The silence in the Colosseum is absolute.
It is a vacuum, void of wind, void of breath, void of life. The only thing that exists is the corpse at my feet and the four judges standing in front of me.
The Federation soldier lies twisted in the red sand, his face frozen in a rictus of eternal, silent screaming. His eyes are wide, staring up at a sun that will no longer warm him. There is no blood on my hands. There is no blade in my grip. I killed him with a thought, drowning him in the sewage of his own memories until his heart simply gave up.
I stand over him, my chest rising and falling in a steady, calm rhythm. The voices are in the back of mind praising me over the effectiveness of the kill.
General Callum Icepelt steps towards me. He moves with a heavy, predatory grace, his black boots crunching softly on the sand. He approaches the body, his red eyes scanning the corpse with the detached curiosity of a butcher inspecting a side of beef.
He kicks the soldier's boot lightly. The body does not move.
"Magincifect," the General rumbles. His voice is deep, a baritone that vibrates in the open air. "Quick and no hesitation on the order to kill. He looks up at me, and there is a glint in his eyes.
"Well," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "To answer your question from before" He circles me
"I did speak to the King," the General continues, his tone conversational, as if we aren't standing over a dead body. "But His Majesty did not go into much detail about what to expect. He simply said that you—the Three Mark Bearer—must go. He said you would be useful."
He stops in front of me, looming. He is massive, a wall of black uniform and muscle.
"As for your effectiveness... I wasn't sure what to expect if i'm honest with you. I've seen so called prodiges before but I suppose they did not share the particular honor of having three marks impressed upon their soul.
He glances at the corpse again, then back to me.
"But I trust the King's judgment. And there are rumors about you, young Daath. Rumors about a rampage in Lont." The church and some nobles are besides themself to say the least."
I stiffen.
I remember the smell of ozone and blood. I remember the feeling of the Fearmonger mark slipping its leash, the voices screaming for vengeance to the what I thought was the death of Cecilia, the colorless haze that descended over my vision.
I remember tearing through Count Ashland's men like they were made of wet paper. I remember the crunch of bone and the spray of arterial blood. It wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
I sneer, the expression twisting my face before I can stop it. The memory of losing control, of becoming a puppet for the voices, spurs a flash of hate and anger. It bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, hot and acidic.
"It's no rumor," I spit, my voice harsh.
I meet the General's red gaze, refusing to look away.
"I did indeed kill around forty soldiers under Count Ashland. And I would have killed forty more if my teacher did not step in and stop me"
The General studies me. He doesn't look horrified. He doesn't look disgusted.
He nods.
"Well," he says, smoothing his gloves. "Killing our own soldiers is problematic it's a waste of resources for one. So let's not do that any further."
He shrugs, a gesture that dismisses the deaths of forty men as a minor issue.
"But as far as I am concerned, you were cleared of all charges by the King. So, it is simply... combat experience."
"General," Headmistress Voss interjects.
Her voice cuts through the heat like a shard of ice. She is standing on the edge of the dais, her arms crossed over her pristine white robes. Her blue eyes are narrowed, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Again, enough chitchat. We are on a schedule here we still have a few more students to get through then we have meetings.
The General smirks. He doesn't turn to look at her.
I get the distinct feeling that the man in front of me does not really care what the others have to say. To him, the Headmistress is a glorified babysitter, and the Inquisitor is a nuisance. He answers only to the Crown.
"Very well," Icepelt says, turning back to me. "The next test is simple and the church insisted on this one.
He throws another hateful glare over his shoulder toward where Cecilia stands a few feet away. I don't turn to look at her. I can feel her presence, though. I can feel the shock radiating off her.
"Anyways," the General continues, "this test is designed to determine if you have the ability to recognize, adapt, and implement paradigm shifts. Combat is not static, Awakened Daath. The Federation fights with all they have. We fight the same. But sometimes it's not enough to try hard. The winner is usually the one who changes the rules first and for that we need tacticians.
He rolls his eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"This is usually taught over years of strategy courses inside these very Academy walls. But we shall see if you have what it takes right now."
He snaps his fingers.
"Lieutenant."
The Second Lieutenant Viges approaches.
"Sir," Viges replies.
"The bowl," the General commands.
Viges reaches behind his back and pulls out a polished wooden bowl.
I blink in confusion.
I wonder, with a flicker of dark amusement, where exactly he was keeping that. Maybe he had it up his ass. The thought makes the voices chuff with laughter in my mind.
"We will play a game to determine if you have that ability already, young Daath," the General says, stepping back.
Headmistress Voss approaches. She walks past Cecilia without acknowledging her, her white hair trailing behind her like a regal cape. She descends the steps of the dais and takes the bowl from the Lieutenant.
She holds it out to me.
Her face is impassive. She looks like a statue of judgment.
"There are two cards in the bowl," she explains, her voice cool and crisp. "One bears the image of the Reaper's Scythe. The other bears the image of a Lamb."
She pauses, letting the words settle.
"Pick the Scythe, and you lose. You fail the assessment. You return to your dorm."
She tilts the bowl slightly.
"Pick the Lamb, and you win. You pass."
I flinch.
It is a microscopic movement, a twitch of the eyelid, but I feel it reverberate through my entire body.
Reaper.
The word echoes in the cavern of my mind.
It isn't just a card. It isn't just a symbol of death.
It is the name the voices call me. It is the name the dragons in my visions whispered when they showed me the throne of bones. It is the destiny I have been trying to outrun, the curse I have been trying to control.
The Reaper, the voices whisper now. They laugh in ecstasy, a sound like grinding glass See? We never lied to you, this is fate!"
I darkly wonder what type of divine curse was placed on me for this specific test to rely on that specific imagery. Is the universe laughing at me? Or is it guiding me?
I sneer internally, crushing the superstitious dread under the heel of my logic. I silence the voices laughter with a thought and they retreat slightly.
I look at the bowl. I look at the Headmistress. I look at the General, who is watching me with intense, hawk-like interest.
Paradigm shift, the General had said.
This is a test. Which means there is no element of luck to it. The Empire does not select its officers based on a coin flip. They don't gamble with their weapons. So they indeed are measuring my intelligence. My ability to read the situation. Which means there is a kink in this test.
If the game were fair—one Scythe, one Lamb—it would be a 50/50 chance. That proves nothing. A fool could pick the Lamb by accident. A genius could pick the Scythe by bad luck.
Therefore, the game is not fair.
I analyze the variables.
The General wants to send me. The King wants to send me. The Church is the obstacle. The Church wants me to fail, or at least, to be proven unstable.
The only way this game tests my intelligence is if I realize the game is rigged.
Both cards are Scythes.
It has to be. That is the singular variable that could be altered to ensure failure—or to test if the candidate refuses to accept the failure presented to them.
Simple.
I stare into the General's handsome, predatory eyes.
It is a rigged game. A cheat. A lie wrapped in the guise of a test.
But I grew up in the outskirts of Lont. I grew up in the gutter, where the only rule was survival and the only fair fight was the one you watched from a distance. I don't play by rules. I never have.
"Of course, Headmistress," I say smoothly.
I step forward.
I reach my hand into the wooden bowl.
The paper feels rough against my fingertips. I feel two cards. They are identical in size and weight.
I grab one.
I pull it free, cupping it in my palm so that only I can see its face.
I look at it.
It is a drawing of a skeletal hand gripping a long, curved blade.
A Scythe.
Of course it is.
I don't frown. I don't hesitate. I don't show a flicker of disappointment.
I look up. The General's eyes never leave mine. He is waiting for the objection. He is waiting for me to cry foul, or to accept my fate. I finally look at Cecilia and I see the concern and hope on her face.
"I win," I say.
The General blinks. "Show us."
He reaches out his hand to take the card from me, to verify the Lamb.
But I don't give it to him.
I shove the card into my mouth.
The General freezes. The Headmistress's eyes widen and Cecilia's face drops.
I crumple the thick paper between my teeth. It tastes like dry pulp and ink. It is bitter and disgusting. I chew aggressively, maintaining eye contact with the General the entire time.
He never saw what I drew.
I chew. I grind the paper into a paste. It is hard to swallow, dry and scratching at my throat, but I force it down.
I swallow audibly. They all stare at me in various degrees of surprise as if they could believe the absurdity of my actions.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Then, I reach back into the bowl.
I pull the remaining card out.
I flip it over and toss it at the General. It flutters through the air and lands at his feet, face up.
It is a Scythe.
"Since that one is the Scythe," I say, gesturing to the card in the sand, "the one I drew must have been the Lamb."
I smile.
"The Lamb just simply looked too good not to eat," I say. "I was hungry."
There is a beat of silence.
Headmistress Voss looks at the card on the ground. She looks at me and I swear I see a brief moment of amusement cross her face.
"Perfectly understandable," the General responds.
A slow, wide grin spreads across his face. It transforms him. He doesn't look like a stern military commander anymore; he looks like a wolf who just watched his cub take down its first elk.
His eyes are alight with victory.
He straightens up, his demeanor shifting from amused observer to the voice of the Empire.
"Young Daath," he announces, his voice booming. "Per the power given to me by His Royal Highness, King of Avrael and Holy Emperor of Elarion..."
He pauses for effect.
"I hereby graduate you early from the Academy."
My eyes widen.
"You are no longer a student of this academy," he continues. "You now fall under my direct command until otherwise told. You are hereby promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant. An automatic promotion to officer class."
He claps me on the shoulder again, nearly driving me into the sand with the sheer force catching me off guard.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant Daath."
I stand there, slightly stunned.
I bow my head.
I sigh, letting the breath escape my lungs.
I think about the classes I will miss. I think about the library. I think about the relative safety of being a student.
Gone. All of it.
But deep down, beneath the hesitation, I know the truth.
War and bloodshed were always my destiny. An Elite can exist no other way. We are weapons. Keeping a weapon in a box is a waste; it is meant to be used. And I am the best weapon to ever exist. Three divine marks of power.
Yes! the voices howl in joy.
They surge in my mind, a tidal wave of vindication. Now we conquer! They will scream your name in worship. Enjoy yourself, Little Reaper! The world will tremble at your feet!
I ignore them, pushing the jubilation down. Seraphine Voss is watching me and she smiles. It is a small, wintry thing but its better then her sotic resting bitch face.
I bow to her in farewell. A deep, waist-low bow, acknowledging the sanctuary she provided, however briefly.
The General speaks again.
This time, his voice is stripped of the mirth. It is full of menace this sounds more like a man who paved his career with the bodies of the Empire's enemies.
"Young Daath," he says, leaning in close. "When we get to Verion, the rules change. There is no Academy there it's no longer a test it is real life."
His red eyes bore into mine.
"You need to use all of your power to bring glory to the Empire. You must repel the Chaos. But to do that..."
He gestures to the dead man in the sand.
"You must be a bastard. You must be an evil patron of rage, violence, bloodlust, and massacre.
He grins, and it is terrifying.
"We shall kill the invaders who dare bring chaos into our lands who dare attacks lands blessed by the Gods. We are the swords that drive back the darkness."
I am shocked, momentarily, by the sheer venom in his voice.
I nod slowly.
"I understand, General," I say. "I will be what is required."
"Good," Icepelt says "We leave at dawn with the rest of the students who passed our tests today."
The Proctor with the yellow eyes the one who led me out here approaches again. She doesn't say a word. She just gestures toward the exit tunnel on the far side of the arena.
I turn to follow her.
I walk away from the judges. I walk away from the corpse. I walk away from Cecilia. I can feel her gaze on my back, heavy and complicated, but I don't turn around.
As I reach the edge of the tunnel, I hear the Headmistress's voice ring out across the empty arena, calling for the next victim.
"Bring Vihaan Deshmukh next Proctor."
I pause for a fraction of a second.
Good luck, Vihaan, I think.
I step into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving the light behind