The water beneath the gondola ripples softly as we glide forward, the air heavy with the croaks of unseen frogs. The Exarch at the prow, his silver mask gleaming in the faint light, guides the vessel with a practiced hand. His white vestments contrast starkly against the murky waters and the dense shadows of the waterway.
I sit alone on the gondola. Across the waters, I can glimpse other gondolas, each also piloted by an Exarch, ferrying children towards the Mere. Along the shore, the matrons stand in a somber line, Chatelaines and High-Chatelaines at the front, their faces shrouded with pride and sorrow. Mother is among them, her dark hair flowing down her back like a river of night.
In a nearby gondola, I spot Castor and Penelope Urisius, their platinum-blond hair unmistakable even in the dim light. Castor stands tall and confident, his gaze forward, while Penelope's sharp, watchful eyes briefly meet mine before she looks away, her expression unreadable. Their presence sends a shiver down my spine. This journey will be a trial not just of skill, but of character and resolve.
Binah is with me, her presence barely a sensation at the edge of my mind. She sits still, her violet eyes watching me intently, her form drifting in and out of solidity against the backdrop of the predawn sky. It is unsettling, and yet I feel her presence distinctly—like a shadow that will not leave.
The Mere is our destination.
The tales of this place are legendary, whispered among the children of House Azure with a mixture of awe and terror. As the gondola pushes forward, the water around us thickens with reeds, their tops crowned with clinging fog.
The Exarch's silence is unnerving, but it also leaves room for my thoughts, which are not a solace. My mother's whispers, the murmurs of the other matrons, faintly reach across the waterway, mingling with the muted croaks and the splash of frog legs.
I glance back once, as our gondola passes beneath a stone archway, its surface engraved with ancient glyphs that seem to shimmer in the half-light. The matrons stand like stoic sentinels, their eyes following us until we are swallowed by the shadows and the dense foliage.
The air grows colder as we move deeper, the water's surface now dotted with luminescent lilies, their glow casting eerie reflections across the gondola. Ahead, a massive structure looms into view—the entrance to the Mere. The stone edifice rises high, intricate carvings snaking up its sides, the mouth of the academy a dark, gaping maw that promises both knowledge and peril.
I feel the weight of my destiny heavily, the significance of this moment pressing against my chest like a physical force. Binah's eyes shift to the imposing structure as well, and for a moment, it feels as if she might speak—or perhaps it is just my overactive imagination hoping for some form of guidance.
But the silence stretches on, filled only with the rhythmic splashing of the gondola's progress and the distant, indistinct murmur of the other children. The Exarch rows steadily, his masked visage unreadable, leading us inevitably toward whatever trials and teachings await within the stone corridors of the Mere.
In the murky light, I can make out the silhouettes of elaborate spires and towers, the school sprawling like a slumbering beast across the rocky terrain. Windows glint here and there, flickers of light promising the stirrings of life within the academy's depths. This place, storied and feared, will be my proving ground. Here, I will either rise or fall.
The gondola angles sharply as we near a broad set of stairs descending into the water. The Exarch slows our approach, guiding us in as Binah and I prepare to disembark. The Mere stands before us. My heart hammers in my chest, my pulse quickening with a mix of fear and anticipation.
I step onto the stone platform, the splash of water echoing in the stillness. Behind me, Binah follows soundlessly, her presence a constant, though inscrutable, companion. The Exarch nods curtly and turns the gondola around, ready to fetch more of the arriving students.
Castor and Penelope disembark from their gondola not far from us. Castor's assertive stance contrasts with Penelope's quietly strategic demeanor as they step onto the platform. Castor's sardonic smile finds me, a silent challenge that stirs my competitive spirit, while Penelope's assessing gaze is as beguiling as ever.
Penelope's arms tighten briefly around me, her breath a warm summer breeze against my ear. "I am glad you survived," she says, her voice catching, before retreating as though burned.
"What?" Confused, I blink at her fleeing back.
Shaking my head, I gather my resolve. Before me, the great doors to the Mere swing open, casting a golden light across the murky waterway.
I step forward into that light, into the unknown, with Binah—a silent shadow—by my side.
As I cross the threshold, the sheer scale of the Mere unveils itself. The interior is a cavernous atrium, the ceiling arched like the ribcage of some ancient leviathan. Columns of polished onyx stretch upward, adorned with shifting glyphs that pulse faintly with power. The air is tinged with a metallic scent, the hint of arcane forces at work.
Other students begin to gather, stepping from their gondolas and taking in the same awe-inspiring sight. Their faces mirror my own mix of wonder and apprehension. Some cluster in groups, others stand alone, trying to grapple with the overwhelming realization of where they now stand.
Binah remains close, her presence both comforting and unnerving. The paleness of her form contrasts starkly with the murky grandeur surrounding us. She says nothing, as usual, but her eyes roam the space with the same haunting curiosity.
An Exarch, distinguishable by his intricate silver mask and glinting torq, stands at the center of the atrium. His voice, though soft, carries effortlessly across the space. "Welcome, initiates, to the Mere. You stand at the threshold of greatness, at the entrance to your destiny."
He gestures grandly to the soaring space around us. "Here, you will be tested, shaped, and refined. The path will be arduous, the trials severe. But should you persevere, you will emerge as the elite of Malkiel."
The words hang heavily in the air, weighty with promise and threat. The Exarch's eyes, though hidden, seem to pierce through each of us, gauging our resolve.
"Proceed now through the Path of Reflection," he instructs, pointing to a wide corridor lined with mirrored walls. "Here, you will confront yourselves before you confront your true lessons."
The initiates begin to move, some with tentative steps, others with false bravado. I fall in line, my heart pounding against my ribcage. The mirrors reflect not just our physical forms but distort them—elongating, shrinking, twisting. They seem to mock our mortal vulnerabilities, throwing our uncertainties into sharp relief.
As I walk, I catch glimpses of my reflection shifting into versions of myself that never were—older, younger, wounded, victorious. In one mirror, I see the creature from my earlier vision, the hollow future self on the dark throne, staring back with lifeless eyes. I force my gaze ahead, refusing to be ensnared by the phantoms of possibility.
Ahead, the corridor opens into the Oculus Atrium, a circular courtyard with a transparent dome above. Through it, the night sky is visible, constellations etched starkly against the dark expanse. In their distant patterns, I find a flicker of hope, a reminder of the endless possibilities that lie beyond these walls. It is a symbol, they say, of enlightenment and the enduring pursuit of knowledge.
Statues of legendary figures line the atrium, their stone gazes watching us pass. The stories of their trials and triumphs come to life in my mind—the tales of those who walked these very halls and left indelible marks on Malkiel's history.
Binah shifts beside me, her gaze lingering on the statues. Her presence feels heavier here, as though the weight of history presses against her as well. Her silence is a constant companion, her eyes echoing the voiceless advice I can almost but never quite grasp.
The initiates gather at the center of the atrium, forming a cautious circle. The Exarch from earlier steps forward again, his presence commanding. "You have traversed the Path of Reflection," he announces. "Now, you stand at the heart of the Mere. Here, you will declare your intent and embrace the path you have chosen."
He turns slowly, extending a hand to each initiate in turn. "What say you? Will you commit to the trials ahead? Will you embrace the legacy you have been given?"
A murmur spreads through the group, growing stronger as one by one, the initiates step forward, voicing their commitments. I wait, feeling the weight of the knullknife against my side, the hum of the torq upon my skin.
When my turn comes, I step forward with a resolve I summon from deep within. "I commit," I say, my voice firm. "I will embrace my legacy and the path ahead."
The Exarch nods solemnly, his gaze inscrutable behind his mask. "Welcome, initiates. Welcome to the Mere."
The ceremony complete, we are guided through an open doorway.
I make my way down the dimly lit corridor, feeling the cold stone beneath my feet. A sudden, familiar presence halts me in my tracks—
Talon stands before me.
His eyes lock onto mine, wide and unblinking, his breath shallow and ragged. He takes a step back, then another, his movements jerky, like a puppet with tangled strings. My pulse quickens. A cold knot forms in my stomach.
Why? Why does he gaze at me so?
I have not seen him since the attack at the Festival of Retrospection. Wait.
That cannot be true.
A sharp ache flares at the base of my skull, hot and insistent, as though something buried deep inside me is trying to claw its way free. My hand rises instinctively, rubbing the back of my neck, but the pressure only makes it worse.
Images flicker through my mind, fragmented and unwanted, like jagged shards of broken glass.
Cold water. Enna's threads binding muscles like twine. The sting of ice blades slicing into my skin, precise and merciless. Blood spiraling in the dark, blooming like crimson flowers. Talon's face, twisted with malice then, now contorted with fear.
My vision blurs, reality mingling with the flashbacks of that brutal attack. Talon does not move, his eyes wide and filled with horror. Urine pools at his feet, the acrid smell breaking through the haze of my memories. His terror is palpable, a mirror of the panic I now remember I once felt—but his fear feels heavier, as though it knows something I do not.