Morning came without kindness.
The dormitory assigned to unclassified entrants was quiet in the way of places that expected compliance. Stone walls held the cold from the night. Narrow windows admitted a pale, disciplined light. Even the air smelled regulated—clean linen, lye soap, and the faint mineral bite of the academy's water.
Virgil woke before the bell.
Not because he was eager.
Because he did not trust schedules belonging to other people.
Virgil pressed his thumb to the token until the chill bled into his skin. The number did not change. The weight did not change. Only his pulse did—slowing by a fraction, as if a piece of metal could argue with fear.
In Trivia Garden, value was not spoken.
It was issued.
He washed in silence, tying back his sleeves so they would not drag, then ran a cloth along the seams of his coat. The brown fabric took the brush like an apology. He corrected the line of a button and smoothed the collar with two fingers.
A coat was not armor.
But it was a surface people read.
He checked his hands—nails trimmed, skin dry. The small scar near his thumb was still there, pale and indifferent. Some things refused to be polished away.
He dressed, laced his boots, and measured his equipment. A practice sword issued by the dormitory—standard weight, standard length, standard lies. A simple focus ring for spell casting, more ritual than amplifier. No ornaments. No family crest.
He did not bring the ledger from his old home.
That book stayed hidden, as if ink could be stolen like bread.
When he stepped into the corridor, other students were stirring. Doors opened. Footsteps echoed. Whispered greetings carried the brittle cheer of people about to be evaluated.
Virgil watched them without staring.
A boy adjusted his belt three times—nervousness disguised as discipline.
A girl practiced a breathing pattern taught by Church instructors—half prayer, half technique.
Two sons of minor nobles compared the shine of their blades while pretending they weren't.
Everyone had found a way to rehearse confidence.
Outside, the academy grounds spread like a carved garden—paths too straight, hedges clipped into obedience, stone statues of commanders posed as if victory were posture. Beyond the hedges, training yards opened into the morning.
The yards were already alive.
Students moved in lines, practicing forms with enough flourish to be seen from balconies. The air carried the thud of wood on wood, the hiss of breath, the bright snap of spell discharges. Mana left a faint metallic taste at the back of the tongue, like a coin held too long.
Some trained for skill.
Most trained for witnesses.
Virgil paused at the edge of a yard and observed.
A group of well-funded students—coats crisp, colors saturated—practiced sword drills under the eye of an assistant instructor. Their footwork was precise, but each strike ended half a beat longer than necessary.
They weren't striking targets.
They were striking impressions.
On a nearby terrace, sponsors stood in small clusters. Nobles, merchants, clergy. Not mingling—aligning. The tri-control announced itself without words.
A military officer in the King's colors spoke with a noble whose family crest carried old battles.
A Church representative stood slightly apart, hands folded, eyes on the students as if measuring souls.
Two Treasury officials in plain, expensive coats spoke quietly while a scribe recorded names.
Power did not yell.
It watched.
Virgil's breath fogged once, then vanished.
The bell sounded.
One long note, clean as a knife.
Students began to move toward the trial hall in streams that formed naturally—funded with funded, lone with lone, confident in the center, uncertain at the edges.
Virgil joined the current without letting it carry him.
He kept to the side, where he could see faces and exits.
He passed a notice post. A fresh sheet of parchment had been nailed there overnight.
APTITUDE TRIAL — MORNING SESSION
SWORD PROFICIENCY (Form, Power Output, Reaction, Control)
SPELL PROFICIENCY (Casting Stability, Efficiency, Output)
MANA CAPACITY READING (Baseline Reserve)
Scores will be recorded by panel and converted into placement metrics.
Below, in smaller letters, was a line most eyes skipped:
Public class assignment will follow the trial in the Grand Hall.
Public.
So the measuring would become theater.
Virgil watched a boy read that line and smile as if it were a promise.
Virgil read it and cataloged it as a weapon.
The trial hall sat slightly apart from the ornate heart of Trivia Garden, a building of pale stone with narrow windows that admitted light like verdict. Inside, the air was colder. The floor was laid with slabs so smooth they reflected shoes and status alike.
At the far end, three sections waited.
A sword ring outlined by white chalk.
A casting circle marked with etched runes, faintly luminous.
And, set between them like a confession booth, a mana-reading arch—silver metal shaped into a half-gate with crystal nodes embedded along its curve.
Everything was designed to look impartial.
Impartiality required ceremony.
A raised panel overlooked the floor. Behind it sat the judges.
Three chairs.
Three emblems.
A small banner in the King's colors—military authority.
A Church sigil—curriculum and ritual.
And the plain stamped seal of the Treasury—funding disguised as neutrality.
A scribe stood behind each judge, quill ready, ink black as consequence.
Students were led to waiting lines by assistants whose expressions suggested they had seen too many hopeful faces to respect any of them.
Virgil took his place.
He kept his gaze low enough to be nonthreatening, high enough to see.
He noted who stood near the front.
Names with attendants.
Students with family standing behind the ropes.
Those who laughed softly, already sure of their scores.
He noted who stood near the back.
Students alone.
Students whose coats had been mended.
Students who watched the crystal arch like it might bite.
He recognized one face from last night.
Veynor de Luca stood with his group, relaxed, as if the academy had been built for his comfort. When Veynor caught Virgil's position in the line, his smile returned—pleasant, faintly amused.
Not a threat.
A reminder.
Virgil did not look away.
He looked once, calculated Veynor's role—social pressure, future duel bait—and stored it.
A commotion near the side entrance pulled his attention.
Three students pushed through the line with the casual entitlement of people used to making space.
One was large and broad-shouldered, walking like the floor belonged to him. He kept rolling a knuckle against his thumb, over and over—testing the joint the way a butcher tests a blade. His eyes didn't land on faces.
They landed on shoes.
On posture.
On anyone standing as if they expected mercy.
Garrick Voss—Virgil did not know the name yet.
He did not need to.
Strength announced itself in habits.
Behind him, a girl moved with lighter steps, smiling as if she were greeting friends. She touched a boy's sleeve as she passed—an affectionate, harmless gesture—then leaned close enough to murmur a sentence that made him step back immediately, cheeks flushing. Her laughter stayed soft, almost musical, and she called him "dear" as if the word were kindness.
Her eyes flicked to Virgil's coat, to the empty space around him, and warmed by a degree that only made the insult cleaner.
Mina Quell.
And with them was a third boy whose expression was thin and careful, eyes darting between assistants and the judge's panel. He wore his uniform properly, down to the angle of his collar. In his hand was a folded pamphlet—the trial procedure—already creased at the footnotes. He didn't tap it like a gavel.
He tapped the margin where penalties were printed.
Rook Halden.
Virgil watched the triangle form.
Muscle that promised consequences.
Charm that made cruelty sound like advice.
And rules sharp enough to cut without drawing blood.
A small hierarchy already forming among the discarded.
The academy did not need to assign Class F for Class F to exist.
Children built cages faster than institutions.
An assistant called the first names for the sword segment.
The line began to move.
The sword ring was nothing ornate. No banners. No cheering. Just chalk, stone, and a rack of practice blades that had been dulled into safety.
Safety did not mean fairness.
The test was simple in appearance:
A sequence of forms.
A power-output strike into a padded target that measured impact with a clicking gauge.
And a reaction drill—an instructor's baton snapping toward you from unpredictable angles.
Each part had a number.
Numbers didn't care about excuses.
Virgil stepped into the ring when his name was called.
He accepted a practice blade.
It sat in his grip like a borrowed opinion.
He bowed—not to the judges, but to the procedure.
Then he began.
Form first.
Footwork measured in squares.
Angles clean.
No wasted motion.
He had trained enough to be competent. Not because he enjoyed it, but because incompetence invited control. He moved through the prescribed sequence with precision and restraint.
The military judge watched with an expression that suggested approval was a ration.
The Church judge watched for discipline—posture, breath, reverence for form.
The Treasury judge watched for… something harder to name.
Consistency, perhaps.
Predictability.
A student who wouldn't break equipment or budgets.
Virgil finished the sequence.
Silence.
No applause.
Only quills moving.
Next: power output.
A padded target stood at the edge of the ring with a simple gauge attached—metal teeth that clicked upward when struck.
Virgil exhaled once.
He struck.
The blade hit with a solid thud.
The gauge clicked up—respectable.
Not impressive.
He could feel the difference the way a strategist feels the difference between adequate supplies and abundance.
Adequate kept you alive.
Abundance won campaigns.
The instructor reset the gauge. "Again," he said.
Virgil struck a second time, adjusting his hip rotation, shifting weight by a fraction.
The click rose the same.
His body gave what it had.
Statistics were stubborn.
Reaction drill.
The instructor's baton snapped toward his shoulder. Virgil shifted, parried. The baton aimed for his knee—Virgil stepped back. Shoulder again. Wrist.
He was not slow.
He was not exceptional.
Competence without spectacle.
The instructor's baton stopped.
"Done."
Virgil bowed and left the ring.
As he passed the judge's panel, he caught a glimpse of the scribe's notes.
Columns.
Numbers.
A conversion key at the bottom—raw score to placement metric.
The key mattered more than the score.
Virgil held that thought.
When Veynor de Luca entered the ring later, the difference was immediate.
Veynor's form carried the same prescribed angles, but his movements looked effortless. His strike into the target lifted the gauge higher with a lighter sound. His reaction drill ended with the instructor smiling faintly.
Not because Veynor had proven skill.
Because he had confirmed expectation.
Virgil looked away.
He did not envy.
Envy wasted time.
He measured the gap.
And the parts of the gap that were not physical.
The spell segment took place in the casting circle.
Etched runes formed concentric rings, each line precise enough to be both art and warning. Crystal pylons stood at the circle's edges, humming faintly—mana measurement instruments.
Assistants handed each student a focus ring if they lacked one.
The instructions were delivered in the same tone one might use to explain how to wash hands.
"Cast the prescribed sequence. Maintain stability. Avoid spill. Output will be measured. Efficiency will be measured. Any breach of circle lines results in penalty."
A breach.
A penalty.
Even magic was a matter of borders.
When Virgil stepped into the circle, the stone beneath his boots felt colder.
He could taste mana in the air. Not strong—controlled.
He raised his hand.
The first spell was simple: a shaping of force into a small, contained blade—an academy standard.
He formed it.
The force blade flickered into existence, thin as a whisper.
It held.
Stability was easier than power.
He maintained it for the required count, then released it cleanly.
No spill.
The crystal pylons brightened slightly and dimmed.
Quills scratched.
Second spell: a push of air into a directed burst.
Virgil cast.
The burst struck the measurement screen with a dull thump.
The output number appeared briefly on a small display panel.
It was not embarrassing.
It was not noteworthy.
It would not make anyone lean forward.
Third spell: a mana weave meant to test control—threading energy through a pattern without tearing it.
Virgil's fingers moved with practiced economy.
He used breath, not force.
He kept the weave tight, no wasted flares.
He finished and let the pattern dissolve.
Clean.
Efficient.
Underpowered.
As he stepped out of the circle, he heard a sponsor behind the rope murmur, "Stable, at least."
At least.
A phrase used for things that would not win.
Veynor's spell segment later produced brighter pylons and louder murmurs. His output numbers lingered in people's eyes.
Virgil noted how quickly those numbers translated into smiles, nods, small rearrangements of where sponsors stood.
The crowd was learning its entertainment.
Then came the mana capacity reading.
The arch waited like a metal doorway to judgment.
Students approached it with more fear than they had shown for blades or spells.
Aptitude could be improved.
Capacity sounded like fate.
An assistant instructed each student to place both hands on the crystal nodes and stand still.
The arch would drink their baseline reserve and display a number.
A number that would follow them.
A number that would be interpreted by sponsors as worth.
Virgil watched the process.
A well-funded student placed his hands on the nodes. The crystals flared. The number that appeared drew pleased murmurs.
Another student—alone, pale—stepped in. The crystals lit weakly. The number appeared lower. The murmurs changed texture.
Not laughter.
Pity.
Pity was worse.
When Virgil's name was called, he stepped forward.
He did not hesitate.
Hesitation invited stories.
He placed his palms on the cool crystal.
The chill traveled up his wrists.
For half a second, the sensation resembled something else.
Not just heat—texture.
A door handle slick with soot and panic, too hot to hold, too familiar to release. Smoke so dense it turned breath into swallowing, and underneath it the sharp, sour stink of wet grain—spilled, trampled, made useless. Then the sound that always returned first:
not screaming—
laughter.
A single shout, triumphant and stupid, the words slurred by hunger and righteousness: "Take it—before they hide it again!"
Wood split.
A latch snapped like bone.
And the crowd answered itself, louder, as if volume could turn theft into justice.
His fingers tightened on the crystal.
Virgil kept his breathing even.
He would not give the arch shaking hands as evidence.
The number appeared.
Not low enough for mockery.
Not high enough to matter.
A clean, naked fact.
He felt the crowd calculate.
He heard the arithmetic behind their silence:
Not enough to be sponsored highly.
Not enough to be placed above those born with abundance.
Enough to be useful.
Useful did not mean respected.
He stepped away.
His palms tingled as if the arch had taken something more than mana.
Veynor watched from the side and, without raising his voice, said as if to a friend, "Respectable."
Respectable.
A second at least.
Virgil did not respond.
Words were also measured here.
The trial concluded with the last student.
Assistants collected equipment.
Judges conferred in low voices.
Scribes recalculated.
The conversion key did its quiet work.
And as the room began to empty, an announcement bell chimed—three short notes.
A herald in academy colors stepped onto a small dais.
"By order of Trivia Garden," the herald declared, "class placement results will be announced publicly in the Grand Hall at midday. All entrants are required to attend. Sponsors and patrons are invited to witness the assignment."
Invited to witness.
As if it were a duel.
The crowd shifted.
Excitement ran beneath skin.
The mood changed from evaluation to anticipation.
Virgil watched faces brighten.
Not because they cared about learning.
Because they cared about positions being made visible.
He turned to leave.
A hand—gloved, delicate—settled on his sleeve.
Not a grip.
A placement.
Light enough to look gentle from a distance, firm enough that anyone watching would understand: claimed.
Virgil stopped without flinching.
He looked down.
The glove was white.
The cuff embroidered with a small crest—the full Bunansa signet.
His eyes followed the sleeve upward.
A girl stood beside him, posture immaculate, hair a controlled fall of golden blond, eyes green and cold as polished glass.
She did not need to raise her voice.
The air adjusted around her anyway.
Amalia le Bunansa.
The main house's daughter.
His age.
Not his equal.
Her smile was the kind that belonged on portraits.
"Virgil," she said, as if greeting someone she had always owned. "You look well."
Virgil met her gaze.
He kept his face blank.
Inside, he measured.
Presence: high.
Witnesses: many.
Intent: not kindness.
He inclined his head slightly. Not bowing. Not defying.
"Lady Amalia."
Her eyes flicked to the token bulge beneath his coat, then back to his face. A small gesture, but deliberate.
"In this place," she said, "everything is decided by procedure. You know that, don't you?"
It was not a question.
Virgil's mind sorted responses.
Truth would be useless.
Defiance would be expensive.
Silence would invite her to write his story for him.
"I'm learning," he said.
Amalia's smile deepened by a fraction.
"Good," she replied. "Then you'll understand why I've taken the liberty of arranging your schedule."
Virgil did not move.
He felt the room around them slow, ears turning.
Amalia produced a folded document from within her sleeve. The paper bore the academy seal and, beneath it, a line of text in crisp ink.
ATTENDANT PRACTICUM — ENTRY ASSIGNMENT
Name: Virgil von Bunansa.
Supervisor: Lady Amalia le Bunansa.
Duration: Indefinite (subject to review).
Justification: Behavioral integration and service discipline.
Approved by: Deputy Registrar.
The final line held the true weapon.
A clause written in polite language:
Failure to comply constitutes a breach of entrant conduct and may result in penalty to class placement metrics.
The clause sat at the bottom like a quiet thumb on a throat—no shouting, no threats, only consequences spelled cleanly enough to be enforced.
Amalia held the paper as if offering him help.
"I requested it," she said softly, and her voice carried just enough warmth to travel. She angled half a step—not toward Virgil, but toward the rope where sponsors stood clustered, as if the sentence belonged to them more than to him.
"For your sake," she continued, sweetly measured. "The academy can be… harsh to those who lack guidance. Serving as my attendant will teach you structure. It will also protect you from embarrassing misunderstandings."
The warmth was performance.
The knife was paperwork.
Embarrassing misunderstandings.
She meant humiliation.
She meant the crowd.
Virgil looked at the paper.
He looked at the seal.
He looked at the approving signature.
Deputy Registrar.
A small official. The kind of person Treasury could influence with funding and Church could influence with favor.
The tri-control did not need to speak loudly to move ink.
Virgil lifted his gaze to Amalia.
Her eyes were calm.
This was not a tantrum.
This was administration.
"You didn't have to," Virgil said.
Amalia's expression suggested he had misunderstood the nature of her generosity.
"Oh, but I did," she replied. "Because you wear our name. And our name does not belong in confusion."
There it was.
Not care.
Control.
Her smile remained perfect.
Around them, students pretended not to listen while listening with their entire bodies.
Virgil calculated options.
Refuse openly.
Consequence: breach clause triggers penalty; public narrative becomes 'ungrateful adoptee.'
Accept quietly.
Consequence: loss of time, autonomy, access—his true weapons.
Negotiate.
Consequence: she frames it as insolence.
The paper had been designed to remove choice.
But even cages had seams.
He did not see one yet.
Not in the ink.
Not in the signatures.
So he chose the only move that preserved future moves.
He nodded.
"As you wish," Virgil said.
Amalia's eyes brightened slightly.
Not with joy.
With victory.
"Excellent," she said, and tapped the paper gently against his chest—once, twice—like fastening a badge. "Meet me after the announcement. You'll receive your duties."
Then she turned away.
The crowd breathed again.
Virgil stood still long enough for the moment to settle into memory.
Not because it hurt.
Because it mattered.
A humiliation did not begin when people laughed.
It began when paperwork made laughter permissible.
He folded the document along the existing creases and slid it into his inner pocket, behind the token.
Paper against metal.
A soft edge and a hard one.
Both pressed close to his ribs when he breathed.
He walked out of the trial hall.
Outside, the training yards were louder now, as if the academy wanted the morning to feel triumphant.
Virgil moved through it like a shadow in plain clothing.
He passed a cluster of students he recognized from earlier.
The broad-shouldered boy—Garrick—leaned against a wall and rolled his knuckles again, eyes drifting over a smaller student's stance the way a buyer inspects livestock.
Mina murmured into another student's ear and laughed softly, then patted the girl's hand as if they'd shared something tender. The girl's smile died a second later.
Rook held the pamphlet open with the care of scripture and underlined a sentence twice, slow and satisfied, as though ink alone could make people obey.
They were not powerful.
They were simply early.
Early to build a throne from scraps.
Virgil did not confront them.
Confrontation made them larger.
He stored them as variables.
Midday would make them relevant.
Because class assignments were public.
Because class points determined mentor hours, facilities, missions.
Because Class F—he had heard the phrase in whispers—did not receive those things.
It received leftovers.
And in a system where war-game rankings were team-based and duels were only tie-breakers, being placed in the wrong class did not merely insult.
It starved.
Starvation of resources.
Starvation of time.
Starvation of opportunity.
Virgil walked toward the Grand Hall.
He did not expect fairness.
He expected design.
And design always left seams.
At the base of another notice post, a thin stack of procedural sheets sat in a wooden tray—trial paperwork for entrants to review.
Most students ignored it.
Virgil did not.
He lifted the top sheet.
POINT ALLOCATION AND FACILITY ACCESS — PROVISIONAL
His eyes moved down the text, scanning for the parts people never read.
Definitions.
Clauses.
Footnotes.
A line near the bottom caught his attention.
In the event of equipment failure or unsafe facility conditions, any class may submit a Safety Compliance Request. Requests approved by the Church Safety Office must be honored by the Treasury Facilities Division within seven days.
Virgil stared at the sentence.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because it was a crack.
The words "any class" were small.
But they were absolute.
A class could be denied mentors.
A class could be denied missions.
A class could be denied respect.
But safety compliance was a Church matter.
And Church decrees, once stamped, forced Treasury hands.
Virgil folded the sheet along its existing creases and slid it into his coat.
He felt the token.
He felt the attendant document.
He felt, beneath them, the new paper—thin, ordinary, dangerous.
Midday would announce where the academy wanted him.
Tonight, he would begin locating where the academy could not afford to ignore him.
He lifted his eyes toward the Grand Hall's stained-glass windows.
Inside, a crowd would gather.
Noise would form.
A single foolish shout could still become a wave.
Virgil kept his breathing even.
He would not shout.
He would not plead.
He would not gamble on strength he did not have.
He would find the seam.
And he would pull—quietly—until the paperwork began to bite the hands that signed it.