The second floor of the local administrative building for the awakening and assessment of supernatural abilities was packed with people. Each of the presents—myself included—held a ticket in their hands, sporting numbers from one to one hundred thirty-six.

I looked at mine; it was marked with the number eight.

The first three of the line were called simultaneously, with each going into a separate room; the tests were done individually to maintain the privacy of those who could afford to be awakened without foregoing their freedom to the state.

When the next three were called, I tried getting a glimpse of the room in which the awakening ritual was conducted and of the ones who got in before everyone else did. I had no such luck, however. What I managed to get my eyes on was but white walls; I saw neither people nor strange devices meant to unearth someone’s magical potential.

Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, I turned my eyes to the clock hanging on the wall to the left. It was a round thing rimmed in black plastic, something that would have fit well in any government office. Its hands were spread wide, with the smaller of the two pointing the number nine, while the other was set on the second dot after the number one. It didn't have the one for seconds, and when the one for minutes clicked to the next mark, the motion was so sudden I almost jumped. It was then that the doors to the three rooms swung open.

I looked at the small screen affixed over the second door. On it had appeared the numbers seven, eight and nine. A second one—any of the numbers one, two or three—also followed each number. Mine, the number eight, had a two beside it.

I walked up to the middle door where a man was waiting for me.

“Ticket please,” he said.

I quickly handed him the receipt with my queue number on it, and, after glancing at it, he stepped aside, inviting me in.

The interior of the room was much the same of that of the corridor; white walls; grey pavements; vents for the cycling of air. It was drab, but I doubted it mattered. There was something I hadn’t noticed before, however. Placed at the centre of the room was a table upon which sat a round object. It was a black sphere made out of hard and reflective material.

When I moved my eyes from it, the man who had welcomed me inside was seated on the other side of the table.

“Please,” he said, inviting me to take place on the chair on my side of the desk.

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I obliged, and once we were both seated, he took out a portfolio, went briefly through it and then signed it. “I see no irregularities,” he offered, still perusing the document for almost a minute despite having checked it already.

“We can start with the procedure,” he decided out of the blue, closing the folder and depositing it over his part of the table.

“Mr Rossi,” he started. “Since everything is in order, we can begin anytime you are ready for it. My name is Tommaso Fiacchi and I am at your disposal for the brief duration of the awakening ritual.”

Tommaso looked me in the eyes for confirmation, and I nodded in understanding.

“All you have to do is to place your hand over the awakening stone and it will do the rest. I am also obliged to remind you the ritual may cause you some physical discomfort like vertigo or nausea.”

Tommaso needn’t repeat himself twice, and as soon as he had finished, I reached for the dark sphere.

The awakening stone was cold—frigid almost. It burned on the skin of my palm with unrelenting intensity. I felt the numbing tendrils stretch and crawl under my derma, reaching for the muscles, blood and bones beneath it. Like serpents, the cold slithered through arteries and veins, and from there gained access to the heart, brain and then went even deeper. It touched something more private—more personal. It unearthed a well of liquid power buried so deep it was alien.

The world turned black—and silent—and empty; I could not see; I could not hear; I could not feel. It was as if the switch of reality had been turned off, and it was terrifying.

When sight finally came back to me, the duality of the world was now plain to see: where mana swirled, anathema followed. The two energies were locked in a fierce battle for supremacy, but while mana birthed other mana, creating something from nothing, anathema did the opposite—it destroyed.

The world was different, both brighter and darker then it had been. I saw the light and the darkness people housed. I saw life; it radiated from people in waves, colouring everything it touched. I also saw fear; it was black and green, and a thousand other bleached shades.

I looked at Tommaso. He was black and green, and so small—so fragile I knew my sole presence was enough to break him.

“Congratulations,” he said, but the words were empty, dark, and smelled of rot. “If you could wait here for a minute, I’ll call my supervisor. He will need to speak with you.”

“Wait,” I said, and the mana around me came alive to create magic.

The air turned to molasses at my words, and chains of invisible energy bound Tommaso in place. Instead of fighting against the ethereal bindings as I imagined he would, he just swallowed.

The colours around him turned bleaker as the silence between us stretched.

“What happens now?” Tommaso asked when we crossed eyes.

We both knew. I could tell it from his gaze—it was deep and haunted; it was the look of someone who wanted to live, yet knew they wouldn’t.

“No one can know,” I said. “I am a Heretic. I knew it the moment I touched the awakening stone—so do you. I know what happens to us. Everyone does.”

“I won’t tell. I swear.”

Hadn’t I seen the purple undertones colouring his words—hadn’t I tasted their foulness on my tongue—I would have believed him. But I wasn’t fooled. Perhaps, for a time, he would keep his promise, but when fear eased, when memory faded, he would no doubt reveal my secret, and…

“Don’t lie,” I accused, quashing any sense of morality I had. “I am sorry.”

“Wai—”

I didn’t let him finish. I so wished and the flame animating him was snuffed. A second passed, then two, then blood trickled from his nose and his pupils lolled back. Like a puppet that had his strings cut, Tommaso collapsed: he fell from his chair and crashed to the ground.

I stared numbly at the man I murdered until I caught a glimpse of the portfolio. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but it felt like an eternity had passed. The folder had my name written on it, and just beneath it, the word ‘rank’ was inscribed along with a semicolon and a set of dots.

I took the black pen beside it, stood and rounded the table. Then, using the stylus, I wrote the letter C, taking great cares in smudging the ink like a person who suffered a cerebral stroke would before letting both, pen and portfolio, fall to the ground.

I looked at my hands then—they too were black and green.

I screamed for help.