The corridor echoed with the steady rhythm of heels against marble.
Elira led the candidates forward, her steps poised, confident — the soft clicking of her shoes guiding them like a metronome.
Her presence commanded silence. She moved with effortless grace in a crisp white gown layered with a fitted black jacket, her hair tied neatly behind her head. A few strands framed her face as the morning light followed her every motion.
Behind her, whispers rippled through the line.
Clinton, walking beside Francis, sighed under his breath. "You guys are so damn lucky. If only I'd woken up earlier…"
Francis smirked. "I doubt it's always about luck. Maybe they just wanted to wake us up the hard way."
Clinton nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still… I should've tried harder."
Francis chuckled quietly. "Relax. We'll learn how to accumulate points soon enough."
They turned a final corner — and stopped.
The Hall of Drafts stood before them.
It was magnificent — a towering glass structure lined with arched windows that bathed the room in golden morning light. The walls shimmered faintly with engraved inscriptions: fragments of poems, stories, and names of authors who had once walked those halls.
As the grand doors creaked open, a warm scent of parchment and polished wood filled the air. Neatly arranged desks stretched across the chamber, each with a smooth surface and slender drawer beneath. Every candidate would have their own space — one desk, one chair, one chance.
"Take your seats," Elira said softly.
The candidates obeyed, moving in quiet awe. Francis and Clinton sat near the middle; Angel and Angelina took seats by the left wing. The air was still — heavy with curiosity and nerves.
Elira stood before them, her hands folded neatly behind her back.
"Welcome to the Hall of Drafts," she began. "This place will be your home of learning throughout your time at the Writer's Academy. You are not here merely to write stories—you are here to become writers whose words can move worlds."
Her tone was calm but commanding. Then she smiled faintly.
"However, I won't be teaching you today. Your instructor will be with you shortly."
A faint creak came from the side of the hall. Heads turned.
A tall, lean man stepped through a hidden door. He carried a thick book under his arm, his glasses perched precisely on the bridge of his nose. His steps were deliberate; his gaze sharp enough to silence a room.
Elira's lips curved slightly. "This is Instructor Adams. He'll be teaching you today."
Adams gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Instructor Elira."
She inclined her head and turned toward the door. "Remember," she said before leaving, "you've only seen a fraction of the instructors here. Be attentive."
Then she was gone.
The silence that followed was thick.
Adams set his book down on the lectern. His voice cut clean through the air.
"Good morning. Welcome to the Writer's Academy — and to the Hall of Drafts."
He paced between the rows, his gaze sweeping across the students.
"Inside your desks, you'll find a notebook and a pen. Take them out."
Drawers opened in unison. Francis reached in and pulled out a black leather-bound notebook stamped with the academy's emblem — a quill dipped in ink, embossed in gold. The pen beside it gleamed silver, perfectly balanced and sharp-tipped.
"Don't lose them," Adams said. "They are yours. They will stay with you as long as you remain here."
He paused, folding his arms. "Now, let's discuss something vital — the Ink Point System."
The room stilled instantly.
"The Ink Point System," Adams continued, "is the measure of your growth. Every action, every decision, every word written — it all counts. Your work earns you points. But so do your discipline, your behavior, your creativity."
He began pacing again, his tone tightening.
"If your writing shows originality, emotion, or depth — you gain points. Win challenges, display teamwork, or show respect — more points."
Then his voice dropped lower, colder.
"But if you break the rules…"
The room seemed to shrink.
"Reveal even a single line from your story — minus one hundred fifty. Plagiarize — minus three hundred. Disrespect an instructor, sabotage another candidate, arrive late…" He stopped walking. "You'll learn quickly how merciless this system can be."
Uneasy glances spread through the hall. Clinton's pen trembled slightly in his grip. Angel scribbled furiously, her eyes narrow with focus. Francis leaned forward, his expression unreadable — but every word was sinking deep.
Adams lifted the book from the lectern again. "The Ink Point System decides your future. The higher your points, the closer you are to becoming a recognized author under the Academy's seal. Lose too many…" He smiled faintly, though his eyes were hard. "And you'll vanish from these halls before you can even write your name on the wall."
A cold silence settled.
Then Adams said quietly, "The pen before you isn't just for writing stories. It's a weapon. Use it wisely."
He closed his book with a soft thud.
"Class dismissed. You'll be informed of your next session shortly."
The candidates rose in near silence, their minds spinning.
Clinton exhaled shakily. "That guy's intense."
Francis smiled faintly. "Yeah. But he's right. This place isn't for the weak."
Across the room, Angel ran her thumb over the golden emblem on her notebook, her eyes distant.
"All may enter, but few will remain," she whispered.
And just like that, the reality of the Writer's Academy sank in.
The real test had finally begun.