I am exhausted.
Not the kind of tired that comes from a long run or a sleepless night. This is a bone-deep, soul-scouring exhaustion that feels like someone has replaced my marrow with lead.
The announcement three days ago the Federation's invasion, the fall of portions of our Verion mines, should have been a signal to pause. In a rational world, the Proctors would have called a halt to the curriculum. They would have said, "Go rest, children. Prepare your minds for war."
But this is the Academy. Rationality went out the window the moment we awakened.
Instead of easing up, the Proctors have tightened their grips.
The days are longer. The drills are crueler. The lessons are crammed with so much urgency that it feels like they are trying to upload the entire tactical history of the Empire into our brains before our heads explode.
The year fives are all gone. They vanished overnight. There was no announcement. Just empty seats in the mess hall. It makes sense, in a cold, logistical sort of way. They were almost graduated anyway. They were fully trained Elites in everything but name, just waiting for their final ceremonies. Now, they are the reinforcements, thrown out west to help take back the mines the Federation stole from us.
But for the rest of us?
The tests to determine who else is fit to be deployed the "Deployment Qualifiers" are being set up to start at the end of the week.
There was no discussion on if the younger years should be sent out. It was presented as a grim necessity. However, the rumor mill is grinding loud enough to hear. Apparently, a few of the Proctors are fighting back. I heard whispers that Charles - a year two proctor apparently was shouting in a meeting, arguing that sending the Year Ones and Twos is a death sentence and is an exercise in stupidity. He claims we are nowhere near prepared. He also argues that we haven't even gone through the "Choosing," and thus are not permitted to be allowed to leave the academy.
I snort in amusement, remembering Vihaan chatting about it in the House Apophis common room last night.
"They can't send us apparently," Vihaan had said smirking, nursing a bruised arm. "We haven't done the Choosing. It's against protocol."
I had laughed from my corner, sharpening a my knife. "Protocol? What's their excuse for us then? Fucking Julian made us do the choosing two years early as punishment."
Vihaan chuckled, then went back to his tea. "Who knows dude" I don't care either way, killing federation scum seems preferable to this fucking miserable schedule here don't you think my good man?
I snort and concede the point.
Now, sitting in the circular, creepy etched classroom, I try to push the impending tests and war out of my mind.
Proctor Julian Boleyn is teaching today. Or, more accurately, he is existing in the same room as us while we struggle.
The eerie Proctor, who usually speaks in riddles or not at all, has finally deigned to give us actual instruction.
"You need to clear your mind," he had said at the start of the hour, his voice soft but carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room. "The idea is meditation like i've been saying. The goal is emptiness. The goal is the Self."
He explained the theory: To understand your Mark, you must understand your Soul. He called it the "Soul Sea." He said it is a metaphysical space unique to each person, a manifestation of their inner self where their power resides.
"Not everyone will reach it," Julian had warned, his pupil-less white eyes scanning us. "It requires a level of introspection that most find… uncomfortable and impossible. But those who do will unlock their true potential. You will move from borrowing your power from the gods to mastering it."
A brave (or stupid) kid from House Luxor raised his hand ten minutes ago.
"Proctor Julian," he asked, "what is your Mark of Power?"
Julian just looked at him. He raised a single eyebrow, said absolutely nothing, and went back to reading his book. The silence was answer enough: None of your business.
I shift in my seat, crossing my legs, and close my eyes.
Soul Sea.
I don't need to imagine it. I've been there.
My mind drifts back to months ago. To the forest. To the life-or-death battle with the monster where everything went black and I woke up inside.
I remember it vividly.
It isn't a peaceful garden or a temple.
It is a black orb, floating in an infinite void above a dark, churning ocean. The ocean is silent, oily, and deep. The orb itself churns with shadow and light, swirling with galaxies, with stars and planets and fragments of things I cannot name.
Each pinprick of starlight is a memory. An echo. A piece of me that survived every trial and torment of my short, violent and miserable life.
Planets that represent my core memories spin in slow, melancholic orbits. Some are bright with hope and are they rare, fragile things. Others are dark, scarred worlds heavy with pain. Nebulas shimmer and collapse in the distance, birthing new lights new feelings, new potential memories and traumas while swallowing others that I have forgotten or repressed.
The surface of the orb was not smooth. It was alive. It rippled with the tides of everything I am and everything I could be.
And etched into that chaos, burning with a golden light that defies the darkness, are the Marks.
I visualize them now, trying to pull the image from my memory.
The Wolf.
The first Mark. The curse. It is etched in fire and shadow, a constellation of golden lines forming a beast. Its eyes are two burning suns. In my soul, the Wolf paces the edge of the orb, its hackles raised, its mouth open in a silent, eternal snarl.
Fearmonger. The power that has caused me the most grief. The source of the voices my own worst emotions twisted into something malicious. It is the ability to sense and manipulate fear, to unravel the threads of terror woven into every living thing. But it is not just a tool. It is a hunger. It is a longing. It is the primal need to hunt, to taste the adrenaline of prey.
The Möbius Strip.
My second Mark. A shape with no beginning and no end, a single surface folding back on itself in perpetuity. It glows with an impossible, shifting golden light. The power to twist reality. To weave illusions so seamless and convincing that they become truth, if only for those caught within their snare. It is infinite deception. .. Veilshaper.
The Ring is my third and final mark. My Regenerator ability. It manifests as a radiant band of solid golden light, orbiting close to the center of my soul. It is a guardian. A seal. The ring is endless, untarnished, pulsing with a quiet, unshakeable authority. Although i still need to find the trigger for this one.
I take a deep breath, trying to force my mind back to that place. I need to go back. I need to stand before the Wolf and tell it to heel. I need to understand the limits of my illusions. I need to trigger my regeneration and hope it fixes the cracks in my soul. I fear what happens if my soul sea shatters.
I try to clear my thoughts. I try to find the emptiness Julian spoke of.
Emptiness? the voices sneer, curling into my mind like poison smoke. You are never empty, Little King. We are always here with you. Why would you want it any other way we are the only ones who understand you.
I grit my teeth.
Shut up, I think, pushing against them.
We are you, they laugh. You cannot banish your own nature.You must accept it, accept us, accept yourself.
I try to focus on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Boring, the voices hiss. You are sitting in a room with your eyes closed like a child praying for a pony.
My concentration fractures.
I frown in annoyance, a spasm of frustration tightening my chest.
I had control. For a while, before the simulation, I had them on a leash. But the stress, the killing, the constant proximity to violence it has fed them. I have lost the fragile control over the Fearmonger power. The voices have reverted back to their factory setting: Predator.
They want me to be a killer. A God of Destruction and Fire. They want me to unleash my power onto the world and claim everything and everyone in one grand bloody conquest.
But I can't Not here and definitely Not now.
If I give in to those urges if I let the hunger take the wheel I won't just fail the class. I'll kill everyone. Or the proctors will kill me.
And despite what the voices say, despite the monster the Academy students thinks I am, I don't want to be a butcher without cause. I kill to protect myself that is it.
Coward, the voices spit. Weak.
I sigh in anger and open my eyes.
It's no use. I'm too wired. Too on edge. The presence of Cecilia in the Colosseum, the looming war, the exhaustion these annoying fucks in my mind it's too much noise. I can't find the silence needed apparently to dive into the deep end of my soul.
I look around the room.
Most of the students are sitting with their eyes closed, faces screwed up in concentration. Some look peaceful. Most look like they're just trying not to fall asleep.
At the front of the room, Proctor Julian sits at his desk. He is reading a thick, leather-bound book, seemingly oblivious to the struggle session happening in front of him.
I watch him for a minute.
Julian Boleyn. My house Proctor.
I think for a moment, weighing the risk. Then, I make a decision.
I stand up.
The movement is quiet, but in the stillness of the room, it feels loud. A few students crack an eye open to look at me in annoyance, but I ignore them.
I walk down the aisle, my boots making no sound on the floor and I approach his desk.
Proctor Julian doesn't look up immediately. He finishes the paragraph he is reading, turns the page with a delicate, pale finger, and then slowly lifts his head.
Those eyes.
White. No pupils. No iris. Just two orbs of milk-glass frost staring back at me. It still unnerves me, the way he looks like a statue that learned to breathe.
He looks at me with an expression of mild curiosity.
I bow my head slightly a gesture of respect, not submission.
"Proctor," I say, keeping my voice low so the rest of the class can't hear.
"Ayato," he replies. His voice is soft, like dry leaves. "You have given up on the meditation? Or have you already conquered your inner demons hmm have you made it to your soul?"
"Neither," I say dryly. "The demons are... loud today."
Julian's lip twitches. "They often are."
I hesitate, then push forward.
"Proctor, do you think it is possible I could speak to Proctor Juliet Deng?"
Julian's eyebrows rise and his lips part slightly It is a micro-expression, gone in an instant, but for a man as stoic as him, it is a shout of surprise.
He closes his book, marking his place with a finger. He looks at me, really looks at me, as if trying to dissect my intentions with that pupil-less gaze.
"Proctor Deng," he repeats slowly. "She is... reclusive. She is mainly an instructor for the Year Fours. Her specialty is... specific."
"I know," I say.
"I will see if she wishes to meet with you," Julian says, leaning back in his chair. "Is there a reason why?"
I hesitate.
I can't tell him the truth. I can't tell him that the voices are getting louder and I wish to speak to a fellow illusion marked individual.
"Respectfully, Proctor," I say, meeting his white gaze evenly. "I'd rather keep it between me and her."
The silence stretches for a few seconds.
Julian studies me a moment and I feel my neck to start to itch and I resist the urge to scratch it.
"As you say," Julian finally nods. "I will let you know if she accepts your request."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Thank you, Proctor."
I bow my head again and turn to walk back to my seat.
As I sit down, I glance back at the desk. Julian is back to reading his book.
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Another three hours passes by in almost complete silence before the Proctor dismisses us. The class scrambles to leave, eager to escape the silence and the failure of meditation I step out into the hallway ignoring the year ones all erupting into conversation with each other.
What could these fools possible by so happy about? They do understand that we are all very well about to be sent to war? Idiots.
"Ayato!"
I turn.
It's Lucian. He's leaning against the wall, looking annoyingly refreshed. He skipped Julian's class, claiming he had a "stomach ache," which everyone knows means he was sleeping in the library.
"How was the 'finding yourself' session?" Lucian grins, falling into step beside me. "Did you find your inner peace? Or just your inner desire to punch someone?"
"The latter," I sigh in defeat. "Always the latter."
We enter the mess hall. It's a cavern of noise, but the tension is palpable.
I grab a tray of stew and head for the Apophis table. Most of my cohort is already there. Rye, Vihaan, a few of the others. They look tired.
"Ayato," Rye nods.
"Rye," I reply, sitting down.
"They say the tests start Friday," Vihaan says bored. "The deployment tests."
"Then we have two days to get ready," I say, eating a spoonful of stew.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over the table.
"Well, well," a voice sneers. "If it isn't the King of the Rats holding court."
I sigh.
Corvin. House Luxor.
I look up slowly. He is standing there with his goons, looking confident.
"Can I help you, Corvin?" I ask, annoyed.
Corvin spits. "You're top of the leader bored currently. It's Impressive for a gutter-born." "But I think it's time someone of good stock puts you in your place"
I continue eating my stew and shrug "sure thing dude"
Zaria snickers causing Corvin flushes red.
"You think you're safe, Ayato? You think because you killed a few students you're a soldier? "We've seen how you fight, like a coward. With illusions."
I stand up and stare into the other boys eyes. I don't have the patience to deal with the Luxor kids clinging to their past noble upbringing. I let just a fraction of my bloodlost out.
A ripple of cold, predatory hate radiates off me. It hits Corvin like a physical wind.
Corvin flinches. He takes half a step back, his eyes widening.
"Are you done?" I ask softly.
"I—" Corvin stammers.
"Because if you're looking for a fight," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I have room in my closet for another body. And unlike you, I don't need a sword to do it."
"Dead soldiers can't serve the Empire, Corvin," I add. "Don't be a dead soldier." I pat him on his shoulder and sit back down.
Corvin swallows hard. He turns and walks away, his goons trailing behind him.
"Nice," Lucian says. "Very menacing."
"True that was super scary man, he will be shitting bricks for a few days Im sure" Niko chimes in chuckling
"Shut up" I reply rolling my eyes.