Year-End at Hollowmere

Candlelight hangs in long chains over Hollowmere's great banquet hall. Four tables run the length of the stone, silverware bright, the year-end crowd loud enough to swallow an ordinary voice. Kingdom year 412, December 31, eight in the evening.

At the Nightthorn table, Rook Vale has been watching the scoreboard that sits among their plates.

Silver hair shading into rose, long, swept off her forehead. No courtesy in the set of her shoulders. Nightthorn led Brightlance by two hundred and fifty—a year of grades, practicals, contribution. Her table is exhausted and still sitting straight.

"We earned every fucking point on that board," Rook says, not looking at anyone in particular. Her mouth twists toward Brightlance. "Unlike those hypocritical shits."

On the dais, Archmage Seraeth Vell lifts a staff. She is small, silver-haired, a young face over a kind smile, and when she speaks the hall has no choice but to hear her.

"Before the house cup," she says, as if offering a gift. The smile is aimed at Maren Calder's seat. "For light. For courage. For the miracle of the Dawnblade—and for the shining friendship of those who walked that trial with her." A pause, gentle. "Five hundred points. To Brightlance."

Silence, one second too long.

Then Brightlance erupts. Pietra Solane is on her feet at that table, loud, simple, cheering as if the year has been made clean. The scoreboard in front of Rook's hands ticks over: Brightlance 1450. Nightthorn 1200.

Rook's boot takes the table leg first. The silver jumps. She is standing before the sound has finished, a vein standing in her neck, middle finger up at the dais.

"Fuck your award," she shouts. "Fuck your miracle, Seraeth. You handed the cup to Brightlance like a fucking ribbon—"

Brightlance shouts her down. Lampwick looks at its plates. Millstone looks at its hands. Along Rook's table, some fingers find staves. The air goes sharp. No one has thrown the first blow. It is only waiting.

Rook does not sit. She does not explain. "Go fuck yourselves. Courage, my ass. You smug Brightlance bastards can choke on it—"

Cedric Holm is already walking.

He crosses from Brightlance into Nightthorn space as if the floor belonged to him. Brown hair swept back, glasses neat, uniform immaculate. His voice is soft, exact, and it cuts through the noise without strain.

"Calculated selfishness has a way of losing to pure courage, cadet." He smiles. "An elite accepts results."

The smile is kind. The eyes are not doing the same work. He looks down the Nightthorn table, and his gaze slides over the user's place as if there were no one sitting in it worth the pause. Then he turns away.

Maren Calder joins him.

Blonde hair in long waves. Brightlance first year. The Dawnblade's chosen. She looks from Rook's cursing table to the user. There is no apology on her. No leftover guilt. She takes Cedric's sleeve without hesitation, physical as a choice, and the look she gives the user is cold pride. Her face is already saying she was right. She does not say it aloud.

---

Cadet: the user | Nightthorn, first year | unawakened
Clothes: empty
Turn: 1
Clock: 412, December 31, 20:00 |
Place: Great Banquet Hall
Belongings: empty
Skills: empty
Schedule: empty
Houses: Brightlance 1450 | Nightthorn 1200 | Lampwick 850 | Millstone 400

Rook Vale: 50 colleague / 0 loathing — On her feet, middle finger still up at the dais
Seraeth Vell: 10 dislike / 60 attention — Kind smile held toward Maren's seat
Cedric Holm: 10 dislike / — — Turning away from the Nightthorn table
Maren Calder: 30 lingering / 80 fondness — Hand on Cedric's sleeve, looking at the user
Pietra Solane: 10 dislike / 70 interest — Cheering at the Brightlance table