BONG.
The world lurched. One moment the forest reeked of pine and blood—the next, the crisp air of the Academy courtyard.
Davy's face filled the main screen, beard frazzled, smile thin.
"Well… that last minute was something, wasn't it?" He cleared his throat. "Congratulations to the fifty-six who made it. To those who didn't—don't lose hope. Admission isn't solely based on survival. To our viewers… until tomorrow's celebration."
The feed went dark.
A tense bubble formed in the courtyard around Vael and Arconis.
Arconis—because he was Arconis.
Vael—because of what everyone had just witnessed.
No one approached. No one even looked directly at them.
Two monsters, standing alone in a sea of survivors.
Of the thousand candidates, only fifty-six remained. And every eye in the world had seen what those two were capable of.
Vael's link reestablished with a faint crackle.
"Kiera. Where are you?" he asked.
Radio silence.
Vael scanned the dispersing crowd, searching for a familiar face. He reached out through their mental link once more.
This time, she answered.
"I'm near the exit. I'll wait for you there."
Though telepathy carried no tone, a cold, flat emptiness bled through the words. Something was wrong.
"All right."
Around them, Academy staff herded the exhausted, shell-shocked candidates toward the gates, instructing them to return the following evening for the results—and for the chosen few, a formal reception.
As the crowd thinned, Vael seized a moment of inattention to release Oculor from the spatial pocket.
The serpent slithered smoothly back into the hollow behind his eyepatch.
"Ahh… over so soon, contractor?" Oculor's mental hiss was lazy, taunting. "I trust you didn't disgrace me. It would be… regrettable to fail with such a gift."
"Don't worry. We already—"
Vael's thought cut off. He had reached the exit. The crowd still parted around him, keeping their cautious distance. And there, leaning against a stone pillar, was Kiera.
Her clothes were torn and stained, her posture sagging with exhaustion—but it was her eyes that stopped him cold. They weren't just tired.
They were hollow. Distant. Windows to a room where the lights had gone out.
Vael's gaze narrowed, a silent question forming between them.
"Later," she said. One word, and it was a door slammed shut.
He gave a curt nod, the mystery of her state coiling in his gut like a cold serpent. Without another word, he summoned Sundance and Eclipse from the void.
The two steeds materialized in stark contrast beneath the harsh sun: Eclipse devouring the light, Sundance hurling it back like a challenge.
No words passed between them. With the efficiency of soldiers after a long campaign, they mounted. A touch of heels, and they were off—leaving the Academy and its haunted survivors behind.
They rode harder on the return, a silent pact between rider and mount. The horses, sensing their masters' urgency, thundered across the earth, their hooves beating a frantic rhythm.
The wind whipped past, but it couldn't blow away the silence that clung to Kiera. It was a heavy, suffocating thing. She wasn't just quiet—she was absent. Her body rode, but her spirit had gone elsewhere. Her breathing was too even, too deliberate, as though she had to remind herself to keep going.
Vael knew now. This wasn't about Arconis. Or the exam. Or exhaustion.
Something had broken in that forest. Something that had nothing to do with the fight—and everything to do with whatever she had found, or lost, in the dark.
But what?
Now wasn't the time to ask. Rest weighed on them like chains.
They reached the inn as the sun bled orange across the sky, the first shadows of evening stretching long over the street. Six o'clock. The day had been stolen by violence and fatigue.
Vael dismissed Sundance and Eclipse back into the quiet of his spatial pocket.
"Go up. I'll get us food," he said, his voice rough with weariness.
Kiera gave only the faintest nod and drifted toward the stairs like a sleepwalker, her steps stripped of their usual lethal grace.
Vael turned to the counter, the words the usual stew already forming on his tongue.
"Hi. Can I get the usual plea—"
The sentence died.
The woman behind the counter—usually brisk, cheerful—was staring at him with naked terror. Her face was pale, her hands gripping the wood as though it was the only thing keeping her standing.
"Y-yes! Right away, s-sir!" she stammered, voice tight with fear. She stumbled backward into the kitchen, nearly tripping in her panic.
The common room had gone still. The hum of conversation smothered. Every patron either stared openly—or very deliberately didn't.
The bubble of space had followed him home.
A chair scraped. A man in his forties, all cheap confidence and cheaper ale, swaggered over.
"Hey, kid. You're that Serpes guy, right?" His breath reeked of whiskey and poor decisions.
"Shut it, dumbass," his friend hissed, tugging his sleeve. "You saw what he does to people."
"Pfft. Simulation crap." The drunk waved him off. "He's a wuss. Wouldn't do it for real."
Vael didn't turn. Didn't react. Exhaustion was thicker armor than arrogance.
The server slid two bowls of stew onto the counter, her hands trembling. "S-sorry for the wait, sir."
Vael took them and started for the stairs.
"See?" the drunk crowed. "Told you! Bet he only wears that eyepatch to look tough. Without mana, they're nothing. That's why his little girlfriend got wrecked at the end."
Vael's boot froze on the bottom step.
"Wrecked…"
The word hung in the air, cold and sharp.
Then he continued upward.
The drunk would never know how close he had come to learning the difference between simulation and reality.
Oculor, wisely, said nothing.