I stand up, securing my hood back in place, and follow a sulking Mallory.
Finnley gives me a wink before falling into step next to me. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation of the unknown.Students move in unison toward the ceremonial hall, setting the pace for what’s to come.
The passageway stretches long, and the stone walls are lined with antique looking candelabras. The flames flicker restlessly, highlighting the soot-covered pictures of old families and long-forgotten professors that decorate the walls. Our footsteps echo against the rough stones, a steady rhythm made soft by being swallowed by vaulted ceilings.
The air is heavy. Scented wax, anxiety and something slightly metallic surround us. It feels as if the hallway itself is watching, waiting.
I keep my face forward. Every breath I take feels forced and full of tension, the kind that makes you feel like throwing up.
Voices and laughter echo off the walls as we enter through the double doors into a ginormous chamber. Mallory gasps, and I can’t blame her. It is breathtaking. It’s three times the size of the dining hall. If I could sum up the vibe in minimal words, it would be Gothic grandeur. The floor is made of polished onyx marble.
Rows upon rows of dark mahogany pews fill each side of the room. A large wooden dais sits in the center with a dramatic backdrop of dozens of lanterns hanging from the ceiling, amber flames flickering within. Forty bronze-trimmed armchairs fit across the dais with room to spare. That’s how massive it is.
Another nice touch is the hundreds of candles scattered throughout, adding to the mysteriously romantic vibe. It’s like a vampire’s wet dream.
The pews are filling up fast as we make our way down the center aisle and head toward the armchairs. Multiple seats are already taken by the time we climb the few steps and choose three chairs next to each other.
Finley sits down heavily and begins tapping his fingers along the armrest. “Well, this is cozy,” he drawls.
A soft laugh slips free. I’m thankful for him trying to break the tension we all feel.
“By all means, keep ruining the moment,” Mallory says from her seat in a sarcastic quip, but even her eyes have taken on an apprehensive look.
Anxiety settles in as I gaze across the sea of students in the pews. One side is completely black—all the Noctryns are decked out in full battle gear, including helmets. You can’t tell one from the other. The other side is filled with Veils, also fully clothed in their own variation of battle gear. Dark brown ballistic vests cover each wielder’s chest, leather gauntlets cover their wrists and forearms, and sinister hoods obscure their faces. They look like lethal assassins.
Both sides are fully armed.
Almost as if he’s reading my thoughts, Finnley leans over and whispers, “Do you find it somewhat alarming that everyone, besides us, is armed to the teeth?”
I nod slowly. “Slightly.”
The left side of the room is stiff and silent. Their helmed faces point in our direction as if we’re not the guests of honor but something not to be trusted. The right side sits just as rigid but whispers among themselves, adding a layer of humanity to their bracket.
I allow my eyes to roam over the figures, searching for the one who resembles Ambrose.
He’s here, I know it.
I can feel him in this room.
I notice Finnley turning his head toward me out of my peripheral vision. I halt my desperate search and face him. His brows are furrowed, and he gives me a sad smile. “You think he’s here?”
“I hope so,” I say.
It’s hard to pinpoint for sure, though, since everyone looks so uniform. If it wasn’t blatantly obvious that this place doesn’t favor individualism by the way I’ve been treated since my test came back inconclusive, the student’s attire would be a dead giveaway. It could be a battle tactic, but something in me says it’s a bit more to do with snuffing out anyone and anything that can’t be controlled.
I’ll save that for another day, though.
A few of the Veils in the middle rows are on the smaller side. Most likely the women. All of the others are roughly the same size, making any form of identification damn near impossible.
I pull the hem of my sleeve over my palm. The small gesture makes me feel safe. I feel like I’m being inspected under a microscope, sitting up here under the glare of my peers. It’s not a great feeling.
Sitting rigidly in my chair, I curl my hands in my lap, the weight of the ceremonial hall pressing down on me. A few chairs are still waiting to be filled on the dais. The rest of us who are already here just wait and squirm in anticipation.
I glance over at the Noctryns. I know without a doubt thatassholeis somewhere in the crowd. The one who seems to get his only enjoyment in life out of pestering me. I’m still not sure how I won that honorary position, but it’s been bestowed upon me, nonetheless. Benefits of being friends with Ambrose, I guess.
There’s no way Kingston would miss a chance to see people bleed. Or be uncomfortable.
The air feels expectant, charged with what is to come. I let my gaze continue to linger over the sea of black as the identical helmed bodies watch us from their seats. A unit of duplicated dark executioners.
