"Ew, he peed himself!"
The words cut through the silence like lightning across a rain filled horizon. Talon freezes in place, his face pale and slack. For a moment, there is nothing—just the sound of heavy and uneven breathing.
Then it begins.
Laughter rising, sharp and cruel, swelling into a tidal wave of mockery.
The sound deafens.
Talon's face crumples—tears streak down his cheeks. With a choked sob, he turns and flees back where we came from, the thud of his retreating footsteps fading into the distance.
I watch him go, an uneasy knot tightening in my chest.
My hands curl into fists.
The dining hall yawns wide and empty before me, its silence thick and oppressive. The faint echoes of Talon's retreating sobs still cling to the air, mingling with the memory of his terror. My chest tightens as I step inside, the press of the other Initiates easing as they spread out across the narrow table at our level.
I lower myself into the seat nearest to the edge of the table, away from the others. The space feels immense and wrong, the emptiness stretching upward like a gaping maw. The tiers above us remain vacant, their polished stone surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. They seem to watch me, expectant and waiting.
The table fills slowly with Initiates, but no one dares sit near me. They gather in uneasy clusters farther down the bench, whispering to one another in low, hurried tones. Their glances flick toward me, quick and uncertain, as though they are afraid I might hear them—or that I might look back.
I close my eyes briefly, drawing a deep breath. I need to lock away the whispers, the fear, the isolation. I direct these unwanted emotions into my Inner Hell, the mental vault where my darkest thoughts are banished. Slowly, I feel a semblance of calm return.
When I open my eyes, Binah is there.
She sits across from me, her violet eyes locked on mine, her form more solid than ever before. I did not see her arrive, nor did I hear the scrape of a chair. She simply exists, her presence filling the space with a weight that chills the air around me.
Her translucent form flickers faintly, but this time the edges are sharper, as though she's becoming more real. My heart skips a beat at the realization—has she fed upon what I've cast into my Inner Hell?
The other Initiates do not seem to notice her. To them, I am still alone.
I look down. My plate is empty.
Around us, the eunuchs move silently through the hall, their measured grace both mesmerizing and unsettling. Their faces are smooth, emotionless, their movements deliberate as they place dishes in front of the other Initiates.
It is their mouths that catch my attention.
When one bends close to set a plate farther down the table, I glimpse the dark hollow where a tongue should be. My stomach twists, and I glance away quickly, my gaze flicking to Binah instead. Her eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking.
The plate before me remains empty, but the faint pang of hunger stirs in my chest. I force myself to focus on the polished surface of the table, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze and the whispers of the Initiates farther down.
The scrape of a chair shatters the uneasy silence. A wiry boy settles into the seat beside me, his sandy hair falling into his face as he glances around nervously. He does not seem to notice Binah, even as she shifts slightly, her form flickering at the edges.
"Hey," he says, his voice pitched low. "Mind if I sit here?"
I tense, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table, but I do not respond. He settles in fully, his movements hesitant, his gaze darting between me and the Initiates farther down the bench.
"My name is Lias," he says, quieter now, his tone conspiratorial. ""I heard about the First Baptism. What really happened? Some people are saying—"
Binah's eyes narrow, her pale fingers brushing the table's surface. Her presence darkens, like a storm cloud gathering overhead.
The boy leans closer, undeterred. "Did they really drown? Or did you—"
"You want to know?" I ask, allowing my rage to spill into my Inner Hell like colored marbles into a dark well. "Truly?"
"Truly," Lias replies, nodding his head.
I lean foreword, the embodiment of calm, and whisper, "I. Ate. Them!"
Before I can react, Binah moves.
Her arm lashes out, her hand unnaturally pale as it clamps onto the boy's wrist. Her grip is unyielding, her movements swift and precise. She slams her forehead into the boy's face with a wet crunch.
Blood blossoms, bright and true.
Lias lets out a strangled cry. His chair screeches against the polished floor as he jerks his arm free, but he does not get far. His body crumples onto the ground, his back hitting the stone with a sharp slap. Blood trickles from his broken nose, staining the pristine tiles beneath him.
The eunuchs are there before I can move, their hands gripping my arms like iron as they hold me still. Two more descend on Lias, their movements silent and efficient, dragging him away from the table. His protests are weak, muffled by his gasps for air.
But I only have eyes for Binah.
She stands motionless now, her white forehead smeared with crimson, her violet eyes watching me with an intensity that burns. The flickering edges of her form seem to stabilize in the wake of her attack, her presence solid and unyielding. There is a wildness about her that reminds me of summer thunderstorms—beautiful, untamed, and brimming with the promise of destruction.
I realize, with a sinking dread, that this is who Binah truly is. Not a shadow, not a ghost, but something far more dangerous.
An eunuch forces a steaming mug of tea into my grasp. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. My fingers tremble slightly.
I take a sip, the liquid scalding my tongue and throat as it goes down. The sudden silence presses in around me, thick and suffocating. I try to focus on the warmth spreading through my chest, on the strange bitterness on my tongue, willing it to drown out the weight of their stares.
But I cannot ignore it.
Eyes are on me from every direction, gazes burning holes into my skin. I feel exposed. Raw and vulnerable. Penelope's sharp eyes assess me from where she sits with her brother—Castor's jaw is set in a hard line.
I force myself to meet their gazes.
I refuse to flinch under their scrutiny.
The tea sloshes slightly as I bring it back to my lips for another drink, the heat a welcome distraction from the cold knot of unease tightening in my gut.
The silence is short-lived. The heavy creak of doors above us breaks the stillness, and I glance up as the Novices enter. They take their places on the second tier, their gazes flicking down at us with faint amusement.
The third-tier doors open next. The Virtuants file in, louder and more confident than the Novices. Their laughter echoes through the hall as they settle into the middle tier, their presence radiating authority.
Finally, the Adepti arrive. They move with a precision that commands attention, their bronze and silver torqs glinting faintly as they ascend to the highest tier. Their silence is more powerful than any sound, a tangible force that settles over the room.
The tiers are full now, the dining hall alive with sound and motion. Yet I feel more alone than ever.
My gaze lifts to the highest level, searching for something solid to anchor me against the weight of the room. That is when I see her.
Cyra.
She stands near the edge of the Adepti's table, her bronze torq gleaming against the pale blue of her robes. Her presence feels heavier than the others', her stillness commanding more attention than their quiet precision. Her eyes find mine almost instantly, as though she has been waiting for me to look up.
Her expression is unreadable at first. Then the sadness creeps in, softening her features. Her lips part slightly, as though she wants to speak, but the words never come. I stare back, my chest tightening with confusion and something colder—dread.
Why does she look at me like that? Like she knows something I do not. Like she is mourning.
I force myself to look away, but the weight of her gaze lingers, pressing into me like a stone in my chest. Across from me, Binah flickers faintly, her violet eyes trailing upward to Cyra. She does not move or react, but the shadows around her deepen, curling like smoke.
I try to steady myself, wrapping my hands around the steaming mug in front of me. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. Around me, the hall buzzes with sound, the layered hum of voices from every tier growing louder, more alive.
But something feels off.
The first sign is subtle—a clatter of cutlery from the far end of the Initiates' table. I glance up in time to see one of my classmates slump forward, his face pressing against his half-eaten meal.
A nervous chuckle escapes from another boy nearby. "Did he pass out? From nerves?" The laughter wavers, uneasy.
Then another student falls silent. A girl this time, her head lolling back before she crumples onto the bench.
My grip tightens on the mug. My pulse thunders in my ears as more Initiates begin to slump over, their movements sluggish, their voices fading to silence.
"What is happening?" I whisper under my breath, the question stolen by the swelling dread that coils in my stomach. I glance toward Binah, who remains eerily still, her violet eyes trained on me with unrelenting intensity.
I bring the mug back to my lips, the scalding liquid the only anchor I have in the growing chaos.
The mug is ripped from my hands before I can drink.
The motion is sudden, violent, the sound of the mug striking the stone floor reverberating through the hall. The tea splashes, dark and steaming, across the polished surface, pooling near my feet.
Binah stands now, her form solid and sharp, a faint tremor in the air around her. Her gaze shifts between me and the spilled liquid, her expression unreadable but charged with purpose. I realize with a jolt that her intervention was no accident. She saved me.
Or stopped me.
I stare at her, my breath caught in my throat. Around us, the silence deepens as more students fall still, their bodies slumped against the table or sprawled across the benches.
I glance back toward the upper tiers, my chest tightening further. The Novices and Virtuants remain seated, their laughter subdued now, their expressions wary. The Adepti sit in perfect stillness, their torqs gleaming faintly in the flickering torchlight.
And Cyra.
Her presence looms above it all, her sad eyes locked onto mine. Her head tilts slightly, the faintest tremble in her shoulders betraying an emotion she will not allow to surface. She looks at me as though I am already lost.
"Cyra," I whisper, but the word feels weightless, stolen by the oppressive air of the hall.
Binah shifts beside me, her attention still fixed on Cyra. Her flickering form seems smaller beneath my sister's unyielding gaze, her shadows curling tighter around her as though retreating into themselves. I want to shout, to demand answers, but my body feels heavy now, my limbs leaden. My vision blurs at the edges, the hall swimming around me.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is Cyra. She does not move, her sad eyes fixed on me, unblinking. Her expression does not waver, but her shoulders rise and fall with a faint, tremulous breath.
Then, nothing.