A few minutes later, the doors to the meeting hall creaked open and a line of captains emerged. They wore their authority like armor—silent, severe, utterly unamused. The murmurs ceased. The square held its breath.
Captain Sol strode forward, every step slow and deliberate. He wasn’t the tallest, nor the youngest, nor the most classically imposing, yet somehow he out-ranked the others in gravity alone. His shoulder-length gray hair swayed faintly in the breeze. His face was hard-etched stone: deep lines, sun-darkened skin, and eyes like sharpened flint.
Collin had never exchanged words with him, but he didn’t need to. Sol was the man who’d signaled the execution of sixmen years ago—Collin had seen him through child’s eyes on that bloody day. That memory had never dimmed.
“You have been summoned,” Sol announced, voice cutting clean through the silence, “to have your skills assessed.”
The statement hung heavy. The pause that followed was longer than necessary.
“You are expected to perform your very best,” he continued. “Anything less will not be tolerated.”
The dread rolled through the crowd like a wave. Even the air seemed to curdle. Sol’s gaze roved over them like a hawk’s over a trembling field mouse, and Collin had to suppress the urge to duck.
“You will be divided into groups,” he said. “You will be evaluated individually.”
He motioned. Twelve captains stepped forward. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.
“You will listen for your name,” Sol went on. “You will meet your assigned captain in the designated location. Do not move until dismissed.”
A young captain stepped forward and shook out a parchment, the scroll fluttering like a banner of doom.
“I am Captain Kyle. The following candidates will report to the courtyard...”
Everyone tensed. The hush was palpable. Even the birds seemed to fall silent.
Collin listened, heart thudding too loud in his head. What if he ended up in the wrong place?
“Here we go,” Nic muttered beside him. “Roll out the guillotine.”
“Don’t,” Aries hissed with his jaw gritted.
Names were read—slowly, deliberately. Each one like a dropped stone in a still pond. Dragonfly. Helen. Lekyi. A few others shuffled in stiff silence.
Nic leaned toward River and whispered, “If he says ‘Nic of Stargazer Creek,’ pretend you don’t know me. Just start screaming and point at someone else. Uriah looks suspicious—he’ll understand.”
Uriah elbowed him without taking his eyes off the captains. “I hope they pair you with the one who smells like boiled cabbage.”
Another captain began reading. More names peeled into the square, each followed by the silent breaking of a small human spirit.
“I feel like we should be drawing straws,” Nic whispered. “Or playing spin-the-sword.”
“Or choosing champions,” Aries added grimly. “I vote Collin. He’s got the drama for it.”
Captain Sol’s voice rose above the rest, “Collin of Chroma. Meeting Hall.”
The name rang out like a verdict. One clean note cleaving through the square, and suddenly, everything inside Collin went still.
His heart—already hammering from the long wait—seemed to miss a beat, then slam back into motion twice as hard. His ears rang. Not from the voice, but from the way the world seemed to shrink around it. The sunlight dimmed. The sounds of the square faded. Only the echo of his name remained—carved into the air like a brand.
This was real. No escape now.
“Nic of Stargazer Creek, clocktower.”
Nic’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah. My time in purgatory has come.”
“No jokes,” Uriah muttered.
“That was a statement of resignation.”
