---
The north hall swallowed John like a solemn stone throat. The benches were old oak, scarred with the patient vandalism of bored students past. He slipped into a seat, steadying his breath, his token stamped slate resting on the desk.
Around him the exam hall hummed with nerves. Quills clicked. Ink pots glistened like tiny black pools waiting to drown careless hands. The walls seemed to lean forward, listening for mistakes.
At the far end, proctors in gray robes settled into their posts with grim faces that said they enjoyed crushing dreams before breakfast. One of them lit the tall hour candle, its wax groaning as the flame took.
And there, at the third row front, sat Fartray.
The wealthy boy's coat was trimmed in gold thread, his ring heavy with a family crest. His hair gleamed too perfectly to have ever known real wind. He was already smirking at the empty seat beside him, ready to whisper triumph about the hired thugs, kidnapers, who had surely disposed of John.
