The room froze.
Billy was on him in a blink, pushing the guard back with enough force to make him stumble. "You've clearly had enough, sir," he said coldly, already dropping into a stance. Though still a sable hand, Billy had seen more than one battlefield. The tension in his shoulders spoke of someone who knew how far this might go.
Two other older boys flanked him, eyes hard. Michael recognized them now serving in the border camps, home on leave. They were faster and stronger than Billy, moving like they'd been trained for fast response.
"You dare lay hands on a soldier of the House of Dawn?" the guard spat, reaching for his blade.
Michael felt the air shift; the soldiers were already drawing weapons, while the children huddled around Miss Sarah. Michael pulled Hazel behind him, his fists clenched. Aamon stood beside them with bated breath, pulse pounding.
And then... silence fell.
A slow, deliberate voice echoed from the rear of the room.
"That's quite enough."
Everyone turned. A cloaked figure, tall and thin, stepped into the light. His hood was drawn low, but Michael saw the glint of a noble crest pinned to his chest; an obsidian serpent curled around a silver flame.
"The guard overstepped," the man said quietly. "But his life is worth more than yours, boy."
Billy tensed but didn't move. The figure walked forward, inspecting him like a merchant checking a blade for cracks.
"You're lucky I'm in a sour mood" the noble said at last, his voice like silk over broken glass. Then, turning to the guard, he added with a sneer, "You shame your station. Touch the woman again, and I'll have you flogged."
The guard paled, nodding quickly.
The cloaked man turned to Miss Sarah. "The test will begin tomorrow. Prepare your... candidates."
And just like that, he disappeared back into shadow, leaving a room full of held breaths and wide eyes.
The next day arrived with a kind of hush.
Gone were the usual shouts and rustling. The old orphanage was quiet — almost reverent. Even the smallest children whispered. They all knew what was happening today. The aptitude test. A rite that could change their lives forever.
Michael washed in the stream alongside the others, the water icy against his skin. Aamon didn't speak much, just gave him a nudge when he zoned out.
"You ready?" he asked.
"No," Michael admitted. "But I will be."
They dried off quickly and dressed in the best clothes they had. Miss Sarah had pressed their tunics, and some of the older girls had tried braiding hair or dusting faces. It felt surreal. Like preparing for a festival. Or a funeral.
When the bell rang, they were led into the hall where the nobles and emissaries waited, seated behind a long table, backs straight, expressions unreadable.
A heavy velvet curtain had been drawn across the back of the hall, and behind it was the testing room — a single door guarded by two soldiers in full regalia.
The names were called one by one.
Several had been called before the more familiar names came along
"Aamon" the announcer intoned.
Michael gave his friend a nod. Aamon grinned back, that cocky fire in his eyes again. "Let's go."
He disappeared behind the curtain.
It was fifteen minutes before he came back out, flanked by two guards and a man in silver robes. The man whispered something to the announcer, who nodded and raised a scroll.
"Admitted into the Imperial Military Academy, effective immediately."
The kids gasped. Aamon's eyes widened. "Wait, now?"
"You leave for the capital tonight," the robed man said with a hint of disdain, not even bothering to look.
Michael swallowed hard. Aamon looked back, the grin fading. He gave Michael a helpless shrug. "Guess I made it."
Then he was whisked back into the hall to ready for the trip.
"Hazel"
Hazel stepped forward, elegant and calm. The streak of white in her hair gleamed in the light that same mark that made her look more noble than any of them. Her steps were quiet, her face serene.
She returned minutes later, and this time the announcer looked startled.
"Accepted into the Royal Academy."
More whispers. More awe.
Michael felt his heart hammering.
"Michael,"
The world narrowed.
The tent swallowed him whole.
Inside, the air was heavy — not hot, but thick with the scent of incense and strained leather. Dust motes danced in sunbeams that slanted through seams in the fabric, casting the space in an amber haze. His footsteps were silent on the packed dirt floor, but each one seemed to echo anyway, as though the silence had ravenous teeth.
Michael didn't know what to expect. Maybe chanting? strange runes or arcane glyphs?. But there was nothing of the sort. Just a table. A man. And an eerie crystal.
The man was seated behind the table, dressed in the unassuming brown robes of an imperial functionary, though the crest pinned to his chest; a sharp golden triangle intersected by a vertical line marked him as a sanctioned examiner of the Crown. He barely glanced up, eyes flicking over a parchment list as he spoke.
"Name?"
"Michael."
A pause. "Family name?"
Michael hesitated. "None."
This time, the examiner looked up. Not long enough to betray surprise. Just long enough for his lips to tighten. "Age?"
"Fifteen."
A brief scribble of quill on parchment. Then the man gestured without ceremony to the object placed carefully on a cloth atop the table — a dull, spherical crystal roughly the size of a human heart. It pulsed faintly with colorless light, a rhythm like a heartbeat struggling to wake from sleep.
"Place your hand on the stone. Close your eyes. Do not resist."
Michael stepped forward.
His heart thudded hard in his chest. He could feel it now — that something inside him. That new route warmth. That flicker. Ever since the forest, it had not left him. It just ignored him, as though it was a tenant ignorant of its landlord.
He reached out.
The crystal was cool under his palm, the surface rough and imperfect. He closed his eyes.
Some foreign energy reached for him, prodding uninvited, and now clashing with the stream in his body.
Michael's knees nearly buckled.
Heat.
Not on his skin, but inside his bones. Deep. Subterranean. Something moved beneath his skin, like a chain reaction. The stream of energy seemed to grow stronger, then returned to its former state.
The crystal however, reacted.
It flared bright — not white, not red, but a strange flickering orange-gold that shimmered with too much depth, like looking into a forge lit by the sun itself. A gust of hot air rushed outward, blowing the examiner's parchment clean off the table. The tent flaps rustled violently. Somewhere outside, someone cried out.
The crystal screamed — not aloud, but into the minds of everyone present. A piercing feedback loop of power and confusion, like a thousand violin strings snapping all at once.
And then it cracked.
The glow faded instantly. The crystal dulled. A spiderweb of fractures ran across its core. It no longer pulsed. It no longer lived.
Michael yanked his hand back, panting.
The examiner stared at the ruined artifact, horror battling with disbelief.
"You. do you have any idea what you've just" he started, but then stopped himself. He looked around, suddenly aware of the open flaps, of the soldiers outside, of the waiting line of children.
He stood up abruptly and called out. "Close the tent! Now!"
A pair of guards moved to obey.
Then came another voice. Low, calm and silently loud.
Dangerous in its softness.
"That won't be necessary."