Chapter 14 #2
“By all means, keep ruining the moment,” Mallory says from her seat in a sarcastic quip, but even her eyes have taken on an apprehensive look.
Anxiety settles in as I gaze across the sea of students in the pews.
One side is completely black—all the Noctryns are decked out in full battle gear, including helmets.
You can’t tell one from the other. The other side is filled with Veils, also fully clothed in their own variation of battle gear.
Dark brown ballistic vests cover each wielder’s chest, leather gauntlets cover their wrists and forearms, and sinister hoods obscure their faces. They look like lethal assassins.
Both sides are fully armed.
Almost as if he’s reading my thoughts, Finnley leans over and whispers, “Do you find it somewhat alarming that everyone, besides us, is armed to the teeth?”
I nod slowly. “Slightly.”
The left side of the room is stiff and silent. Their helmed faces point in our direction as if we’re not the guests of honor but something not to be trusted. The right side sits just as rigid but whispers among themselves, adding a layer of humanity to their bracket.
I allow my eyes to roam over the figures, searching for the one who resembles Ambrose.
He’s here, I know it.
I can feel him in this room.
I notice Finnley turning his head toward me out of my peripheral vision. I halt my desperate search and face him. His brows are furrowed, and he gives me a sad smile. “You think he’s here?”
“I hope so,” I say.
It’s hard to pinpoint for sure, though, since everyone looks so uniform.
If it wasn’t blatantly obvious that this place doesn’t favor individualism by the way I’ve been treated since my test came back inconclusive, the student’s attire would be a dead giveaway.
It could be a battle tactic, but something in me says it’s a bit more to do with snuffing out anyone and anything that can’t be controlled.
I’ll save that for another day, though.
A few of the Veils in the middle rows are on the smaller side. Most likely the women. All of the others are roughly the same size, making any form of identification damn near impossible.
I pull the hem of my sleeve over my palm. The small gesture makes me feel safe. I feel like I’m being inspected under a microscope, sitting up here under the glare of my peers. It’s not a great feeling.
Sitting rigidly in my chair, I curl my hands in my lap, the weight of the ceremonial hall pressing down on me. A few chairs are still waiting to be filled on the dais. The rest of us who are already here just wait and squirm in anticipation.
I glance over at the Noctryns. I know without a doubt that asshole is somewhere in the crowd.
The one who seems to get his only enjoyment in life out of pestering me.
I’m still not sure how I won that honorary position, but it’s been bestowed upon me, nonetheless.
Benefits of being friends with Ambrose, I guess.
There’s no way Kingston would miss a chance to see people bleed. Or be uncomfortable.
The air feels expectant, charged with what is to come. I let my gaze continue to linger over the sea of black as the identical helmed bodies watch us from their seats. A unit of duplicated dark executioners.
A couple have twin swords strapped to their backs, so that isn’t exactly telling when trying to pinpoint an identity with weapon choice. The only similarity between the two regiments in front of me is the sheer number of weapons.
Even the Veils are heavily armed today.
Something about the Noctryn sitting in the third row stands out from his cohorts. It’s in the way he holds himself. Rigid like the rest, but an air of detachment clings to him, almost as if his guard isn’t truly up because nothing in his vicinity is threatening enough for it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a good game of cat and mouse, but I’m not sure I want to play that with him for the next three years. That’s a game you play with someone who draws a line in the sand and has limits. I don’t think either would pertain to him, and that’s risky.
Even for me.
I pull my stare away and instead zone in on my foot tapping uncontrollably under the pressure of nerves.
I’m so glad I skipped lunch, or it would be threatening to join us during this little bloodletting session.
In all seriousness, they can’t take too much of our blood, right?
I mean, it’s probably just a prick to the thumb for a drop.
Although from the importance placed on this ceremony and the fact that everyone is decked out in full body armor, I’m beginning to wonder exactly what they expect to happen.
The last of the first-years pass in front of us, taking their seats, followed swiftly by the professors walking in through the double doors, heads bowed.
Their ceremonial mantels drag along the floor behind them.
Not a single face isn’t completely obscured by the decorative hoods, adding a layer of anonymity but also aligning nicely with the Gothic vibe of this entire scenario.
The heavy layer of secrecy this event is cloaked in makes it feel slightly ritualistic in a macabre sense.
I immediately force my leg still and casually look down the row at the other first-years. Even without being able to see their profiles, the tension is evident in their body gestures. Even Finnley, who is unflappable, is cracking his knuckles one by one.
Pain rests in my palms as my nails dig into the soft flesh. The discomfort helps ground me in the present and reminds me I’ve gotten this far and have survived worse. I hope in a few moments, I still believe this.
All of the professors take their seats in rows one and two.
All except one. That professor walks to the side of the dais and picks up a small pillar that looks to be made of bloodstone.
This particular stone is named for the dark rust hue it favors, and its many uses in the art of blood magic.
He or she walks it to the center, almost directly in front of Mallory, and places it down before walking back to their seat.
We all stare at the pillar. I very much doubt any of us are breathing at this point.
The silence is deafening.
Footsteps break the tension, sounding somewhere down the hall, growing louder as they approach. Every person on the dais swivels toward the door, but not one person in the audience turns around. They remain as still as statues staring forward.
Any saliva or moisture that was in my mouth is now gone.
I’m nerve parched.
I gingerly move my tongue around, trying to create some lubricant, but it’s just not happening.
I’m also hyper-aware of everything right now in a way that’s borderline uncomfortable.
The fire crackling in the lanterns, the metal clinking as a sword shifts in its scabbard, and chairs wobbling on the dais.
When the steps are near enough that I know they will be turning the corner any moment, I scoot forward in my seat a little.
It’s as if my body knows it’s about to have to decide between fight or flight.
I’d like to think I’d be a fighter, but no one ever really knows until they’re put in the situation.
Most don’t like what they discover.
A looming figure rounds the corner dressed in iridescent robes, their face completely obscured by a matching hood.
As beautiful as the attire is, that’s not what holds my attention.
The object in their hands is what captivates me.
It’s a sizable goblet that looks to be made of antique gold, with a black serpent wrapped around the stem.
A very much alive serpent whose tongue keeps flickering in and out.
They are carrying the crest of Kintoira Academy.
The very same crest that has been associated with the heaviest and most deadly black magic on the continent.
Holy shit.
I slide back in my seat, warily watching them approach.
The swishing of their robes can be heard throughout the vast hall as they climb the few stairs and make their way to the pillar. With the utmost care, they set the goblet on top before briskly turning around and leaving the way they came.
“That’s a large cup. Looks like it can hold a lot of blood,” Finnley whispers out of the side of his mouth.
I shoot him a look of incredulity. That is the last thing I want to hear right now. He’s not wrong, but still. There’s a time and place and this sure as shit is not it.
A different professor from the previous one stands in the front row and walks toward us. Once they reach the golden goblet, they caress the serpent’s head, face the audience, and address them in a commanding voice.
The answering silence amplifies it.
“The day has come. The sacred blood initiation is upon us,” the masculine voice states.
“These cadets have fought their way through both mental and physical trials. Their worth has been measured in blood. Today, they will pledge their oath in that very same blood. They will be joined through their offering. Lifeblood and consent mix together to satisfy the union of the participant and Salaryan’s military until the day they take their last breath.
” He threads his fingers together, head dipped low to maintain the anonymity.
“Through every milestone in life, from marriage to births to old age, their duty to the realm will always come first.”
There’s that heavy commitment again.
I know all about it. Even at this very moment, my mother is on some covert mission.
I haven’t seen her in months, which, let’s be honest, is probably a good thing.
I’ve had fewer chances to do something disappointing in her eyes.
But I’ve been ready to make this choice my entire life, regardless of what it costs me. I’ll pay the price.