The Verdict of the Harvest
The grand chamber of the factory was a masterpiece of intimidating opulence. High vaulted ceilings stretched into the gloom, supported by pillars etched with the history of the First Age, while shimmering crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars, casting a brilliant, unforgiving light upon the sea of students below. A restless chorus of murmurs and the frantic rustle of tattered robes filled the air as twenty thousand young mages—the exhausted remnants of an initial thirty thousand—scrambled to find their assigned places. George Lydia sat with his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Beside him, Arthur Pendragon smoothed out the deep teal fabric of his tunic, his regal composure returning despite the grime still streaking his face. Nana sat with her back ramrod straight, her sharp eyes scanning the room with clinical intensity, while Kayn remained a silent, wiry shadow, his dark eyes fixed forward, devoid of the panic that seemed to infect the rest of the room. The atmosphere shifted instantly when a regal figure stepped onto the high dais. Grand-Magi Gold-Crest did not need to shout; his presence alone commanded the room. As he raised a single, gloved hand, a tangible hush fell over the twenty thousand survivors, the silence so sudden it felt like a physical weight.
"Welcome back, young tributes," Gold-Crest's voice resonated through the auditorium, amplified by the natural acoustics of the factory's heart. "Please, make your way to your seats and find your center. You have survived the shifting stone and the shadows of the basement, but now you face the most rigid gatekeeper of all: your own performance."
On the dais, the Grand-Magi reached into a heavy, iron-bound chest and withdrew a stack of ivory envelopes. With a fluid motion of his arms, he channeled his mana, and the box erupted. Thousands of envelopes took flight, swirling through the air like a flock of white birds, enchanted to seek out their respective owners.
"Congratulations," Gold-Crest's voice boomed, setting the atmosphere ablaze with anticipation. "Out of thirty thousand who entered the depths, only twenty thousand remain. Before you are your grade cards. These documents hold a mark from A through F, calculated by the eyes of the factory itself. A passing grade is a C or higher. Those who have attained this will move forward. For those who have not, do not fret. In two years' time, the cycle begins anew, and you will have another opportunity to re-enter the Harvest Festival."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall as the envelopes began to descend. George watched as a single white rectangle drifted toward him, hovering inches from his chest. To his left, Arthur caught his with the grace of a seasoned knight, his polished golden accents catching the light. Nana grabbed hers out of the air with a decisive snap of her fingers, while Kayn simply allowed his to land softly in his lap.
George's hands trembled as he broke the thick crimson wax seal. He looked at his friends; they were all caught in that same suspended heartbeat of dread and hope. In unison, they unfurled the parchment. "On the count of three?" George whispered, his emerald eyes darting to his companions.
"Just open it, George," Nana muttered, though her own fingers were white-knuckled against the paper. "Your grade won't change because you wait for it."
They looked down. The grand chamber seemed to hold its breath as twenty thousand destinies were revealed at once. George's eyes scanned the ink, searching for the single letter that would determine if his journey ended here or if he would finally step into the light of the Relaxation Center.