Chapter 32 End Of The Second Trial
I forced my trembling limbs to push me upright.
The stone floor was slick beneath my palms, cold seeping into my skin as water dripped from my sleeves and hem. My breath came shallow, uneven, my chest still aching as though it remembered the weight of the water long after it was gone.
Before me stood Principal Greaves, Professor Ashcroft, and Mr. Roger, the Perceptual Studies master whose discipline governed observation, psychology, and illusion. They towered over me in composed stillness, their tailored coats untouched by the chaos that had nearly swallowed me whole. It struck me then, dimly, how untouched authority always appeared.
“I suppose,” Mr. Roger said mildly, folding his hands behind his back, “that means she has won this trial.”
Principal Greaves did not respond. His attention was fixed upward, his sharp, discerning gaze tracing the broken roof above us, the jagged opening through which stone, water, and I had fallen. His expression betrayed nothing, yet his eyes lingered too long to be indifferent.
“No, Mr. Roger,” Professor Ashcroft said calmly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I believe Candidate Melanie Penrose won this round.”
My eyes snapped toward him.
He gestured slightly to his right. Melanie stood there, composed to the point of unsettling. Her left hand rested gently over her right arm, as if she were injured, or perhaps simply performing the suggestion of vulnerability. Her uniform was damp but orderly, her posture straight. Beside her stood Mr. Nolan, watchful and unreadable.
I, by contrast, was still seated on the floor, soaked through, hair plastered to my cheeks, fingers numb, body shaking in waves I could not yet suppress.
Professor Ashcroft turned his attention back to the principal. “What do you think, Principal?”
Greaves shifted his gaze at last, moving from one professor to the other with deliberate slowness. Then he spoke.
“I think,” he said evenly, “that we should declare this round a draw.”
A pause followed, brief, but weighted.
His eyes lowered to me. “Are you all right?”
I attempted to rise, my legs protesting as I forced myself upright. I managed a single nod. “Yes, Principal.”
“Mr. Nolan,” Greaves said, “please escort both candidates to the infirmary.”
Mr. Nolan stepped forward, guiding Melanie gently by the elbow. I hesitated, my chest tightening.
“What about the others?” I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them. “Did they survive?”
No one answered at once.
Professor Ashcroft glanced at his wristwatch. “The trial concludes in two minutes.”
Mr. Roger smiled faintly. “I suppose that answers the question.”
My stomach dropped. “What happens if they don't?” I asked, my voice rising despite my effort to contain it. “Are they going to die?”
“No one is dying, Miss Lambert,” Principal Greaves said firmly, his tone calm but absolute. “Mr. Nolan, take them out.”
Mr. Nolan reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
“Do not be stubborn, Lexie,” Professor Ashcroft said, his voice sharpened just enough to carry warning.
“I’m not going anywhere until I know they’re fine,” I said, forcing myself to stand straighter despite the tremor in my legs.
“They will be,” Ashcroft replied.
“How?” I demanded. “How will they be, when you designed a heretical trial like this? My room filled with water, I nearly drowned. I almost died…”
“But you did not,” Principal Greaves interrupted, his voice precise, unwavering. “Although, not the path.”
I stared at him, breath hitching.
“This trial,” he continued, “was not about escape. It was about confronting fear with discipline rather than panic. Strength tempered by calm judgment is the hallmark of a sagacious leader.”
Professor Ashcroft’s watch chimed sharply.
“Time,” he said.
“We should retrieve them,” Mr. Roger added.
They had barely turned toward the inner corridor when the heavy door behind us shuddered.
Marcus staggered out.
He was breathing hard, chest heaving as though he had run miles underground. His uniform was torn and coated in dust, hair disheveled, knuckles scraped raw. He braced himself against the wall, coughing once before lifting his head.
Principal Greaves smiled, small, satisfied.
“Well,” he said, “it appears the outcome has shifted. A draw for the three of you. He won the first round. The third trial will determine the final candidate for the presidential seat.”
With that, he turned and ascended the stairs, following Professor Ashcroft without another glance back.
I watched the stairway long after they disappeared.
“Lambert,” Mr. Nolan said, approaching me again, his tone calm but firm. “You need to report to the infirmary.”
I hesitated, then turned to face him. “Mr. Nolan?”
He raised an eyebrow, surprised by the tremor in my voice but attentive nonetheless. “Yes?”
“Did Kaitlyn… go through trials like this,” I asked quietly, “before she became council president?”
Something flickered across his expression, something guarded.
I realized at once I had crossed a line.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly, lowering my gaze.
Without waiting for his response, I walked past him.
Behind me, I felt his eyes follow until I exited the hall. Then his gaze drifted upward, to the fractured ceiling, the broken stones, the scar left by my fall.
Along the wall, unnoticed by most, thin strands of ivy clung stubbornly to the stone.
Mr. Nolan exhaled softly.
“You are something else,” he murmured. “Little lass.”