The examination hall was silent in a way Cain recognized immediately.
Not the silence of fear.
Not the silence of obedience.
This was the silence of **judgment**.
Long wooden desks stretched across the stone chamber in clean, disciplined rows. Each was spaced just far enough apart to discourage wandering eyes without making the room feel sparse. Tall arched windows allowed muted daylight to filter in through thin white curtains, washing the hall in an even, colorless glow.
No banners.
No symbols.
No decoration.
Nothing here was meant to impress.
Cain entered with the other applicants, the soft brush of his academy robe the only sound he made as he crossed the floor. He did not look around. He did not scan faces or measure competition.
Instead, he counted.
Twelve steps to his desk.
Chair aligned properly.
Ink bottle full.
Quill straight.
Exam number **26** was etched into the corner of the desk.
He sat.
Around him, others settled with less composure. Chairs scraped. Someone cleared their throat too loudly. A student two rows ahead tapped their fingers against the desk before forcing themselves to stop.
Cain placed both hands flat on the wood and breathed once—slow, steady, controlled.
This was not a test of strength.
This was worse.
This was a test of **thought**.
An instructor rose from the platform at the front of the hall. His robes fell into place neatly, his posture straight and unhurried.
"This is the final examination of the Royal Academy entrance trials."
The room stilled further.
"This written assessment evaluates judgment, logic, fundamental knowledge, ethics, and strategic reasoning."
A brief pause.
"There are **fifty questions**."
A ripple of tension passed through the hall.
"You will have **two hours**."
At the center of the platform sat a large brass hourglass. The instructor's hand rested on it.
"Incorrect answers will be penalized."
That sentence carried more weight than the rest.
"Unanswered questions will not."
Cain's gaze lowered by a fraction, not in relief, but in calculation.
"Do not guess," the instructor continued evenly. "We are not testing confidence. We are testing discernment."
The hourglass was turned.
Sand began to fall.
"Begin."
---
Cain turned the first page.
The opening questions were straightforward.
**Question 1:**
*Define the primary responsibility of a combat mage assigned to civilian defense.*
He did not hesitate.
> *To prevent loss of life through control, not elimination.*
No embellishment.
**Question 2:**
*When resources are limited, which target takes priority: enemy command or civilian evacuation routes? Briefly explain.*
He wrote without lifting his head.
> *Evacuation routes. Command elimination is secondary if civilians remain vulnerable.*
The answer was not heroic.
It was correct.
He moved on.
---
As minutes passed, the hall settled into a deeper quiet. Nervous movements faded, replaced by the steady scratching of quills and the occasional rustle of paper.
Cain worked at a measured pace.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Consistent.
**Question 7:**
*A patrol fails to return at the expected time. What is the most efficient immediate response?*
> *Verify deviation before escalation. Panic wastes manpower.*
**Question 9:**
*List two reasons excessive magical output can be more dangerous than insufficient output.*
> *Instability.*
> *Collateral damage.*
No third point. No padding.
---
By **Question 14**, Cain noticed what the exam truly was.
The questions were not difficult.
But they were **layered**.
They punished assumption.
**Question 14:**
*In a joint operation involving knights and mages, who holds command authority?*
Cain paused.
He read the question twice.
Then again.
Authority depended on circumstance. On mandate. On context.
He answered carefully.
> *Authority depends on mission designation, not rank.*
It was accurate.
It was incomplete.
He left it as it was and turned the page.
---
Around him, tension began to rise again—not loudly, but subtly. Some applicants rushed now, quills moving too fast, pages flipping too quickly.
Cain did not look at the hourglass.
He did not need to.
His pacing was internal.
---
**Question 21:**
*A magical construct malfunctions during training. What is the correct response?*
> *Deactivate the source before correcting the output.*
**Question 23:**
*Which is more important: raw mana capacity or control?*
> *Control.*
Nothing more.
---
At **Question 27**, Cain stopped.
*During prolonged combat, what mental state ensures optimal magical efficiency?*
He frowned slightly—not outwardly, but inside.
There was no single answer.
Calmness? Focus? Emotional detachment?
Each could be correct depending on context.
The question demanded certainty where none existed.
Cain set the quill down.
He read it again.
Guessing would introduce error.
He left it blank.
Turned the page.
---
The decision felt natural.
No frustration.
No pride.
Only honesty.
---
**Question 31:**
*A superior issues an order that conflicts with operational reality. What is the correct course of action?*
Cain wrote slowly.
> *Request clarification if time allows. Adapt if it does not.*
That was enough.
---
By **Question 38**, Cain had completed most of the paper.
Not perfectly.
But cleanly.
Another scenario followed—mana scarcity, civilian casualties, delayed reinforcements. The wording was deliberately vague.
Cain could answer.
But the risk was there.
Wrong answers lost points.
Blank answers lost nothing.
He weighed it once.
Then left it unanswered.
---
Around him, chairs shifted as students reached the final pages. Some leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Others scribbled furiously until the final grains of sand fell.
Cain reviewed his paper once.
Not twice.
He did not second-guess.
When the instructor spoke again, Cain closed his eyes briefly.
"Time."
Quills stopped.
The hall exhaled.
Instructors moved through the rows, collecting papers without comment. When one reached Cain's desk, his eyes paused briefly—not on the answers, but on the unanswered spaces.
Nothing was said.
Cain stood when instructed and exited with the others.
---
The courtyard outside buzzed with restrained energy.
Some applicants talked rapidly, comparing questions. Others stayed silent, faces stiff with forced calm.
Cain stepped aside beneath the shade of a stone pillar.
He did not engage.
He did not replay the exam.
It was finished.
---
The results were posted the next morning.
A large notice board stood in the central courtyard, names etched in orderly columns. Crowds gathered quickly, whispers rippling outward.
Cain approached only when the space cleared.
He scanned down.
**Cain Arkwright — Class 1B**
No score.
No ranking.
Only placement.
He accepted it without reaction.
---
Across the courtyard, **Liora Valcrest** stood with her attendants. She read the board once, expression unchanged, then turned away without a word.
No glance back.
No comment.
Nobility intact.
---
Cain left the board and walked toward his assigned building.
The academy had sorted them.
Not by brilliance.
Not by power.
But by **judgment**.
And Cain understood exactly why he stood where he did.
Class 1B.
A place for those who were not perfect—
—but who knew where certainty ended.
---