He looked less angry than confused.
I felt almost sorry for him.
I stepped back and Marcus got to his feet.
A thin line of blood ran from the corner of my mouth to my chin. I had not felt the cut happen. His stave must have caught me on the recovery.
Aldric saw the blood.
So did Caspian.
I knew because the Pull sharpened so quickly I nearly turned toward him.
Aldric came to the center line.
“Verita,” he said. “You used the fifth form.”
“Was I not supposed to?”
“You used the fifth form,” he repeated, “and then you did something else entirely.”
Everyone in the room was listening.
That was the problem with public correction. Everyone took notes, even when they were silent.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why?”
Because Marcus was bigger.
Because the form would have made me survive the strike but lose the fight.
Because no one had ever taught me the luxury of doing things beautifully before doing them effectively.
“Because he left space,” I said.
Aldric’s mouth twitched.
“Congratulations on Ring One, Verita.”
Behind the railing, the first-years shifted.
So Ring One meant something.
Another thing no one had explained until after it happened.
Marcus looked at me again and shook his head.
At the railing, Caspian’s hand stayed on the wood, clenching too tight.
The Pull didn’t move toward him.
It waited.
Small favors.
The assessment continued.
