Aranthian history was one of Seraphina’s strongest subjects. It required little more than a well-organized repertoire of facts and dates, punctuated by a handful of famous scholarly quotations. She had even composed a lilting mnemonic tune for herself, humming it under her breath as she crafted her essay. Every argument she made was meticulously framed, every interpretation clearly explained. With about ten minutes left on the glass, she paused to check over her work. Perfect, she thought with a quiet rush of satisfaction.

  By contrast, the girl to her right looked ready to burst into tears—or commit more violence upon her own hair. She tugged anxiously and fiercely at her braided locks, her frustration unmistakable. Seraphina tried not to stare at her. She found herself trying to suppress a very rare and very small pang of pity.

  The bell’s sharp peal signaled an end to that portion of the test. Only the remainder of the morning exams lay ahead. Their breaks were too brief even for a quick nap, so Seraphina closed her eyes and slipped into a near-meditative state of calm. She needed it. The next section focused on magical theory, one of the Academy’s more abstract and esoteric subjects. Although not every student possessed the spark of Mana, the faculty believed that any graduate from their hallowed halls should at least grasp the fundamentals of the arcane.

  Once again, new papers were distributed, and the bell chimed them back to work. Seraphina scanned the questions rapidly, sensing precisely how the examiners expected each answer to be framed.

  She understood magic more deeply than most professors might guess—perhaps too deeply. The real challenge was not in knowing the material, but in providing the answers the Academy wanted to see. Contradicting official doctrine with “unorthodox truths” could mark her as a prodigy, drawing unwanted attention from King Elidion and the Royal Army’s Arcanum. Even her noble status might not protect her if the kingdom decided her gifts should be conscripted. To deny this was to deny the bedrock that simply was Aranthia. No matter how more “civilized” Aranthia had grown, the waging of war always took precedence.

  More importantly, rumor had it that the Arcanum’s food was oh-so dreadful, and Seraphina was in no hurry to discover that firsthand.

  Swallowing her pride, she wrote down the “standard” answers, restraining the urge to reveal everything she knew. Sometimes, simply blending in was the safest option.

  ***

  By midday, the tests were finished, and the students gathered in the main courtyard to see their names—or rather, their numbers—etched onto the living stone. Each year, Earth Mages inscribed the new test results upon a towering slab of polished granite. Today, a thin drizzle fell from iron-gray skies, lending the occasion the air of a funeral. Huddling under an umbrella held by her maid, Miriam, Seraphina observed the anxious clusters of students pressing forward.

  She herself felt no suspense. She already knew what her results would be.

  “Oh! Lady Seraphina, that’s your number, isn’t it?” exclaimed Eloise, pointing at the very top of the granite list. Rainwater slid off the floating disc of earth she conjured over her own head—an impressive trick indeed and a sign of her growing mastery over her element.

  There it was: her number, in first place. A perfect score. Lines of script on the stone proclaiming her greatness. Seraphina grinned inwardly, recalling that for the very last question, she had closed her eyes and chosen an answer at random—just for sport. The game world had rewarded her, giving her another point of Luck.

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  She quickly spotted Eloise’s and Miriam’s results. “You didn’t do too badly yourself, Eloise,” she noted. “Top twenty. You could have scored even higher if you studied with your brother and I…”

  “Oh, please. Just the thought of being tutored by my brother sets my teeth on edge,” Eloise interrupted, rolling her eyes. “I would not wish to impose on your time together. Though, come to think of it, do you ever wish you had a brother of your own?”

  Seraphina offered an indifferent shrug. Dealing with the younger one had been trying enough, and she did not particularly want a sibling. Meanwhile, Eloise caught sight of Miriam’s number.

  “There you are, Miriam! Look—you passed!” she cried, beaming.

  Miriam had scraped by, in truth, quite the feat, given her maid’s duties alongside her having to run much of Seraphina’s growing business ventures, left the poor creature almost no time to study. Seraphina allowed herself a proud, silent nod in Miriam’s direction. Good for you, she thought. Good for you.

  Just then, as the drizzle intensified, a figure approached with deliberate confidence. Desdemona de Savant strode forward, hips swaying. Her dark-brown hair cascaded in lustrous waves, and she wore a gown of almost the same hue—a hue that would have clashed horribly with Seraphina’s own pale complexion and golden hair. For a moment, Seraphina could not help a flicker of envy; the dress suited Desdemona far too well.

  A servant trailed after Desdemona, holding a small silk umbrella to keep her ensemble pristine. She let a manicured hand drift through her chocolate tresses before giving Seraphina a sidelong look.

  “Well, Seraphina, how did you do?” she inquired lightly, though her eyes gleamed with anticipation. “I placed in the top three. Rather fitting for someone as brilliant as she is beautiful, don’t you agree?”

  Seraphina’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I certainly can not disagree with that,” she replied serenely.

  Desdemona searched her rival’s face, hunting for any trace of sarcasm. Finding none, she pressed on.

  “Oh, don’t worry about admitting that you placed lower than me,” she said, lightly laughing before adopting a falsely sympathetic tone. “There’s no shame in it, of course. It is a rare intellect that can challenge mine.”

  Seraphina waited, letting the tension simmer. She considered comparing Desdemona to a female dog, but decided it was far too uncouth and too on the nose. It was times like these when all of her hard work bore fruit. Finally, she spoke:

  “Oh, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” She gestured languidly at the top of the etched stone. “I placed first.”

  A heartbeat of silence. Desdemona’s eyes flicked toward the granite board, scanning frantically.

  “That can’t be… Are you sure?” she sputtered, taken completely aback.

  “It’s true,” Eloise chimed in, flashing her an impish grin.

  Desdemona’s cheeks reddened, but she tried to remain composed. “Well, truly, there isn’t that much difference between first and third,” she announced with a dismissive sniff.

  Seraphina chuckled softly, lifting the girl’s chin. She was thankful that she had chosen to wear heels this day. “Desdemona, my dear, you underestimate the gulf between us. Ninety-seven percent was all that you could get with your meager gifts. But for me, a perfect score was all there was for me to take. That was all there was.”

  Despite her olive complexion, Desdemona’s face burned as red as a sunset, and her composure wavered. Seraphina simply laughed again, the sound light and airy, as the de Savant girl stormed off, utterly humiliated.