Dray has been given free reign in his test.
As long as it’s to do with the portraits, he can choose to put on whatever show he wants.
And he does.
Dray walks the circle of the podium, a slow and casual pace that is nothing less than predatory to me—because I’ve seen that walk before. The slow wind up before disaster strikes.
Leisurely, Dray cranes his neck from side to side, soft blond hair falling into his crushed-glass eyes.
Then he comes to a gradual stop—facing three portraits, and he flexes his hands before turning his palms upwards.
Light flickers around the room, disturbed, and it warps the portraits.
Faces of priests been and gone start to shift.
Chins sharpen, nostrils flare, eyes widen.
But it’s all so warped, like it’s in slow motion, a screen glitching, or even part of a dream—
A dream that distorts into a nightmare.
Dray only faces three portraits, but all of them in the hall come to life.
The faces in the portraits are turning in confusion, looking at one another across the vast hall, and then the voices start—
The shouts come out in such gravelly croaks, and all at once, I can’t string them apart. I catch words here and there, but nothing more, not over the sudden lift of noise from the seniors watching.
The awe sprawling out through the hall is bated with clenched excitement, that moment before the eruption, that moment of just waiting to see what happens next…
The screams.
That’s what happens next.
The voices, the shouts, the faces yelling at one another, it all warps into harrowing screams as flames ignite and swallow the portraits whole.
My insides run cold, ice trickling through me.
I can’t look away, can’t tear my horrified stare off the mangled, warped, contorted faces melting paint and oil.
The screams go on so long.
So fucking long.
My hands smack to my ears, hard, and I brace myself against it, the strangled cries, the shouts of awe from the seniors, the heat from the flames.
And the whole time, Dray is just standing there on the stage, palms turned upwards, and his face as blank as ever.
Totally uncaring, unflinching.
The flames die out.
The screams soften.
And left in the wake are scorched walls.
Not even the brass frames are left.
The breath that utters out of me is choppy.
