The discomfort in their group had solidified into a collective aim, a silent objective. Leo had seen through a narrow opening in his vision, but had made a long shadow. The rebuilt rune, now in an innocent radiance upon their study table, was more of a college triumph than of a door to a prison which now all stood before. The insatiable aim at perfection that Aria had been pursuing had been turned off her course; her keen intelligence was now bent upon matching the design of the rune with the references of rare historical sources on magical government anciently, her brow forever set in permanent furrow. It was the essence signature which Mira analyzed until she was pale and trembling, talking about systemic decay and soul-fatigue. The project was not about a grade anymore. It was the autopsy of the Academy itself.Kael broke the academic stalemate at last. Doing nothing, this, we said, declared he, banging a heavy volume on binding theory. "We're circling the drain. We need primary so

That quiet in the sanctum of Riven was no longer an element of preconceived possibilities, but of condemnation. It was a dense, stifling blanket that covered the usual odours of ozone, of old paper, of the subtle and coppery scent of dry blood. Leo did not wait to be invited, did not sink into the official, used hug of the leather armchair. He was stiff in the middle of the room, his physique like a drunken, smouldering energy that was fury and despair, pure, despairing soul. The broken pieces of the Mirror of Merit appeared to shone in his eyes, each piece a minute splinter of his fractured personality. Not mere letters were the words, Destined Divergent, but a brand, burnt into his retinas and into his very self-image.To his lingering presence there still seemed to attend the echoes of the room in which the Mirror had broken, the rustling of the broken glass, the silent sighing of the artisans who had escaped, and the low moaning of the magic which would not lie down. Word would al

The divide between Leo and Riven was a rift which tinged all. During the weeks following his announcement in the sanctum Leo was roving through the Academy as a lone satellite, circling around the buildings of authority but ceasing to land with them. He was in his required classes, but his brains were not on the work, but like stones that monstrous things were buried beneath. Riven, on his part, gave him a broad berth. They dealt with each other very formally, in an ice dance of etiquette that was more irritating than enmity. The covert training was terminated. Leo was truly on his own. In this condition of suspended suspension had come the word: their first Field Studies mission. This was referred to as “The Mortal Crossing.” An electric current of nervousness spread among the initiates. The Mortal Realm was a legend to the majority, a source of origin and was talked of in low, near pitiful tones- a world asleep ignorant of the wonderful magic that was vibrating so near the Veil. I

Their innocence had been sent back to the Academy in funeral procession. The Transference Chamber, which had been, in old times, like a door to a miracle, was now like a kind of antechamber to an execution. As soon as they tripped over the gleaming gate, the dead, still air of the Mortal world was withheld by the heavy oppressive hum of the Arcane Veil. It was as though they had been thrown into a deep sea following a breath of empty air in a vacuum -a relief and a burden.Professor Hemlock did not receive them with his good-natured visage. They were instead met by a group of four stone-eyed proctors in harsh high-collared robes, with their hands tied behind their backs. The female proctor, the woman whose face was like the hatchet, and who pulled her hair in a very painful tight bun, came forward. She was Proctor Valerius, and her head of Academy Discipline.“The mission is terminated. You will all come with us. Now.” They could not argue with her voice. The terror was instant, a col

The dust and the metallic flavor of ancient magic filled the air of the maintenance shaft. They moved in silent single-file, and the only noise made was the gasp of their exhausted breathing, and the rustle of their robes in the cold metal. It was a phantom limb, a pain which would not heal, the horror of the Archives. They had not gotten away to the real danger, but they had taken the real prison with them in their heads. With clothes open at the neck, and shaken down, they came into a deserted laundry-conduit way in the foundations of the Academy. For a long moment, no one spoke. The simple faith which they had acquired was now an ugly treaty, sealed in the greenish light of the mummified dead. Kael was the first to burst, and he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically small. "They were just... kids. Like us." Mira crossed her arms over herself and shuddered in spite of the hot air. “All that potential... just... put away. Like failed experiments.” She gazed at Leo with a new and