The evaluation hall was silent in a way that felt deliberate.
Hundreds of students stood in orderly rows, their footsteps swallowed by the vast circular chamber beneath the Sol-lit dome. At the center of the hall stood the evaluation crystal—taller than a man, faceted like a frozen flame, its surface clear and unblemished. Ember conduits ran beneath the floor, converging at its base like veins feeding a heart.
Cyros stood among the students of, his posture relaxed, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. Around him, anticipation hummed through the air. Some students whispered prayers. Others stretched their fingers, embers flickering nervously beneath their skin.
At the front, an instructor in dark academy robes raised a hand.
"The evaluation will proceed in order," the instructor said, voice amplified calmly across the hall. "Place your hand on the crystal. Do not resist the resonance."
The first student stepped forward.
The moment her palm touched the crystal, it flared with a sharp, steady glow—warm, structured, precise.
"Craftsman," the instructor announced.
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The girl exhaled in relief and stepped away, her shoulders visibly lighter as she was guided toward the Craftsmen's line.
One by one, students stepped forward.
Some crystals glowed erratically, spiking and fading. "Scientist."
Others shone softly, stabilizing after a moment. "Medical."
A few burned brighter, steady and forceful. "Guard."
Each declaration reshaped futures in an instant.
Cyros watched quietly. He felt no surge of excitement, no rising dread—only a distant curiosity, as if he were observing something that had already decided itself.
"Next. Cyros Valen. Kingdom of Helior Prime."
A ripple moved through the hall at the name alone.
Cyros stepped forward.
He could feel it before he reached the crystal—the subtle hum beneath the floor, the same presence he had felt since arriving at the academy. It pressed lightly against his awareness, familiar in a way he couldn't explain.
He placed his hand against the crystal.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the crystal responded.
A faint glow spread outward from the point of contact. Not unstable. Not weak enough to flicker out—but unmistakably dim. Like embers buried beneath ash.
The silence stretched.
"Patrol," the instructor said.
The word echoed louder than it should have.
Whispers erupted immediately.
"A Patrol?"
"From Helior Prime?"
"Is that a mistake?"
"The strongest kingdom sends someone to Patrol?"
Cyros withdrew his hand calmly and stepped back, his expression unchanged. He neither flinched nor hurried. Still, he felt the weight of countless gazes pressing into his back as he moved toward the Patrol line.
He heard disappointment where others expected pride. Confusion where others expected brilliance.
He did not respond to any of it.
As he reached the edge of the formation, his gaze shifted instinctively.
Another student was stepping forward.
"Lucian Frost of Frostveil," the instructor called.
Cyros turned fully this time.
Lucian was tall and lean, his pale hair catching the Sol's light as he approached the crystal. His academy robes bore the faint frost-thread emblem of Frostveil, a kingdom known more for endurance than brilliance.
Lucian placed his hand on the crystal.
It blazed.
Not gradually. Not cautiously.
The crystal ignited with blinding radiance, light refracting violently across the chamber. Ember pressure surged outward, forcing several students to step back. Even the instructors stiffened.
The glow was pure. Dominant. Unrestrained.
"Sorcerer," the instructor said, voice sharp with surprise.
The hall erupted.
"A Sorcerer?"
"From Frostveil?"
"How long has it been since—"
"That brightness—"
Lucian lowered his hand, eyes wide for just a fraction of a second before composure returned. As he stepped away, his gaze met Cyros's across the crowd.
The look was brief. Measured. Curious.
Then Cyros turned away and merged into the Patrol line as instructors began directing students to their assigned divisions.
The evaluation was over.
Paths had been chosen.
The Patrol training hall was smaller than the others.
Where the Sorcerers' wing echoed with energy and layered enchantments, the Patrol hall was clean, unadorned, practical. Wooden benches lined the walls. Tactical diagrams were etched directly into stone rather than displayed theatrically. The air smelled faintly of metal and ink.
Cyros took a seat near the middle, his ID resting against his chest.
Around him sat students from various kingdoms—some quiet, some visibly frustrated, others oddly relieved. No one spoke much. Patrol wasn't a path students boasted about.
His attention drifted naturally, noting exits, sightlines, the placement of training weapons along the far wall. He wasn't trying to analyze. It simply happened.
Footsteps echoed at the entrance.
The room straightened collectively.
A man stepped inside.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a lean frame that spoke of precision rather than brute strength. His black hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and a thin scar traced the line of his jaw—old, clean, and deliberate. His academy coat was unbuttoned, revealing a fitted uniform beneath, marked not by rank but by use.
He surveyed the room once, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Sit," he said.
No one had stood. Somehow, the word still landed with authority.
"I'm Nagumo," he continued. "Patrol Officer. Instructor for first-year Patrol candidates."
A murmur passed through the room.
Nagumo Sensei?
Cyros felt it too—the subtle shift in atmosphere. Even those unfamiliar with academy rumors knew the name. Nagumo was not a desk-bound officer. He was active. Field-tested. A name attached to closed cases and silent resolutions.
Nagumo leaned casually against the front table, arms crossed.
"Most of you didn't choose Patrol," he said bluntly. "Some of you think this is a mistake. Some of you think you were cheated."
His gaze swept the room, lingering on no one in particular.
"Good," he said. "That means you're paying attention."
A few students stiffened.
"Patrol isn't about power output. It's about control. Awareness. Judgment. You will deal with things Sorcerers aren't allowed to touch and Guards aren't permitted to acknowledge."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You will be told to stop asking questions. You will be ordered to close cases that aren't finished. You will be asked to forget what you've seen."
Silence pressed in.
Nagumo straightened.
"If that bothers you," he continued, "you won't last."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Cyros—just long enough to register, not long enough to linger.
"Tomorrow," Nagumo said, "your real training begins."