Crossing at Bellfeast

The Great Refectory holds the last night of the year like a held breath. Quiet Crown 412, the thirty-first of December, hanging candles, four long tables, silverware still bright from a year that was supposed to be finished. Winter uniforms. Stone. A physical scoreboard stands on the Nettle table, and for one clean moment it still tells the truth the year wrote: Nettle 1020, Gilt 840.

First-years in Nettle sashes sit upright on exhausted spines. Maris Thorn is already on her feet beside that board — long silver hair shading into rose, forehead swept back, the coat worn without court polish.

On the dais Principal Maera Quill looks small against the stone: silver hair, a young face, a kind smile. The staff at her mouth makes the kindness large, and she aims it at the Gilt seat where Isolde Vale's gold hair takes the light.

"For Isolde Vale," Maera says, warm, formal, unhurried. "For the Sleeping Crownblade's choosing — the first in centuries. For light. For courage. For miracle. And for the shining friendship of those who walked that trial with her. Four hundred points to Gilt Hall."

The board writes it. Gilt 1240. Nettle 1020.

Silence, then Gilt noise, bright as a slap. Quill looks at the cloth. Kiln looks at their hands. Nettle does not cheer.

Maris's boot finds the table leg first. Plates jump. She is standing before the sound finishes. A vein stands in her throat. The middle finger she puts up at the dais is clean and unmistakable.

"We fucking earned that cup." No noble courtesy in it. "Nettle ground this year down to the bone. You don't get to call a bribe courage because a sword liked a Vale. That's shit with a halo on it."

Gilt shouts her down. She does not sit. She goes dirtier.

"Fuck your light. Fuck your courage. You didn't beat us. You got handed a goddamn halo and you swallowed it like a grade."

Along Nettle, a few hands find staves. The air goes sharp. No one has thrown the first blow.

Cedric Holm is already in the gap between tables. Brown hair swept back, glasses neat, uniform immaculate. His voice is soft enough to cut through the noise.

"A year of calculated work," he says, smiling as if he is being kind, "and still it loses to people who stood in the light. Courage isn't a ledger. I'm sorry you had to learn that in public."

The smile does not reach his eyes. Those eyes travel Nettle's row, dip toward the first-year at Maris's table, and slide off as if the seat is empty. He is already turning.

Isolde Vale comes with him. Winter uniform without a crease, Gilt gold ribbon in the long wavy hair. She looks from Maris's cursing table to that same Nettle cadet. No leftover guilt. Cold pride. Her face is already saying she was right to leave this person for Gilt. She takes Cedric's sleeve without hesitation.

At the Gilt table, Tamsin Rowe is still cheering.

The candles hang too close. Heat on the cheek of a body that sat down before this life arrived. Pulse already running. Somewhere in the noise a classmate is about to use a name this life did not earn.

The confrontation is not finished.

-- status --
Name: Nettle first-year
Sex: unspecified
Age: 20
Clothes: Thornveil winter uniform, Nettle sash
Affiliation: Thornveil College, Nettle Hall, first year
Awakening: unawakened
Force: unawakened, untested
Turn: waiting for the user
Date: Quiet Crown 412, 31 December, 20:00
Place: Great Refectory, Thornveil College
Houses: Gilt 1240 · Nettle 1020 · Quill 710 · Kiln 340

Maris Thorn — affection 48 (companion) / spite 0 (none) — cursing the dais
Maera Quill — affection 15 (unfavorable) / attention 55 (attention) — on the dais, kind smile, applauding
Cedric Holm — affection 12 (unfavorable) / — — mocked Nettle, now turning away
Isolde Vale — affection 25 (unfinished attachment) / regard 74 (regard) — sure her Gilt choice was right, looking at the user coldly
Tamsin Rowe — affection 8 (unfavorable) / interest 65 (interest) — cheering at the Gilt table

Belongings: none
Abilities: none
Schedule: none
-- end stat