The sky above the arena had begun to darken not from dusk, but from the weight of silence.
The dust of battle had settled, and the heat of magic faded from the stone floor.
What remained was not chaos but a new order.
Magister Halvran Rusk stood at the center of the field, surrounded by traces of lingering sorcery.
His eyes scanned the young faces still standing some bloodied, others just exhausted.
"The selection is complete," his voice was flat, but carried the finality of imperial will.
"None of you reached the pinnacle. But twenty of you did not fall."
He raised a hand.
From the high stands, a black wooden box was brought forward by an attendant.
Inside it twenty obsidian emblems, engraved with the Imperial Seal and the insignia of the Academy.
"These are not medals of pride. This is not an honor.
This is a mark that the Empire has placed you on a path you cannot refuse."
He began to call the names.
"Lucius Octavianus Magnus."
From the noble gallery, the prince stood upright. He said nothing.
"Darian Duval."
Below, the boy who had never bowed to applause or jeers stepped forward without hesitation.
One by one, the names echoed through the stone.
A farmer's son.
A duke's heir.
A soldier's child.
No titles were spoken only names, and the silence behind them weighed more than any cheer could.
When the last name was called, Magister Rusk closed the box.
"You twenty have been accepted."
He glanced briefly toward the high tribunal toward the Emperor, and seat of the Archon.
"The Academy does not promise a future.
Only a field on which to carve one if you are capable."
He turned.
"Three days from now, training begins."
Without fanfare, Magister Rusk escorting the chosen candidates out through the inner corridor.
No cheers followed. No ceremony lingered.
Only the sound of footsteps and the quiet tension of a crowd that now wondered:
What had been born that day?
Men?
Or something far more dangerous?
Lucius walked forward, eyes ahead.
Darian walked beside no one.
Two forces. One path.