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Outside, Fizz was still running the yard like a tiny boss.

"Line up!" he ordered, paw high. "Girls left, boys right. One compliment each. No repeats. Be clever."

A girl with a blue ribbon whispered, "You're… shiny."

Fizz bowed. "Approved."

A boy with ink on his cheek blurted, "You're fluffier than the dean's wig."

Fizz gasped with joy. "Bold! The dean will weep. Next!"

The little crowd giggled until a yard proctor cleared his throat. Fizz pointed at him. "Do not worry, sir. I am running morale drills. Very advanced. You would not understand."

The proctor blinked, decided he did not get paid enough to argue with a glowing walnut, and looked away.

Fizz rose higher and spun once, leaving a quick spark trail. "Yes, yes. Follow me. Worship in moderation, adoration in excess. This is balance."

The yard hummed like a hive, and Fizz ruled it.

Inside, the exam moved toward its end. The tall hour candle spit once and settled. The proctor at the front lifted her chin.

"Five minutes," she said.

John tapped his quill. There were so many questions about the void than he expected. Why so many? Why today?

He let the thought go. Numbers. Breath. Four in. Four out.

"Answer first," he told himself, quietly in his head. "Think later."

Final question: Write an original casting idea that uses void, circle, and resonance.

He wrote, hand steady:

If void forgets, circle remembers. A circle can hold absence as well as presence. If two voices sing into void, the sound they make is not noise but a stronger silence. That silence can cut—not like a blade, but like the place where a blade should be. Resonance inside emptiness. I call it the Silent Edge.

He put a neat dot. No blot.

"Time," the proctor called.

Quills stopped. A soft wave of breath moved through the room. Papers slid forward. The hour candle leaned and gave up a small sigh of wax.

Fartray's page was smudged, his jaw tight. He did not look back. He did not need to. He could feel calm behind him the way a man feels a door he cannot lock.

The lead proctor raised a hand. "Results in one hour," she said. "Do not leave the grounds. You may wait in the yard. Those who pass will be sent to the next round. Those who do not may try again next season. That is the rule."

Wood scraped. Benches groaned. Feet stood. The hall emptied into the light.

John stepped out with the rest. His fingers were ink-stained. His breath was even. He did not smile. He did not frown. He looked like a man who had stacked bricks true and now waited to see if the wall would stand.

He saw the mob at once.

"Fizz," he said. "What are you doing?"

Fizz spread both paws like a showman. "Behold! My worshipers. They chant my name. They crave my wisdom. One tried to give me a pastry, but I said no. I am watching my figure."

"Fizz," John said again, rubbing his brow.

A dozen students waved. "Lord Fizz!" "Majestic!" "No touching—we know!"

Fizz nodded, very grave. "They learn quickly."

John sat on the low wall by the trees to wait. He did not speak much. He drank water from the yard pump, wiped his hands, and watched the door where the clerk would appear with a board.

Fizz floated above his little club and told them stories in a stage whisper.

"…and then the pancake tower fell. It was a tragedy. But we ate the tragedy, so it was fine."

They laughed. He moved on.

"…and never use unmarked iron for raw flame, unless you like your eyebrows gone. See this?" He pointed at thin single lines, still proud. "Glory marks."

They gasped, delighted. Even two older boys in fine coats smiled in spite of themselves. The guards exchanged a look like, What is our life now, and kept their posts.

Across the grounds, Fartray did not wait in the sun. He cut into the side hall, teeth set. He took the back stair two at a time and turned down a quiet corridor lined with small doors. He stopped at the third, knocked once, and went in without waiting.

Killian sat there, older by a few years, coat neat, face smooth. A cousin. An Aqua. He did not look up at first. He finished reading a page, set it down, and then raised his eyes.

"You have the look of a boy who wants a favor," Killian said. "And the smell of wet laundry. Long story?"

"Short," Fartray snapped. "There is a gutter rat named John. He should not pass."

Killian's mouth twitched. "We do not decide that."

"You know a clerk," Fartray said. "You always know a clerk. There are questions about magic on the paper. He writes about magic. Call it wrong. Call it unsafe. Say he pushed where he should not."

Killian's eyes cooled a shade. "We do not like gutter rat people."

"We do not like him," Fartray said. "Make a note. Move a mark. It is a number on a list, cousin. Numbers are light."

Killian leaned back. He thought. He was not a fool. He knew lines. He also knew how to bend them without getting caught under them. He rolled his ring once, then stood.

"Wait here," he said.

He left by a side door that did not look like a door until you needed it. Fartray paced. He saw himself in the window glass: perfect hair, clean jaw, eyes that had not yet learned how to lose and did not plan to.

After some minutes Killian came back. He did not smile.

"It will be… reviewed," he said. "Your rat writes tidy. Tidying can be dangerous."

Fartray's shoulder lowered half an inch. "Good."

Killian lifted a finger. "Do not speak of it again."

"I will not, cousin." Fartray said, already burning with a new plan for the hour after the list.

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