Chapter 15 #2
Florentius stands at the top of the steps, his phoenix-red robe immaculate, as though winter dared not touch him.
His presence is always eye-catchingly precise, his movements practised to perfection.
He never mingles, rarely speaks, but when his gaze finds mine, his lips curl ever so slightly—a silent, grimacing acknowledgment.
Then, with a flick of his chin, he gestures to the doors as they creak open.
Inside, the hall gleams. Polished wood floors, tall windows.
Portraits of revered men gaze down from high walls.
Tables and chairs are arranged in precise rows, a stark contrast to the chaotic snow outside.
From a raised platform, five judges observe the entrants, their matching cloaks marking their authority.
Redcloaks move among us, directing scholars to their desks.
Feet shuffle. Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the hall, the occasional chair squeaking as people settle in. For others, this might be routine. For me, this is stepping onto a battlefield.
From the judges’ table, Skriniaris Evander’s warm smile offers brief reassurance.
But it’s fleeting, smothered by the impassive stares of the others.
Behind them, on tiered seating, sit the scrutinising tutors.
Chiron is among them, his sharp gaze unyielding, right in my line of sight.
Whoever ranks first on day three will earn the chance to work under him in the palace.
I grip the wooden stylus pre-set on my desk as if it’s a lifeline. Its smooth surface feels foreign in my hand.
A snicker from my left cuts through my focus.
“He has no chance,” someone mutters, just loud enough to sting.
I don’t look up. They’re not wrong. Their years of specialised tutoring stand against me.
The centremost judge rises, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as the room falls silent. His voice, crisp and unyielding, fills the space.
“Each desk is assigned a unique signature. Channel magic through the pen provided and write directly onto the surface. Your handwriting will be standardised, and your answers will come to us for assessment. This ensures anonymity and avoids bias.”
His words echo like a challenge.
The judge sits, and the weight of the hall descends.
Around me, scholars lift their pens, magical sparks instantly glowing from the tips.
My pen is unresponsive in my fist, not a single spark no matter how hard I squeeze.
I have to tap into my shaky mystical root for this. Not an issue for pure linea.
Another snicker to my side. How can someone with such weak grounding become a mage, hold a position of trust?
My hands tremble around the stylus, my hitched breaths threatening to give my panic away. Then they’ll have their proof how out of place I am here. This simple task—use a pen. No one but me has to wrench magic out of the wood.
I close my eyes, hearing Quin’s voice: Control and discipline are crucial. Don’t blow us up.
I steady my breathing and sense the faint tick of energy in the wood. Saved by Quin. Again.
From the line of judges up front, Skriniaris Evander stands. “The examination begins now. Patient one . . .”
Heads bow as we scribble down our diagnoses, and the air grows tense as we wait for the judges’ assessments. Skriniaris Evander rises again. “If the signature on your table glows, you have been eliminated.” The hall collectively holds its breath.
My stylus feels heavy in my grip. Is my answer enough? Is the spell the best choice?
A flicker of light catches my eye. I hold my breath, heart thumping as an uproar erupts from a man three rows ahead. “My answer was correct!”
Skriniaris Evander inclines his head. “It wasn’t incorrect, but your choice of cure used such rare herbs that only the royal family could benefit.”
Footsteps clap soundly over the hall; the scholar rises stiffly, face pinched tight. “This is outrageous—”
The judges don’t flinch, and neither do the redcloaks. They grab him by the arms and escort him out. The scholar’s shouts fade into the background as murmurs ripple among the scholars.
Murmurs that they’d expected it to be the par-linea. That’d he’d be next, surely.
I defy their expectations, but the cases are growing more difficult with each round.
I steady my breathing, focusing on the flow of magic through my pen. Sweat beads on my temples, and the scholar beside me glances over, mistaking it for a sign of trouble. He snickers loudly.
Florentius, seated at the front of the hall, shoots a sharp look back. “Quiet.”
Patient twenty-eight. A stonemason with chronic, debilitating headaches, nausea and tingling in his arm. The pain is worst in the mornings but eases when lying down. No spells taken. No family history of illness.
I study the details carefully. It could be a rare brain growth or a muscle injury affecting nerves. His heavy lifting and lack of recovery time might have worsened an old injury. The tingling arm suggests a secondary issue, possibly a nutrient deficiency. One spell . . .
Father’s voice echoes in my mind: Look at the bigger picture. What must be sacrificed for the best overall outcome?
I scrawl my answer and prescription, bracing for the judges’ decision.
A glow appears on the desk of the scholar in front of me. He jerks his chair back, slamming it into my desk.
“Why?”
“We assess how you view the patient holistically. Your spell addressed the main symptom well but ignored other aspects.”
His indignation echoes as he’s escorted out.
Twenty-nine.
It’s an intriguing case study. Two patients, two sets of symptoms. One is lying. Identify which one, provide a diagnosis, and recommend a spell.
I quickly discern which patient is truthful. The genuine symptoms indicate exhaustion, with sleep as the remedy. The faker shows signs of anxiety, needing a spell to balance hormones.
My pen sputters weakly in my grip, the faintest glimmer of gold dribbling out as I wrestle with my limited magic.
Around me, pens glide effortlessly—bright and fluid streams of power.
My heart hammers, and I force myself to focus, to steady my trembling.
Again, from deep in my mind comes Quin’s voice, sharp and coaxing. Keep going.
My hands grow numb as I force out every last dredge of magic. One faltering stroke and my hopes will be lost.
I submit my answer.
The final patient is announced.
Delusional, experiencing hallucinations. My grip tightens on the pen, its energy fading fast, but I force myself to focus. Quickly, I scribble my diagnosis: gradual spell intervention, one month of monitoring, followed by biannual checkups.
My magic gives out. I’m a few words short of a caution about sugar.
I submit my work and sink into my seat. I think of my forefathers, Akilah pacing by the canal, the hopeful par-linea. I hope what I wrote is enough.
My heart pounds as the judges assess the submissions. Finally, they announce their decision. I open my eyes slowly—
My stomach drops. The signature on my desk is glowing.
I stare at the symbol until tears blur my vision. Redcloaks approach my desk, and I hear murmurs: “Finally.” “A miracle he made it this far.” “Luck, surely.”
I rise, my knees weak under the heavy heat pouring in through my cheeks. There, for all to see. A failure. As expected.
I think of Akilah’s last hug and her conviction I’d make it. I think of those par-linea lined up outside, hopeful. I think of River’s wish to learn.
Skriniaris Evander offers a silent sympathetic smile, but my chin sinks to my chest. There’s no one to blame. I just wasn’t enough.
The lump in my throat aches. I don’t want to see anyone—especially not Quin with his bet on me, with his goading, with his Prove it!
A redcloak nudges me to keep moving. The arched doorway looms ahead. What awaits beyond it?
“Wait.”
The voice is sharp and authoritative; it stops me swallowing over the lump in my throat. I halt, waiting for what will be said next, not daring to look over.
Florentius continues, “I suspect the scholar beside me is cheating.”
The accused leaps up in outrage. “How dare you! What proof do you have?”
“His cloak glowed intermittently, and he kept coughing into it. Please investigate.”
The redcloaks step forward and inspect the scholar’s cloak, confirming Florentius’s claim. Someone has been feeding him answers.
The room erupts into chaos. Some defend the accused, while others demand justice for the integrity of the process. In the midst of the commotion, my gaze meets Florentius’s. He looks away quickly, his expression unreadable.
As the cheating scholar is escorted out, Skriniaris Evander rises to speak. “Caelus Amuletos, you’re the twentieth scholar to pass day one of the mage examinations.”
The redcloaks step aside and I sag against the wall, overwhelmed.
I get another chance tomorrow.
The judges make announcements I barely hear over my relief. The remaining scholars celebrate and congratulate each other; I’m swept along with them through the grounds, out the gates—to cheers from the crowd and Akilah, half-eaten cake in hand.
She hugs me tightly and whispers, “Proud of you. No disguise this time.” She winks. “You’ll have to go without me. Have fun.”
I smile and let myself be carried along with the other scholars to the academy.
One of the tutors hands me a drink, and I gladly answer his questions about my education rather than be alone in the crowd.
He’s soon beckoned away, and I’m left nursing my wine.
I feel like the outcast they think I am.
Conversations drift my way. A group of scholars nearby, admiring the festival dancers.
“One more drink before we meet our girls?”
“You’re dreaming if you think she’ll give you her lovelight.”
“What?!”
“Will you give her yours?”
A shiver races down my spine. The festival. It’s been hard to focus on the excitement of that with the examinations, but . . . it’s happening. I’m meeting Nicostratus—tonight, at Bell Bridge. I could go there, now. I let out a shaky breath—