Chapter 51
Dormitory I
The roaring applause from the crowd thundered in Mags’ ears, muffled and distant, as if she were underwater. Her forehead rested against the cool stage floor, her breath uneven as she tried to steady herself. The coppery taste of failure lingered in her mouth, more bitter than any blood she’d swallowed during a fight.
This was her first real display at Brightwash, her first chance to prove herself, and she had come up short—extremely short. Szed’s victory was undeniable, and the memory of Dermot’s overwhelming strength still made her teeth clench. She had fought hard, but it wasn’t enough.
Mags clenched her fists against the ground, forcing herself to breathe. Dux per Par? The thought mocked her. She had so far to climb, so much to learn—not just to win, but to survive. And all while hiding the truth about what she really was. How was she supposed to hold her own against people with powers like Dermot or Szed when she couldn’t unleash her own power? Not truly, anyways. The challenge of remaining discreet while aiming for the top seemed impossible in that moment.
The crowd cheered louder, a cacophony of approval that felt like a spotlight burning on her back. She didn’t move, didn’t look up. Instead, she let the applause soak into her bones, fueling her resolve. She wasn’t going to stay here, beaten and bruised, feeling sorry for herself. She’d find a way to close the gap—no matter how long it took.
A touch on her shoulder startled her out of her spiraling thoughts. She lifted her head, blinking against the bright sunlight, and found herself staring up at Szed. His citrine-colored skin gleamed faintly in the light, and his sharp, bronze eyes regarded her with something close to respect.
He extended a hand toward her, and she realized with a jolt that the golden threads binding her wrist and ankle had disappeared. For a moment, she hesitated, staring at the hand. Then, with a deep breath, she clasped it. His grip was firm, and despite his small stature, his strength was undeniable as he pulled her effortlessly to her feet.
“Well done,” he said simply, brushing dust from his crimson uniform. His voice was quiet but carried a note of sincerity that surprised her.
Mags blinked at him, unsure if he was mocking her. But his face held no trace of sarcasm—just calm acknowledgment. “Thanks,” she managed, before adding, “And congratulations on the victory. Your abilities are . . . amazing.”
Szed nodded, his golden-threaded hair swaying slightly. “You did well. Better than I expected, honestly. Dermot would have had a clear advantage against either of us in a one-on-one matchup—especially with gravity manipulation in his arsenal. Smart strategy to team up against him. Thank you.”
Mags’ lips twitched into a small, pleased smile despite herself. “Thanks. It made sense at the time.”
“It did,” Szed said, brushing his hands together. “Still, you held your own. That ability of yours—the shroud of aura you use in combination with your physical enhancement—is intriguing.”
Mags nodded, filing away the comment for later. She couldn’t afford to let compliments go to her head, but hearing it from a peer—even one who had bested her—felt like a small victory.
As the crowd’s applause began to fade, the two of them stood there for a moment, both battered and bruised but upright. Mags stole a glance at the stands, where the Headmistress sat in the front row. She observed them with a neutral expression.
She silently recalled Mithra into her Pocket. The blade vanished and she felt its spiritual and mental weight settle into her Inventory space.
The uniformed man appeared at the edge of the stage, his polished boots echoing faintly on the stone as he approached. Dermot followed close behind, his usual scowl softened by the exhaustion etched into his face. Szed adjusted his uniform, his golden-threaded hair slightly disheveled but still somehow immaculate. Mags cast one last glance at the roaring crowd before following the two boys off stage, her limbs heavy with fatigue. Despite her training with Malacoda, she still wasn’t entirely used to the feeling of emptiness and weakness that followed channeling so much aether all at once.
They were led down a narrow corridor carved from the arena’s foundation, its walls rough with dark stone and cool to the touch. The cheering from above faded into a muffled hum, replaced by the steady cadence of the officer’s boots. The air down there was damp and refreshing against Mags’ skin after being out in the sun, and under the fearless attention of all of her fellow recruits.
The uniformed man cleared his throat as they walked, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Protocol requires all combatants in official battles to undergo a post-match evaluation at the arena’s infirmary,” he said, his tone curt but not unkind. “Good to see all three of you leaving under your own power. That’s not always the case, even with a Judgment Key in use.”
Mags felt her stomach twist at his words. She bit back the urge to ask what kind of academy maimed its brightest recruits before their first semester even truly began. Instead, she kept her thoughts to herself, her mind replaying the fight over and over, scrutinizing her mistakes and the strategies that had worked against her.
The corridor opened into a smaller room with sterile white walls and a faint hum of aetheric energy in the air. Partition curtains divided the space into separate stations, each furnished with a metallic examination table and a stool. The officer gestured for each of them to take a seat. Mags reluctantly climbed onto one of the cold metal tables, the chill seeping through her uniform and into her skin.
She didn’t wait long before the curtain parted, revealing an elderly woman in a pristine white coat draped over a standard Coalition uniform. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and thick-rimmed spectacles perched on her large nose. Three metallic orbs hovered around her head, faintly glowing as they floated in smooth, deliberate arcs. Mags thought they looked a lot like three Aetherbound Pockets.
“Magdalena of Solstice?” the woman asked, her voice brisk but not unkind. At Mags’ nod, the woman stepped closer, her eyes briefly flashing with silver light as she scanned something unseen. Mags recognized it as the tell-tale sign of a Soulsinger access Yggdrasil’s interface.
“Dr. Seeger,” the old woman introduced herself. “Let’s take a look at you.”
The orbs around her sprang into motion, emitting thin rays of light that swept over Mags’ body. They spun and pivoted, their soft hum vibrating in the air. Mags tensed as the light crawled over her, but Dr. Seeger seemed unconcerned, her sharp eyes fixed on something only she could see. The silver glow in her eyes flickered brighter as she processed whatever Yggdrasil was showing her.
Mags shifted uncomfortably on the table, wondering just how much those orbs could reveal. Could they detect her Angelic nature? Would the doctor see something . . . wrong? She swallowed hard, pushing away those thoughts, but silently wishing the whole process would be over as soon as possible.
After a moment, the silver light faded from Seeger’s eyes, and she grunted. “You’re fine. Just some bruising and a few abrasions. Nothing a little time won’t fix.”
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Mags exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, but the doctor wasn’t done. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small item, holding it out to Mags. It was a candy, wrapped in a shiny piece of crinkled paper. Mags blinked, recognizing it instantly. She hadn’t seen one of these in a long time—an expensive treat, rare and coveted when a merchant brought them to Solstice, so deep into the Far Country.
“Take it,” Seeger said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Mags accepted the candy, turning it over in her fingers as if it might vanish. “Suck on it and let it dissolve,” Seeger continued. “You’ll be back to full strength by sundown.”
Curious, Mags activated her [Aura Vision]. The candy seemed to bubble with cerulean aura, its energy almost effervescent. “It’s glowing with aura,” Mags said, her voice tinged with awe.
Seeger chuckled, adjusting her spectacles. “That’s my Gift,” she explained. “I can imbue healing properties into digestible items. Sweets work best—higher sugar content helps the healing aura absorb faster for some reason. Convenient for the battlefield and stubborn patients alike.”
Mags popped the candy into her mouth. It was extremely sweet, a deep butterscotch flavor bursting on her tongue, but the real effect was immediate. Warmth spread through her body, soothing aches and pains as if a gentle tide had washed over her.
“Thank you,” she said around the hard candy in her mouth, genuinely grateful.
The doctor gave her a curt nod, already turning to retrieve another item from her orbs. “Rest for a bit if you need to,” she said, her tone brisk again. “Then you’re free to go. Try not to earn a second appointment with me on your first day.”
Mags let a small smile curl her lips. She didn’t plan to.
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The butterscotch candy melted slowly on Mags’ tongue, its sweetness spreading a warmth that radiated through her body. She had to admit, the doctor’s strange Gift was effective; the aches in her muscles were fading faster than she thought possible. The Ghost Hounds had explained to her the rarity and power of healing magic. That’s why they tolerated Scarmiglione so much.
Retracing her steps back toward Fleming Hall, Mags tried to shake off the doubts that still crept into her mind from the Welcome Ceremony. She’d made it to Brightwash as an admitted recruit, hadn’t she? That counted for something, even if she had the assistance of whatever strings Frey Sarto had to pull to make it happen. Her boots echoed softly on the stone pathways, and as she emerged into the cooler late afternoon air, she noticed the shadows stretching long across the campus. Students milled about, laughing and chatting in small groups, their crimson uniforms bright against the twilight. The thought of joining them felt distant. Instead, she kept her focus on the squat silhouette of Fleming Hall, several of its dark windows glowing faintly with the warm light of oil lamps. Clearly, other students had decided to settle in for the day.
When she reached her dormitory room on the fourth floor, she hesitated outside the door. She hadn’t met her roommate yet and hadn’t been sure what to expect. She pushed the door open and froze.
Her roommate was already there.
The girl was perched casually on the bed opposite Mags’, her pale skin practically glowing in the low light. Long, straight raven-black hair spilled over her shoulders, its glossy sheen catching the lamp’s glow. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, instead dressed in well-tailored civilian attire that gave her an air of effortless elegance. A pair of spectacles with yellow-tinted lenses rested on her delicate nose, and a single golden ring dangled from her left ear.
In her hands was an instrument Mags didn’t recognize—a strange, angular lute-like contraption with only a few thick strings. Her slender fingers danced across them, plucking out deep, resonant bass notes that filled the room like a heartbeat. The sound was rich and hypnotic, carrying an almost tangible weight.
The girl glanced up as Mags entered, her dark, almond-shaped eyes peering over the top of her spectacles. She didn’t stop playing. “You must be my new roommate,” she said, her voice smooth and melodic, like the music she was playing. Her face remained a stoic mask of white porcelain as she continued to focus on her playing, fiddling with the strings if she didn’t like the note produced by her plucking. “Rue Hirata.”
Mags stood frozen for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Er… Rue?”
“My name.”
“Oh! Right . . .!”
Rue’s plucking stopped. She glanced up at Mags through the yellow glass of her spectacles. “And you might be called?”
“Magdalena,” she said. “Mags, if you want.”
“And why do you care what I want?” Rue plucked at the strings, emitting a beautiful, rich chord.
“I, uh, guess I don’t.”
Rue’s smile widened slightly, though it still felt more like a polite mask than genuine warmth. She plucked another note from her instrument, the vibration lingering in the air. “Mags,” she repeated, as if testing the name on her tongue. “Interesting. Well, Mags, welcome to Fleming Hall. I hope you don’t snore. If you do, I’ll be hoping for your statistically likely elimination as soon as possible.”
Mags raised an eyebrow, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. “I guess we’ll find out,” she replied, tossing her satchel onto her bed.
Rue chuckled softly, the sound low and understated. “Fair enough.” She returned her attention to her instrument, her fingers plucking out a slow, mournful tune that filled the room with an unspoken story. Mags sat on her bed, listening in silence.
Rue’s gaze was steady, her dark eyes meeting Mags’ with a calm indifference that teetered on the edge of politeness. She plucked at the strings of her instrument, not bothering to rise from her bed. The deep, vibrating notes hummed softly in the room, filling the silence that stretched between them.
“Are most of the students on this floor Second-Years, like you?” Mags asked.
Rue continued to pluck away. “There are a couple of Second-Years around, like me, but most of them are out enjoying the last night of freedom or . . . avoiding the new recruits.”
“Oh.” Mags glanced around her side of the room and noticed a neatly folded piece of parchment on the desk beside her bed. Rui’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, yeah. Someone dropped off your class schedule while you were at the Welcome Ceremony,” Rue said without looking up from her instrument. “It’s pretty straightforward for the first semester. Everyone’s going through the Entrance Trials, so the schedule is the same for all First-Years.”
Mags picked up the parchment, her fingers brushing the coarse paper. The schedule was neatly printed, the ink sharp and precise, detailing a lineup of basic courses. Her stomach tightened at the sight of it.
First Day:
06:00 Wake-up Call
Personal hygiene
06:30 Physical Training
08:00 Breakfast
09:00 Military Formations
10:30 Artificery (Lecture)
11:30 Artificery (Lab)
13:00 Lunch
15:00 Military History
17:00 Dinner
21:00 Lights Out
Second Day:
06:00 Wake-up Call
Personal hygiene
06:30 Physical Training
08:00 Breakfast
09:00 Combat Training
10:30 Strategy and Theory (Lecture)
13:00 Lunch
15:00 Body Enhancement
17:00 Dinner
21:00 Lights Out
Third Day:
06:00 Wake-up Call
Personal hygiene
06:30 Physical Training
08:00 Breakfast
09:00 Soul Refinement
10:30 Aetheric Theory
13:00 Lunch
15:00 Combat Training
17:00 Dinner
21:00 Lights Out
Fourth Day:
06:00 Wake-up Call
Personal hygiene
06:30 Physical Training
08:00 Breakfast
09:00 Field Exercises
13:00 Lunch
Individual Study
21:00 Lights Out
Her schedule seemed to be an intense four-day cycle, though it was everything she expected based on her preparations with Libicocco and the others.
“What’s this about the Entrance Trials?” Mags asked, glancing at Rue. She had already learned about them, generally, but wanted to get a Second-Year student’s take on it all.
Rue sighed, finally pausing her plucking to lean back against the headboard of her bed. “First semester students aren’t officially matriculated into Brightwash,” she explained. “Think of it as an audition. Classes are all standardized for now. Basic stuff to make sure no one’s a complete waste of space. The classes are also focused on supporting four Trials, which determine which students stay for the second semester and which are shipped off to the Front early.”
“The class schedule seems very . . . intense.”
“It is,” Rue said matter-of-factly. “But you have a couple weeks of Bootcamp first before you have to worry about any of that.”
“Bootcamp,” Mags echoed, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I can’t wait.”
That earned her a real reaction—Rue actually laughed, a short, quiet sound that didn’t quite match her otherwise aloof demeanor. “It’s awful,” she admitted, her smile lingering for a moment. “I hated every second of it. Hopefully you’ll do better than I did. I barely scraped by.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Mags muttered, setting the parchment back on her desk and sinking onto her bed. She stretched her legs out, leaning back against the wall. “At least I know what to look forward to.”
Rue smirked again and returned to her instrument, the low notes resonating through the small room. The conversation faded into a companionable silence, the music filling the space between them.