The morning air buzzed with tension.
Candidates hurried toward the Grand Hall, their footsteps echoing across the stone pathways. Fear burned in every stride — no one wanted to risk disqualification on the very first day.
Francis and Clinton were among the earliest to arrive. Francis's sharp eyes scanned the vast hall — the ceiling arched high above, sunlight pouring through stained-glass windows that painted the marble floor in shifting hues. The polished surface reflected anxious faces, each one carrying a different dream.
Angel and Angelina soon appeared, slightly breathless but smiling faintly. Around them, candidates from every corner of the kingdom filled the hall — whispering, adjusting their bags, steadying their nerves.
Then, the heavy doors creaked open.
Silence fell.
The Council entered — eight figures moving with measured grace, their presence commanding instant respect. Each wore ceremonial robes that shimmered faintly beneath the morning light, symbols of their rank stitched in gold and silver thread.
The candidates straightened at once.
Among the Council, four familiar faces stood out:
Master Greem — tall, stern, with his ever-present smirk.
Lady Betty — sharp-eyed, unreadable, her gaze cutting through the crowd.
Instructor Elira — graceful and poised, her mere presence radiant.
And finally, Headmaster Townsend — whose calm authority seemed to fill the entire room.
He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sweeping across the sea of nervous faces. When he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly through the hall.
---
"Welcome once again, young writers," he began.
"Yesterday, you entered these gates as dreamers. Today, you stand as candidates of the Writer's Academy — a place where imagination becomes power."
He paused, letting the silence deepen.
"You have been chosen because you possess potential — the rare spark that can shape the world through words. But potential alone will not keep you here. Only discipline, growth, and perseverance will."
Townsend turned slightly, gesturing toward the Council behind him.
"To ensure fairness and progress, the Academy uses a system that reflects your actions and achievements — the Ink Point System. Through it, you will be rewarded for your diligence, your creativity, and your respect for this institution."
His expression hardened slightly.
"But beware… the same ink that records your success will also mark your failures."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some exchanged uncertain glances; others straightened with quiet resolve.
Townsend lifted a small black ledger bound in leather — the Ink Ledger itself. A faint silver emblem glowed upon its cover, pulsing softly as if alive.
"From this day forward," he continued, "every point you earn — or lose — will be recorded here. It will decide your privileges, your rankings, and ultimately, your future within this Academy."
He opened it slowly. "Already, eight of you have begun your journey with honor."
The room fell completely still.
He read aloud, each name clear and deliberate:
"Darius. Clara. Mira. Angel. Selene. Luther. Angelina. Francis."
Each syllable echoed through the hall like the stroke of a quill on parchment.
"Each of you has earned ten Ink Points," Townsend declared, "for your punctuality and discipline this morning."
---
Francis blinked, caught off guard — then a small, quiet smile formed on his lips.
Angel's eyes lit up, pride glimmering within them. Beside her, Angelina beamed and whispered, "We did it."
Mira adjusted her glasses with a subtle grin, while Darius folded his arms, wearing his smirk like a crown. Clara's attempt to suppress her excitement failed miserably; her grin stretched from ear to ear.
Selene gave only a silent nod, her cold composure unbroken. Luther's calm smile held quiet confidence.
Those whose names weren't called exchanged looks of envy and determination. The unspoken promise filled the room — next time, their names would be heard.
Townsend closed the ledger with a soft thud.
"These eight," he said, "have earned the first ink of honor. Let this remind you that every choice you make — no matter how small — writes another line of your story here."
He took a step back, eyes sweeping across the hall once more.
"Today, your orientation continues. You will learn the foundations of the Academy, the rules of the Ink Point System, and the expectations that come with wielding the power of words."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"May your pens write only truth and greatness."
Turning slightly, he addressed his deputy. "Alistair — they're yours."
---
Alistair stepped forward — tall, confident, and far younger than the Headmaster, yet his authority was unmistakable.
"Candidates," he said briskly, "Instructor Elira will lead you to the Hall of Drafts. There, your first instructions will begin."
His tone softened slightly.
"You will learn how your words will be tested… and how you can turn ink into legacy."
The candidates began to move, the sound of footsteps blending with the steady hum of anticipation. Excitement, fear, and curiosity filled the air as they
followed Elira and the Council out of the Grand Hall — toward the true beginning of their journey.