"Names are not given; they are bestowed, marked upon you like a brand. You are not only what you are called—you are what the Academy demands you to be."
— Inscription above the Great Hall
I stood in line as the test continued, watching child after child either collapse into failure or stagger free. Each one dragged out or dismissed left the air heavier, the space between us charged with dread.
At last, when the final voice had quieted and the last body was hauled from the circle, the professors rose. Black robes swelled like shadows as they moved in unison, filing toward the doors. Not a single glance spared for the children they left behind.
A booming voice shattered the hush.
"Make way!"
The Warden strode forward, his boots striking like iron bells. A brief, hushed exchange passed between him and the instructor who had guided the circle's trial. Then, with a gesture, the Warden summoned the guards.
Much like the professors before them, the guards moved as one. Shackles were unlocked, chains struck aside. For the first time in years, my wrists were free of their iron bite.
We were herded into new clusters, scattered by unseen design. The groupings felt random to me, but the adults clearly saw some pattern we could not. The instructor's boots echoed against the stone as he approached my cluster. His eyes swept over us with a clinical detachment.
"Advanced," he said, as though the word itself were both praise and sentence. "You will carry the hope of this hallowed Academy in your veins."
I felt the sting of eyes—students from other groups staring with envy as we were corralled toward the far exit.
A heavy hand seized my arm. The Warden leaned close, his breath harsh against my ear.
"Just because you're in the top class doesn't mean you're anyone special. Remember that."
I swallowed hard, the ghost of my old cell dripping somewhere in memory. He released me with a shove, and the guards drove us forward.
The Advanced Class was led through a grand hall where servants—maids and butlers—waited in quiet rows. Each child was called by number. One by one, names were matched to waiting caretakers, the handovers brisk and efficient, like ledgers marked off.
When my turn came, the instructor's eyes slid over the parchment. He did not speak my name—only my number. Then he pointed.
A maid stepped forward. She was young, her hair dark and neatly bound, her expression soft but attentive. She curtsied as she accepted me from the guard, though her eyes flicked with something warmer than duty.
Without a word, she led me down the hall. Her steps were measured, careful. Mine echoed behind, small and uncertain.
When at last the door to my new quarters shut behind us, the silence cracked. She turned, and her face transformed. The stiff reserve melted into a bright, conspiratorial smile.
"Well," she said, hands on her hips. "Aren't you a sorry sight."
Before I could flinch, she bustled forward, tugging me gently toward a basin already waiting with water. She fussed over me, washing grime from my face, combing tangles from my hair, helping me into fresh clothes. Her hands were quick, practiced, but kind—almost doting, as though she had been waiting just for this moment.
"You'll feel better once you've eaten," she said firmly. "Come on."
The dining hall was vast, echoing, the air thick with the scent of bread and roasted meat. My stomach twisted painfully at the smell. I had not tasted anything like it in years.
We were seated together, only the Advanced Class at one long table. For a moment, no one spoke, each child eyeing the food with disbelief. Then one girl broke the silence.
"I know we've all been in Hell," she said airily, twirling a strand of hair. "But they really could have at least thrown a cute boy in this class."
Giggles rippled among a cluster of girls.
Across from me, a boy tore into a hunk of bread and muttered around his mouthful, "Not like our resort stay did much for you either."
Their bickering faded into the background as I stared at the feast. Meat, cheese, fruit, and—sweets. Bright confections glistened like jewels on silver trays. I reached hesitantly, as though they might vanish, and when the sugar touched my tongue, I nearly wept. I had never tasted anything so miraculous.
When the meal ended, the doors opened. A professor in black robes stepped forward. His presence drew silence sharper than any order.
"Advanced class," he called. "On your feet."
We rose as one.
He led us from the hall through shadowed corridors until we entered a chamber where the Headmaster himself awaited. His robes were heavier than the others, his bearing solemn and absolute.
"You stand," he intoned, "at the threshold of remembrance. Today, you are named. No longer numbers, no longer shadows—you are claimed, shaped, and bound to this Academy. Let your names be honor, and let honor be the weight you carry."
He unrolled a parchment. The hush thickened.
One by one, he read aloud. Names unfurled into the air, heavy as verdicts, falling upon each child like a seal.
When at last he spoke mine, the word sounded foreign and holy all at once.
"Sephanie."
It struck me like a bell, reverberating through my bones. I had not known how empty I was until something filled me.
Later, when we were dismissed back to our quarters, my maid awaited me at the door. She dipped into a graceful curtsy, her eyes warm and bright.
"Good to meet you, Sephanie."
For the first time, I almost believed the name belonged to me.