Elira led the candidates through the winding marble corridors toward the Academy's cafeteria.
The moment she mentioned food, half the group seemed to come back to life.
Francis and Clinton walked ahead, their pace brisk despite the long morning. Clinton's stomach growled so loudly it echoed.
Francis chuckled under his breath.
"Laugh all you want," Clinton muttered. "At this point, I'd eat ink if it smelled good."
Francis smirked. "You might actually enjoy the taste of discipline, then."
Behind them, Angel leaned against Angelina, clearly drained.
Angelina caught her arm gently. "Hey, easy. Almost there."
Angel smiled faintly. "Thanks."
Angelina laughed softly. "What are friends for?"
Those words stuck with Angel like sunlight piercing through clouds. She hadn't heard them in years. People used to avoid her family—especially her father.
But now, for the first time in so long, she felt something warm bloom in her chest. Maybe… I'm not alone anymore.
They passed the Library of Endless Quills, its spires reaching elegantly toward the ceiling, each glowing faintly with enchantment. Nearby, the Fountain of Ink shimmered like liquid obsidian, rippling with faint traces of light.
Normally, such wonders would have drawn awe from the group—but hunger had conquered curiosity.
Finally, they arrived at their destination: the Academy's Cafeteria.
It was enormous—more like a royal banquet hall than a school dining space. Sunlight poured in through vast glass domes, reflecting off polished marble floors. Long wooden tables stretched neatly in rows, each set with silver platters, crystal cups, and plates waiting to be filled. Floating orbs hovered lazily above, bathing the hall in a warm, golden glow.
Then came the aroma—freshly baked bread, roasted meat, simmering stew, and sweet herbs mingled in the air like a symphony of temptation.
Clinton froze at the entrance, dazed. "If this is a dream," he muttered, "I never want to wake up."
Angelina inhaled deeply, eyes wide. "This… is paradise."
Laughter broke out among the candidates as excitement washed over them. For the first time since their arrival, the hall felt alive.
Elira smiled, her graceful composure softening. "You may serve yourselves," she announced. "Eat as much as you wish—today's meal is on the house."
The room erupted into cheerful motion.
Students rushed forward, grabbing plates and ladles, eager to taste everything at once. The cafeteria staff—dressed in deep blue uniforms embroidered with the Academy's emblem—welcomed them with kind smiles. Soon, the air filled with the clatter of dishes and the hum of satisfied chatter.
Francis and Clinton claimed a quiet corner. Francis ate slowly, savoring each bite; Clinton devoured his food like a man fighting for survival.
"This… this is heaven," Clinton mumbled between mouthfuls.
Elira watched them for a while, the faintest trace of pride in her eyes. Then she spoke gently, "Enjoy your meal, everyone. You've earned it."
With that, she turned and left the hall, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor until she vanished from sight.
---
As hunger faded, another kind of energy began to fill the room—something sharper.
Whispers. Side glances. Quiet alliances forming.
Some students drifted toward Darius, the confident boy whose name had appeared among the first eight to earn Ink Points. He sat straight-backed, smirk in place, his presence naturally commanding.
Across the hall, several girls surrounded Clara, drawn by her poise and beauty.
And just like that, status began to take root.
At the back corner, Clinton noticed the shift. "What's going on?" he asked, lowering his fork.
Francis's gaze flicked toward Darius's table. "The game's started already."
Clinton blinked. "What game?"
Francis leaned back, his tone calm but edged with understanding. "The one that decides who leads and who follows. This Academy isn't just about writing, Clinton. It's about influence—and people are already choosing sides."
Clinton's brows furrowed. "So it begins…"
---
At Darius's table, about seven boys sat before him like knights before a young king.
He regarded them lazily, swirling his drink. "What do you all want?"
One of them—a tall boy with curly brown hair—spoke first. "My name's Philip. We just… want to be your friends." He smiled nervously.
Darius arched an eyebrow. "Friends, huh? And what exactly do I gain from that?"
Philip hesitated. "We can help you. Support you. Do whatever you need."
A slow grin crept across Darius's lips. "Now that's more like it."
He picked up his cup, poured water into his plate until it became a soggy mess, and handed it to Philip.
"If you want to be my friend," he said, voice calm but cutting, "prove it."
Philip blinked. "How?"
Darius's gaze sharpened, his grin turning cruel. He pointed across the cafeteria.
"Pour it on that one," he said—his finger landing on Francis.
The table went silent.
Philip's throat bobbed. "But… what if the officials see us? What if we get punished?"
Darius chuckled, leaning back in his chair with lazy arrogance. "Don't worry. My father's influence reaches farther than their rules. Nothing will happen."
Philip's hesitation cracked. He forced a smile and rose, gripping the dripping plate with shaky hands.
As he walked across the room, whispers rippled through the hall like the first tremor of a storm.
From the opposite corner, Clara watched with a sly, knowing smirk.
She leaned toward the girls beside her and whispered, "Let's enjoy the show."