The words cut through the silence like lightning across a rain-filled horizon. Talon freezes in place, his face pale and slack. For a moment, there is nothing—just the sound of heavy and uneven breathing.
Then it begins.
Laughter rising, sharp and cruel, swelling into a tidal wave of mockery.
The sound deafens.
Talon's face crumples. Tears streak down his cheeks. With a choked sob, he turns and flees back where we came from, the thud of his retreating footsteps fading into the distance.
I watch him go, an uneasy knot tightening in my chest.
My hands curl into fists.
The dining hall yawns wide and empty before me, its silence thick and oppressive. The faint echoes of Talon's retreating sobs still cling to the air, mingling with the memory of his terror. My chest tightens as I step inside, the press of the other Initiates easing as they spread out across the narrow table at our level.
I lower myself into the seat nearest to the edge of the table, away from the others. The space feels immense and wrong, the emptiness stretching upward like a gaping maw. The tiers above us remain vacant, their polished stone surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. They seem to watch me, expectant and waiting.
The table fills slowly with Initiates, but no one dares sit near me. They gather in uneasy clusters farther down the bench, whispering to one another in low, hurried tones. Their glances flick toward me, quick and uncertain, as though they are afraid I might hear them. Or that I might look back.
The whispers press in. I breathe. Lock them down. Feed them to the dark place that hungers. The calm returns, cold and familiar.
Binah sits across from me.
I blink. When did she—?
Her violet eyes lock onto mine, her form sharper than before. Edges less smoke and more substance. The shadows around her curl tighter, darker, as though drawing strength from proximity.
The other Initiates do not seem to notice her. To them, I am still alone.
I look down. My plate is empty.
Around us, the eunuchs move silently through the hall, their measured grace both mesmerizing and unsettling. Their faces are smooth, emotionless, their movements deliberate as they place dishes in front of the other Initiates.
It is their mouths that catch my attention.
When one bends close to set a plate farther down the table, I glimpse the dark hollow where a tongue should be. My stomach twists, and I glance away quickly, my gaze flicking to Binah instead. Her eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking.
The plate before me remains empty, but hunger stirs faintly in my chest. I force myself to focus on the polished surface of the table, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze and the whispers of the Initiates farther down.
The scrape of a chair shatters the uneasy silence. A wiry boy settles into the seat beside me, his sandy hair falling into his face as he glances around nervously. He does not seem to notice Binah, even as she shifts slightly, her form flickering at the edges.
"Hey," he says, his voice pitched low. "Mind if I sit here?"
I tense, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table, but I do not respond. He settles in fully, his movements hesitant, his gaze darting between me and the Initiates farther down the bench.
"My name is Lias," he says, quieter now, his tone conspiratorial. "I heard about the First Baptism. What really happened? Some people are saying—"
Binah's eyes narrow, her pale fingers brushing the table's surface. Her presence darkens, like a storm cloud gathering overhead.
The boy leans closer, undeterred. "Did they really drown? Or did you—"
The gates of my Inner Hell shake. Something on the other side presses against them, eager and hungry.
I look at him. His eyes are wide and expectant.
"I ate them."
The words are flat. Simple. I watch them land.
Before he can respond, Binah moves, leaps across the table.
Her arm lashes out, her hand unnaturally pale as it clamps onto the boy's wrist. Her grip is unyielding, her movements swift and precise. She slams her forehead into his face with a wet crunch.
Blood blossoms, bright and true.
Lias lets out a strangled cry. His bench screeches against the polished floor as he jerks his arm free, but he does not get far. His body crumples onto the ground, his back hitting the stone with a sharp slap. Blood trickles from his broken nose, staining the pristine tiles beneath him.
The eunuchs are there before I can move, their hands gripping my arms like iron as they hold me still. Two more descend on Lias, their movements silent and efficient, dragging him away from the table. His protests are weak, muffled by his gasps for air.
But I only have eyes for Binah.
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She stands motionless now, her white forehead smeared with crimson, her violet eyes watching me with an intensity that burns. There is a wildness about her that reminds me of summer thunderstorms. Beautiful, untamed, and brimming with the promise of destruction.
There is a sinking coldness in my chest. Is this what Binah truly is? Not a shadow, not a ghost, but something far more dangerous.
An eunuch forces a steaming mug of tea into my grasp. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. My fingers tremble slightly.
I take a sip, the liquid scalding my tongue and throat as it goes down. The sudden silence presses in around me, thick and suffocating. I try to focus on the warmth spreading through my chest, on the strange bitterness on my tongue, willing it to drown out the weight of their stares.
But I cannot ignore it.
Eyes are on me from every direction, gazes burning holes into my skin. I feel exposed. Raw and vulnerable. Penelope's sharp eyes assess me from where she sits with her brother. Castor's jaw is set in a hard line.
I force myself to meet their gazes. I refuse to flinch under their scrutiny.
The tea sloshes slightly as I bring it back to my lips for another drink, the heat a welcome distraction from the cold knot of unease tightening in my gut.
The silence is short-lived. The heavy creak of doors above us breaks the stillness.
My gaze snaps upward.
The Novices enter.
They exist.
The thought strikes before I can stop it. After the empty buildings, the dark windows, the bronze-masked Exarch's careful non-answer—there are enough—I had half-expected the upper tiers to remain vacant. Proof that survival here is impossible.
But they are real. Flesh and blood and torqs gleaming in the pale light.
Their robes are similar to ours—charcoal gray, heavy fabric—but different. A single silver stripe runs along each cuff and hem. The inverted tower symbol on their backs is larger than ours, more detailed, the silver thread catching the light as they move.
They take their places on the second tier, their gazes flicking down at us with faint amusement. Some whisper to each other. Others simply stare, assessing the new crop of Initiates with the eyes of those who have already survived what we have yet to face.
The third tier doors open next.
The Virtuants file in.
Their robes are lighter—still charcoal gray, but a shade closer to slate. Two silver stripes mark their cuffs and hems. The inverted tower on their backs is more elaborate, the concentric circles deeper, more pronounced. They move with confidence, louder than the Novices, their laughter echoing through the hall as they settle into the middle tier.
Their presence radiates authority earned through survival.
Finally, the Adepti arrive.
They move with a precision that commands attention, their robes nearly black, the fabric richer, heavier. Three silver stripes gleam at cuffs and hem. The inverted tower symbols on their backs are masterworks—silver thread so fine it seems to shimmer, the geometric patterns extending beyond the circles into radiating lines that suggest light breaking through darkness.
Bronze and copper torqs catch the pale light as they ascend to the highest tier. Their silence is more powerful than any sound, a tangible force that settles over the room.
My gaze lifts to the highest level, searching for something solid to anchor me against the weight of the room.
That is when I see her.
Cyra.
Among the Adepti. Fourth year.
She made it through three years of whatever the Mere has to offer.
She survived.
Relief hits first, unexpected and fierce. I have not seen her since the baptism, since I emerged from the water with white-gold burning against my throat.
She stands near the edge of the table, her bronze torq gleaming against the near-black of her robes. Three silver stripes mark her as Adepti. The inverted tower on her back catches the light, the silver thread glowing faintly.
Her presence feels heavier than the others', her stillness commanding more attention than their quiet precision. Her eyes find mine almost instantly, as though she has been waiting for me to look up.
Her jaw loosens. The corners of her mouth turn down, barely visible. Her eyes shimmer, but no tears fall.
Why does she look at me like that? Like she knows something I do not. Like she is mourning.
I force myself to look away, but the weight of her gaze lingers, pressing into me like a stone in my chest. Across from me, Binah flickers faintly, her violet eyes trailing upward to Cyra. She does not move or react, but the shadows around her deepen, curling like smoke.
I try to steady myself, wrapping my hands around the steaming mug in front of me. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. Around me, the hall buzzes with sound, the layered hum of voices from every tier growing louder, more alive.
But something feels off.
The first sign is subtle. A clatter of cutlery from the far end of the Initiates' table. I glance up in time to see one of my classmates slump forward, his face pressing against his half-eaten meal.
A nervous chuckle escapes from another boy nearby. "Did he pass out? From nerves?" The laughter wavers, uneasy.
Then another student falls silent. A girl this time. Her head lolls back, eyes rolling white before she crumples onto the bench.
My grip tightens on the mug. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Three more.
Four.
The boy two seats down convulses once, then goes still. His plate tips, scattering food across the table. A girl across from him slumps sideways, her arm dangling limp.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
I count without meaning to. The numbers climb.
What is happening?
I look toward Binah, who remains eerily still, her violet eyes trained on me with unrelenting intensity.
The numbers climb past twelve, then fifteen. I stop counting at twenty.
The pattern spreads like rot through grain. Students collapse in waves, their movements sluggish, their voices fading to silence. Some slide from their benches to the floor. Others simply stop moving, heads resting against the table as though they have fallen asleep mid-meal.
I bring the mug back to my lips, the scalding liquid the only anchor I have in the growing chaos.
The mug is ripped from my hands before I can drink.
The motion is sudden, violent, the sound of the mug striking the stone floor reverberating through the hall. The tea splashes, dark and steaming, across the polished surface, pooling near my feet.
Binah stands now, her form solid and sharp, a faint tremor in the air around her. Her gaze shifts between me and the spilled liquid, her expression unreadable but charged with purpose.
She saved me.
Or stopped me.
I stare at her, my breath caught in my throat. Around us, the silence deepens as more students fall still, their bodies slumped against the table or sprawled across the benches.
Movement draws my attention to the upper tiers. My chest tightens further. The Novices and Virtuants remain seated, their laughter subdued now, their expressions wary. The Adepti sit in perfect stillness, their torqs gleaming faintly in the flickering light.
And Cyra.
Her presence looms above it all, her sad eyes locked onto mine. Her head tilts slightly, the faintest tremble in her shoulders betraying an emotion she will not allow to surface. She looks at me as though I am already lost.
"Cyra," I whisper, but the word feels weightless, stolen by the oppressive air of the hall.
Binah shifts beside me, her attention still fixed on Cyra. Her flickering form seems smaller beneath my sister's unyielding gaze, her shadows curling tighter around her as though retreating into themselves.
Heaviness spreads through my limbs. My vision blurs at the edges, the hall swimming around me.
My hand moves. Instinct. Survival.
Fingers fumbling against my ribs, seeking the hidden weight. The knullknife's handle is warm beneath the fabric. Mother's voice echoes distantly: Keep it close. Always.
I try to grip it. Try to pull it free from the inner seam.
My fingers will not close. Will not obey.
The blade remains sheathed, useless, as the darkness pulls me under.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is Cyra. She does not move, her sad eyes fixed on me, unblinking. Her shoulders rise and fall with a faint, tremulous breath.
Then, nothing.
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