Act 1 - Arc 1 - Chapter 6

The next morning, Foil overslept. In truth, he had never intended to get out of bed. He did not want to attend Assignment, to face the truth. If he remained in bed, comatose on the thin fabric mattress and rickety planks, he could be remembered merely as someone who made mistakes and was karmically punished for them. He did not know when he managed to finally fall asleep, but he was woken by the rough hands of his roommate, Sibel.

“Get up.” His stern voice followed.

Foil tried to pretend as though he had not heard nor felt Sibel. Unfortunately he must have given some reaction because he heard Sibel grunt in frustration before being unceremoniously jostled and grabbed out of his bed. The boy he shared his tiny barracks room with was nearly a foot taller and likely a hundred pounds heavier. Sibel was intelligent, proud, and a stoic leader. He was also a top student, likely a septavincere like Foil, but was prone to bouts of weakness in his limbs from some disease and were often debilitating at the worst times. This was not one of those times, however, and Foil was lifted with little effort onto Sibel’s shoulders before being dumped onto the hard carpeted flooring.

“OW!” Foil barked. He sprang up, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and hip. “I’m up. What’s your problem?”

“You are up now,” Sibel responded. His face was expressionless, yet Foil could see the slightest sparkle of mischievousness in his half-lidded eyes. Foil was irrationally angry. He was being mocked today of all days.

“More importantly,” the large man continued, “you are late. And if you are late, I will be punished for your sloth.”

Foil grimaced. Sibel was right; as part of an initiative to ingrain camaraderie into its students, the Academy shared punishments and rewards between pairs of students. Foil had brought no small share of awards and benefits to Sibel for his successes, and Sibel reciprocated to a near if not even greater extent. On the other hand, Sibel was a model student that never required discipline while Foil was facing Exil for his sins. Luckily, shared punishments were not enforced beyond the superficial level, so Sibel had not dealt with the worst of Foil’s shenanigans. But being late for Assignment most certainly fell under a clerical duty that would be enthusiastically enforced.

Yet another burden to add to Foil’s shoulders. He sighed. After apologizing to Sibel, he quickly dressed in the formal robes provided for the ceremony. For once, Foil was not expected to dress in shades of black. Instead, every student wore matching maroon robes so long that they exposed only the edges of Foil’s fingertips. They were meant to be heavy and uncomfortable, gender-neutral and all-covering. When students were Assigned, they all enthusiastically shed their outfits on the spot to receive their new uniforms. All but the student Exiled, who was stripped of their robes and immediately banished from the campus, banned from contacting or interacting with anyone at the Academy for the rest of time.

Foil’s fingers faltered at the final strings of his robe at the thought. Last night was no dream, and what could have been at worst a cruel and selfish sacrifice had become something much greater. Foil now hoped that he had not succeeded; that the sentry had discovered the missing pegs or identified Foil to the elders. Perhaps they were simply waiting for Assignment to expose him and his crimes to justify his Exile. A public spectacle and a fitting end.

Maybe, he thought, Cynthia may escape from this unscathed.

Sibel watched Foil’s basic motor skills break down, and in a gesture of sympathy (for he had almost certainly heard the school-wide rumors about the Exile) finished tying the strings himself. He placed a hand on Foil’s shoulder. Whatever lay ahead, stalling would do no good. It was time.

**

Assignment always took place in the central plaza of the Academy. A massive stage had been constructed for the occasion, with dozens of rows of chairs arrayed neatly in rectangular blocks in front. Though the Academy was large, with thousands of inhabitants, only the students of each graduating year were allowed to attend their own Assignment. This in effect meant that the large field hosting the ceremony felt largely empty, with gazebos and training facilities left temporarily unused. Junior students and staff were prohibited from attending or watching the proceedings, but Foil could see movement in the far-away buildings and windows. He knew that the younger students would be trying to get a glimpse of the ceremony and its magicks, with hopeful expressions and cheery grins. He knew because for many years he was in their place, optimistic for the future.

In a small twist of irony, seats at Assignment were, in fact, not assigned. Because no student knew for certain where they had placed, the Academy elders did not want to reveal the results inadvertently by dividing the students beforehand. This led to little chaos, though, as the few hundred students were experienced in organizing themselves. Their training had paid off, and perhaps the lack of formal claims was itself a final test. Sibel and Foil were late, though not so late as to miss the start of the ceremony. In fact, they were not even the last students to arrive. There were several seats available, and Sibel abandoned Foil at the first chance to sit amongst his friends. Foil spotted a chair in the very back row, near the left corner. He gratefully lowered himself onto the pale wooden seating, taking careful effort to avoid looking at any of the students near him.

The day was beautiful as they usually were at this time of year. Though there were clouds present in the sky, they served dutifully to protect the seated crowd from the sun’s rays and a steady breeze prevented an overhanging gloom from settling. The students were as a whole in extremely high spirits, gossiping and giggling as they discussed their potential Assignments. A group of three girls Foil recognized as low-level third-vinceres were discussing whether or not they would stay friends after they moved on to their permanent positions. A boy two rows ahead was writing in a notebook observations of the day; he was most likely an Archivist. Not the Archivist, but someone with the Archivist’s Aspect. Terms and slang became confusing quickly and it irritated Foil to no end.

Before long, every seat provided was filled. The crowd’s uproarious conversations dimmed and slowed before stopping completely as a faculty member took to the stage. The man was Sir Forlen. He was a diminutive man, smaller than Foil by several inches and by a few dozen pounds. However, his massive, bushy white beard provided him a sense of weight and size that made him quite popular among the teachers and students. Sir Forlen was a veteran of several wars and his experience afforded him a stoic perspective and callous demeanor that clashed with public appearances. As a result, Foil was surprised to see him alone in front of the podium. Evidently, much of the crowd was as well given how silent they became.

Sir Forlen cleared his throat, his voice echoing in the open space. He then began speaking in a low, deep voice that was nonetheless audible to all.

“Welcome, everyone. I am proud to usher you all into Assignment and into the rest of your lives.” Foil thought he sounded bored. “In other years, men more full of themselves would waste hours of our lives giving speeches. I intend to do no such thing. Congratulations to all of you. Let us begin the Assignments.”

The crowd cheered; they had seen other cohorts experience hours of speeches before the ceremony and had been steeling themselves. A small group of elders wearing purple and gold robes exited from a nearby tower. Their faces were hooded, but between them they carried bundles of paper: the list of Assignments. The cheering and chattering were replaced with apprehensive muttering. Foil was beside himself with stress. The students near him noticed him chewing his fingers until they bled.

Sir Forlern cleared his throat before continuing. Every Assignment had a purpose (or so they say). Those in the bottom third ranking would graduate officially and be sent to the Arkanite military to be dispersed among the fighting ranks according to their ability. In a sense, it didn’t matter if you were the lowest ranking or the highest within that stratus; you could prove yourself when the moment came and rise high. Everyone above the 192 students in mono- and bi-vincere ranks, by contrast, would be placed into individual squads. Those remaining 63 students were those written on the scrolls held aloft by the group of elders. Their Academy ranking, as well as their exam, physical, and spiritual performance, decided which Keyseeker teams they would join.

Keyseekers were the Academy’s prized export. Prodigies and savants were placed together and groomed for a highly specific and highly lethal purpose: finding the 10 Gate Keys that would allow the activation of the Arcane Collegium’s Rift Gate. The Rift Gate was Foil’s sole purpose in life. Before it was damaged and sabotaged during the century of war following the advent of the dimensional tears, the Gate kept all of Serulea and its Essence stable. More importantly, it harnessed Essence to create directed and controlled portals to other worlds. Foil cared nothing for the Serulean wars. Foil cared nothing for the Rifts opening up around the world, destroying lives and enriching armies. He cared about one thing, the singular task that gave his life meaning: finding the Gate Keys, fixing the Gate, and taking Cynthia home. He would make any sacrifice to that end.

Foil realized he was zoning out and had been for some time. Most of the seats around him had already emptied, and Sir Forlern’s monotone voice continued to rasp out over the crowd. He lifted his head and tried to figure out what was being Assigned. He scanned the students that remained sitting and estimated that only a few dozen or so were left. That meant the tri-vincere Assignments had been doled out, and only the elite expeditionary squads remained. Sir Forlen described the next squad in a droning, nearly bored tone:

“Though many of the previous teams have been eclectic, we now transition to our elite students. Congratulations to everyone still here for your hard work and perseverance. From the peak of the tetra-vincere cohort we will form this year’s first Expeditionary Keyseeker Squad.” The remaining students cast glances at each other, excited and fearful all at once. “For Keyseeker Squad C44L1, of which I hope that each of you will develop renown to warrant a colloquialism.” At this hope Sir Forlen’s lips straightened into a tight smile for the first time that day. “We declare the following Academy graduates worthy: Lorien Penbroke. Harlan Ceisser. Vireya Fairwild. Irene Stengard. Esper Starly.”

Foil identified the students by name before they stood. They were of varying capability and strength, representing complementary Aspects. Foil had nothing against any of them personally, but he would not place his life in their hands. Not that, really, he would be placing his life in anybody’s hands anymore. He slumped down into his chair and awaited the inevitable. Several other Keyseeker squads were formed this way; Sir Forlen described them briefly, called the students by name, they rose and joined him on the stage to receive their Assignment in the form of ink on paper, and sent out of the pavilion through different doors to begin learning about their new partners. Foil did not have the energy to focus on the names or organization. His mood rapidly devolved into an all-consuming stress. He was doomed, or he was doomed. Foil lost either way.

A flash of orange distracted him from his gloom, briefly. Cynthia was sitting at the very front row of the audience, but Foil hadn’t been able to see her from his seat until the students in between had been cleared out. Cynthia looked pensive, fidgeting in her seat. The implication of her continued presence was clear to Foil, but he had not told her what he had done. She was no fool. Cynthia had done her best - she had studied, trained, focused, practiced, and learned as much as any one human could be expected to - but without a Manifest and certainly without an Aspect she should have been Assigned to a lowly mono-vincere position. The fact that she had still not been Assigned as Sir Forlen reached the hex-vinceres meant that she was either an incredibly high performer, or she was being Exiled. Owing to an ancient streak of cruelty, the Exiled student of each year is only informed after every other student in the cohort had been Assigned.

Cynthia turned in her seat to stare at the remaining students and, upon finding Foil, locked eyes with him. Fear flashed in her eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Foil could ostensibly be placed in hex- or sept-vincere; he had worked as hard as Cynthia in many areas. If the rumors Cynthia had heard about Foil’s Exile were false, her continued presence at the ceremony meant that she was going to be Exiled for her weakness. Of course, she had no way of knowing how right she had been and the lengths Foil had gone to to protect her. She never would, ideally. To Foil, her presence meant that his deception had gone undiscovered and wherever they ended up, they would end up together.

Sir Forlen had continued talking while Foil and Cynthia watched each other. Soon there were less than 10 students among hundreds of empty, white chairs. Foil’s brows furrowed in confusion. The students left were not those he would have expected. He had kept careful track of his rivals and the highest-performing students in preparation for working with or against them. Yet among the seven students he could count, he recognized only Lance and Cynthia. The others were wholly unfamiliar to him, which was strange in and of itself. The remaining students were all spread out, with several dozen seats separating any of them from each other. Once all the Assignments were handed out and the octo-vincere crowned, a massive banquet was held with every student of every cohort still on the campus in the main hall. Though the octo-vincere was essentially declared in anonymity, seen only by his or her Keyseeker Squad and the Exiled student (and, of course, the illicit spectators), they were introduced to the rest of the Academy with a grand reveal. The octo-vincere was plied with food, drink, gifts, and compliments at the head of the largest table as they bonded with their new squadmates and planned their first expedition.

“For our final batch of Assignments,” Sir Forlen continued, “we have somewhat of a unique occasion.”

Foil’s ears perked up at the mention of final. This was it.

“Ordinarily, Assignments rankings are based entirely on performance resembling our four virtues. That has remained the case for this year’s octo-vincere, but it is because of their performance this year that we have opted to provide them the opportunity to break the mold.”

What? Foil thought. Now, of all years?

“The Assignments for Keyseeker Squad C4R08 are made of those whom the elders and faculty have deemed ‘high potential’ students. Though I suspect,” and here a strange note entered Sir Forlen’s voice, as if he was laughing at an inside joke, “that their squad leader may find them to be of the ‘raw potential’ variety. In any case, this year’s prime Keyseeker Squad has in our opinion the best chance of succeeding in their quest since the war began.

“The following students have been Assigned as Prime Keyseekers: Cassian Stormvale. Aleksandra Wolf. Perrin Ferrinus. Frayle Secken.” He paused. “...Cynthia Andromeda.”

Sir Forlen had managed to control his tone to avoid Cynthia’s name sounding like a question, but there was still a noticeable shift. The others noticed it too, but Foil noticed that the group of hooded elders had gathered together and seemed to be in hushed but intense discussion. Cynthia turned around in her seat again and stared at Foil. This time, anger flashed in her eyes. She knew. She knew something, at least. Foil avoided her piercing gaze, popping his knuckles and watching the elders. After a short time one of the hooded elders separated from the circle and approached Sir Forlen. The figure whispered in his ear for a short time, then returned to the group. Sir Forlen, for his part, betrayed nothing in his expression nor body language.

He continued: “Congratulations to each of you. We hope that by recognizing and rewarding your laudable capabilities that you will yourself commit to bettering yourselves and your contributions to peace.”

Foil didn’t like the way that “compliment” had been phrased. It sounded as if this squad was made of loose cannons, students with power but no discipline. Criminals, even? The worst kind of people to leave Cynthia with. Sir Forlen turned the page of his written speech, the Assignment papers folded into their relevant positions.

“This now leads us to our most prestigious Assignment. This year’s octo-vincere is perhaps the most stalwart and resolute representative of our values. He has dominated our academics, our training, and our obstacles. And he has done so with the grace of an Elysian angel. It would not be an exaggeration to describe him as a prodigy and a genius. We believe that this man will not only be able to isolate and sharpen the deep pool of potential of his squad but be the one to end this entire cycle of war and rebirth. It is my genuine pride and pleasure to declare that this year’s octo-vincere, Prime Keyseeker Squad Leader, shining hope of the Academy, is… FOIL ANDROMEDOUS?”