Chapter 49
Welcome Ceremony II
The Headmistress’s hand dipped into her coat pocket, withdrawing an object that caught the sunlight in a fleeting glimmer. From her position slightly behind the imposing soldier-turned-academy administrator, Mags squinted, trying to make it out. It was a card—or something like a playing card, but not quite. It appeared to be made of glass, transparent but tinged with a faint crimson hue that shimmered as the light hit it. Mags could also make out what appeared to be intricate gold filigree covering the surface of the card-like object.
“This,” the Headmistress declared, holding the object aloft, “is a Judgment Key. An Artifact from the Age of the Ivaldi, long before the Calamity.”
A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd, and even the recruits standing beside Mags seemed to stiffen in interest. Mags tried to rack her memory and draw upon her lessons with Libicocco and Rubicante. The term sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recall the significance of ‘Judgment Key.’ An Ivaldi-crafted weapon . . . that makes sense. But what is this?
“They are rare Celestial Treasures,” the Headmistress continued, her voice carrying over the murmurs with practiced ease. “And irreplaceable. None of the great artificers of our age have ever managed to replicate them. And each Judgment Key contains only a single use. What you see here is a ‘red grade’ Judgment Key, one of the more common varieties. The Crown Coalition and the Guilds have collected a dragon’s horde. But even among these, the numbers are still finite. And above them are even rarer qualities, including the legendary ‘black grade’ Keys—Artifacts so rare they have only been recovered from the most perilous Deeps or aether-rich ruins, such as the higher floors reached in Hecate’s Tower, far away in distant Valhadryan.”
Mags felt her breath hitch. She finally recalled learning about Judgment Keys, or at least a story from one of Libicocco’s lessons: a minor lord had nearly conquered most of Osmanpatur with the help of a massive army he had been able to procure in exchange for a Black Key his family had obtained long ago. If a Black Key could purchase someone an army strong and large enough to nearly conquer a nation, then how much were the Red Keys worth? Her stomach lurched at the thought. Probably enough to have sustained the orphanage in Solstice for multiple lifetimes.
The Headmistress lowered the Key slightly, her piercing gaze sweeping the crowd of eager recruits. “Their original purpose, during the time of their creation, remains a mystery. Perhaps they were tools of governance, or devices for entertainment. We do not know. What we do know is how they are used today. Judgment Keys allow for the binding of Soulsingers to the terms of a contest—a fair and controlled resolution to disputes.”
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “During the Warring States Period, before the rise of the Ravaelian Empire, armies clashed openly, releasing the full force of their Soulsinger cadres. When warriors can summon tempests, shatter mountains, and call monstrosities from the Aethereal Sea, the devastation is unimaginable. Cities were razed, lands turned to ash, and entire civilizations lost. Judgment Keys became the solution. A contest could decide the fate of nations without the annihilation of the world around them. Armies could decide to leave their living weapons on the sideline, or settle a battle while only risking a couple of their military assets.”
The Headmistress lifted the Key again, her grip firm yet reverent. “At Brightwash, we use them for a simpler purpose: demonstration and training. You, our Special Recommendations, will showcase your abilities using these Keys.”
A collective inhale filled the coliseum. Then, with a sharp twist of her wrist, the Headmistress revealed a second card in her other hand, nearly identical to the first. Two Keys. The crimson sheen glimmered against the navy and gold of her uniform as she held them side by side.
The Headmistress turned, her sharp eyes scanning the six students on stage. Mags felt the that gaze linger on her for just a heartbeat longer than it did on the others, a deadly-sharp knife point at her throat.
“Sergeant,” the Headmistress called.
A man in a crisp Brightwash uniform strode onto the stage with military precision, carrying a small, unadorned wooden box. The box had a narrow slit on its top, just large enough for a hand.
The Headmistress gestured to it. “Inside this box are six marbles. Three red, marked with the number ‘one’ and three blue, marked with the number ‘two.’ Each of you will reach inside and take one. Hold it, and do not reveal what you have drawn until I instruct you to do so.”
The recruits exchanged glances. Mags felt a pulse of unease in her chest but stepped forward along with the others as the Headmistress gestured for them to approach the box one at a time.
The dark-skinned girl went first, her hand disappearing into the box with an almost casual confidence. Her expression didn’t change as she withdrew her fist, marble concealed.
Dermot was next, his movements sharp and brisk. He stepped back to his spot, his lips twitching with what could have been a smirk or a grimace.
One by one, the others followed, Isolde flashing a wry smile at the Headmistress before sauntering back to her place.
Mags was the last. Her palms were slightly sweaty as she stepped forward, conscious of the weight of the arena’s gaze. She reached into the box, her fingers brushing against the velvet that lined the inside of the box. She felt around until she found the single remaining marble in the box, she closed her hand around it and withdrew, retreating quickly to her spot beside the pink-haired Isolde.
“Good,” the Headmistress said, her tone clipped. “Now, hold your positions. The stage is set.”
The crowd leaned forward in collective anticipation. Mags’s fingers tightened around the marble in her hand, its cool surface comforting as the sunlight and crowd of students bore down on them all. She tried to avoid looking into the crowd, or at the polished scrying mirrors.
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The Headmistress gestured with a commanding sweep of her hand. “Now,” she said, “hold your hands out in front of you.”
Mags complied, as did the others. Her fingers felt stiff around the small glass marble as she extended her arm. A subtle hum filled the air, and she glanced upward to see their projected hands, magnified and shimmering, displayed across the massive scrying mirrors suspended above the arena. Jebati! I told you not to do that, she reminded herself.
“Reveal what you hold,” the Headmistress instructed.
Mags’s heart thudded. She unfurled her fingers to reveal a glass marble nestled in her palm. The crowd gasped collectively as the mirrored projection of her hand showed the marble’s surface, marked with a crisp, glowing ‘1.’
Beside her, Isolde’s elegant fingers uncurled, revealing a similar marble, though hers bore the number ‘2.’ Mags darted a glance at the other recruits but could not see which marbles the other students held in their palms. The soft murmurs of the crowd filled the air like a rising tide.
The Headmistress turned to the crowd, moving back toward the stand with the mana crystal. Her voice, amplified by a zap of aura channeled into the crystal, filled the coliseum. “Each of you have taken a different path to stand here today. For the vast majority of you, the journey began with years of rigorous study, grueling training, and excellence in your regional examinations. You earned the opportunity to travel to Wrifton and interview for a spot in this semester’s class. Some among you come as transfers from regional military academies, already disciplined and hardened by their first skirmishes.”
She turned slightly, gesturing to the six recruits on stage. “But these six were admitted on Special Recommendation. Their prodigious abilities in Soulsinging earned them recognition from some of the most influential and powerful individuals across the Thirteen Crowns. Today, they stand ahead of the curve, possessing skills that many of you will only begin to grasp in your first year. Keep your eyes trained on their backs. You will all be expected to not only keep up with them, but hopefully surpass them in your climb to the top!”
Mags swallowed hard. A target on her back by the hundreds of first-year students was the last thing she needed. If anything, she was behind the curve and still playing catch up to the vast majority of the students. To make matters worse, she had to conceal the true nature of her power as best she could. The Crown Coalition didn’t want an Angel attending their most prestigious military academy.
“Yet,” the Headmistress continued, “talent is nothing without application. Skill means little if it is not tested. And so, to honor their achievements and to inspire those of you in the audience, we will witness their prowess in a contest.”
A wave of murmurs surged through the crowd, punctuated by bursts of excitement.
The Headmistress raised the two crimson-tinged Judgment Keys again. They caught the sunlight like shards of frozen flame. “The rules are simple,” she said. “Golden rings will materialize within a finite, enclosed space. Contestants must remain within this space or face elimination. You may attack or defend, but should you show clear intent to mortally wound or inflict grievous harm, you will be eliminated. If a contestant takes significant damage or can no longer physically continue, they will be eliminated. Victory is achieved by collecting four rings, or by being the last remaining contestant capable of continuing the contest.”
She pivoted, her gaze like a blade as it swept the six recruits. “Those holding marbles marked with the number ‘1,’ step forward.”
Mags hesitated, her legs briefly heavy as lead. The crowd’s attention felt almost suffocating. She forced herself to move, stepping forward alongside Szed and Dermot. She silently cursed Frey Sarto. Did I have to be admitted on Special Recommendation? Then she remembered her goal: most students who achieved the title of Dux per Par were admitted on Special Recommendation.
“Group two will follow immediately after,” the Headmistress said, motioning for the uniformed sergeant to escort Isolde, Chandrakant, and the dark-skinned girl off stage. The three disappeared in a military procession, leaving Mags, Szed, and Dermot standing alone before the Headmistress.
The Headmistress turned to face them directly, her voice losing none of its edge. “Declare your agreement to the terms and allow the Judgment Key to bind you.”
Dermot stepped forward first, his voice clear and proud. “I accept.”
Szed followed, his tone more measured but resolute. “I accept.”
Mags felt their eyes on her—Dermot’s expectant, Szed’s polite, the Headmistress’s unyielding. She glanced at the crimson-tinted artifact in the Headmistress’s hand, the air around it thrumming faintly with power.
“I . . . I accept,” she said at last.
The Headmistress gave a curt nod, her grip tightening on the Judgment Keys. “Very well. Take your places. The contest begins now.”
The Headmistress raised the crimson Judgment Key high above her head, her expression unreadable. In a sharp, decisive motion, she threw it down. The artifact struck the stage with a resonant clang, landing perfectly flat.
A deep hum reverberated through the platform, vibrating through Mags’ feet. She instinctively focused on her [Aura Sense] and [Aura Vision]. The Judgment Key began to glow faintly, its crimson hue casting long, rippling shadows across the stage. Mags’ enhanced senses flared as the aether in the air shifted, an almost imperceptible quake she could feel in her chest, like the anticipation before a storm.
Without a word, the Headmistress stepped back and exited the stage. As she moved, a translucent dome-shaped barrier shimmered to life around the stage, rising in a smooth arc until it fully encased the space. The dome was thin enough for Mags to still make out the restless crowd in the stands, but its presence was undeniable. She had no doubt that crossing the boundary would result in elimination, per the Headmistress’ rules.
The air grew heavier, charged with expectation.
The Judgment Key began to morph, sinking slightly into the stage. Its glow intensified, and then it unfurled—a rectangular rift yawning open on the floor. The rift’s interior burned a deep, angry red, pulsing with unnatural energy.
From the rift, a figure emerged.
It was tall, easily twice the height of the students, and its form was wrought from a twisted patchwork of blackened, metallic plates. The armor was sleek and brutal, as though sculpted to instill dread. Its visor, an empty slit of shadow, suddenly came alive with a baleful red glow. The figure hovered effortlessly, rising into the air before halting at the boundary of the dome.
The rift closed behind it, leaving the stage eerily silent save for the faint whirring of gears and the occasional hiss of colorful aether-infused steam from the mechanical entity. The aether in the dome rippled outward, the creature at its epicenter like a sun distorting its surrounding space.
Mags’ breath caught as she felt it: a surge of intent, sharp and unmistakable. Silver script blossomed in the corner of her vision.
[Soulsinger Designation: Magdalenda]
[Judgment Key (Red) Detected]
[The following Soulsingers have entered the Binding: Magdalena, Szed Sed, and Dermot ur Fierach]
[Rules: Implementing . . .]
[Rules: Accepted]
[Consequences of Elimination: Removal from Contest Demispace and Denial of Future Access]
[Judgment: Commencing. . .]
Before she could process further, five golden rings of light burst forth from the mechanical figure, arcing high into the air before scattering across the stage. They hovered just above the ground, their glow illuminating the contestants’ faces.
Mags’s muscles tensed, her [Aura Sense] screaming for attention as the golden rings hummed with latent power. Across the stage, Dermot’s expression twisted into one of fierce determination, and Szed’s hands fell to his sides, his posture fluid and poised.
The mechanical figure’s visor flared brighter, a droning hum filling the air as its metallic frame shifted, joints grinding into readiness.
And then, all at once, they moved.