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“Your standing as early as this to graduate Summa, and with your family’s legacy... It’s fitting.” He nods as though it’s the most natural decision in the world.
I want to tell him he’s made a mistake, that I’m no orator, that standing in front of an audience turns my bones to lead. My mouth goes dry, and my stomach twists into knots so tight I could hurl. But I just nod, a robotic jerk of my head because that’s what Ever the Legacy does—she keeps her shit together.
“Two weeks,” he adds, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. “It’s a great honour, Ever.”
Great honour, my ass. My mind races with images of the grand hall, filled with expectant faces, all waiting for me to dazzle them. But all I see is their judgement, their scrutiny, picking apart every stutter and stumble.
“Oh-okay.”
“Excellent. We’ll need a draft by next week for review.”
“Next week,” I echo, feeling the walls close in further. Just breathe, Ever. Just freaking breathe.
“Any questions?” he asks, but it’s like he’s speaking from the other end of a long tunnel.
“What is it supposed to be on?” I feel this was vital information he had forgotten to mention. Or did he and I didn’t register in my sheer panic?
“It’s about legacy, about history. You’re not just speaking as a student, but as a representative of KnightsGate’s history.”
“KnightsGate’s history.”
“Yes, who better than you, hmm?” His eyes lock onto mine, and I can’t look away. There’s no escape route here, no easy out.
“I’ll get it done,” I mutter, my voice steadier than I feel. The gravity of the situation anchors me to the spot.
“Good.” He nods, satisfied. “Remember, we all have faith in you. And don’t worry about Stanley. He’s done.”
I nod. Accepting that for what it is.
Faith. It’s a dangerous thing to put into someone who feels like they’re standing on the edge of a precipice about to plummet to a severely messy death by public speaking.
I flee his office as if chased by ghosts of ancestors past, their whispers trailing after me. The old stone corridors of KnightsGate blur as I make my way to the sanctuary of the library. It’s a place of solace, where the scent of aged paper and the quiet hum of knowledge promise refuge from this horrible performance I have to put on.
Pushing the library doors open, I step in, letting the familiar environment calm my racing heart. Rows upon rows of books—each a world, a story, a piece of history—stand ready. I’m here for one purpose: to arm myself with every fact about KnightsGate I can find.
I pull down volumes of ancient texts that smell of dust and forgotten tales and spread them across a large oak table. The soft thud of each book is a call to arms. I have two weeks to craft a narrative that will grip the audience and weave the rich tapestry of KnightsGate’s past into a tale fit for its present.
The Chancellor might have placed an impossible task on me, but I’ll rise to meet it because Summa Cum Laude means everything to me. Even more than my fear. My fingers brush over embossed leather covers and crack open tomes that haven’t been touched in decades.
Flipping through pages, eyes scanning lines of text that date back centuries. KnightsGate’s historyunfolds before me, not just as dates and facts, but as a legacy—a legacy that courses through my veins.
I scribble notes, quick and messy. My brain whirls with ideas, connections forming like a spider’s web, intricate and deliberate. This isn’t just about acing an assignment; it’s personal. It’s about standing tall in front of those who doubt, those who whisper behind raised glasses and smug smiles.
I lean closer to the lamplight, the shadows dancing across the pages as night draws in. The names of my ancestors stare back at me, their achievements etched in history. I won’t be the one to break the chain, to falter under the gaze of expectation. Summa Cum Laude is more than a title; it’s a promise I’ve made to myself.
I’ll build something unshakable from these words, a speech that echoes through the halls and cements my place here in history, but for a different reason.
The story of KnightsGate sucks me in, the glory and the grit all woven together like a tapestry. It’s not just dry facts and dates; it’s lifeblood, it’s birthright.
But as I dig through the archives, something else grabs my attention.
sectæ Nazarenorum.
It’s mentioned a couple of times. The word ‘sect’ scribbled in the margin of a dusty ledger next to it. My breath hitches. That’s what Alistair had mentioned, his voice low and laced with secrets. Frantically, I scour more texts, but it’s like hitting a wall. Every lead turns to dust. Suddenly, there is no mention, nothing.
Frustration claws at my chest as I come up blank at every turn. Hours bleed into the night, and still nothing. It’s like this so-called sect has been wiped clean like it never existed. But why? What are they hiding?
If there’s a secret buried in KnightsGate, linked to some religious sect, then I need to know. It’s pricking against my conscience, and it won’t let go. It’s a mystery. More secrets, and if KnightsGate is my legacy, what does that make this sect?
