Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 60: Proctors
Chapter 60 - Proctors
I stare down at Alaster's body, blood already pooling around the ragged hole I left in his chest. For a moment a split second there's a tug of regret, something hollow and cold in my gut. I did exactly what the Academy wanted. I played my part in their little theater of violence. For a heartbeat, it feels like I've handed them a piece of myself.
But I crush the feeling with a sneer. Weakness is death here. I have to be strong if I want to survive, if I want to protect myself from everything and everyone this place will throw at me. Regret is a luxury for people who don't end up bleeding out on cold stone. If I don't take the kill, someone else will take my life. If I hesitate, I die. I've done what I needed to. I protected myself. That's all that matters. Strength over mercy. Always.
At the edge of the platform, the station guards have found their spines again. They're moving with purpose now, barring off the end of the platform, redirecting what few civilians remain. The first year elites haven't come any closer. They're huddled back near the wide station doors, some whispering, some crying. A few stare at me with a wild, desperate respect most look at me with wide, wary eyes. Fear, awe, disgust it's all the same to me. Let them feel whatever they want.
The voices inside my head are cackling, shrieking praises like gleeful crows. Good job, boy. Glorious. Beautiful. He screamed so well. Let's do another. I grit my teeth and force them back down.
And then the professors approach, the group in white robes gliding across the stone like wraiths. At their head is the scarred, pink-eyed woman, her gaze fixed on me with something like amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. She looks at me not with horror or condemnation, but with the hungry pride of a breeder eyeing a promising beast. I hold her gaze, jaw set, refusing to look away whatever she sees in me, I make sure she knows I'm not afraid to show it.
As they near, a tall older man with dark green eyes and a mane of brown curls steps out in front. He lifts his hand, and with an easy, almost lazy gesture, the shattered stone beneath Alaster's body begins to shift. The cracks, gouges, and debris from our battle smooth away as if time itself is being rewound, the ground returning to flawless, unbroken stone. Not a trace remains of the destruction we wrought.
Then, with another flick of his fingers, the stone rises up and shapes itself into a coffin cold, perfect, and final. A medium-statured woman with mindaro-colored eyes and a waterfall of long purple hair steps forward, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She points at Alaster's corpse, and it lifts as if by invisible hands, dropping unceremoniously into the coffin. The lid slides into place with a heavy, echoing thud, locking the boy away from both sight and memory. All of it happens in the span of a few seconds, not a single word spoken, no dramatic flares of power just absolute, effortless control.
They stop in front of me, their presence suffocating in its certainty. The pink-eyed woman stands at the front, her short silver hair catching the faint light, her mouth curling into a smile. She studies me for a moment, and I feel the weight of her judgment.
"Greetings, Awakened," she says, her harsh and commanding. "I see you didn't waste any time setting the tone for the incoming first years. Your name?"
I bow my head just enough respectful, not submissive. "Ayato Daath Proctor," I say, my voice steady even as my pulse thunders in my ears. Every instinct I have screams that this woman is dangerous, that the only smart move is to get on her good side.
"Ayato Daath," she repeats, tasting the name like she's trying to find something rotten in it. Her brow furrows. "I don't recognize that family name, Awakened. Are you a noble?"
My jaw clenches, and I keep my head bowed but every muscle in my neck is tight with irritation. Of course that's the first question. "No, Proctor," I say, forcing my voice steady. "I'm not a noble. I come from the slums of Lont. A western coastal city of Avrael."
Her eyes narrow. "A peasant, eh?" she muses, lips curling in a way that isn't quite a smile. "How impressive, to wield a blade with such skill."
Before I can respond, the green-eyed man beside her speaks. His tone is flat, bored. "Awakened Daath, good job on the duel. We saw the entire thing. We'll make sure the result is noted."
I nod stiffly. "Thank you, Proctor," I say, though I'm not sure what being "noted" really means. A warning? A merit?
The pink-eyed woman gives me one last, lingering look, then turns away. Her voice rings out, crisp and commanding, carrying across the platform with unnatural force. "Attention, first years of the Academy! Please get into formation. My name is Evanora Hilta. I will be one of your Proctors."
There's a beat of silence, a ripple of uncertainty, and then shuffling feet. Hesitant movements. The group of around eighty first-years begins to arrange themselves, some clearly used to discipline, others looking lost. I remain standing beside Evanora and the other professors, unsure of where I'm meant to be so I stand tall, keep my expression cold, and watch.
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None of the professors spare me so much as a glance as I stand at the front, alone and exposed. I'm suddenly aware of how cold the air feels on my skin, how the blood on my hands is already drying. Evanora steps forward, her presence commanding, eyes sweeping across the crowd of assembled first years.
"Welcome to Lusa," she announces, voice ringing out over the platform. There's a weight to her words, heavy with history and expectation. " "Welcome to the heart of our glorious Empire and the staging ground for your future. Today, you take your first step toward greatness."
"And already," she continues glancing at me with a wolfish grin, "a first-year has distinguished himself in combat. Ayato Daath has emerged victorious in the first sanctioned duel between Awakened of your class. As such, he has earned the honor and glory that tradition demands."
Before I can react, she turns back to the crowd. "Salute your victor"
Eighty pairs of eyes swing toward me—some with respect, many with fear, a few burning with pure hate. The crowd, stiff and uncertain, raises their right fists to their chests and intones as one, "Vive Sicut serpens." Live like a serpent. The words crawl down my spine, cold and heavy. In that instant, I understand what Evanora's done she's painted a target on my back, marked me out from everyone else before I've even set foot in the Academy.
"All of you," Evanora says now, gesturing toward the looming building behind us, "make your way inside. Orderly, neatly. Trains will be arriving all morning with the rest of your year. Once inside, you'll be interviewed and given small assessments to sort you into your Houses. After that's complete, we will depart to the Academy."
She pauses, then speaks again.
"Do you all understand?"
A chorus of voices echoes back, crisp and immediate.
"Yes, Proctor!"
I stay silent, lips pressed in a firm line, still trying to smother the quiet panic that crawls beneath my skin. I've survived worse. I will survive this. But right now, I know I've just been thrown into the center of a pit, and every snake inside has its eyes on me.
