I should have killed him; the traitor, the fiend.

  Memoirs of Anaya

  Year two

  I fucking hate stairs. We are running through the city with no clear goal in sight but to move forward.

  My cssmates and I stream across Lodestar at a trotting pace. I thought I was much stronger than this.

  My lungs are on fire and my legs are two long logs.

  Most mosses have steps carved out of their sides. Like petrified snakes, the steps twine these miniature cliffs; twists and turns their seal. A few had no railings at all! Even if you had a grain of rice between your ears, you'd still avoid using them.

  Ninthday is meant to be free for m---, for all of us poor little suffering students to just sit, and then maybe: sit some more.

  Shit! I've almost stepped in one. My moss is far cleaner than this part of the city. I think.

  A little while ago, the bastard made us run to the top of a lower moss, only to almost immediately climb back down.

  Our wise grandmaster saw it fit to transport all twenty-five of us on the backs of Winged, across a good chunk of the entire canyon, all the way to Lodestar. The purpose? Well, to give us a nice little tour of the city, of course.

  Which is completely understandable. It's not as though the tiny Academy has a plenitude of facilities to train us in.

  Not all is bad, though. Lucent in daylight, Sol's comforting presence is a warm hug. Soft quilt on a cold night.

  They say Sol's light gives no heat or warmth, or at least not the way the sun does. Nonsense. It feels like the sun.

  Spear-armed guards are always close. A few behind, and a few further in front of our group.

  Over their short dark-red tunics, all the soldiers guarding us are wearing simple sky-white chest armor made of yered linen. At the upper center of the chest area, just below the chin, each of Crimson Guard's custom-built thoraxes has the Academy's emblem of a phoenix taking flight. Fist-sized and highly detailed, the emblem is made of amarium—the striking swirls and lines of gray and shadow-bck are subtly at odds with the whiteness of the armor. The thick brown leathery strips of the tasset skirt, stitched into the armor, cover their thigh area. Molded bronze greaves of golden-brown, match their helmets in gleam and color.

  Their helmets are made of bronze, have a rounded top, and narrow slits for eyes, with a long nosepiece and pronounced cheek guards, tapering down snugly to cover the face and neck. The slits remind me of two snakes facing away from each other. How can they protect anything while being half blind?

  For some reason, in addition to Academy soldiers, two Bck Breakers are assigned to guard us. Both of them don't use reins to control their Winged, which means all four of the battle familiars flying above us are commanded with their creators' thoughts alone.

  Like always, the sky just above the city is swarmed with Winged whose leathery and feathery wings swish-swoosh the air.

  Richer families have their own Gray-made crystalborn, but, if needed, many beasts can be rented for a day or two.

  Shadows flicker across all of us when a formation of seven flying familiars swoops directly above; flying seemingly a little too low.

  A feather detaches from one of the Winged as it flies above. Immediately, the red feather starts to degrade and crumble. A gust of wind blowing from the west sprinkles the sparkling dust over the students.

  I breathe in deeply the half-stale air of the city. If I had a list of favorite pces, the Academy would certainly be near the bottom of such a list. Even so, I must admit the crisp air and less noise that haunts the pce can have their appeal.

  Most Lodestarians wear blue and white himation garments made of linen. Merchants are often draped in finely-woven wool. They all tend to give us space after seeing the guards and the circling formation of teeth and cws above.

  Our lissome footsteps are in time with our heartbeat.

  I am grateful this drudgery is mostly in the north and northwestern outskirts of Lodestar. Even if we were running through my moss, chances of passing next to my home were slim but I could easily imagine my mom throwing me a satchel of food to run with.

  It wasn't just the reduced threat of embarrassment that had me relieved, though. I didn't wish to pass anywhere near my home for the real possibility I might try to run away from everything and lock myself inside my room.

  Above and to my right, I see a rge bull with four eagle-shaped wings, transporting three passengers, securely strapped in their saddles. A bnk expression of monotony was etched into each passenger's face. Not their first time on a Winged, I brilliantly deduce.

  They sit on cushy, well-padded saddles, the blissful wind chilling them.

  I almost trip and fall on my jaw.

  ''Eyes forward, Red,'' Grandmaster Vidar politely says. His harsh voice sms a stylus through my ears. If he continues talking in such tender ways I might just give him scars across his right hand to match those on his left.

  Close ahead, there is a crowd of about forty or so people, gathered at a respectful distance of our route. They watch as we pass by.

  ''New crop seems promising!'' someone shouts at Grandmaster Vidar.

  ''They seem something, alright!'' he yells at the crowd without looking back or losing a single stride. Many in the crowd just stare at us and bless themselves as we run by.

  Unobtrusive roads we run on often seem to be avoided by the public during this hour. Sadly, this doesn't stop minor groups of people from gathering to watch us pass by—this happens with annoying regurity, almost every hundred strides or so.

  After passing the nearby throng, Hebe notices me wrinkling my nose. ''What's wrong?'' she whispers.

  ''Nothing. Had a pebble in my sandal,'' I lie.

  Perfume, bath oils, sweaty linen, occasional manure, distant trines, the not-so-distant ordure of emptied chamber pots, and the miasmal odor of piss, are just some of the smells thwacking my nose every dozen or so bored breaths.

  Goddess heard my ruminations.

  The bad smells from before are somewhat negated as we run past small open-air marketpces; where cinnamon, nutmeg, dried rosemary, and other unknown, but mostly pleasantly-smelling spices, spread their tickling vines. Applecherry Pza—located in the northern reaches of Lodestar—is surprisingly not-so-shitty smelling. The occasional drizzle of the pza's grand fountain hitting my face offers some nice refreshments.

  The fountain had fifty statues made of smooth marble, all painted in mainly red, blue, green, and purple. The statues were about the size of a giant sloth, a rge creature inhabiting the Wastes. Each burly figure had two wings bursting out its back and a basic human-like shape. But only about half of the statues had a human head, the rest were animalistic, possessing horns, snouts, and even fangs.

  All hundred wings are adorned with gold leaf that covers their entire surface.

  Purple and blue are rgely used for their apparel, while red is spshed on hair and lips. Green is used on very small sculptures of trees, thrown about their feet.

  The coarse-textured marble rocks upon which the statues stand are just rocky outcroppings, very rough-looking and unadorned.

  The fountain's basin held a rge body of turquoise water, clear and serene—gentle ripples and spshes reflected a pale sheen from above. Two powerful crystalline jets soared skyward, further disturbing the surface.

  Striking, yet dreadful. The pza's main centerpiece viciously cshed with its name.

  Before exiting the Applecherry Pza completely, we pause and wait for three rge carts with coal to pass. Stocky Grey-made four-legged crystalborn rger than oxen, pull the heavy load. Their horns are waist thick and longer than even the tallest man—despite being curved. Long fly-chasing tails end in a tussock of bck mane.

  The beasts' heaving muscles are clearly outlined through short gray-white fur.

  I look to the right. A tall, colorfully-clothed form captures my attention.

  ''She could...probably buy us all,'' Hebe pantingly notes after seeing me staring at a finely dressed woman.

  ''Vambrace-looking thing...on her right hand is almost...pure ptinum. It means she is the Headwoman of this guild,'' Hebe continues, pausing after every few words to catch the much-needed gulps of air.

  ''That guildhall belongs to the...wool-trading guild.'' Hebe nods towards the well-kept but unassuming...no, the building is stately. The guildhall is like a pretty girl trying to remain unnoticed in the crowd; smaller than most temples but it stands out in the end.

  Purple banners, dropping between the tall arched windows, had an embzoned white symbol of the Wool Guild: a crossed drop spindle with a whorl and a simple spindle stick. Jutting from the middle, the tall rectangur facade occupied about a third of the building's side. About thirty arched windows graced the white-gray limestone facade, making it more gss than stone. Far above the stonewood doors, a coat of arms is carved from pure white limestone. Two winged horses were facing each other, fnking the decorative shield with crossed spindles at its center.

  My eyes see the joints, the lines, and the tiny cracks; marks of rain and time. From a distance, the stone seemed perfect, though.

  The limestone-and-brick building resembles a manuscript's gold-leafed illumination of a small castle. I don't like its snted roof. That must be a pain to clean.

  ''That roof must be a pain to clean,'' I murmur to Hebe.

  ''I know. The dust gets between the tiles, but it looks nice,'' she points out.

  Hebe's mother has a sister in the spice trade, working for the Spice Guild. Lana Furia and Ariana especially, offered Hebe pretty combs and nice-looking bone hairpins in trade for some smuggled pepper or cinnamon. To her credit, she rebuffed them quite easily. I would take that deal any day.

  The Headwoman has a wheatish complexion and dark brown eyes. She is in her te forties but hides it well, very well. Covering her body are several tunics in yers of pure white, bright green, and that yellow hue of Amber found in crystals often used for lighting the city's streets at night. Exquisitely carved Crimson and Viridian neckces, earrings, and bracelets decorate her tall stature and valorous poise while dispying wealth that somehow doesn't seem ostentatious—even my father would probably take note of that artisanship.

  Crimson tits! I'm getting a slight headache. It often happens when I enhance my eyesight a bit too much or too often. A couple of years back, when I told Mother about it—and showed it by reading tiny notation letters from a manuscript on another side of the room—she didn't know how to respond. At first. But then came her typical reaction of fear. Not of me but for me. She made me promise never to do that or speak about it ever again. How can my having a better vision than hers be a bad thing? I thought about not doing it anymore—I really did—but I can't resist. Sometimes I do it instinctively without noticing. Besides, no one will ever know.

  Two servants carry the bejeweled woman's belongings, while, standing nearby, two thickset men—possibly reted to those oxen-like familiars—are guarding her. These men are somewhat trying to act inconspicuously while wearing ordinary garbs but are failing, failing miserably with those poorly concealed knives, or possibly daggers—not to mention the constant hawkish gnces they throw at their surroundings.

  Typically, our breaks come after pausing at crossroads. I will never again be so grateful to see slow-moving carts and the elderly.

  For the st few hours, our panting and the sound of our feet only got interrupted at crossroads, or when a few of the students gged too far behind the main group. In such cases, we would all pause for a bit so that those few can catch up, and so that Grandmaster Vidar can utter obscenities at us. Strangely, I would prefer he yelled more. I've read that the people who yell a lot are usually very weak. Powerless, in fact.

  Our running resumes.

  Oftentimes, Hebe and I stick to the middle of our ever-moving group.

  I would rarely pce myself closer to the first pce, preferring the middle of the running pack. I won't go first. That spot is reserved for Tomoe, a girl with wings for legs.

  Tomoe is trailed closely by some of the boys: Gabriel, Peter, Jax, and Michael.

  Here and there a Winged or a group of them can be seen transporting people, smaller packaged goods, woven baskets, or sometimes, rge wooden chests and even barrels.

  Polygonal blocks of stone with strange smooth, lime mortar-like solid substance around them make for fairly level roads. While running on them, constant click-ccks of our tight-fit hobnailed sandals announce my css' arrival to any potential onlooker.

  The main roads of the city were wide enough for two hefty wagons to pass in each direction.

  We are about to reach the long outline of Nemea's Track, the hippodrome which can hold almost a quarter of Lodestar. It is a popur pce where ground-dwelling familiars, with one or many riders behind, chariot raced.

  The gates of the stadium stood wide open. Pulsating shrieks from the doubtlessly entertained crowd within, easily reach my ears. When I was little, Father supposedly took me there once but I have no memory of it. I think horses were racing that day, bck horses, bcker than the Void itself, though I'm not sure if that memory is real or a dream I once had.

  Personally, I never understood the appeal of chariot racing—nor the passion coming from thousands of zealous onlookers. Charioteers going in circles and raising an Alldora of fine dust. Glorious! Still, I can't stop myself from being envious of people sitting and enjoying themselves while we click-cck through the city.

  Near the hippodrome, numerous small stalls were filled with palm-sized pastries, stacks of brown bread, and smoked sausages. The smells are pleasing but I have no appetite to speak of.

  We turn westwards through a narrow street.

  ''Slow down!'' Grandmaster Vidar yells. ''Crossing blocks ahead!''

  This street's road is narrower than most, but it has a robust and compact feel to it—like running on some fttened turtle shell. Elevated rge stone sbs created a footpath on both sides, periodically connected by crossing blocks. The blocks were spaced enough for the wheels of carriages. Centuries of usage were evident by the carriage ruts that marked the road's surface.

  We make a short pause at another crossroad marked by a small fountain at its center.

  My eyes are drawn to an elderly woman scooping water from it.

  I'm not really thirsty, though I wouldn't mind dipping my entire face into the fountain to freshen up a bit. Void's curse, I wish to lie in it! Even the cold shower caverns seem almost inviting now.

  We stream on. No end in sight.

  While we are running through the spacious northwestern Lartia Pza, three boys that couldn't be more than eight excitedly run parallel to us, for a bit.

  The sprats are jubint about something as they release an annoying cryptic chirping that only others of the same age can decipher.

  The Lartia Pza's main feature is a decorative column with a painted statue on top.

  The woody and a bit fruity aroma of burning frankincense mixed with the warm, slightly bitter scent of myrrh.

  The looming temple of Theia nearby is so clean and blood-red color—spreading the lower halves of the pilrs—so crisp, it seems as though it was built yesterday. It is well-kept. The priests like to show some of their devotion through upkeep. And the more worshipers you can attract, the more crystal chips you make via donations.

  Before long, the pza's column disappears into the distance.

  We continue our pointless excursion as it takes us charging forth next to a millrace. The earthy, sweet, and grassy whiff of freshly-ground grain wafts over me. That picturesque olive-colored watermill ahead of us probably does the work of forty men. Greenish hue charmingly stains its exterior. A rge, turning, stonewood waterwheel rotates the granite millstone inside. Must be granite. Most watermills use sandstone, but this one has a two-story design, is well-kept, and located in an opulent part of the city.

  And...the sign outside says: ''Granite crushed! From grain to greatness.''

  We climb. We climb the steps born from rock. Luckily, with railings this time. Ground level of the city becomes something distant, and there is only up. Realm of birds, our goal.

  We run westward.

  The northern moss was not the highest, nor the lowest of mosses. Its streets, narrow and winding, were often lined with four and five-story dwelling complexes. A few of these brick and stone buildings had blue and yellow facades, richly painted with depictions of lions, familiars, and purple floral patterns.

  Much of our path today was surprisingly unobstructed, which makes me wonder how many other wretches before us did this same mindless excursion. What is the point of this? It must take considerable effort and strain for the Academy's resources to not only transport us all here but also to guard and train us.

  The bridges connecting the mosses offer breathtaking views, and this one is no different as it spans the abyss of white stone, rectangur homes, and distant circur pzas.

  Since I grew up on a moss, height never bothered me. But I don't think that is the case for most of my cssmates, more than a few of whom were forcing themselves to look only forward. Some slowed down considerably, and perhaps, reasonably so, wish to have skipped their breakfast. Little escapes my eyes.

  A formation of about twenty or so Gray-made Winged glides far below us, each with one or two riders.

  Winds seem to be slightly stronger here, making me feel more alone. That doesn't make sense. I'm surrounded by people. Why would I feel alone?

  ''A heart has eyes of its own.''

  I just remembered that quote. It's from a shitty book I've read years back. The manuscript spoke how the heart and the mind are destined to always be at odds, and how divine spark often tips the bance toward one or the other. Personally, I think the author was too philosophical in style but, you know, a big volume is bound to have a good maxim or two.

  On a few occasions, I was able to hear the low humming of the flowing water beneath my feet and sense the barely noticeable vibrations made by its passage.

  All the sky-bridges connecting the mosses have thick steel pipes inside them that carry water, and, I'd wager, add to their strength. Just as is the case with the one I'm running over now, there are no pilrs below any of the sky-bridges, they are elegant and continuous.

  Halfway done.

  The radiant white marble balustrade runs along the entire length of the bridge. It is adorned with candebra-shaped mps made of gilded bronze. Although numerous, the mps are nicely spaced. The Cobalt and Crimson light of the candebras is pale, only at night or at dusk is their true splendor revealed.

  The sky-bridge is made of strange grayish-white stone. There are no joints on the roadway, I don't know how to expin it, the roadway is like one smooth continuation made of this stone. It has an overall rough texture but smooth appearance. The sides of the roadway are little worn and polished by the patina of use, making them a bit smoother than the middle section.

  All of us huddle to the right side of the broad bridge as a four-legged Ground familiar runs past us in the opposite direction. Long, barely curved horns and serpentine body—its forelegs and hind legs are widely spaced from each other—elongated muscur neck, pointy ears, wicked cws, ruby eyes, a snout of two slits for a nose and spearheads for teeth, all make for a striking image.

  The long zaffre-blue creature is pretty.

  Following close behind it: a same-looking fur-shimmering beast. Except this one was awash with vibrant vermilion-red, the hue of crushed carnelian.

  They're probably some senator's pets.

  The bridge crossed, soon we traverse the clearing and climb the wide steps leading to the moss' level top, strewn with white and gray buildings. Like in most of the city, their roofs are often ft.

  Lodestar in miniature, Caelius Moss is roughly the size of the one I grew up on, except that it was more irregur in shape. This moss is one of the tallest ones, the northwestern waterway connects to it.

  Every other street we pass seems to have a saddlery—that are possibly more numerous than smithies.

  Most saddleries often feature a red, blue, or green vividly painted stonewood board, ciming that their Master Saddler and services are matchless. Or professing how the prices were never lower.

  The shop we are passing, to our right, is no different. Their dispyed saddles seem so inviting to my ass. An old man inside gave us barely a moment of attention before returning to thread his long nail-like needle through thick leather.

  The walls of this saddlery are adorned in a rich floral pattern of dark-red blossoming vines, with bck silhouettes here and there symbolically depicting transport familiars.

  The best saddlers probably make more hex than my father.

  I saw no chairs inside. Maybe you don't need actual chairs while making the sculpted ones meant for the backs of familiars. As I trot onward, the silly thought baits a fleeting misty smile from my lips.

  Ahead of us, a woman wearing a purple pal is a little hesitant at first to make way, but in the end she and her four tall guards, each armed with a spear and draped in a blue cloak, move for us. Her perfect dark-brown eyes bathed in bck skin whose tint mirrored the one found far above Sol at night. Shimmering pale green paint graced her eyelids, but that was that. She wore no crystal finery, no earrings or neckces, not even a simple bracelet. She didn't need any.

  She regards us curiously, with a warm expression. Like a mother might at her children pying.

  She seems to be wearing half a tent.

  ''Long live the Senate!'' a boy behind me shouts toward the dignified woman. The rest of the students, including the grandmaster, repeat those words.

  I almost choke on my st thoughts as if they were words said out loud. A senator. How can I see so much and so little? The four watchmen near her belong to the city. The Cobalt Guard's white thorax armor is scratchless, and bronze greaves are not even a little bent. Unlike the overall armor of Academy's Crimson Guard, the signs of true usage are slim. Apart from that, the armor worn by the Lodestar's blue-cloaked soldiers is identical to what I'm used to seeing at the Academy. Of course, the amarium phoenix emblem is repced by the one depicting a boar.

  Munificently, the Senator gives our group a slight nod.

  That is strange. I supposed all of them traveled in a private litter with richly patterned awnings; usually carried on the shoulders of at least four servants. Or, as I've seen it once, on the back of a decorated Winged— bristling with charged crystals embedded in custom-made, sleek, polished, light amarium armor. I remember my eyes being drawn to the metal's misty stains, its charcoal-gray swirls, and long smoky lines.

  I've heard a few senators take it even a step further and ride a destrier. Most people would probably see it as a rather unimpressive animal, especially if compared to some mighty crystalborn, but they are gorgeous beasts nonetheless. Sadly, I doubt any of the haughty riders care much about the destrier's beauty. Horses are rare, and warhorses are amaranth-rare. Combine this with the equine maintenance costs and the noble beasts are reduced to being glorified trophy-thingies...living status markers.

  My father once hushedly said to me that senators have twigs for legs and therefore can't walk; Mother was nowhere within earshot, of course.

  I tried not to think of my parents but our current excursion makes that difficult.

  Shortly after reaching the blessed end of our journey, Lana Furia and Cassius disgorge up their st meal.

  ''We all cry for our mothers as we are born and as we die,'' Vidar regards our sorry state with a slight grin, ''however, some of you seem to have been regrettably stuck at the first stage. I will never question the wisdom of Allmother, but if our holy ancestors could see you all now they would be doing cartwheels in their watery graves.'' Keep talking and you might meet them soon.

  He notices my death gre. ''Is there something you wish to add to my words of wisdom, Red.''

  ''Some of us need water.'' To drown you in it. You florid-faced dustbag.

  Nest-chin regards me quietly for a few moments. ''All in due time.''

  This moss has a long protrusion, jabbing westward and resembling a spear born out of the soil itself. From the ground level, it looked like an ugly nature-made wall with purple mossy patches thrown about. Thousands of dirty, rough, jagged dents and other irregur shapes make for anything but a smooth wall. But, standing on its ft narrow top, I must admit the view is pleasing. Lodestar stretched southward: a patchwork of white buildings and houses.

  The city is a white canvas splurged with almost incandescent colors.

  Rising red blush forms dominate the city's ndscape.

  Distant roseate mosses had tops speckled with white dots, their high rims edged with purple. Faraway ft-roofed houses resembled miniature castles.

  Lodestar's outskirts and the canyon floor beyond, have rock formations that hardly deserve to be called a moss(with their narrow top of a butte, spire, or wild inselberg-like shape).

  Yet the name is very flexible.

  Given by ground dwellers long ago, the term stuck, describing almost anything tall, rocky, and with life on top.

  Again seeing it as a violet smudge, Ariadne Garden added a life made of incalcuble purple glossy leaves to Lodestar's western reaches. On those rare occasions when visiting home, I was seriously tempted to try and fly directly over it. Maybe even walk the hedge maze. Sadly, that was never possible. Familiar transporting me home and back was imprinted with a singur command: to take me home and then, after a visit too short, back to the Academy's voidish embrace.

  Grand streets and byways led me to this spot, yet I barely give them any attention now.

  Even the rge purple, blue, red, green, white, and gold horizontal bands of the column directly below Sol are easy to distinguish. Laid in the center of Lodestar, the circur outline of the Senate Pza was bursting with tiny people and some crystalborn thrown in. The pza's marketpces seem well-provisioned. There are vegetables of both natural and artificial origin lining the---

  I need to be careful. Mustn't give voice to what my eyes truly see.

  The rocky spear of Caelius Moss pointed toward the imposing Western Cliff that wasn't just a part of the horizon, it was the horizon.

  Mist veils the cliff, making pockets of fragile white clouds.

  Waterfalls are not easy to spot from here, but mirroring the Eastern Cliff, the Western one also had thousands of cascades creating white clouds of mist across its grand face.

  Western river-channel's thick outline was red, somewhat echoing the redness of the cliff. Although; on a closer look, the water's surface glimmered with a darker shade of red and a tint of brown. It looks like a river made of mud and shit.

  Above, several senatorial vils are clearly visible. Carved out of sandstone, the vils are wide luxurious houses with multiple nding ptforms, which can also serve as a courtyard of sorts. These spacious structures were often very high and only accessible using a winged mount.

  To the north, the buildings quickly gave way to Valley's violet gown. Distant trees became dots and blurs, marching toward the canyon's northern end.

  The arcade of many white arches stretches in the northwestern direction. It meets the Western Cliff somewhere far away from me.

  My city's emblem, the bck silhouette of a wild boar with long tusks proudly standing on a field of blue, is featured on thousands of fluttering banners scattered across Lodestar. Their sheen of vivid blue elegantly drapes the walls of round, creneted scouting towers and public buildings.

  A recognizable, delicate, clinking sound reaches my ears.

  Dust washes over us, causing a few of my schoolmates to cough. A beautiful pink horse with matching feathery wings nds noiselessly nearby. Bel.

  Katerina Varro, crystalborn's rider, smoothly dismounts from her mount. Did she even put her straps on?

  She retrieves a medium-sized sack from her saddle. Her nimble steps quickly bring her in front of the grandmaster. The tinkling of many metallic rings in the caretaker's long bck hair announces even her slightest of movements.

  ''Were they good?'' Rings kisses Grandmaster Vidar on both bushy cheeks.

  ''They were good enough,'' he answers, profusely praising all the students.

  Rings gives him the sack and, after he pulls something out of it, both of them move about the students.

  Grandmaster Vidar begins giving small bck pebbles to all of us. She does the same, but pulls the white ones out of the sack.

  ''Each of you is going to cast a ballot,'' the grandmaster begins. ''If all cast a white pebble, we run to the city's southern outskirts, and then back toward the Academy on the backs of Winged. Same way we came.'' Vidar puts a bck pebble onto my palm. He already gave out about half, his bear-like right hand serving as sort of a bowl. ''If even one of you casts a bck pebble, then thirteen students, randomly chosen, will fly to the Academy immediately on a Winged, from here. The rest, no Winged at all. On foot, all the way back.''

  ''...What?...''

  ''...They can't do that...''

  ''...When are we going to eat?...''

  ''Shut up,'' Fuzzy Beard orders, silencing the discontented voices. ''Once you choose the pebble enclose it in a fist, and open the fist inside the box so it's all secret.''

  Rings puts a wooden box on the ground.

  Grandmaster Vidar looks at our pitiable condition. I and about eight students sitting in dirt. Cassius and Hebe are almost lying down. The standing ones don't fare too well either. Grayish pallor holds Zuri's face; Lana Furia might heave up again, her face a sickly shade of green.

  Gabriel seems almost unaffected, as though we all took a stroll through the city.

  We're all just very tired, wishing to go home.

  No, not home. The Academy, I correct myself.

  ''Pebble. Fist. Box. Now!'' Grandmaster Vidar rarely yells, but when he does, well I can't argue with the results. Our stupor broken, one by one, we vote. ''Nice and dandy,'' brown-bearded-bastard nods in approval.

  After wrapping up that affair, Fuzzy Beard and Rings separate from our group, Rings taking the box away.

  I focus my hearing and eyes on the duo.

  At a comfortable distance, Rings opens the box. After a few moments, she shows four fingers to Grandmaster Vidar.

  ''Every fucking time,'' Grandmaster Vidar mutters so quietly that even I barely heard the profanity.

  ''They will learn,'' Rings whispers to him. ''In few more Ninthdays, the group will come together.''

  Shit. Fuck. Shit. That was a test. They are going to keep taking one of our csses-free days until we all cast the white pebble.

  The duo comes back.

  Grandmaster just smiles at us, the way a child might smile at an ant about to be squashed. ''It is decided. We all go back the same way we came.''

  Of course. It would take days for the tired students to run or walk all the way back to the Academy. He is going to pretend we all voted with a white pebble.

  ''I will let them know,'' Rings tells Grandmaster Vidar before sauntering toward her pink mount.

  Grandmaster just nods in acknowledgment. He tells the twenty-five of us to rest before we ''hippity-hop'' back home. His tall frame perched with a boulder-head, leaves us to a much-needed respite, hopefully for a good breath or two.