Page 92 of The King's Man 1

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you’re set on this path... I want to help.”

I blink, unsure I’ve heard him right.

He clears his throat. “The way you pace yourself matters. Ten simplex spells can save more lives than one complex spell. Use your energy wisely.”

As he tells me things, the weight of what goes unspoken settles between us. I feel his mixture of sadness and resolve, and I hold Quin’s gift close as tenderness washes through me. Before Father leaves, I say quietly, “Could you show me Grandfather’s spells? The one he died for?”

He nods.

* * *

Akilah’s hug lingers, her warmth holding me steady as she steps back from the scholar prefecture’s towering gates. “You’ll do well,” she whispers, though her eyes flicker with worry.

Ahead, a snowy lawn stretches out, dissected by cleared walks and a canal winding its way beneath an ornate archway. It’s a smaller branch of the main waterway leading to the palace, though no less grand. Scholars bustle across the quad, some rowing through ice-kissed water with practised ease, others arriving in animated clusters, their breath puffing in laughter. The crunch of boots on snow, the sound of their familiarity. This is their world. Their domain.

A winter breeze tugs at my cloak. I pull up my hood.

Day one.

If I fail, there’s no second chance. No safety net.

I glance at the crowd gathering on the steps of the examination hall. Clutching my soldad—the gift of a chance to chase my dreams—I force myself to stride forward, though my stomach twists with nerves.

A voice, too close, drifts past.

“My brother has a par-linea friend. Apparently, they’re all lined up outside, hoping this half-blood interloper passes. Maybe one day they’ll get a chance.”

I’m not half-blooded. Not even a quarter. Just a mere one-eighth. Par-par-par-linea.

I wonder what they’d say if they knew.

Florentius stands at the top of the steps, his phoenix-red robe immaculate, as though winter dared not touch him. His presence is always eye-catchingly precise, his movements practised to perfection. He never mingles, rarely speaks, but when his gaze finds mine, his lips curl ever so slightly—a silent, grimacing acknowledgment. Then, with a flick of his chin, he gestures to the doors as they creak open.

Inside, the hall gleams. Polished wood floors, tall windows. Portraits of revered men gaze down from high walls. Tables and chairs are arranged in precise rows, a stark contrast to the chaotic snow outside. From a raised platform, five judges observe the entrants, their matching cloaks marking their authority. Redcloaks move among us, directing scholars to their desks.

Feet shuffle. Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the hall, the occasional chair squeaking as people settle in. For others, this might be routine. For me, this is stepping onto a battlefield.

From the judges’ table, Skriniaris Evander’s warm smile offers brief reassurance. But it’s fleeting, smothered by the impassive stares of the others. Behind them, on tiered seating, sit the scrutinising tutors. Chiron is among them, his sharp gaze unyielding, right in my line of sight. Whoever ranks first on day three will earn the chance to work under him in the palace.

I grip the wooden stylus pre-set on my desk as if it’s a lifeline. Its smooth surface feels foreign in my hand.

A snicker from my left cuts through my focus.

“He has no chance,” someone mutters, just loud enough to sting.

I don’t look up. They’re not wrong. Their years of specialised tutoring stand against me.

The centremost judge rises, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as the room falls silent. His voice, crisp and unyielding, fills the space.

“Each desk is assigned a unique signature. Channel magic through the pen provided and write directly onto the surface. Your handwriting will be standardised, and your answers will come to us for assessment. This ensures anonymity and avoids bias.”

His words echo like a challenge.

The judge sits, and the weight of the hall descends.

Around me, scholars lift their pens, magical sparks instantly glowing from the tips.

My pen is unresponsive in my fist, not a single spark no matter how hard I squeeze.

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