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The applicant’s features hardened and his chin shot up. Petulant defiance flashed in his eyes. “I know for a fact my scores were the highest. That means I’m the most powerful person on this entire planet. You’ll take me and we both know it. So why play these stupid games?”
“You are dismissed.”
“Wait. What? You can’t dismiss me. I demand to speak with President Zev—”
Two guards rushed forward and dragged the protesting asshole from the room. The rest of the applicants looked on in shock and disbelief. All except one. Near the middle of the line a tall male with wavy dark hair and light blue eyes watched Draven closely. The applicant’s gaze was every bit as assessing as Draven’s, his expression just as cold. It was almost as if this male thought he was evaluating Draven and not the other way around.
“No one is guaranteed a position at the Citadel,” Draven warned. “And character is just as important as power. We understand the need for privacy. However, triads are permanently bound with their source and conduit. They also combine with other triads. If you do not want others flowing through your mind, for any reason, leave now. You are wasting my time.”
Two of the applicants chose to leave, but everyone else looked more determined than ever to be chosen.
Noratu increased his empathic sensitivity and shifted his attention back toward the male in the center of the line. His ice-blue gaze collided with Noratu’s. Had the applicant noticed his interest or sensed his abilities?
The only one I’m not sure about is the one with the pale blue eyes, he told Draven.Don’t dismiss him. I think we should question him once the others have left.
Understood.
Then to the applicants, Draven said, “Return to the large training room. If we have questions, we will come find you.”
“Does this mean we are accepted?” one of the applicants asked excitedly.
“Testing generally lasts three days,” Draven told him. “You have a long way to go.” As they filed out, Draven motioned the tall applicant over to where he stood.
Noratu moved up beside Draven, no longer pretending to be an observer. “What is your name?” he asked the applicant.
“Cylex Bekar,” he supplied. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, hinting at time spent in the military.
“Cylex is a Torretian name, yet Bekar is Altorian. Which do you consider yourself?” Draven’s face was expressionless, his tone cool without sounding accusatory.
“My mother was Altorian. She was seduced by a Torretian soldier more than twice her age. By the time she realized she was pregnant, he had moved on.”
Noratu sensed bitterness and grief, but not dishonesty.
“Have you always lived on Altor?” Draven persisted.
“I lived with my mother until she passed beyond. My only other relative was my grandfather. He had never accepted me, so he scrounged together the funds to send me to my father. I was never asked if I wanted to go.”
It sounded a bit rehearsed to Noratu, but that wasn’t really surprising. Cylex was probably asked about the contradiction every time he introduced himself. “How old where you when you lost your mother?”
“Thirteen.”
Noratu nodded. Cylex answered each question without hesitation and his emotional responses were appropriate. He was either a practiced liar or he was telling the truth.
“Did your father admit you were his?” Draven asked. “Many would simply deny it.”
“I have his features, especially his eyes. One look at me and he knew the claim was true. He reluctantly took me in, but I was never welcomed.”
Without bothering to switch to mind-speak, Draven asked, “Is he telling the truth?”
“His emotions support his story, but his shields are unusually strong.” He looked at Cylex. “Where did you receive your training? What are your abilities?”
“I have never worked with a mentor. For the most part, I am self-taught.”
Draven’s brows arched skeptically. “You taught yourself how to shield your mind?”
“I did not say that. My mother possessed an abundance of raw talent. She had barely mastered basic skills when she was withdrawn from the Citadel.”
“She was part of the mass protest,” Noratu realized.
