their way back up the peaks to hide in the eternal snowpack of the upper ridges. In their place, a tentative, deceptive spring has descended upon the Academy. The air today isn't trying to flay the skin off my face; it's warm, carrying the scent of pine sap thawing in the sun and the faint, sweet aroma of mountain wildflowers blooming in the crevices of the grey rock.
it's been three months since I had arrived at the academy.
It is a beautiful day. A day for poetry, for lovers, for lying in the tall grass and forgetting that the world is a slaughterhouse run by madmen.
Naturally, we are marching to a war council.
My boots crunch against the gravel path, the sound lost in the rhythmic, synchronized stomping of nearly two hundred other first-years. We move as a single organism, a centipede of black leather winding its way through the Academy grounds. The gravel is loose, shifting underfoot, but we don't stumble. We have learned to walk with the kind of predatory grace that only comes from knowing that stumbling usually results in a proctor slamming a fist into the ribs. Nothing like beating the clumsiness out of you.
I turned seventeen a couple weeks ago.
There was no cake. There were no presents. There was no celebration. The day passed like any other filled with equations I barely care about and bruises I definitely didn't want. The only acknowledgment came from Proctor Evanora, who dislocated my shoulder during a sparring demonstration to teach me a lesson about overextending my guard, and then popped it back in with a laugh that sounded like dry leaves crunching.
Happy Birthday, Little Reaper, the voices had whispered that night as I lay in the dark, nursing the ache in my joint. Another year closer to the throne. Are we having fun yet oh child of light?
I shake the memory away, focusing on the present. The sun is high, beating down on the back of my neck, warming the black fabric of my uniform.
Directly ahead of me, setting the pace, walks Proctor Afia Balogun, the Head of House Umbra.
She is a striking figure, even from behind. Her white Proctor's robes snapping in the mountain breeze like a banner. She doesn't walk; she stalks. Her back is a line of perfect, rigid posture, her dark skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration in the spring warmth. Her hair is braided tight against her scalp in intricate geometric patterns, revealing the long, elegant curve of her neck.
She radiates a kind of raw, kinetic power that is different from Evanora's sadistic intensity or Melnyk's intellectual sharpness. Afia is elemental. She is like a thunderstorm trapped in human skin I can't believe I ever disliked her. I still don't even know what the woman's mark of power is, she has yet to use it in front of us.
I find myself staring. Not out of malice, but out of a simple, biological appreciation for something that is nice to look out.
She is strong, the voices hum, a low vibration at the base of my skull that feels like a purr. Look at the way she moves. Like a panther. Like a queen.
"She's a Proctor," I sigh back. "She would kill me without a second thought just for thinking about it."
So? The voices sound amused, slithering through my thoughts with an oily, seductive tone that makes my skin crawl. Power calls to power, Ayato. She should serve you. Imagine her on her knees. Imagine breaking that pride. Take her. She is just another thing to be owned. Another piece on the board.
I sneer, rolling my eyes
Oh fuck off, I think, projecting the thought with as much venom as I can muster. You sound like a desperate teenager. She's a teacher and a warrior. I respect the strength. I don't need to 'conquer' everything I see. Not everything is a nail for your hammer.
Boring and weak, they hiss, coiling around my mind in righteous indignation "Everything is yours for taking, when will you admit it to yourself?
I ignore them, shifting my gaze away from Afia's back and scanning the ranks of the first years marching around me.
The herd has thinned.
When we all first arrived here, there were nearly four hundred of us. A sea of fresh faces, noble and common alike, all dreaming of glory and magic. Now?
We are down by forty.
Forty students in three months. Gone. Erased.
The Academy doesn't do funerals. They don't do memorial services. When a student dies, their bunk is cleared out within the hour, their name is struck from the roster, and the lesson continues. It is brutal efficiency.
Some died in "accidents" a fall from the climbing wall when a grip failed, a misfire of a spell that turned a boy's insides to ash, a sparring match that went to far. Two had broken mentally and chosen to end their own lives. I envy them, sometimes. They chose death over becoming a weapon becoming an agent of death. That takes a kind of courage I don't have.
But most died in the duels.
I run my tongue over my teeth, tasting the phantom copper of old fights.
The Academy encourages competition. It demands it. But when you put teenagers with god-complexes, lethal weapons, and unstable magic in a pit together, competition turns into murder very quickly. "Accidental" deaths in the dueling ring are treated with a slap on the wrist and a lecture on control, but everyone knows the truth. They want us to kill. They want to weed out the ones who hesitate.
I've contributed to that statistic.
I look down at my hands, swinging by my sides, encased in fingerless leather gloves.
Three more.
Since the incident with Avraind in the simulation room since I took his head off I have killed three more students. 5 in total if you count that ugly boy from the train station.
It wasn't personal. Not really. I didn't hate them. I barely knew them.
The first was a boy from House Luxor, about a week after the simulation. He thought I was vulnerable. He believed the rumors of my "power and skill" were exaggerated, or perhaps he thought that because I was commoner, I was weak without the element of surprise. He challenged me in the mess hall, loud and performative. He did well to last seven seconds.
The second was a girl from House Melruth. She ambushed me during a night navigation exercise in the foothills. She wanted the points. She wanted the glory of taking down the "Monster of the First Years." She had a Mark of fire. She was fast, I'll give her that. But she hesitated when she had the shot. I didn't. I broke her neck in the mud while she was trying to apologize. It was quick. Mercy, really.
The third... I don't even remember his name. He was a House vespera kid. Big, slow, relying entirely on brute strength. He challenged me to a duel over a perceived insult I think I bumped into him in the hallway. He swung a mace like he was chopping wood. I sidestepped, severed his femoral artery with a knife, and watched him bleed out on the mats.
I shrug to myself, adjusting the strap of my bag.
It was their fault. They challenged me. They looked at the scoreboard, saw the number next to my name, and saw a target instead of a warning sign. They attempted to take my points for themselves, driven by greed and the desperate need for validation.
The Point System.
It is the Academy's way of gamifying our survival. A stroke of genius, really. It turns murder into mathematics.
Every time a student distinguishes themselves—answers a difficult question in class, does something impressive in an exercise ,or wins a sanctioned duel—the supervising Proctor awards points.
Points are currency. They determine your rank amongst your class.
I am currently sitting at First Place for the entire First Year cohort.
Ayato: 25 Points.
The killing of the transformation user on the first day gave me a massive head start a bonus ten points for "Initiative and Lethality," as Evanora put it. Since then, I have been grinding. Every duel is worth a point. Every time I humiliate a noble in strategy class, Abrashi grudgingly tosses me a point. His use of forcing me to be the non stop contrarian backfiring on him a little bit.
But the higher your score, the more you are worth.
If someone kills me in a sanctioned duel, they don't just get one point. They get a percentage of mine. I am a walking, breathing treasure chest of academic credit. I am the golden goose, and everyone wants to wring my neck.
Let them come, I think, a small, cold smirk touching my lips. I need the practice.
I glance ahead, past Afia's flapping robes, and spot a familiar head of brown hair bobbing in the crowd.
Howard.
He is walking with the main body of House Luxor, flanked by his new friends. But the swagger is gone. The arrogant tilt of his head, the way he used to walk like he owned the pavement—it's vanished.
I chuckle softly, the sound lost in the tramping of boots.
A few weeks ago, I ran into him in the library. I hadn't seen him since the incident when I sent him into a coma. I should have felt bad but any connection I had to the boy had long since disappeared. I hadn't spoken to him in months and his father actively hated my guts. I assumed him not seeking me out was indication of him not wishing to speak to me. So when we ran into each other it was honestly a shock. When he saw me, coming around the corner of the history section, he didn't puff up. He didn't sneer. He didn't seem happy to see me like one would a friend.
He went pale. Ghost white.
He actually dropped the book he was holding and backed away until he hit a shelf. His hands shook. His eyes were wide, filled with a primal, prey-like terror.
The fear in his eyes was delicious. It was pure, unfiltered trauma.
He remembers, the voices whisper, sounding pleased. He remembers the darkness. He remembers what you did to him
I haven't spoken to him. I haven't needed to. His existence is a testament to my power. He avoids me like I carry the plague, scuttling away whenever I come close to him. He stays with his own kind now, burying himself deep in the safety of House Luxor. Maybe he was doing that the entire time and I just never noticed.
Next to him walks Artemis. She is different. She walks with a straight back, her eyes scanning the perimeter. She doesn't look scared; she looks focused. She hasn't challenged me but I see her looking at me sometimes her golden eyes revealing nothing. I wonder if she' still upset that I killed her friend at the station. Then ordered her death in our first ever test. I would be if I was her.
Oh well fuck them all, I think, dismissing them with a mental wave.
Behind me, I hear the low murmur of my own cohort.
House Apophis.
We are the outcasts. Which is ironic considering ours is the House of the powerful. The next best prospects for Spellbreakers. I wonder if maybe it was just us specifically considering I was the one who lead them.
I hear Vihaan cursing about Melynk and her last test to Imara who chuckles in response.
I smirk. I'm glad they got over their little spat back in the mountains, it would of been a pain if they kept up the petty jabs towards each other.
I was glad they chose to follow me. It wasn't explicit. I didn't stand on a table and give a speech. It just happened. They saw what I did to to the monster. They saw what I did to challengers. They realized that in a school trying to kill them, the safest place to be is behind the monster.
I was training them well.
In the dorms, late at night after classes and any studying, we ran drills. I taught them on strategy, how to think outside the box with their marks, I helped with their fighting and battle arts. I cultivated them into a cohort that understood each others strengths and weaknesses. Even Zaria had accepted my authority although i'm not sure I entirely trust that one.
I've had help though. Max seemed to find what I was doing amusing and so he contributed his experience to our training. Although he refuses to answer some of questions, especially the ones around our own Proctor Jullian and what the point of his class was about.
Suddenly, a commotion breaks the rhythm of the march.
Ahead of me, a boy from House Luxor a lanky kid with feet too big for his body trips over a loose cobblestone. He flails, arms windmilling, and crashes hard into the back of a House Umbra student.
They both go down in a tangle of limbs and curses, dust rising around them.
"Watch it, you damn idiot!" the Umbra boy snarls, shoving the Luxor kid off him. He scrambles up, fists clenched, ready to throw a punch.
The Luxor boy scrambles backward, red-faced, looking embarrassed. "I—I tripped! The stone was—"
"A rock was enough to bring you down? Walk properly you fool!" the Umbra boy shouts, stepping forward his face red with anger.
I grin. It's petty. It's childish. But watching them stumble over their own feet brings a flicker of amusement to an otherwise boring march.
"Enough!" Proctor Afia barks from the head of the column.
She doesn't even turn around. She doesn't break her stride. Her voice just cracks like a whip, silencing the scuffle instantly.
"Maintain formation. If you want to hug each other, do it on your own time."
The Umbra boy freezes, scowls, and falls back into line. The Luxor kid dusts himself off and hurries back into his place.
We round the final bend of the path, and the destination comes into view.
The Colosseum.
It is a monstrosity of architecture. A giant, circular structure that could easily pass for its own school, separate from the rest of the Academy. It is built from black obsidian and grey granite, rising hundreds of feet into the air. The outer walls are lined with massive arches, each one large enough to march a battalion through. It sits in a natural depression in the valley, dominating the landscape like a resting beast.
It is the heart of the Academy's violence apparently. Year ones and twos don't go here to train but from what I gathered this is where a lot of tournaments and duels happen for the upper years happen.
Finally, after walking through the winding outside pathways, we reach the main entrance for the First Year students.
The other years would have taken different routes. The Second Years enter from the East, the Third and Fourth from the West, and the year fives enter through an upper platform that I tab the 'VIP boxes" . The Academy likes to keep us separated. It prevents the older students from "hazing" the fresh meat too early, and it keeps the hierarchy distinct. We are the bottom of the food chain, so we enter through the ground floor.
Proctor Afia stops at the massive door of stone and marble. They stand open, revealing the dark maw of the tunnel that leads into the arena.
She turns to face us, her expression unreadable behind the mask of command.
"Halt!"
Three hundred pairs of boots slam into the dirt in unison. A cloud of dust rises around our ankles. The silence that follows is heavy, filled only with the sound of nature and the very distant roar of the twin dragons somewhere in the distance.
"Attention!"
We snap to. Spines straight. Chins up. Eyes forward. The formation is perfect.
"Salute!"
My right hand flies to my chest, forming a fist over my heart. The movement is crisp, drilled into me over a thousand repetitions until it is muscle memory.
Around me, the entire First Year cohort echoes the motion. The sound of fists hitting fabric is a single, dull thud.
"Vive Sicut Serpens!" we shout, our voices echoing off the stone walls of the Colosseum.
Live Like the Serpent.
The motto of the Empire.
I hold the salute, my eyes locked on Afia's face. She nods, a single, curt motion of approval.
I grin. It's a small, feral thing that I hide behind the collar of my uniform.
I can feel it. The anticipation. The tension in the air. The voices in my head are waking up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
This isn't just a meeting. You don't call the entire Academy to the Colosseum for a lecture. You don't drag the Seniors out of their specialized training for a town hall. Surely not right?
Something fun is coming. I can feel it.
Maybe it's a tournament. Maybe it's a war game. Whatever it is, I'm excited. I can feel the bloodlust rising inside me and I fight to keep myself composed.
'We will sit on the bottom rows" the proctor commands as she strides inside the colosseum
Three hundred footsteps follow.