Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 69: Sorting Part Three

Dean slides back into his seat, looking damned pleased with himself. The Luxor students, all hundred thirty or so of them, are already whispering among themselves, congratulating or sizing each other up, eyes darting to see which of their peers might be a threat or an asset. The rest of us are left to stew in anticipation, wondering which fate the proctors have chosen for us.

Evanora doesn't waste time. She lifts her hand and points to another proctor, this time directing our attention to a woman I remember all too well the one who swept up Alaster's body after our duel with disgust, like it was just another chore on her list. She's medium height, long purple hair cascading down her back, and eyes the color of mindaro, that eerie yellow-green.

I wonder, just for a moment, what kind of house this woman would run. My mind starts to drift—maybe something cold, clinical, the kind of place you send people when there's nothing left but the rules. Then she speaks, and the idle curiosity sharpens to attention.

"My name is Proctor Eve Melnyk," she says, her voice flat, almost bored, as if she's being inconvenienced by being here. "I am in charge of House Melruth."

Evanora flicks her wrist again, and the lights dim once again, shadows stretching long and sinisterly across the floor. All the banners ripple and shift, the colors all bleeding away to bone white, violet, and black. The funerary mask appears half of it cracked, the other side smooth and cold wreathed in thorny laurel. From the mask's eyes, blood-red tears trickle, catching the low light, making it look almost alive. The room feels colder, the air heavy with something like expectation or grief.

I lean forward, more interested than I'd admit. There's something about the quiet menace of the mask, the subtlety of the colors. Maybe I'll be picked for this one, I think. It would make sense, in a twisted way, for me to end up with the House that wears death on its sleeve.

Eve's eyes scan the crowd unreadable. She speaks again, her voice low but carrying. "A word after a word after a word is power."

I frown. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

"Those of you who join House Melruth," she continues, "have been observed to show respect. Duty. You understand that the ends justify the means. Ours is not a House for the loud or the flashy. Some Houses are content to parade their virtue, to chase glory. We do what is necessary, and we carry the weight others won't. Melruth shapes Elites that become the Empire's backbone the part no one sees, but everything depends on."

I glance around. A few of the other proctors are rolling their eyes or shifting impatiently, apparently unimpressed by Eve's speech. That makes me smile. If the rest of the academy finds Melruth so irritating, maybe there's something to admire about them after all.

Eve doesn't even glance at the other proctors shifting and making faces behind her. Her focus is on us and only us, her eyes burning with that strange, dark light. She surveys the crowd, chin lifted, and when she speaks again her voice rings out with the certainty of someone who doesn't care if you love her or hate her, only that you listen.

She raises her chin, and for a moment her eyes catch the light, cold and bright "Remember, my dear students: Ideas are more powerful than magic. We do not let our enemies have magic, why should we let them have ideas?" The room goes still at her words, the kind of silence that crackles with discomfort and fascination. It's the sort of line that gets quoted in history books or in war tribunals.

She meets Evanora's gaze, nods once. Evanora's answering grin is all teeth and approval. She waves her hand and, just like before, another shimmer of light passes over the crowd. This time, only about forty students glow with a faint, ghostly white so few compared to the sun-drenched ranks of Luxor. I can't help the bitterness that twists in my gut; I actually feel a pang of disappointment. I wouldn't have minded being chosen for this one. Eve's attitude the unapologetic edge to her, the way she talks about power and ideas hits a little too close to home. She may be unhinged, but at least she's honest about it.

Eve flicks her fingers, commanding, "Stand if chosen."

The forty rise, quietly, no fanfare or pride just a kind of grim purpose. I lean forward, studying them. These aren't the obvious choices, not the pretty faces or the ones who look like they've spent their whole lives being told they're special. There's a calmness to some, a haunted look to others. Most are hard to read, and that alone makes me more cautious than I want to admit. People like that are trouble, one way or another. What did they do in their tests to get chosen for this house?

I'm still tallying the faces when Elijah leans in, whispering, "Kinda blows we didn't get that house, to be honest. Their flag is cool."

I snort and nod, keeping my voice low. "Yeah, I wouldn't have been mad going there. They seem less annoying than the Luxor crowd."

Elijah lets out a laugh, a little too loud, drawing a few daggers' worth of glares from nearby students. "Oh, I know what you mean. A house full of highborn nobles seems so cliché. You just know their older students are going to be insufferable."

I can't help myself I laugh too, a dry sound. "I bet they're going to be so stuck up. Probably spend all their time talking about their family trees.

Elijah's just about to reply, his mouth twisted into a wicked smile, when Eve's cold voice cuts him off. "Those of you chosen will all follow me when the sorting has ended. Power is not a means, it is an end. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Remember that."

The words drop like stones into the hush. For a moment, the entire hall seems to hold its breath. Eve sweeps away, white robe trailing behind her, and retakes her seat. The silence she leaves behind is thick, uneasy, and a little awestruck. I'm left staring, heart still thumping, and for a brief instant I feel genuinely heartbroken not to have been chosen for that house. Eve is a woman after my own heart. She doesn't bother with pretense or pretty speeches just cuts straight to the truth, ugly as it might be. There's something almost admirable in it. Ruthless, yes, but at least it's honest.

Evanora claps once, sharp and sudden, jolting everyone out of their collective trance. The banners ripple, the lights snap back to their normal brightness, and the strange, haunted energy of Melruth fades into the background. I try to shake off the disappointment. It's stupid, really. I shouldn't care which flag I stand under, which house name gets stitched onto my uniform. But I can't help it. I wanted Melruth. I wanted to stand with the ones who understand that every rule is just a weapon, waiting to be used or broken. Instead, I'm left waiting, still unclaimed.

Elijah nudges me again, a sly grin on his face. "Don't worry, Ayato. Maybe we'll get lucky with the next one."

I force a smile, but it feels thin. "Yeah. Maybe."

But as the next proctor rises and the banners start to shift, I can't help glancing back at Eve, at the mask and the thorns and the blood-red tears. I wonder what it would've been like, to be part of that house to be chosen by someone who sees the world for what it really is, and isn't afraid to say it out loud.