Page 93 of The King's Man 1

I have to tap into my shaky mystical root for this. Not an issue for pure linea.

Another snicker to my side.How can someone with such weak grounding become a mage, hold a position of trust?

My hands tremble around the stylus, my hitched breaths threatening to give my panic away. Then they’ll have their proof how out of place I am here. This simple task—use a pen. No one but me has to wrench magic out of the wood.

I close my eyes, hearing Quin’s voice:Control and discipline are crucial. Don’t blow us up.

I steady my breathing and sense the faint tick of energy in the wood. Saved by Quin. Again.

From the line of judges up front, Skriniaris Evander stands. “The examination begins now. Patient one...”

Heads bow as we scribble down our diagnoses, and the air grows tense as we wait for the judges’ assessments. Skriniaris Evander rises again. “If the signature on your table glows, you have been eliminated.” The hall collectively holds its breath.

My stylus feels heavy in my grip. Is my answer enough? Is the spell the best choice?

A flicker of light catches my eye. I hold my breath, heart thumping as an uproar erupts from a man three rows ahead. “My answer was correct!”

Skriniaris Evander inclines his head. “It wasn’t incorrect, but your choice of cure used such rare herbs that only the royal family could benefit.”

Footsteps clap soundly over the hall; the scholar rises stiffly, face pinched tight. “This is outrageous—”

The judges don’t flinch, and neither do the redcloaks. They grab him by the arms and escort him out. The scholar’s shouts fade into the background as murmurs ripple among the scholars.

Murmurs that they’d expected it to be the par-linea. That’d he’d be next, surely.

I defy their expectations, but the cases are growing more difficult with each round.

I steady my breathing, focusing on the flow of magic through my pen. Sweat beads on my temples, and the scholar beside me glances over, mistaking it for a sign of trouble. He snickers loudly.

Florentius, seated at the front of the hall, shoots a sharp look back. “Quiet.”

Patient twenty-eight. A stonemason with chronic, debilitating headaches, nausea and tingling in his arm. The pain is worst in the mornings but eases when lying down. No spells taken. No family history of illness.

I study the details carefully. It could be a rare brain growth or a muscle injury affecting nerves. His heavy lifting and lack of recovery time might have worsened an old injury. The tingling arm suggests a secondary issue, possibly a nutrient deficiency. One spell...

Father’s voice echoes in my mind:Look at the bigger picture. What must be sacrificed for the best overall outcome?

I scrawl my answer and prescription, bracing for the judges’ decision.

A glow appears on the desk of the scholar in front of me. He jerks his chair back, slamming it into my desk.

“Why?”

“We assess how you view the patient holistically. Your spell addressed the main symptom well but ignored other aspects.”

His indignation echoes as he’s escorted out.

Twenty-nine.

It’s an intriguing case study. Two patients, two sets of symptoms. One is lying. Identify which one, provide a diagnosis, and recommend a spell.

I quickly discern which patient is truthful. The genuine symptoms indicate exhaustion, with sleep as the remedy. The faker shows signs of anxiety, needing a spell to balance hormones.

My pen sputters weakly in my grip, the faintest glimmer of gold dribbling out as I wrestle with my limited magic. Around me, pens glide effortlessly—bright and fluid streams of power. My heart hammers, and I force myself to focus, to steady my trembling. Again, from deep in my mind comes Quin’s voice, sharp and coaxing.Keep going.

My hands grow numb as I force out every last dredge of magic. One faltering stroke and my hopes will be lost.

I submit my answer.

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