The silence in the amphitheater was not empty; it was heavy, like water pressure at the bottom of a deep well.
Tick.
The sound of the clock on the back wall was a hammer blow against the stone. Counting down seconds that had not yet been lost.
Tick.
Professor Moros stood behind the obsidian podium, resting his hand on the cold surface. The air in the lecture hall tasted of ozone—it was a sharp, metallic tang of latent magic—and dust that had settled decades ago. The room was like a cage, a windowless throat of grey stone illuminated only by the cold-fire that burned with a dark blue light. It cast long, sickly shadows that seemed to stretch and claw at the tiered rows of empty seats.
Moros did not look at the seats. His gaze was fixed on the twelve manila folders arranged with surgical precision before him.They were empty. To anyone else, they were administrative formalities for the incoming first-years. To Moros, they were pre-emptive autopsy reports. He ran a gloved thumb over the edge of the first folder.
One hundred.
This was the Centennial Cohort. He had stood in this exact spot ninety-nine times before. He closed his eyes, and the darkness behind his lids was instantly crowded with faces. The laughing boy with the fire affinity from Cohort 42. The girl with the braided hair and the shield magic from Cohort 78. He remembered the sound of their ambitious whispers, and he remembered the specific, wet sound their bodies made when the Academy finally chewed them up.
They were all dead. Every single student he had ever taught.
Moros opened his eyes. The cold-fire flickered, making the empty seats look like rows of tombstones.
A spasm of rebellion, old and useless, flared in his chest. He turned sharply to the massive slate blackboard behind him. He snatched a stick of white chalk, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned the color of old parchment.
He pressed the chalk to the slate. He intended to write two words. A warning. A plea.
LEAVE NOW.
The moment the intent formed in his mind, the agony struck. It wasn't a headache; it was a spike driven into the base of his skull. The Vow of Silence—the ancient binding spell he had foolishly accepted to gain his position—constricted around his throat like a wire. It paralyzed his vocal cords, but it didn't stop there. It severed the connection between his will and his hand.
Snap.
The chalk shattered in his grip. Shards of white dust exploded outward, drifting to the floor like dry snow.
Moros gasped, the sound ragged in the dead air. His hand cramped into a claw, trembling violently. He dropped the remaining fragment of chalk. It hit the floor with a hollow clack.
He could not warn them. He could not save them. He was not a teacher; he was a miserable wretch. The Vow ensured he remained an observer, useless in the way of fate.
He turned back to the podium, breathing heavily, forcing his hand to uncramp. He reached up and pressed his fingers against his eyelids.
They ached. A deep, throbbing pressure behind the ocular cavities. It was the familiar, hateful prelude. The "Sight" was waking up. It was hungry. It was already scanning the empty doorway, waiting for the first student to walk through so it could show him exactly how and when they were going to die.
Tick.
The door handle turned. the massive iron doors at the top of the amphitheater groaned. The hinges shrieked—a sound like a dying animal—as they parted.
Twelve figures stepped across the threshold.
They did not huddle together for safety. They did not chatter. They spread out immediately, instinctively claiming spacing, their eyes darting not to the podium, but to the shadows, the exits, and the hands of the person standing next to them. They moved like gladiators stepping onto blood-soaked sand, waiting for the cage to drop.
Moros stood motionless, his eyes dull and aching, dissecting them before they had taken their third step.
First came the Spy. A girl, slight of build, wearing common leathers dyed grey. She didn't walk; she poured herself down the stairs. Her footsteps made no sound against the stone. Her eyes were constantly moving, cataloging the acoustics, the sightlines, the potential ambush points. She was already planning her escape.
Behind her, the Prince. He was impossible to miss. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a cloak pinned with a crest of silver hawks. He descended the stairs with heavy, deliberate boots, scanning the room not for exits, but for threats to dismantle. His arrogance was a physical weight; he looked at the brutalist architecture as if he intended to buy it, or perhaps burn it down.
And trailing in the Prince's wake, the Coward. A boy in velvet doublets that cost more than Moros's yearly stipend. The finery couldn't hide the biology of fear. His skin was pale, clammy. One hand clutched a leather satchel, the knuckles white; the other trembled near his hip, hovering over a wand holster he clearly prayed he wouldn't have to use.
The remaining nine were a blur of nervous energy and suppressed violence, but these three… these three drew the eye.
The students reached the bottom of the amphitheater, forming a loose, jagged line. They looked up at Moros. They saw a gaunt man in a threadbare black coat, his face a mask of indifference. They expected a welcome speech.
Moros gave them nothing but the friction of his voice.
"Sit," he commanded. It was a dry sound, like old paper rubbing together, devoid of warmth or moisture. "Do not speak until recognized."
The silence that followed was brittle. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Moros leaned forward, his aching eyes narrowing. The Vow prevented him from warning them, but it did not prevent him from watching the fuse lit.
Moros did not look at their faces yet. He looked down at the podium, where a heavy, leather-bound book lay waiting. The Ledger. It was not a grade book. To him it's just a record that contains each of his failures . He opened it to the first fresh page, the parchment crackling like dry skin.
He picked up his pen. The tip hovered over the first line.
Blink.
Moros dropped the mental barrier. The Curator's Eye snapped open.
In an instant, the warmth was sucked out of the world. The brutalist stone, the wooden desks, the flickering blue sconces—all of it drained into a bleak, high-contrast greyscale. The room became a sketch in charcoal and ash.
Only the students retained their substance. But they were no longer just flesh and blood.
A heavy, oily black smoke began to bleed into existence around them. It didn't behave like natural vapor; it was heavy, viscous, smelling faintly of tar and old blood. It coiled around their necks like nooses, or drifted behind them like funeral shrouds, marking the gravity of their doom.
Moros fought down the bile rising in his throat. He kept his voice flat, staring at the text in the book rather than the horror in the room.
"Valerius Thane," Moros called out.
The Prince in the front row leaned back, draping an arm over the empty seat beside him. "Present," he said, the word dripping with bored nobility.
Moros looked up. The smoke around Valerius didn't drift; it solidified. It twisted and hardened above his brow, forming a jagged, weeping crown of obsidian vapor. It was heavy, crushing down on his temples. Betrayal, Moros noted, checking the name off. Or the crushing weight of a throne he will never sit on.
Moros continued down the list, his eyes stinging as the smoke grew thicker with every name.
"Kaelen Vane," Moros said, reaching the seventh name.
"Here!" The voice was sharp, eager. The Zealot sat with a rigid spine, eyes wide with fanatic purpose.
Moros looked at him. The smoke wasn't coiling around Kaelen; it was consuming him. It lashed upward in violent, silent strokes, mimicking licking flames. The boy was already burning, the fuel of his own belief eating him alive before the first spell was even cast.
Moros marked the ledger. Burnout. Total consumption.
He reached the end of the list. "Elara Vance."
Student number twelve. The Quiet One. She sat in the furthest corner, a small figure wrapped in a cloak that seemed too large for her.
"Here," she whispered.
Moros squinted. The nausea hit him then, a physical blow to the gut that made his hand tremble.
He couldn't see her face.
The smoke around Elara was so dense, so absolute, that it formed a solid sphere of negation around her head. It was an abyss. There was no shape, no cause, only total, obliterating darkness. Erasure, Moros thought, a chill racing down his spine. Not just death. She is going to be unmade.
He lowered the pen, his knuckles white.
He looked out over the sea of desks. In previous years, the smoke had been patchy. There was usually a gap—a student with a thin wisp, or perhaps clear air, signaling a chance at survival. A 10% margin of hope.
Not this year.
The room was choking in it. The black fog rolled off them in waves, pooling on the floor, obscuring their feet. It was a suffocating blanket of inevitability.
Moros closed the Ledger. The sound echoed like a coffin lid slamming shut.
None of them, the realization whispered in his mind, louder than the ticking clock. Not a single one of them is meant to leave this room alive.