CHAPTER 9: THE ASSESSMENT

The arena smells like chalk, oil, dust, and a hundred old arguments. The blue ward line hums around the floor. The seats are full and noisy. The sound sits under my skin and tries to shake it.

Ariadne chooses a high seat where the light makes her face hard to read. Silver trim straight. Gloves perfect. Spine straight. She looks carved out of law.

Liora and Dorian stand near the proctor’s table. Up close, Liora’s blue eyes track everything without rush. Dorian’s hands stay loosely laced. He looks relaxed and is not.

The proctor—the name clicks now: Halden Pierce—lifts his slate and raises his voice. "Control assessment," he says. "Task one. Walk the marked course with your constructs. No endangering bystanders. No contact with the ward."

"Out," I say, soft.

Hollow climbs out of the shadow under the arch like a drawing being colored in. Marrow slides out after, quiet and exact. The leash in my chest tightens to working weight.

"Marrow, heel."

We step onto chalk. The floor is a box of small tricks. Loose stones with bells under them. A sliding board that wants to take your ankle. A hiss pipe that spits warm air with a burnt-hair stink to startle the unready.

I use the breath the primer gave me. Four in. Hold two. Roll out on three. Pulse only on contact. Not a flood. A clean set-down. Heel, hip, hand. Then rest.

Marrow takes the angles I point at. He doesn’t invent his own ideas. Hollow rides a shallow arc ahead and comes back to my shoulder on a soft "Here."

"Note," the Compass says in my head, cheerful as a clerk. "You are Adept, base. Your engine outpaces your form. Keep it tidy. No heroics. You will feel stronger the moment your timing stops stepping on your own toes."

"I am listening," I think.

"Task two," Pierce calls. "Commands. Heel. Stay. Scout. Return. Then Shade and Out beyond the ward."

We do the verbs. "Stay" locks Marrow to stone. "Scout" sends Hollow. "Return" brings him back. "Shade," I say, and Hollow ripples into the shadow under the gallery, bones dimming like ink under water. I walk to the edge of the ward, tap the line with my toe. "Out." Hollow climbs out of the shade and lands light as a thought.

A ripple goes through the seats. "Shadow storage?" "Is that lawful?" "If Liora doesn’t burn him, it is." Liora does not burn me. She watches and files the fact.

Pierce glances at white-gold. "Binding terms."

"No harm to innocents," I recite. "Release if I betray that. I keep them for the life I chose and the people who choose me. If I break it, they leave."

Liora’s chin dips by a fraction. Dorian’s gaze shifts a degree. It reads like approval without anyone having to say "good."

"Applied bout," Pierce says. "Evaluator: Third-Year Duellist Ren Varin."

A tall boy drops from the far side. Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Clean balance. Plain sword kept like a promise. He bows the exact depth the book recommends. He means it.

"Wards live," Pierce says. "Begin on my mark."

Ren starts honest. Tap my guard. Draw a step. Change line to test my feet. He’s tidy and fair. I give him the duel he expects for two exchanges because respect keeps matches from turning stupid. Then I move to what I know.

Outside slip like a boxer. Hip turn like judo when our guards touch. The sabre slides along a seam. The ward hums when steel and light say hello.

Marrow bumps Ren’s low cut and slides on, teeth never showing. Above, Hollow clacks twice. That’s our code from last night: one clack for a left rush coming, two for a high feint. Ren glances up. Anyone would. He adjusts and tries to bait me into chasing his blade. I do not chase. I place the current only when it earns its keep. Heel. Hip. Hand. Then let it go.

Midway, I say, "Shade."

Hollow melts into the shadow near the ward line. The arena goes quieter without the small bone rattle. Ren smiles and presses. He is good. He tries to step on my breath, to own the beat. I let him start the music and then change the tempo. Grip shift on the blade. A short, cold pulse on contact—only then. No numb hands. I slide his guard wide and tap the spot the ward calls safe. The ward chimes a soft note to say, Yes, that would have been a good idea in a real fight.

Ren feints high-low-high. I do not bite. He sidesteps. I step with him. He tries to cut behind my knee. "Stay," I say. Marrow stops like a statue with opinions and blocks the approach without touching him. Ren laughs once under his breath, aware and annoyed. He’s honest enough to enjoy a good block.

"Enough," Pierce calls when his boxes are checked. Ren bows a little deeper. I return it. He looks alive, a little angry, a little pleased. That is the face good practice writes on you.

Pierce speaks and writes at once. "Subject demonstrates safe command of two constructs. Complies with ethical binding. Forging license retained under probation. Attendance at Ethics and Accords is mandatory until Saintess Anselm is satisfied. Both duelists submit statements by sundown."

The gallery exhales. Talk rises like steam.

"That isn’t the old Armand," a red-haired girl says.

"He made the hound stop like a person," a boy answers.

"Commoner got in on talent alone," another voice says, looking at Cael. "Veyron doesn’t flinch."

I follow the looks. Cael stands beside a pillar. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. Calm face. No crest. He wears the uniform like it is enough. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t sneer. He watches.

He walks past as he leaves. He doesn’t look at me. Sometimes not looking is the brave move. Not every fight is a sword.

Liora steps closer. Up close, her blue eyes are brighter than they looked from the seats. There is a tiny cut at the corner of her mouth that is almost healed.

"Keep your promises," she says.

"Yes," I say.

She studies Marrow for one breath. "Teach the city to trust your leash."

"Yes."

She adds, "Names help." She taps her wrist bands lightly. "Liora Anselm." She tips her head to Dorian. "Dorian Kest."

"Armand Valcrey," I say, because manners are free and I have wasted enough things already.

Dorian’s blue-gray eyes hold mine for a beat. There is weight there. Not threat. Duty.

The Compass coughs in my head. "Three notes. Do not flirt with sanctity. Rotate your orders. Eat."

"I don’t faint," I tell it.

"You will if you forget lunch," it says, wounded on principle. "Also: you fought like someone who reads the manual. Keep that."

Pierce points me to a line on his slate. I sign. Paper builds a neat box around the truth the cave already wrote.

On the way out, a polished shield shows my face. Eighteen on the surface. Older in the eyes. In this world, Tier 1—Initiate—is peak human. Tier 2—Adept—is the first true step beyond. Every tier has three rungs: minus (wobble), base (steady), plus (press). The Compass pinned me at Adept, base. That is why I can keep two on the line without fuzz if I respect rotation. If my Internal does not feel comic-book yet, it is because my timing and form need work, not because the engine is weak.

"Obvious rule," the Compass says. "Do not try to prove you’re superhuman. Keep being clean. Let them do the math."

"Working on it."

I think back to the west steps. The shove. The meeting of forearms. The weight in Cael’s current. The way his breath did not hitch when mine did. My brother’s late-night notes float up—scribbles about a common-born prodigy and an arrogant noble, a clash that sets the tone. He wrote Cael Veyron into this school because talent laughs at ledgers.

If tiers are engines, Cael is already in the next room.

Artisan. Tier 3.

Good. I like a mountain I can see.

"Shade," I say.

Marrow slides into the shadow under the arch. Hollow ripples and is gone, like ink pulled flat. The leash hums—two on the line, tucked.

"Out, when I call," I add. The dark answers like a held breath.

"Lunch," the Compass insists. "Then statements. Then, perhaps, the rest of your life with fewer stairs and fewer cliffs."

I give the arena one last look. Chalk, oil, dust. Blue hum. A new story starting in other people’s mouths.

We step into the corridor—still not a corpse, still a problem—and exactly the kind of alive I intend to stay.