Ro Nassius studies the board, his fingers still resting on the hooded piece. The move opens a perception field across three layers, exposing his unbound Anchors to potential Vortex movement. Risky. But necessary.
His gaze skims across the dimensional glass without truly focusing. The board's surface reflects fragments—his hand, the curve of his torq, the edge of his face. He keeps his eyes on the pieces themselves.
Some reflections serve no purpose.
Above him, the pools shift and ripple.
He does not look up.
"An interesting choice," Ellus Ato says from across the board. His voice carries the certainty of youth, each word crisp and measured. "Leaving the Fourth Hell exposed."
"The Witness sees what it must see." Ro withdraws his hand, letting it rest against his knee. "Even at cost."
The younger Praeceptor leans forward, his copper torq catching the faint glow from the pools overhead. His platinum hair falls across his forehead as he considers the board state. Twenty-eight, perhaps thirty years old. Young enough to still believe in absolutes.
Ellus reaches for one of his Veils, the translucent crystallized Balah-water shimmering between his fingers. He positions it carefully, creating a barrier between Ro's Witness and the nearest unbound Anchor.
"Protection requires foresight," Ellus says. "Weakness exposed invites destruction."
Ro watches the Veil settle into place. The move is textbook. Precise. It reveals everything about how Ellus sees the world.
A soft sound draws his attention upward.
The pools.
They hang from the domed ceiling like squares of captured sky, each surface reflecting a different corner of the Mere. Most show empty corridors, dark training halls, the silent grounds beyond the walls. But three pools in the center display the dining hall below, their angles offering a perfect view of the long tables stretching across the stone floor.
The first-years sit in uneven clusters. Some talk quietly. Others eat in silence.
One slumps forward.
Ro's gaze lingers on the fallen boy for a breath before returning to the board. His hand moves without conscious thought, selecting an Anchor bound to the Third Hell. He shifts it three spaces, following the spiral pattern dictated by its Hell-correspondence.
The movement creates a harmonic line with two other Anchors, not enough to trap a Vortex, but enough to strengthen the Veils nearby.
"You play defensively tonight." Ellus's tone carries faint disapproval. "Building walls instead of claiming territory."
"Walls have their purpose."
"Until they collapse."
Ro says nothing. His eyes drift to the pools again.
Another first-year falls. Then two more in quick succession.
The pattern spreads like ash across water.
Behind them, near the curved wall, the Headmaster stands motionless. Petimus Usvale has not moved since the game began, his ancient frame silhouetted against the faint glow of a pool showing the outer gates. His double pupils reflect the light in strange ways, each iris splitting the illumination into fractured beams.
The air around him distorts faintly. Subtle. Almost invisible unless one knows to look for it.
Ro has served under Usvale for two decades. He has learned to read the Headmaster's silences the way others read spoken words. Right now, that silence presses against the room like weight before a storm.
Ellus moves a Vortex.
The dark glass sculpture flows across the board, following the mathematical formula dictated by board state. It curves toward Ro's weakest cluster of Anchors, the ones he has not yet bound to their layers.
The Vortex consumes everything in its path.
Ro's hand freezes halfway to his next piece.
Red lights. Cold beyond cold. Floating in darkness.
The hunger.
He forces his hand to move. Selects a Veil he does not need. Places it nowhere useful.
"Ro?" Ellus's voice comes from far away.
"Merely considering options."
His fingers tremble against the dimensional glass.
"The formula favors aggression tonight," Ellus observes. "Perhaps the board itself grows impatient with delay."
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"The board has no patience. It simply is."
"Then perhaps it reflects those who play upon it."
Ro considers his response carefully. In the pools above, more first-years collapse. He counts without meaning to. Fifteen. Twenty. The numbers climb.
In the pool directly above the Karesh board, two boys have fallen across each other. One's arm drapes over the other's chest. Brothers, perhaps. Companions from the same Conclave.
Ro looks away quickly.
His throat tightens.
He knows what hunger does to bonds. What it does to friendship. To oaths sworn and promises made in better days.
He knows what it makes of men.
What it made of Vekkor.
He selects a Veil and places it between the approaching Vortex and his Anchors. The barrier will not hold if Ellus presses, but it buys time. Creates the illusion of defense.
"How many with awakened Semblances in this class?" Ro asks, his tone casual. He keeps his eyes on the board.
"Forty-three thus far." Ellus studies the Veil placement, weighing options. "A strong crop. Better than last year."
"Last year only thirty-nine had by this time."
"Thirty-nine to Forty-three." Ellus's fingers brush one of his unbound Anchors. "Acceptable numbers."
Acceptable.
The word sits between them like a stone in an open mouth. No worry that every year more students awakened Semblances. No concern at what it meant. Just acceptable numbers.
Ro breathes slowly, releasing the tightness in his chest. His face remains calm. Neutral. He has practiced this expression for twenty years.
Above them, a pool shows a girl slumping sideways off her bench. Her arm dangles, fingers brushing the floor.
"The tea this year," Ro says, still watching the board. "A new mixture?"
"The Headmaster approved the formula personally." Ellus moves his Anchor, advancing it toward the center of the board. "Stronger than previous years. More efficient."
"I see."
Efficient.
Another word that carries weight Ellus does not seem to feel.
Ro moves his Witness again, repositioning to see a different angle of the board. The perception field shifts, revealing a potential path he had not noticed before. Interesting. But it requires sacrificing two Veils to execute.
In the pool directly above the Karesh board, he sees the Initiates' table. Bodies sprawled across benches, slumped over meals, collapsed onto the floor. The eunuchs move between them with practiced efficiency, checking pulses, making notes.
Mouths hang open. Arms draped across neighboring bodies. The vulnerable machinery of consumption rendered helpless.
His stomach turns.
"You seem distracted tonight," Ellus observes.
Ro's hand tightens on the Veil piece in his hand.
He sets it down, selects a different one instead, positioning it far from his Anchors. A wasted move. Defensive without purpose.
He is stalling.
He knows it. Ellus knows it. Perhaps even the Headmaster knows it, standing silent against the wall.
"Strong," Ro says quietly, testing the word. "We devour them. Feed on their potential until only the strongest remain. And we call this strength."
His voice remains steady. Level. He has practiced this for twenty years.
In the Vimana, Vekkor had said something similar. Had made it sound like necessity. Like survival. Like there was no other choice.
You will understand eventually, Ro. When you are hungry enough.
Ro had refused to understand.
Had fought to stay human while Vekkor became something else. Something that looked at him with terrible hunger. Something that stopped being his friend and became merely appetite.
He swallows hard.
"You grow philosophical in your age, Ro."
"Perhaps." He moves another Veil, protecting nothing. "Or perhaps I simply tire of watching the strong feed on the weak and calling it necessity."
Ellus's expression sharpens. "Careful, old friend. That borders on sedition."
Ro says nothing. His eyes return to the pools, to the sprawled bodies, to the open mouths and helpless forms.
We are what we consume, he thinks. And we have consumed our children for too long.
"The Hells themselves demand consumption," Ellus continues. "Power requires sacrifice. You know this."
"I know what we tell ourselves to justify it."
The air between them grows heavy. Ellus studies him with new attention, perhaps seeing something in Ro's expression that was not there before.
"The trials are not pleasant," Ellus says carefully. "But they are necessary. The Labyrinth will take half tomorrow. Perhaps more. But those who emerge will be stronger for it."
"Yes." Ro's fingers rest against his knee, pressed white. "Survival nonetheless."
One boy remains upright in the pool above.
Black hair. Lean build. A white-gold torq catching the dining hall's light.
Janus Ragnos.
Ro has heard the name. Difficult not to. The entire Mere whispers it. Balah-born. The rock-bearer. The one who emerged from the First Baptism marked by something no one fully understands.
The boy sits very still among the collapsed bodies, his hand pressed to his side. His gray eyes scan the room with careful precision, marking exits, counting threats.
Calculating survival.
Ro recognizes that look. Has seen it in mirrors he tries not to examine too closely.
In the pool, Janus slumps to the floor at last, his hand reaching for his side as consciousness leaves him.
Ro watches him fall.
The image triggers something. A door he keeps locked.
The Vimana. Emergency glowglobes painting everything red. Floating in the cold between stars. The temperature dropping. The emergency rations gone. The cold seeping through his suit, into his bones, into his thoughts until nothing existed but the hunger.
Days blurring into weeks. Maybe longer. Time stopped meaning anything.
Vekkor, near the end. No longer recognizable as the man who had trained beside him for four years. No longer the pilot who had pulled him from a burning compartment during the battle. No longer his friend.
The way Vekkor looked at him. The terrible hunger in those eyes.
Not human anymore. Something else.
Ro had tried to stop him. Tried to hold onto what they were. Tried to remember oaths and bonds and the men they had been before the hunger.
But Vekkor had broken first. Had crossed the line. Had become the thing they swore they would never become.
The memory blurs. Skips.
Red lights. Cold. Floating.
And then the rescue.
The debrief. The long silence after when they asked him what happened to the others.
"They died," he had said.
It was true.
It was enough.
No one asked how.
No one asked why he was the only one who survived.
No one asked what survival cost.
Ro's throat closes. His hand trembles against his knee until he forces it still.
"The game is yours," he says quietly.
Ellus's expression shifts to satisfaction. The younger Praeceptor rises, gathering his pieces with efficient pleasure. He says something about next week's match, about improving strategies, about the beauty of the Vortex formula.
Ro does not hear him.
All he can see are the unconscious children in the pools above. Drugged. Helpless. Prepared for tomorrow's trial.
Tomorrow, his first-years will enter the Labyrinth.
Tomorrow, they will learn what hunger does to oaths. What necessity does to morality. What survival costs when you strip away everything else.
Tomorrow, some of them will become what they swore they would never become.
Ro already knows this.
He has known for twenty-five years.
The question settles in his chest like a stone in deep water: How many will emerge?
The answer is always the same.
Not enough.
Never enough.
But he will say nothing. Will teach whoever survives. Will play Karesh with Ellus and lose gracefully. Will serve the Mere for twenty more years if required, adapting to whatever new cruelties the reforms demand.
Because that is what survival requires.
And Praeceptor Ro Nassius has become very, very good at surviving.
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