He drops his head, and waits.
Dragana has found her object.
Her hands are cupped around a golden ball of sorts, encrusted with ruby jewels, but there’s something in it.
Her thumb slides along the edge, then the lid of the ball pops open—and reveals a dark grey stone. A nugget of the universe.
Her lashes shut as she brings it to her mouth… and it looks like she’s kissing it, closed-lipped but still, my face twists.
Master Wealdwine walks the podium, slow and soft steps at the edge of the raised circle.
Over the trolley, the view to the pews across the room is clear—and so are the two faces angled our way, faces carved from angel stone with such delicate, loving hands.
Asta and Dray are alphabetically paired on the pew. Sinclair and Ström, they sit side by side, but while they look a pair made for each other, there’s a palpable distance between them.
Dray’s chin is turned, and he watches Dragana inhale a steady breath, like she’s sucking the life source out from the space debris—but Dray watches it happen like this is actually interesting to him.
Asta is angled away from him, her knees shifted, her chin lifted—and she looks across to the other rows of pews.
I trace her gaze… to Eric Harling.
He doesn’t look at her.
He doesn’t look at anyone.
His face is buried in his hands, practically folded over, and his pentacle rests on his lap.
That in itself is strange, since no pentacles are to be used in the exams, practice or not.
Dragana’s sharp breath cuts through the room.
In her hands, the stone turns to dust, then falls away. And she loosens a weighted breath.
But nothing else happens.
Absorption isn’t very impressive. It’s all too common and mostly useless.
In a coven, someone with absorption would be best paired with an amplifier, then the stardust she just inhaled could be used to amplify the coven’s power even more.
But solo, she just has more magic in her, and it’s temporary, so the scattered applause is unenthused.
The next are called up.
“Mikhail Ivanov and Oliver Craven.”
The human embodiment of fatigue moves beside me. A sigh ribbons out of him as he pushes up his weight from the bench, then side-steps out of the row.
The trolley is still planted in the middle of the stage, rich with instruments, ornaments, wooden boxes, pentacles, empty bowls, and dishes full of water.
Oliver and Mikhail take their places on opposite sides of the trolley.
Wealdwine orders, “Turn wine to water.”
Purification.
The corners of my mouth dig into my cheeks.
It’s a small task.
