"The Circle remembers every spark, but it forgets no failure."— Inscription carved into the Academy's lower hall
The silence ends not with the drip of water, but the scrape of keys.
Iron teeth grinding against lock.
Guards wrench the door open, and for the first time in—days? months?—light slants into the cell. They drag me out, my legs stiff, my wrists raw from iron's bite. In the corridor, others wait. Children. Thin as shadows, eyes hollow, each of us stitched together by fear.
No one speaks. Even coughs are swallowed down. Chains rattle; bare feet slap stone. The march is endless, every step echoing like a prayer we dare not voice.
At last, the corridor widens. A chamber yawns open before us, vast and humming with carved runes that pulse faint light across the floor. Desks ring the space like altars. Professors sit in black robes, pens scratching, their faces pale and impassive. At the chamber's heart lies the Circle.
We are lined up. One by one, children are shoved forward.
A girl steps in, trembling. She closes her eyes, whispers something—maybe a prayer. The runes flare, a gust of wind lashes out, sending papers fluttering. A murmur among the professors, a note taken. She staggers free, half-faint, but alive.
A boy follows. His lips barely form words. Nothing happens. The Circle stays dark. A pause. Then the Warden's hand flicks, almost lazy. Guards close in. His scream rips through the chamber as they drag him out, his heels beating frantic rhythms against stone. The professors do not look up.
Others follow. Sparks. Failures. Flames that die before they live.
When it is my turn, my body locks. My throat, too. The silence I've carried so long presses harder now, choking me. No name, no words to give.
But beneath the weight of fear, something stirs. A flicker.
The ember.
Heat threads through me, fragile as breath. For a heartbeat, fire licks the Circle's edge. A small flame trembles into being, reflected in the professors' cold spectacles.
They mark it down. No smile, no nod, no sound of approval. Only ink scratching parchment.
But another gaze pierces deeper—the Warden's.
He does not write. He watches. His stare pins me where I stand, as though daring me to burn brighter, daring me to falter. The ember quails. My flame gutters out.
I step back into line, the silence folding over me once more. The smell of scorched dust lingers in my nostrils, proof I did not imagine it. Proof—and yet, shame.
The Circle swallows the next child whole.