AKI:

  Time passed. Almost imperceptibly, our dorms grew emptier. Quieter. More somber. The hardships The Academy promised propagated, selective in its approach, raking through whoever refused to follow its current, a vicious hound shepherding prey in the name of providence. Like the wind, its current was evidenced not by substance but by interaction, shifts of energies, vicissitudes in the atmosphere, and a myriad of other tangential factors, inviting absences and evicting vitality.

  Many Roots found themselves in debt. The best of them, their worth weighed on scales of serfdom, swore allegiance to one godling or another. Suddenly, without care for appearances, those who succumbed found their monetary obligations were mysteriously taken care of before a mandatory service could be levied. These students lost whatever spark of ambition or hope they came with. I could see it as clearly as I’d have seen it if someone had carved a mark on their foreheads. The loss leeched the light that animated their liveliness, that impetus to laugh, to strive, to wake early and see possibilities. Now, I knew they lumbered out of bed, contemplating limitations, because they arrived late for breakfast, went early to bed, and ambled through their days listlessly. This pessimism softened as time passed, but it remained there, always in view, much how a scar grows ever fainter yet always present.

  Those stubborn Roots who refused to acquiesce died, either in the arenas, their refusal earning them a slow death—godlings took pains to remind others what disobedience cost—or departed for their assigned tasks, never to return—only The Adacemy knew if they failed the task or an attempt to escape, both of which ended in an untimely expiration.

  And as Roots contemplated or endured the choice between death and servitude, not a single godling was counted among the dead. In the end, all the regurgitated spiel about the godlings being ‘nothing’ while they attended The Academy was just the unfulfilled intentions of Headmaster Ricell, Master Ekolise, and whoever else thought to maintain a modicum of equality.

  My friends and I fared better than most. Malorey, by her own design, had it the easiest. A paralytic agent she’d attained from the soul of a rare evolved beast left her opponents incapacitated yet unscathed, and soon, many sought her out to ensure they were unviolated—the cruelty on offer made death a better prospect than defeat. Given Malorey’s tactic, which faced her with many of the weakest combatants, she did not claim a spot on the rankings. Then again, Malorey cared little for what amounted to a culling.

  Sil’s intent to go unnoticed crumbled in stages. As her ‘fortunate’ wins stacked, people became less susceptible to her ploys. Stripped of the need to hide her skill behind contrived accidents, students had begun to take note of her talent. In her last match of the cycle, facing a Fiora, she doggedly remained on her course, all fists and kicks and none of the wind blades her Art was known for. She moved in quick bursts, like over-extended jerks, seemingly lucked into her opposition's blind side, delivered a whip-like blow that cracked the air, and disappeared, only to blindside her opponent once more. By the end of the trouncing, Sil had claimed the seventy-first spot on the ladder.

  There were sixty-nine Leaves in our cycle.

  Dako fought one of his kin for Vignil’s spot on the path, winning back his claim to Leafdom. I knew he would; he bested me one of every four, and in the name of embracing who I was, faults and all, I knew I was a force to be reckoned with. The first godling Dako faced thought he’d rely on his bulk and strength. Dako blurred around her, raking bone-tipped fingers through her thin defenses. The ease with which he downed her made a statement of his return into the folds of Leafdom. As did every victory he’d claimed since. Dako sat fifty-third on the ladder.

  Wiltos had lost another bout since his last, but his many prior and subsequent victories had rendered the loss inconsequential. Wiltos managed to eak out a string of wins despite the growing skill of his opponents. One night, the day after he’d won his most challenging battle against a competent Seculor, he’d told me in confidence how he’d managed the feat.

  “You’re not going to approve,” he said. We were coming back from a trip to the library. Our scholastic tendencies were a cornerstone of our friendship; many a night, we whittled away time in the library, discussing history, the origins of sensus, languages, and whatever else took out fancy.

  “And you need my approval?” I asked.

  “Maybe not ‘need.’ It’d certainly ease my concerns a tad, however.”

  The stack of books Wiltos carried was piled high, and he leaned back to keep them balanced, the topmost books pressed to the side of his face.

  “Let me carry a few of those for you,” I said for the third time. I’d not taken any books. Understanding the content would take longer, but images of the pages were already seared into my mind, and I could review them at my leisure.

  “I’ll manage,” he said, refusing my aid for a third time.

  “I’d manage better.”

  “That’s of little import if I can manage well enough.”

  I nodded, understanding the sentiment.

  “So, what is it I’d not approve of?” I asked.

  Wiltos remained quiet as we entered the dorms, made our way to our quarters, and stepped into our common room. He took a moment to go into his room and relieve himself of the weight he carried, then knocked on Sil and Dako’s doors to check if either of them had returned from their own practice sessions.

  “Headmaster Ricell,” he said.

  “Did he arrange an instructor for you?” I was leaning down over my bag, searching through the tools for those I’d need; Brittle was as likely to be forgiving as she was vindictive, and being unprepared for our research was too great a risk.

  Wiltos shook his head. “He gave me his personal tutelage.”

  I looked up in surprise. “He’s an Aedificator?”

  “Both classifications,” he confirmed. “Though I suspect he’s much more than just an Aedificator.”

  I frowned in confusion. “That can’t be right. Sil is a Vapor.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s Sil’s father—he can’t have much talent as an Aedifactor, not when Sil is so potent a Vapor.”

  “Not unless he’s a commoner.”

  “He can’t be,” I said. “He's the headmaster of the most prestigious academy in the known world. Besides, how does that explain his talent for Aedificator Arts?”

  “Because only commoners can be stateras. Even the weakest of Triplers have enough of an inborn tendency towards their inherited Art to exclude the possibility of being a statera.”

  “What’s a statera?”

  “Someone who’s born with nearly the same affinity for multiple Arts.”

  “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “It is, just very rare—one in a million rare. Probably rarer if only considering those whose talent in those matched Arts reaches the minimum threshold needed for basic competency.”

  I nodded off into a contemplative silence.

  “And he’s been the headmaster for a long time,” Wiltos said.

  “I don’t see how that matters.”

  “A very long time.”

  I raised a brow in curiosity. “How long is very long?”

  “One-hundred-and-forty-seven cycles.”

  “As headmaster?” I turned to Wiltos, my preparations forgotten. “That would mean he’s likely on the older side of two-and-a-half centuries. No commoner alive is older than one-seventy-five.”

  “Seventy-six,” Wiltos said. “Manar’s head priest, Kelmonte. And from what I hear, he's at death’s door.”

  “Alright, we’re getting off-topic. Tell me again why I won’t approve of Ricell teaching you?”

  Wiltos’ head slumped, and he looked down at the floor with an expression of guilt. “Because his tutelage cost me.”

  “Ricell asked you to keep it from Sil.” There was a hint of anger in my tone. I had learned secrets among friends could rot their bonds to nothingness if they were allowed to fester.

  Wiltos half turned away from me. “Not just the training.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “We are friends.”

  “So is Sil.”

  “It’s not the same.” Wiltos turned to face me. “I’m sorry, but I had to tell someone. I know Dako hates Ricell, Illora never liked me much, and Malorey…”

  “Is likely to steer you into deeper waters.”

  “I’m neck-deep as is.”

  I took a breath to calm myself. “You had to take the offer. None of us can help with your Golem Arts, and the Masters here are next to useless to the likes of us.”

  Wiltos offered me a sad smile. “That’s why it’s not the same. So, how am I to get out?”

  “You don’t,” I said. Wiltos appeared crestfallen. “I’ll have to get you out.”

  “What can you do that I can’t?”

  “Tell Sil, of course.”

  “No!” Wiltos got to his feet. “I told you—”

  “Because you knew I’d take the decision out of your hands.”

  “No—”

  “Wiltos,” I looked at him with all the sympathy I felt, “you know me as well as I know you. Do not deny the truth on my account. Leave that for when we face Ricell.”

  We waited for Sil to return. Dako, too. I’d be late to meet Brittle for our Pondus research. The risk was worth it.

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  “They’re here,” Wiltos said. He sat on the windowsill, watching the courtyard. He kept his eyes trained on the pair, his forehead pressed to the glass. Once he lost sight of them, he began to pace the room. He rubbed his hands together, then crossed his arms, then scratched his face, and then continued to cycle through a series of his nervous ticks.

  Dako came in first, laughing at some joke or jibe Sil had made. He fell silent when he saw us.

  “What’s wrong,” he asked.

  Sil squeezed past and looked between me and Wiltos. “We are overdue an incident. What was it? An assassination attempt? A challenge?”

  “Sit down,” I said. “Both of you. I have something to tell you both.”

  Dako laid his sheathed greatsword against the wall and sat. Sil arched an eyebrow but eventually took a seat beside Dako.

  Wiltos leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure?” I whispered back.

  “Yes. You’ve done enough. I mean that. Forcing me into this was the best course of action for all of us, me included. I suppose I knew that when I came to you with this.”

  I nodded and stepped back. Wiltos stood before Dako and Sil.

  “Go on,” I encouraged, a hand on his shoulder in support. “It’ll be fine.”

  Wiltos’ words spilled out. “Ricell has been instructing me on Golem Arts. He’s a three-hundred-year-old statera Mud. I needed his help. He gave it to me for a price. I agreed. You have to understand, I was going to die. I knew it. You knew it. I was too weak. No Master was going to help me. I’m not part of House Grono. I’m not allowed to be.” Wiltos jolted in shock, and suddenly, he paused his confession.

  “That’s it?” Sil asked.

  “He swore me to secrecy,” Wiltos admitted. “He asked that I keep his help and any inferences I might derive from it a secret.” He looked down, ashamed. “I did. Until now.”

  Sil shrugged. “I could care less. The man is nothing to me. Less than nothing. It’ll be like telling me you’d emptied your bowels this morning. While I’m happy you won’t die of constipation, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be kept abreast of your visits to the lavatory.”

  The subject was never again broached.

  I had won all of my bouts handily. Leaves had begun to believe my win over Vignil was not a fluke or trick, and none of them had dared to face me to test the extent of my strength. I knew that would not last, same as I knew that the more powerful of them had no such concerns. Nevertheless, I believed each day counted towards why they ought to have been concerned.

  Unwilling to force a match, I had expended effort into leaving all those I challenged as uninjured as victory would allow. Those who came for me, on the other hand, saw no such consideration. One such opponent, a Seculor boy with the misfortune of being too ugly to fix the issue with his Reaper Arts, came at me with vicious intent, hoping to quell my quiet rebellion and, in doing so, earn himself a name. I used my improved Herbalist Art to create a concoction that improved my physical prowess to an extent comparable to that a low-standing Leaf from House Bainan achieved through Reaper Art, though not nearly to the same flexibility of usage. That, in conjunction with my martial skills, made the bout a relaxed affair. It also went some ways to explain my win against Froxil; using my talent in Auger Arts to explain away my physical prowess was less effective since few—if any—risked using Painter matrixes that way. However, more intelligent observers would note that my skill in Alchemy was a recent development. Still, my surge in Alchemical Arts had served me thrice over, improving the combat abilities I was free to show, allowing me the financial means to remain unconcerned by The Academy’s tuition, and, most of all, providing me the utter joy I got from helping Zo and the multitude of unfortunate souls she collected into her care.

  Then, they finally dared—or one incognizant, self-absorbed libertine dared.

  My last offered challenge of the year was against a Root who stood under Linus’ banner, of all people. She’d asked. I’d accepted and proclaimed my challenge, thinking she’d abhorred the prospect of asking her new lord for help.

  Cleo was an attractive girl with short-cropped hair, thick lashes, amber eyes, and the sort of pretty face that was without fault but somehow seemed just shy of beautiful. Linus disagreed, of course. Everyone knew her looks alone had won her his favor. It had also saved her life from mandatory service and the death such a task entailed. As I faced her, I wondered if she still valued her life the same.

  Cleo was a Golem. The stone of the arena tried to swallow my feet. I danced away and kept moving, the frenzy of battle wiping away my surprise—Golem Leaves could barely manipulate the matrix-laden stage itself, so how she, a Root, had managed the feat baffled me, which is to say nothing of the fact that I had expected a token effort on her part.

  I dashed in. Cleo conjured and sent in a conical lance of earth. I swayed out of the way. A sphere of rock half the size of my head followed, causing the air to whistle in protest. I ducked. The rock crumbled against the arena’s barrier. Two more spheres followed. I jumped. Five. I dove forward and contorted around the staggered flight of projectiles she unleashed. I managed, all the while eating away at the space between us. I reached out my arm to close the dwindling distance to nothing.

  Cleo backed a step. A stone spear shot out from where she had stood. I twisted my neck, and not a moment too soon. The tip of the spear sliced a two-inch cut up from the corner of my mouth to notch the end of my nose. I did not slow. A drop of blood trailed in the air behind me as I dashed into range. More blood rolled across my cheek and into my ear, pushed along by the force of my rush. My punch caught her in the ribs. Two cracked. She grunted. My arm was around her neck before she managed to recover from the pain.

  “Do you yield?” I asked, only then contemplating all the power she’d used. A Root of her caliber ought not to have been able to conjure or manipulate as much matter as she had.

  “I do,” Cleo said.

  I let her go and walked off the stage. Linus swaggered in my direction. Cleo hurried to his side and slipped her arm around his. He glanced down at her as if appreciating a fashionable trinket he’d recently acquired.

  “Aki, is it?” he asked.

  “It is,” I said.

  “You’re that upstart commoner they call the heretic?”

  “Some.”

  “And are you? A heretic, I mean.”

  “What can I do for you, Linus?”

  “It is what you’ve not done for me that has prompted this conversation. You see, you have failed to serve my interests. Did you not know Cleo here is one of mine?”

  I looked at him sideways, and something in my gaze must’ve angered him because he shoved Cleo away and took a step closer. If he minded how much shorter he was, he did not show it.

  “So you are a heretic,” he said, sneering.

  “The bout has been called,” I said. “Do you wish to appeal the results?”

  “No, you fool,” he said. “I mean to grant you a chance at redemption. You will lose your next bout. Another of mine needs a win.”

  “It appears as though we are at an impasse.”

  He snorted. “Are you refusing me?”

  “I am.”

  “You really are a heretic.”

  “For refusing to lose?”

  “For disobeying divinity.” And with that, Linus turned to leave. “You shall see what becomes of heretics.”

  As it turned out, I did not need to wait long to see his threat turn into action. I’d barely begun to search for where Wiltos’ final bout was to take place when a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.

  Three men stood before me, Linus among them. All three were Silas Leaves.

  “Really, Linus?” I asked.

  “Really,” he said. “But if you’d rather be spared—”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “I’ll accept a bond.”

  Linus grinned. “Exactly, my boy. Not quite the imbecile I’d thought you to be, are you? I do not mind the credit for taming a prolifically unruly Root such as yourself.”

  “I tell you what, challenge me first.” My pride had spoken. “I’ll not refuse either of us a chance at satisfaction.”

  Linus frowned. “I’m fifteenth on the rankings.”

  “Afraid?” My tone was mocking. “I understand why—we all know how you achieved your ranking.” Alchemy was a profitable venture, especially for someone with the talent for injecting as much Meaning as Linus could. Everyone knew he’d used his sizable wealth to amass weapons and elixirs and other such strengthening tools to reach his position. Everyone also knew his method of success was untenable; sooner or later, any student who escaped the death of expulsion would close the gap because wealth could not purchase true strength. It is why godlings have allowed, even encouraged in some cases, merchant families to amass a great deal of affluence.

  Linus was in my face before the words had wholly left my mouth. “I, Linus kin Silas, challenge you, Aki ua Farian. Do you accept?”

  “I do.”

  While Linus stormed off to arrange a dueling court, I went to check on Wiltos’ last battle. I barely made it in time to catch the final moments. His opponent leaped at him, arms pulled back, hands gripped around a claymore. Wiltos knelt. In the midst of her mighty swing, the Painter went motionless, held aloft by her will and sensus. At her throat was a needle of stone Wiltos had cast up from the arena, too thin to be durable but sharp enough for it not to matter.

  Wiltos pushed off his hands. “Do you yield?”

  The Painter hesitated. A loss to a Root was never an experience a godling from House Lorail took unless death was the only alternative. The thing was, death was a very real alternative. If she moved a hairsbreadth, he’d grow the stone, piercing her throat and, given the angle, penetrating her brain and dealing an injury she might not recover from.

  Wiltos got off his knees and onto his feet. “Do you yield?”

  She did, grudgingly.

  I went in search of Linus and whichever of the arenas he’d decided on without the burden of worry. The long queue of students in front of us gave my friends ample time to find me before my match started.

  “Linus?” Dako squeezed out of the crowd. “Did you have to accept?”

  Sil was close behind. “More like he couldn’t refuse.”

  “I thought I’d come and gone unnoticed,” I said. My easy smile did nothing to ease my friends.

  “We knew you were up to no good when we saw you attempt at stealth.” Sil’s chuckle was nervous.

  Dako tapped my chest with a fist. “Being your friend will still my heart one of these days.”

  I leaned back and raised my hands. “You’re handsome enough, but…”

  Sil snickered. “You’ve kept that well hidden, Dako. How long have you had plans for our friend?”

  Dako snorted. “You think you can tease me, Aki? Tell me again, who the virgin is among us?”

  I took an exaggerated step back. “And I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much. If I was going to let a friend take it from me, it surely wouldn’t be you.”

  Dako wagged his eyebrows. “And we all know who it would be, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” came three other voices all at once. Wiltos, Malorey, and Illora appeared, all of them smirking at me.

  I went beet red, and before I could stammer out whatever nonsensical reply my flustered mind could conjure, an unwelcome intruder broke into our conversation.

  “Are you so confident? So foolish?” Linus was sneering. Cleo was stuck to his side, sycophancy mirroring his expression onto her face.

  “We shall soon see,” I said.

  Half a turn went by before our turn came. Linus downed three plum-colored concoctions from glass vials, threw the empty ampoules on the ground where they shattered, and went ahead of me, bounding onto the stage with far more grace than usual.

  “Try not to kill him,” Dako said.

  “But make it painful.” Sil’s contribution.

  Illora, who appeared without approach, encompassing Malorey in her stealth, offered her own form of encouragement. “He’s Alchemist. You’re an Auger.”

  “He cheats,” Malorey added, “never understanding, only commanding with his inborn talent for Meaning. He’s a disgrace to the Art of Alchemy.”

  I downed my own Alchemical mixtures and stepped onto the stage. My heart was pounding. Prideful or not, confident or not, I was about to face a man empowered by the best Herbalist concoctions, Alchemy-extracted souls, and Golem crafter armor and weapons money could buy. I had a plan, of course, but like all plans, there was a chance of failure.

  Linus took out a pair of wicked daggers, black with lines of purple running through them like veins pumping violet blood. They throbbed ominously, alive and hungry. I took my own stance, trying my best not to let my nervousness show.

  The calm came to me the moment the Root official called a start to the match.

  Linus came at me fast and nimble, with daggers held to the side, eyes narrowed, and a mix of glee and cruelty curving his grin. I waited for him to close. Calm. Ready. Confident. And just as his dagger-tipped arm began to swing towards me, I took it from him: his strength, his speed, his durability, all the gifts he’d extracted and digested with his Alchemical Arts. The sudden loss staggered him, and in that brief instant of surprise, my hand shot forward, delivering my fingers around his throat, stunting his momentum and closing the flow of air to his lungs. He hung there, wide-eyed and fearful, the sudden turn of events loosening the grip he had around his daggers. They fell to the floor, freeing his hands so he might resist my hold. He stared at me. I stared back.

  And then I crushed his throat. Linus’ eyes bulged. He fell. Broken snores pushed trails of spit from his slack mouth.

  Roots rushed towards him, healing tinctures in hand. What greeted me was a silent crowd, Leaves among them, some faces I knew but whose names I didn’t, and yet more who were entirely unknown to me. They watched me assesingly. I watched them back, defiant and unwilling to bend under their scrutiny. I left under a symphony of whispers, the word ‘heretic’ slipping from their lips.

  Yes, they had finally dared.

  So had I.

  Days later, on the last of winter, Master Ekolise held the final assembly in the refectory. The call had gone out that all students returned to the dorms they were first assigned, including those who had moved to the private district.

  The place was distinctly empty. Our numbers had been whittled away by countless deaths. Most were Roots. A few godlings, too—near the end, when all the Roots had been divvied, and the godlings had time to quarrel amongst themselves in earnest—but none who were going to be missed. Even those who might’ve been mourned had lost the privilege when they proved themselves unable to survive.

  We’d made it. All of us. Sil, Dako, Wiltos, Malorey, and I sat together near the back. The breakfast we ate was made delicious by our company and our recent success. We’d made it, and so we laughed, drank, sang, and let our merry mood wash away the dangers of tomorrow.

  Master Ekolise entered and took the front, the same as he did that first morning I spent in The Academy. “Greeting. All who sit here are the best Evergreen can offer this cycle. Some of you will continue on this path, ascending into persons whose names will be recorded in legend. But as is my responsibility, my message is not purely congratulatory. Be vigilant. Be steadfast. For every one of you who will grow to be revered, more will fall from grace, more still will succumb to mediocrity, and yet more will fall so far and hard that their very lives will slip into the oblivion of death.

  “I will see those of you brave enough to chance another year come spring. That is all.”

  And so it was that my second cycle at The Academy ended.