The change hit him like a storm for the senses. Coming out of the Maintenance Tier, that oil-dark, claustrophobic gloom, the archway to the outside did more than brighten things up; it jutted the light into reality with a brightness that felt almost tangible, almost physical. Aleric went first, the soft grass beneath his feet a far cry from the jagged obsidian he was used to.
The air was different out there, thinner, crisper, and it had a sharp, medicinal smell, pine and stone mixed together. They had entered the Crown of Spires, the highest tier, a white marble plaza floating high above the clouds, where the wind howled low and eagerly.
Aleric did not bother to look out at the view. Instead, he angled his head downward, shielding his eyes from the sudden sun glare out beneath the stiff collar of his dark coat, just as he did at every pit he entered. He was recalibrating his sense of order, shifting from the mathematics of life and death to the social dance of the summit.
Audit in progress, he thought to himself, his eyes scanning the edges without turning his head. Atmospheric pressure: 0.7 bar. Mana saturation: 114% of baseline. We have reached the sanctioned terminus.
Near the grand marble gazebo that held court in the garden's center stood Professor Hallow. He looked carved out of stone, his hands buried deep within the folds of his midnight-blue robes, a living reminder that, no matter how well the maze was conquered, the masters of the Academy still wrote the rules.
Behind Hallow, the other archways—the alternate "Right Paths" Aleric had been sent to navigate—began to hum with magical energy. One by one, students emerged, some in groups, guiding their wounded friends, others alone, in tatters, driven to the "Labyrinth Stare."
"The First Gate is sealed," Hallow's voice boomed up from the marble floor below, steady and even, without praise or judgment, simply statement. "Those of you standing on the grass have passed the first test. You've proven that your bodies and your mana-cores can survive the friction of the world."
The three who followed Aleric struggled to their knees, their lungs burning from the thin air they breathed. They looked back at the arch they had just passed through, the unofficial bypass from the Dead Floor, before refocusing their attention on Professor Hallow.
"The second test will begin at first light tomorrow," Professor Hallow went on, his eyes sweeping the crowd before them. "Sleep in the dorms. Food and restorative draughts are prepared for you. You have earned your quiet time tonight. Do not waste it."
A soft murmur of relief spread through the garden, followed by a series of checks for vital signs and quiet weeping. Aleric stood apart from the throng, still as a shadow, almost invisible in the dying light of the garden hedges as he observed a Senior Prefect approach the three who had been pushed through the tunnel.
The girl Aleric had warned earlier stood trembling, the blue vial of restorative draught clutched tightly in her hands as the Senior Prefect held out the vial to her.
"The Grave-Titan," the girl stammered, her hands shaking as she gestured to the archway they had just been pushed through.
"He said it would not kill us right away," the girl went on, still trembling, still staring up at the Senior Prefect in fear.
"The Grave-Titan?" The Senior Prefect hesitated, the vial of draught held out between them, torn between the archway and the girl, looking puzzled.
"A Grave-Titan?" The Senior Prefect asked, furrowed brows a question on his face. "Aye, they are."
The world contracted to a thin line of waste-mana recycling itself in a bleak pledge to those who would not think before they acted. The Senior Prefect let out a short, hollow chuckle before his voice fell to a murmur of "Peel the marrow?"
"Child," the other man chided, "the Academy does not concern itself with torture. The Sentinels are tuned for clinical incapacitation." The Prefect's gaze narrowed; his voice lowered to a simmering growl. "If a student falls, the Titan stops him immediately."
I watched the exchange and amended the thought that whispered through me: a painless, final solution. I stopped listening to the words and started listening to who might have fed me this brutal lie.
The girl stood still, a blue liquid slowly dripping from the container she held. She turned, her eyes scanning the crowd for the man in the dark coat—the man who had spoken so bluntly about the suffering they would endure.
"He—he told us," she whispered, glancing toward where Aleric had been only moments before. "He made us think it was the only way. He forced us to fight because we feared the pain more than the monster."
But it was all laid bare.
It was Aleric who had implemented the Slip-Away Protocol. The moment the girl had made contact with the Prefect, Aleric had already calculated the angles of occlusion in this space. When dozens of students emerged from the Western Gate, Aleric had responded with a precision akin to a metronome's tick: swift, silent, and unstoppable. He had slipped into the shadows behind the great oak and then behind the marble columns at the stairway.
Information Leakage: Managed. Aleric was auditing the descent, remaining at a distance from the all-seeing and unwelcome eyes of the survivors. The threat, the necessary and kinetic threat, had been a catalyst. They had to survive, yes. But they had no need to be comfortable. The lie had been implemented; now it was time to discard it.
Guilt or need to justify himself had never crossed Aleric's mind. People were to him nothing more than biological equipment. He had used them; they had functioned as required. Now they saw him as a monster? Then so be it. For distance was what he wanted, and distance is what he intended to maintain.
He was so far ahead of everyone else down to the lower dormitories. Their hallways were still and full of the scent of old paper and beeswax. He found his assigned room—a Spartan cell with a single bed and a desk. He entered, closed the door, and for the first time in hours, he allowed his head to rise.
His eyes, still pulsating from the faint, dying crimson, reflected back in the small wash basin mirror. He waited, breathing steadily, as the magical heat dissipated and the glow went away.
But instead, an innocent-looking brown was inside the glass. They were the eyes of an average student—perfect camouflage for the strategist beneath.
He sat at the desk—to start reviewing, not to sleep. He opened his ledger; his pen moved across the page with mechanical precision. Finally, the sun found its bed below the horizon and plunged the Academy into deep, bruising violet outside. Aleric sat in the dark, his brown eyes fixed on the ink. Whatever morning would bring, he was ready.