When the last sliver of sun slips past the horizon, the gates swing open with the groan of ancient hinges.
The three head professors are the lead torch bearers. I find myself sucking in a breath in anticipation. When I was a girl in the city below, this was always my favorite part of the festival to watch. Torches kiss the stone railing on either side of the bridge. They ignite the thin channel of oil that stretches from where we stand on the city side all the way to the academy.
As we begin to walk, the fire continues to spark to life in the distance. It dances up the front façade of the academy along oil-soaked ropes that connect to the massive braziers suspended from bridges and balconies. The behemoth that is Arcana Academy sparks to life. Flames illuminate its ancient towers.
The procession passes underneath the massive doors and into thespacious main entry of the academy. The torches illuminate the statues of the Majors circling the main hall. Though now I notice the knights flanking the statues on either side, and the lines and symbols that surround them, designs that almost look like the marks I saw on Vaduin’s and Bristara’s arms. Are these statues supposed to represent the Worldkeepers? If so, why would they behere?
There’s no time to linger as we plunge into the main central hall. Shadows hastily close in, like ink soaking into parchment, threatening to swallow the light. The torchbearers ignite lanterns along the way, but there is only endless night ahead.
The professors end up on a small balcony in the back of the chamber where the Chalice resides. Kaelis strikes a stark silhouette against the magical glow of the Chalice on the floor below. His long fingers elegantly shuffle a deck of cards.
One by one, the returning students approach and select three cards from his deck. Kaelis flips them with much less fanfare than he will do for the initiates in a short while. Three cards, each symbolizing something specific in their future.
Every student chooses one to cast into the Chalice. When they do, a flare of magic envelops them, one that fades as quickly as it comes. Once they have made their sacrifice, that future can never come to pass—it and all of its possible iterations are forfeit. In exchange, they unlock even more power in the form of confidently wielding higher cards in the Minor Arcana suits. After previously establishing a bond with the Chalice, it’s easier to make the sacrifice and no one fights any possible future for all to see.
Their souls have been marked by the Chalice and it now recognizes their magic. My fingertips rest on my forearm, mindlessly tracing where Kaelis’s magic marked my flesh to give me access to the workshop of the Fool. The same forearm the Worldkeepers would mark were I to officially join them.
What magic can leave such a binding on a person?
Without warning, something Kaelis says pulls me back to the present.
“…and the Knight of House Swords will be Alor Ventall.”
Alor steps forward, head bowed, hand over the center of her chest. Her silvery hair is tucked neatly into a bun, just how her older sister, Emilia, wore her hair.
The older sister Jura took out with her.
An eye for an eye…Their mother killed mine.
I grip the banister as if I can physically wrench control of my errant thought that the woman’s youngest daughter is also in my sights. That she will be my student.And I could do whatever I want with her…
I nearly have to turn away as the students return to the stands to watch the new initiates conduct their tests. Everyone has a few minutes to get settled, though by now the initiates are collected in the room below this balcony.
As they battle their futures, I war with my need for vengeance. What does it matter if Alor’s mother killed mine? Emilia is dead. And I am going to remake the world anyway.
The sentiment is so calm and logical, it somehow almost makes the rage burn hotter. As if trying to be thoughtful about my feelings is just reminding me of all the ways I have been wronged. As if it’s an affront to my mother’s memory and the injustice of her death to leave it be.
The initiates are finally finished, and the whole ritual of sacrifice to the Chalice was little more than a blur.
Las Rothou, head professor of reading, emerges from the stairs connected to our balcony. “Welcome, professors!” she greets warmly. “It is a delight to see so many familiar faces as well as new ones. Let us go to the main hall to enjoy light refreshments while we wait for the final processing.”
She means waiting for the Marked to be branded.
It’s strange to see the process of the Fire Festival and the Chalice from the other side. Last year, I was cloistered in that sparse room below, uncertain of what awaited me, and then exhausted to the bone and burnt from losing a future that would never be. This year, I walk through brightly lit passages among the professors, making small talkand laughing like I’ve not a care in the world. Like I’m one of them. And they’re none the wiser.
We enter the main hall alongside the flow of students. Some of the professors greet third years warmly, already discussing projects for the year and placements with clans. Staff weave around students and faculty with trays of sparkling teas, juices, and wines.
I’m pulled into a conversation with some other professors I’d been standing next to. For the moment, everything seems to be going well. Too well.
Then the great doors of the main hall open, and everyone pauses for a breath. Like a shadow drifting through the long beams of light cast by the blazing fires set along the edge of the room, Kaelis enters. Surveying the crowd, his eyes, flashing like a warning, find mine.
Then another enters behind him, stopping at his side.
Ravin.
Chapter 32
Ravin moves with the same grace as Kaelis. It’s second nature to them both, baked into their bloodline. But that’s where the resemblance ends. Kaelis is measured steps and calculated poise. He’s knowing looks and barely-there gestures. Ravin is all showy performance—wide smiles, shining eyes, hands that never stop moving as he pauses to greet students and faculty. No one would ever know that under that charming smile is the shroud of Death itself.
