Ashes of the Elite

As I near the end of the long train platform, my boots clacking against the frost-slick stone, I still can't wrap my head around how many people are out and about. It's early, the air still biting with morning cold, yet the station is teeming with porters yelling over one another, children crying, travelers moving with determined expressions, and soldiers milling about. It's overwhelming in a way, like the entire city decided to squeeze into one place.

But as I approach the Crown building, Awakened Kennet pointed out, something catches my eye. Just ahead, maybe a dozen paces in front of me, a group of Elites is easy to spot due to the amount of space they take up and their black unhooded robes. They strut toward the same entrance I'm headed to with the swagger of parade horses. There are eight or nine of them, but it's not them that really pulls my attention. It's the porters. At least a dozen men in rough uniforms strain at overburdened handcarts, creaking with luggage piled so high I'm surprised nothing's toppled off.

I actually stop for a moment, dumbfounded, then let out a laugh I don't bother hiding.

What the hell do they think they're doing?

I've been through enough briefings to know the academy strips you bare the second you arrive. Weapons, clothes, family keepsakes, jewelry, books—literally, if it's not glued to your skin, the elites who run the place will strip it away before you make it ten steps into their building. These fools must be a special type of stupid, parading with mountains of trunks and bags like they're going on some vacation. I almost wish I'd brought a snack; whatever happens next is bound to be a show. Part of me almost hopes one of them tries to make a fuss when the guards start tossing their precious luggage onto the snow. Anything to brighten up what promises to be a long, ridiculous morning at the gates of hell.

As we close in on the Crown building, the two guards posted at the entrance stiffen. Their Corinthian helms glint dully in the morning light, their postures suddenly rigid as the tide of young elites and exhausted porters approaches. I can't help but bare my teeth in a grin. I hang back, not close enough to draw attention, but just near enough for my hearing to pick up the conversation.

The porters, sweating and glassy-eyed, gratefully drop their overloaded handcarts with a collective exhale. A dozen bodies sprawl across the cobblestones like overworked draft horses, and I don't blame them. They look like they've dragged half a noble estate across the station.

One of the Elites steps forward. She's a blonde girl with otherwise plain features except for the inhuman yellow eyes. She's for sure sixteen, considering she's clearly a first-year. She lifts her chin and declares, like she's addressing peasants at a party, "We're here for the Academy. Step aside. We have urgent business." That haughty, bred-to-rule tone clings to her voice.

The guards don't move. One of them, his voice flat with practiced patience, responds, "You are permitted to bring only what you wear and carry on your person, Awakened. The rest may not enter Crown property. Your porters and their loads will remain here."

I watch the porters blanch like they've just been told they hauled all that weight for nothing. Some of them actually groan aloud, and I can't help it; I laugh. We haven't made it inside the first building, and shit's already becoming a comedy.

The elites mutter among themselves, growing more agitated. The girl who took charge flushes red, taken aback, then she regains her composure with a sneer. "Do you know who we are?" she asks, incredulous.