The proctor snapped his fingers. The dry crack echoed through the chamber. "Seats are finalized. Take the graphite provided, record your identification, and rest your bronze token upon the cover."
A lead pencil and five sheets of crisp parchment materialized instantly in the dead center of every single desk.
"You have two hours for the Written Examination. One hundred queries spanning Theoretical Arcanum to Core Academia. Pens down at 13:00. Cheating results in immediate expulsion and permanent blacklisting. Begin."
Parchment rustled in a panicked wave as three dozen applicants tore into the first page. Arthur did not reach for his pencil. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing at the papers.
What manner of matrix was that? True Illusion is an unfinished doctrine—they wouldn't unveil it to a room of thirteen-year-olds.
Creation magic is out of the question for mundane paper.
Wait. The room was noticeably cold and humid when I crossed the threshold. The high clerestory windows caught the morning sun at an angle.
Condensation. Refracted light through a localized ice matrix, bending the sightline to hide the documents that were already resting on the oak.
A tidy parlor trick. But why waste mana on theater?
Arthur flipped to the final leaf.
"Question 100: Explain the methodology utilized to manifest this examination from apparent void."
Clever. Magic analysis disguised as administrative flourish. Good thing I catalogued the moisture on my coat before the heat burnt it off.
The noon sun has crested the roof. The illusion couldn't hold now even if he willed it.
Arthur glanced sideways. What is far more alarming is the absolute massacre happening on my neighbor's desk.
Vicktor Vulivar was furiously gouging the parchment, his pencil tip screeching like an ungreased axle. Arthur squinted. Every single answer is catastrophically wrong. The boy is illiterate in basic knowledge.
I judged him an arrogant tyrant from his screaming at the desk.
Perhaps I was wrong. His answers are butchered, but he hasn't looked at my sheet once.
There is a bizarre, barbaric honor in that.
Arthur's gaze drifted down to Vicktor's hand. He was gripping the pencil with his left hand, the strokes awkward and violently jagged.
Why use the off-hand? No natural southpaw writes with that degree of mechanical friction.
Arthur pulled his own right hand beneath the edge of the desk, letting it rest in the shadow of his thigh.
Faint white lines scored his knuckles and palm. Straight gashes from steel edges; serrated tears from animal fangs; crosshatched abrasions from coarse leather grips. The physical ledger of a boy who swung iron while others studied theory.
Vicktor Vulivar. You are headed for a flawless zero on this evaluation.
Yet swordsman to swordsman, you have my absolute respect.
Vicktor's head snapped sideways. His red irises flared, thick brows bunching into an aggressive V. He slammed a heavy forearm across his paper.
"Eyes off my work."
A beat of dead silence passed. "Commoner," the noble spat.
"Understood," Arthur replied softly, returning his eyes to his own desk.
And the respect is dead. Just another pompous aristocrat.
At least he didn't call the proctor. Not that it matters; my chances here are rotting anyway.
A wave of exhaustion crashed into Arthur's jaw, pulling it wide in an involuntary yawn.
Five hours of sleep a night for a month. The bill is coming due.
I've finished all questions, and I have a little more than an hour to spare.
Pass or fail, the outcome is already written.
Arthur crossed his arms over the desk, rested his forehead against the sleeve of his coat, and slipped into darkness.