I lift it from the wardrobe, testing its weight in my hands. The fabric is thick, tightly woven, the kind of cloth meant to endure, not the light, flowing ceremonial robes of House Azure. This is substantial, made to last.
I set it on the bed and turn to the old robe draped over the chair.
The knullknife slides from the inner fold. The weight is greater than my memory held. The hilt warm from my body heat.
Mother's hands pressing it into mine. Her dark fingers against my pale palm. Keep it close. Always.
I turn the blade toward the wall and touch the edge to stone.
It parts. Silent. Clean. A hair-thin line scored into the surface as though the rock were clay.
I pull the blade away. The cut remains, precise and impossible.
The new robe lies across the bed, charcoal gray and waiting. I find the inner seam and work my fingers along the stitching until I locate the hidden pocket. Every robe has one, even here. The knullknife disappears into the fabric, settling as a secret weight against my ribs.
I pull the robe over my head. The collar rises high against my neck, stopping just below my jaw, while the sleeves fall fitted and precise to my wrists, the hem brushing my ankles.
The torq remains visible, White-Gold gleaming against charcoal gray.
Always visible.
I turn slowly, catching my reflection in the window glass. The silver inverted tower symbol on my back catches the pale light. Concentric circles descending into a point, geometric and precise.
The mark of the Mere.
Binah stands at the window, her palm pressed to the glass, her reflection doubling her. Two versions staring outward with identical violet eyes. She has been there since the bell tolled, watching the plaza below, waiting. She does not turn or acknowledge the knullknife's hiding. Whatever holds her attention beyond the glass matters more than mortal weapons.
Through the wall, I hear Exarch Quaine moving in his quarters. Footsteps. The rustle of fabric. A door opening and closing.
Preparing.
I breathe, count to five. The calm settles over me like frost, and a knock sounds at my door.
"It is time, Initiate Ragnos."
I open it.
Exarch Quaine stands in the corridor, dressed in an identical charcoal robe. His bronze mask gleams in the pale blue light from the glowglobes. The etched lines radiating from the eye holes catch the light, creating patterns that shift as he moves.
"I will accompany you," he says.
I step into the corridor. Binah follows, her form sharper now, more solid. The shadows around her have thickened, coiling like smoke given weight.
Quaine does not acknowledge her, cannot see her.
But he glances at the space where she stands. A slight tilt of his masked head.
Then he turns toward the staircase.
We descend.
The fifth and fourth floors pass in silence. Empty corridors, closed doors, only our footsteps echoing against bare stone. The third floor brings muffled voices through walls, movement behind doors, the sound of students preparing. By the second floor, doors stand open, nervous laughter spilling into the corridor, voices overlapping in fragments.
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"Do you think they will feed us before—"
"I heard the upper years—"
"Did you see how empty—"
The conversations cut off as we pass. Silence spreading in our wake.
First floor. Chaos.
The entrance hall swarms with bodies. Hundreds of male Initiates in matching charcoal robes, the inverted tower symbol marking every back. Bronze torqs catch the pale blue light, creating a constellation of gleaming metal.
They gather in clusters. Natural alliances forming. House Azure students gravitating toward each other. Conclave scions doing the same. Family connections. Shared histories.
I step into the hall.
The gap forms immediately. Conversations falter, eyes flicking toward me then away. Quick glances at my throat. At the white-gold gleaming against dark fabric. Ten feet of empty space blooms around me. Fifteen. Twenty. Students press back, creating distance without seeming to move at all.
Whispers begin.
"White-gold."
"That is him."
"Talon—"
The name cuts off. Whoever spoke it swallows the rest.
I walk forward. The gap moves with me, a circle of emptiness that follows like infection.
Exarch Quaine remains at my shoulder. Silent. Present.
The entrance doors swing open.
Golden light spills across the threshold. The plaza stretches beyond, vast and empty. The other Initiates building stands opposite, its own doors opening. Female students emerging in identical robes.
Over a thousand of us converging in the plaza.
Bronze-masked Exarchs appear at intervals, directing traffic with gestures and short commands.
"Form lines."
"This way."
"Proceed to the Dining Hall."
The mass begins to move. A procession of charcoal robes and bronze torqs flowing toward the massive structure beyond.
I fall into step near the rear. The gap follows. No one walks within ten feet of me.
Binah moves beside me, her violet eyes scanning the crowd. Her form does not flicker. She is solid now. Real in a way she was not before.
The Mere has changed her. Or she has taken something from it.
We cross the plaza. The empty buildings watch from all sides. Dark windows like hollow eyes. Novices. Virtuants. Adepti.
No light burns in any of them.
I feel the weight of the invisible spheres intensifying. One above, two below, pulsing with slow, rhythmic pressure. My torq hums against my throat in recognition without understanding.
Ahead, Castor walks with a group of Conclave Initiates. His platinum hair catches the light even in the dim glow. He stands taller than most, his shoulders squared. Confident.
He does not look back.
Penelope moves separately, observing everything. Her gaze sweeps across the procession, cataloging. Assessing.
When her eyes find me, she holds the contact for three heartbeats.
Then looks away.
Around me, students talk in low voices.
"All empty. Every single one."
"How many do you think will survive?"
No one answers.
The Dining Hall looms ahead, its massive doors standing open with golden light spilling from within. The warmth feels like a lie.
We funnel into a narrow entrance corridor. The space constricts, students pressing closer together, forced into tighter formation by stone walls on either side. The light dims to pale blue glowglobes spaced at wide intervals, shadows pooling between them. Cold stone beneath my feet. The air grows thick with dust and something older. Decay, perhaps.
I walk, letting the procession carry me forward.
The crowd slows ahead, bodies bunching together, voices rising in confused murmurs.
"What is—"
"Keep moving."
"Why did we—"
A figure stands in the middle of the corridor. The students around him have stopped, creating a knot in the flow.
Talon.
He moves with a group of bright-eyed Initiates, his back to me. Platinum hair falling to his shoulders. The same build. The same posture I have known since childhood.
He stops.
Glances back.
His eyes lock onto mine.
Wide. Unblinking.
The voices around him fade. His companions notice the change, turning to see what has frozen him in place.
Talon takes a step back. Then another.
His movements are wrong. Jerky. Like something inside him has broken and all his strings have gone slack.
"Talon?" One of his companions reaches for his arm. "What—"
My pulse quickens.
I have not seen him since the Festival. Since—
Pain flares at the base of my skull, hot and insistent. My hand rises, rubbing the back of my neck, but the pressure only worsens. Images crash through my careful control. Fragmented. Unwanted.
Cold water closing over my head.
Darkness pressing in from all sides.
Threads binding muscle, weaving through flesh with surgical precision.
Ice slicing skin. Clean cuts that burn.
Blood spiraling in dark water, forming patterns that dissolve as quickly as they appear.
Talon's face twisted with malice, teeth bared, eyes wild with something primal and vicious.
Then twisted with something else.
Fear.
Terror so absolute it unmakes him.
My vision blurs. The corridor tilts.
Talon does not move. His eyes stay fixed on me, horror etched into every line of his face. His mouth opens, but no sound emerges. His companions step back, creating distance, their confusion turning to alarm.
"Talon, what is wrong with—" Foden begins, and I recognize the voice before I see him.
A wet splashing sound.
I look down.
Urine pools at Talon's feet, dark against pale stone. The smell is sharp and acrid.
Silence spreads through the corridor like ripples in still water.
Students press back against walls. Staring. Comprehension dawning in their expressions.
Cold settles in my chest.
He is afraid.
Of me.
What did I do to unmake him so completely?
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