Chapter 60: Proctors
I stare down at Alaster's body, blood already pooling around the ragged hole I left in his chest. For a moment a split second there's a tug of regret, something hollow and cold in my gut. I did exactly what the Academy wanted. I played my part in their little theater of violence. For a heartbeat, it feels like I've handed them a piece of myself.
But I crush the feeling with a sneer. Weakness is death here. I have to be strong if I want to survive, if I want to protect myself from everything and everyone this place will throw at me. Regret is a luxury for people who don't end up bleeding out on cold stone. If I don't take the kill, someone else will take my life. If I hesitate, I die. I've done what I needed to. I protected myself. That's all that matters. Strength over mercy. Always.
At the edge of the platform, the station guards have found their spines again. They're moving with purpose now, barring off the end of the platform, redirecting what few civilians remain. The first year elites haven't come any closer. They're huddled back near the wide station doors, some whispering, some crying. A few stare at me with a wild, desperate respect most look at me with wide, wary eyes. Fear, awe, disgust it's all the same to me. Let them feel whatever they want.
The voices inside my head are cackling, shrieking praises like gleeful crows. Good job, boy. Glorious. Beautiful. He screamed so well. Let's do another. I grit my teeth and force them back down.
And then the professors approach, the group in white robes gliding across the stone like wraiths. At their head is the scarred, pink-eyed woman, her gaze fixed on me with something like amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. She looks at me not with horror or condemnation, but with the hungry pride of a breeder eyeing a promising beast. I hold her gaze, jaw set, refusing to look away whatever she sees in me, I make sure she knows I'm not afraid to show it.
As they near, a tall older man with dark green eyes and a mane of brown curls steps out in front. He lifts his hand, and with an easy, almost lazy gesture, the shattered stone beneath Alaster's body begins to shift. The cracks, gouges, and debris from our battle smooth away as if time itself is being rewound, the ground returning to flawless, unbroken stone. Not a trace remains of the destruction we wrought.
Then, with another flick of his fingers, the stone rises up and shapes itself into a coffin cold, perfect, and final. A medium-statured woman with mindaro-colored eyes and a waterfall of long purple hair steps forward, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She points at Alaster's corpse, and it lifts as if by invisible hands, dropping unceremoniously into the coffin. The lid slides into place with a heavy, echoing thud, locking the boy away from both sight and memory. All of it happens in the span of a few seconds, not a single word spoken, no dramatic flares of power just absolute, effortless control.
They stop in front of me, their presence suffocating in its certainty. The pink-eyed woman stands at the front, her short silver hair catching the faint light, her mouth curling into a smile. She studies me for a moment, and I feel the weight of her judgment.
"Greetings, Awakened," she says, her harsh and commanding. "I see you didn't waste any time setting the tone for the incoming first years. Your name?"