The crystal chamber did not permit noise. Its strange, porous surfaces seemed to absorb sound, swallowing echoes and muffling whispers into a pervasive, watchful hush. It became, by default, a silent sickbay. The soft phosphorescence from the walls was a sterile, surgical light, illuminating the aftermath of collapse and revelation.
We were forty-two patients, and I was the only doctor. My performed "healings"—those desperate, glowing placebos—had done more than soothe pain. They had written a new social contract in light across the stunned faces of the students. The complex web of factional loyalty, noble rank, and academic standing that had defined the Academy above was incinerated in the crucible of the golden barrier. What remained was a simpler, more primal hierarchy: power and the hope of survival. And I was at its apex.
