I stalk through the western corridors, my boots echoing against marble floors. Students part before me like water around a stone, their whispers following in my wake. Some don't even bother to lower their voices.

  "Look at him—like a bull in a potions shop."

  "Heard he can't even read."

  The administrative wing looms ahead, marked by towering bronze doors etched with flowing script. Inside, the space stretches vast and cold, dominated by row upon row of filing cabinets reaching toward vaulted ceilings.

  An ancient woman peers at me through thick spectacles, her desk piled high with papers. "Name?"

  "Mark."

  She blinks. "Last name?"

  "Just Mark."

  Her quill scratches against parchment. "Place of birth?"

  "Northern tribes."

  "Which tribe specifically?"

  "Does it matter?"

  She sighs, shuffling through forms. "Without proper documentation, we'll need to file a special dispensation. Previous education?"

  "None."

  More scratching. More sighing. She vanishes behind a towering shelf, muttering about "irregular cases" and "proper procedures."

  Students filter in and out, their laughter cutting through the dusty silence. A group of boys hover near the entrance, pointing and whispering. One mimes swinging a club.

  "Savage."

  "Cave dweller."

  The old woman returns with a fresh stack of papers. "Parents' names?"

  My jaw clenches. "Dead."

  "Yes, but for the records—"

  "They're dead. That's all you need to know."

  She tuts, slowly reaching for yet another form. My fingers drum against the counter as she laboriously copies information between documents.

  A flash of light explodes beside my head, followed by crackling sparks. Magic.

  Pop Pop

  The acrid scent fills my nostrils as another burst pops near my ear.

  Two students stand grinning, fingers trailing magical residue. "Just giving him a proper welcome," one says, preparing another spell.

  Magic shot at me. The snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, useless in this place. But I don't need it.

  My heart pumps harder and faster. All reason and logic disperse.

  My fist connects with the first boy's jaw before he can complete the gesture. Bones cracking, spit flying, screams, crying. He crashes into a filing cabinet as I grab the second one by his robes. My knuckles find his nose with a satisfying crunch.

  The first one scrambles up, blood streaming from his mouth. I drive my knee into his shallow stomach, then slam him face-first into the counter.

  "Stop this at once!" The old woman's voice seems very far away.

  Fuck off.

  I've got the second boy in a chokehold when hands grab my shoulders, trying to pull me back. But all I can see is magic, all I can smell is that burning stench, and all I want is to make it stop.

  The magical sparks trigger something in my mind. Suddenly, I'm back there. The tribesmen's heads aren't just exploding—they're popping like ripe fruit, spraying crimson across the mud. One, two, three. Pop, pop, pop. Almost comical, if it weren't for the screams.

  And there she stands, Camilla, that same serene smile on her face as she conducts her symphony of death. Red hair flowing in the wind, dress pristine despite the carnage.

  "More pressure," her voice echoes in my head. "Squeeze harder."

  I comply, tightening my grip on what I think is her throat. Someone's throat. The body in my grasp thrashes weakly.

  A violent force slams into my chest. My back hits the marble, hard. The impact jolts me back to reality—the administrative wing, the Grand Academy. The student I'd been choking collapses to his knees, gasping for air, his friends rushing to help him up.

  "Monster!"

  "He's completely mental!"

  "Could have killed him!"

  The crowd of students grows, but they maintain a careful distance. Some hold their hands ready, magical energy crackling between their fingers. Their faces twist with disgust and fear.

  Was I wrong? The question flickers through my mind. They attacked first, but... I glance at the boy still wheezing on the floor. I'd nearly—

  "Someone fetch the professors!"

  "No need, just put him down now!"

  Multiple students raise their hands, spells forming. I brace myself, muscles tensing. If they want a fight—

  The air suddenly thickens. Everything stops. An oppressive weight bears down on us all, like being underwater. The students' spells fizzle mid-cast.

  Heavy boots thunder against the marble. Black-uniformed figures push through the frozen crowd—the Academy Enforcers. Their badges gleam, marking them as senior students and guards.

  "Stand down!" One barks, though nobody can move anyway.

  Rough hands grab my arms. The world spins as they drag me away, corridors blurring past. Left, right, up stairs? I try to track our route, but my head's still swimming with visions of popping skulls and Camilla's smile.

  A door opens. They shove me inside somewhere. Everything's still hazy, but I make out stone walls, no windows.

  I sit in this windowless room, my knuckles still stinging from the fight. The chair digs into my back, but I don't shift. Won't give them the satisfaction.

  Ten guards and students line the back and side walls, their stances rigid, hands hovering near weapons or ready to cast. Their eyes never leave me. Good. They should be wary.

  The burly man sprawls in his chair across the table, boots propped up like he owns the place. His uniform's different—darker, more ornate. The crystal tumbler in his hand catches the light as he swirls that amber liquid. Mage beer. The expensive kind that nobles hoard. I've seen it once, when we raided a merchant caravan.

  My mind keeps replaying that wind spell that caught me. Sloppy. Should have seen it coming. Could have ducked left, used the filing cabinet as cover. Next time—if there is a next time—I'll be ready. The thought of fighting mages again makes my blood sing. They're not as untouchable as they think. Strip away their fancy spells, and they're just flesh and bone.

  Strange. Haven't seen Anja since yesterday. She'd probably laugh at this whole situation, and call me an idiot for losing control. But those sparks, that magic... It brought everything back. The screams, the blood, Camilla's—

  "This will take all bloody day," one of the students breaks the silence, shifting his weight. "Either we fuck him up or go somewhere else. Some of us have actual classes to attend."

  The burly man sets down his drink. The chair creaks as he straightens, rising to his full height. He's taller than I expected, broader too. Could be trouble.

  My muscles coil, ready. If they want a fight, I'll give them one. Even without my knife, I can take a few down before—

  He takes a step forward, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.

  The burly man retrieves a leather-bound notebook from a nearby guard, slumping back into his seat.

  "Name?"

  I remain silent.

  "Right. Mark. Just Mark." He answers for me, scribbling something.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Age?"

  "Old enough."

  He sighs. "Birthplace?"

  "North."

  "Which tribe specifically?"

  My jaw clenches. The same questions as before.

  "Background? Education? Combat training?"

  I stare at the wall behind him.

  He takes another sip of his drink. "Magical abilities?"

  That gets a reaction from me—a snort of disgust.

  "Interesting." More scribbling. "Oh yeah..." His eyes light up as if remembering something. He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Let's try something different. When you attacked those students, what were you feeling?"

  "They attacked first."

  "Not what I asked. What were you feeling?"

  I say nothing.

  He sighs, stretches. "Well, we could always call in the Invigilator. Brain Scooper might be cleaner though. Less... messy."

  My blood runs cold. I've heard whispers about mind-readers, and soul-probers. The kind of magic that leaves you drooling in a corner, if you're lucky.

  "Nineteen," I mutter.

  "Pardon?"

  "My age. Nineteen."

  He nods, writing. "Now we're getting somewhere. Combat training?"

  "Basic. Self-taught." Both lies. Captain Maya would laugh at that.

  "The witnesses say otherwise. Your form was... professional."

  I shrug. "Street fighting."

  "And your reaction to magic?"

  Images flash—burning tents, screaming children. I push them down. "Don't like it."

  "Clearly." He taps his quill. "Previous violent incidents?"

  "No." Another lie.

  "Family?"

  "Dead."

  "How?"

  My fingers dig into my thighs. "Accident."

  He raises an eyebrow. "All of them?"

  "Yes."

  "Interesting." More writing. "And these... episodes. Do they happen often?"

  "What episodes?"

  "The dissociation. Witnesses say you weren't all there during the fight. Like someone else was driving. A few sparks loose"

  I force my face blank. "Don't know what you mean."

  "Of course not." He closes his notebook. "One last thing—those markings you're hiding under your sleeves. Tribal tattoos, perhaps?"

  My heart stops. How does he—

  "Just decorative," I say carefully. "Nothing special."

  He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll see about that."

  The man pulls something from his pocket—a small brass device with whirring gears and pulsing crystals. He turns it over in his hands, the metal catching the light. My skin crawls as the crystals flash in sequence. Magic detector? Soul reader? Whatever it is, I don't like it.

  His eyes flick between me and the device. The corners of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he sets it on the table with deliberate slowness, then walks out.

  The door clicks shut behind him. The guards shift, exchanging glances.

  "Bet he killed his whole family himself," one student whispers. "Look at those eyes."

  "Oi, savage," another calls out. "Got anything to say for yourself?"

  I stare at the wall.

  "Why didn't you just stop?" A younger guard asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. "They were only playing around."

  The wall has exactly thirty-seven stones. I count them again.

  "He's proper mental, this one."

  "Can't even speak proper Common, I bet."

  The door opens. A woman glides in, all silk and perfume. She doesn't take the chair, just stands there, fingernails tap-tap-tapping on the wooden table. The rhythm sets my teeth on edge.

  "Mark, dear," she says, voice honey-sweet. "We can make this easy. Just answer honestly, and you won't have to see my colleague again." Her finger keeps tapping. "Though between us, he's quite interested in those markings of yours. Has some... special tools for examining them."

  My stomach turns at the thought.

  "Let's start simple, shall we?" Tap-tap-tap. "How old are you?"

  I swallow hard. "Sixteen."

  She smiles. More questions follow. Where was I born? (The North). My parents' names? (Dead). Previous schooling? (None). Combat training? (Streets). Each answer carefully measured, mostly half-truths.

  Finally, she leans in close. "And those tattoos—what power do they hold?"

  I meet her eyes. "I don't know."

  She studies my face for a long moment, then straightens up. "Very well."

  She smiles even harder now "My work here is done. Thanks."

  An eerie feeling resounded the room, with some guards feeling uncomfortable.

  The guards release my arms, shoving me toward the door. As I step into the corridor, I catch sight of the burly man and the silk-clad woman huddled together near a window alcove. Their voices are low, but their faces are serious as they pour over that brass device.

  "Oi, trouble!" A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts. "Heard you gave those posh tossers a proper beating!"

  Anja leans against the wall, arms crossed, wearing that insufferable grin of hers. Her uniform's already covered in grease stains somehow.

  "Not now," I growl, trying to push past.

  She falls into step beside me. "Oh, come off it. About bloody time someone knocked them down a peg. Bunch of entitled arseholes, the lot of them."

  "You weren't there."

  "Didn't need to be. Word travels fast here." She mimes a punching motion. "Two of them, yeah? Heard one's still crying about his nose."

  I grunt, but can't help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth.

  "So," she continues, "while you were busy rearranging faces, I spent all morning looking for a proper workshop. You know what they've got instead? Bloody enchanting rooms. Enchanting! What's the point of building something if you're just going to magic it anyway?"

  "Found your schedule at least?"

  "Yeah, right after breakfast. You?"

  My silence answers for me.

  "Seriously?" She laughs. "All that fighting and you still didn't get it? Classic Mark. Always doing things the hard way."

  "The professors aren't much better," I mutter. "One called me 'primitive' to my face. Another suggested I might be more comfortable in the stables."

  "Charming lot, aren't they?" Anja kicks at a loose stone. "Better than my day though. Sat through three hours of some old bat droning on about 'magical resonance in mechanical constructs.' A load of rubbish. Give me a proper engine any day."

  We turn down another corridor, the setting sun painting the walls orange through tall windows. Students scatter as we approach, whispering behind their hands.

  "Look," Anja says, "your reputation's sorted at least. No one's going to mess with you now."

  "Great. More attention."

  "Could be worse. Could be stuck in theoretical thaumaturgy like me." She affects a posh accent. "'Now class, observe as I turn this perfectly good clockwork into a useless pile of enchanted scrap.'"

  Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost.

  The sun hangs low in the sky as we walk through the corridors. My stomach growls, reminding me how this day's been wasted on pointless confrontations and questioning.

  "Right, that's it." Anja grabs my arm, yanking me toward the east wing. "You need food."

  "I'm fine."

  "Bollocks. When's the last time you ate? Yesterday?"

  I try to remember, but the day's events blur together.

  "Exactly." She drags me through a set of double doors into one of the massive dining halls. "They do proper meals here. None of that fancy rubbish from the main hall."

  "You need your calories in, or else you'll shrink."

  The smell of roasted meat hits me first. My stomach betrays me again with another growl.

  "See? Even your gut knows I'm right."

  We grab trays and pile them with food - actual food, not the dried rations I'm used to. But even as I eat, my mind keeps drifting back to the interrogation room, that brass device, the questions about my tattoo.

  "You're doing that thing again," Anja says through a mouthful of bread.

  "What thing?"

  "That brooding thing. Where you go all quiet and murderous-looking."

  I grunt and push my plate away, still half-full.

  "Right then." She stands, stretching. "Best get back before curfew. Try not to kill anyone else tonight, yeah?"

  The corridors are quieter now. Three lefts, two rights, up the eastern staircase. I've memorised every turn, every possible exit. Old habits.

  Room 200 comes into view, but something's off. Light spills from under the door - I definitely left it dark.

  I push it open slowly, my muscles tensing.

  "Hands up! This is for my fallen brothers!"

  A skinny figure jumps out from behind the door, wielding what looks like... a wooden spoon?

  Before I can react, he doubles over laughing. "Oh mate, you should see your face! Priceless!"

  My fists clench.

  "Whoa, whoa!" He backs up, hands raised. "Just having a laugh! I'm Cain. Cain Brown. Your new roommate! Please don't rearrange my face like those other blokes."

  He's shorter than me by at least a foot, with wild brown curls and a grin that seems permanently stuck to his face.

  "You're... my roommate?"

  "Yeah! They just assigned me today. Apparently, someone complained about you being alone up here. Something about 'proper supervision' and 'minimising incidents.'" He flops onto the empty bed. "Lucky you got me instead of some stuck-up prefect, right?"

  I strip off my clothes, hanging them carefully by the door. The routine is familiar—check exits, assess threats, and prepare for rest. But tonight there's an annoying variable.

  "So like, do you sleep standing up? Or upside down like a bat?" Cain bounces on his bed, each spring's creak setting my teeth on edge. "Oh! Or maybe you do that meditation thing where you hover cross-legged in the air?"

  I ignore him, methodically removing my boots.

  "Because that would be proper wicked. Though probably against school rules. But then again"—he waves his wooden spoon like a conductor's baton—"everything fun is against school rules. Did you know we're not allowed to enchant the toilets? Learned that one the hard way."

  The pillow calls to me, but I need to check the window locks first. As I move across the room, Cain launches into an elaborate tale involving three rubber ducks, a magical mishap, and what he swears was an accidental flooding of the east-wing bathrooms.

  "Oi, you're not even listening!" He hurls his pillow at my head. I catch it without looking and toss it back.

  "Some of us need sleep."

  "Sleep is for the weak! And the boring. And the... sleepy." He grins. "Which one are you?"

  I pull back my covers, ready to finally rest, when something small and metallic whizzes past my ear. Cain's already ducking behind his bed before I can retaliate.

  "Just testing your reflexes!" His curly head pops up. "For science, you know?"

  I drop onto my bed with a grunt, turning my back to him. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he'll run out of energy.

  "Want to hear a joke about magic? No? Too bad! What did the fire mage say to the water mage? Nothing, they got into a heated argument! Get it? Heated? Because... fire?"

  The silence that follows is blessed but brief.

  "Tough crowd," he mutters. "Maybe something about tattoos instead?"

  My muscles tense.

  "Just kidding! Not touching that topic. Not with a ten-foot enchanted pole. Which, by the way, is also against school rules. Found that out last week..."