Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

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Back in the yard, time grew long and thin. The little clock over the south door slid its one hand forward the width of a fingernail. Fizz finished a grand tale about the Great Cabbage knight War (which was not real) and a poem about a spoon (which was barely a poem) and took three more compliments with great dignity.

"Soft as a cloud!"

"Bright as a coal!"

"Braver than my brother!"

"All true," Fizz said, very modestly.

The clerk came out at last with a tall board. Two guards set it on a frame. The clerk tapped the wood for quiet. A hush ran out like a ripple on a pond.

"Names and numbers," she said. "Written round. If your name is here, form a line by the north steps. If not, you may stay to watch or you may go home. Do not shout. Do not push."

She stepped aside.

Students surged, then checked themselves. The row folded and unfolded in that polite way crowds learn to move when they want to pretend they are not eager. Fingers traced lines. Eyes raced.

Fizz zipped forward, then remembered himself and waited for a gap. He read faster than most. He found S for the loud boy who had called "majestic." He found L for the girl with the ribbon. He cheered for both.

He went to J.

His paw stopped. His face changed.

He read again. Slower now. Line by line. Number by number.

Nothing.

"John," Fizz said, voice small.

John already knew. He had not moved yet. He did not like to run at a wall. He stood, walked to the board, and read from the top down, neat and sure. He did not find his name. He checked the numbers by token. His token number did not appear. He read the last line twice. He read his own empty space a third time.

The yard made the soft sound crowds make when something goes wrong and no one wants to be the first to say it.

Fizz looked up, eyes bright and wet with rage. "No," he said. "No. You wrote it true. You wrote clean. You answered the stone one. You answered the iron one. You even named your new idea. Silent Edge. They cannot mark tidy wrong."

John's mouth was flat. His hands were quiet. "It happens," he said. The words were plain. They did not fit his face.

Fizz tried to lift the air with a joke and failed. He went for a song instead. He floated up and sang, loud and brave, in a high sweet voice that turned heads.

When the list is dark and thin,

and your name won't let you in,

fix your breath and lift your chin—

pancakes now, and next we win.

Rule one: keep your feet. Rule two: keep your eyes.

Rule three: keep your fire where the quiet lies.

If the door says "no," we will build our own.

If the board says "go," we will bring a throne.

A few students clapped without thinking. The guards almost smiled. The clerk coughed into her hand to hide a grin. It helped, a little. Not enough.

The academy bell in the far quarter gave one slow note. A cloud moved across the sun and left.

Fartray came out of the side hall. His smile could have cut an apple without a knife. He saw John's face, and joy like cold water slid over him.

"Good," he thought. "So you can feel it. Taste it. I will make you taste more tonight. Tomorrow you will not even reach the yard."

He did not speak to John. He did not need to. He passed close enough to brush an elbow and went on, light as a feather, heavy as spite.

Fizz tracked him with murder in his eyes. "I will roast him," he whispered. "I will roast him so evenly that the chef will clap."

"Not now," John said. His voice was steady. His eyes were not.

He turned away from the board and sat again on the low wall by the trees. He set his token on his knee. He did not put it away. He looked at the ground until the lines stopped moving. He looked up. He breathed.

The yard thinned. The next-round list formed a small, proud line by the north steps. The not-picked stood in little knots, talking too loud or not at all. Life inside the academy kept moving. It always does.

A guard in academy colors walked straight toward John. He had a sharp jaw and a clean belt. He did not look tired. He looked like a man who liked saying orders.

"Candidate John," he said, voice flat and official. "You are summoned inside."

John lifted his head. "By who?"

The guard's mouth bent. "Questions later. Move now. Do not waste a proctor's time."

Fizz floated a little between them. His whiskers prickled. His ears went back. "Who sent you," he asked. "Name. Office. Show the paper."

The guard did not look at him. "Spirits do not question summons," he said.

Someone in the background flicked his two fingers, a small, neat motion, like a man brushing a fly.

A clear band like a strip of glass snapped over Fizz's mouth. It did not shine. It did not hum. It simply was. His next word stuffed back into his throat and turned into a furious squeak. He clawed at the band. His paws skidded on air.

John blinked. He did not see the strip. He only heard the squeak. His mind was still inside the empty space on the board. It was hard to put new shapes in there.

"Come," the guard said. He turned without checking if John followed.

John stood. His feet moved. Fizz grabbed his sleeve and tugged, eyes wide, shaking his head hard. John touched Fizz's shoulder once, quick, the way you calm a friend's hand before you lift a heavy thing.

"It is fine," he said, not knowing if it was true. "It is only a talk."

Fizz shook his head harder. The clear band held like a lie told with a straight face. He made a sound like a kettle that cannot boil.

John walked behind the guard. They crossed the yard. They passed under the shade of the three old trees. They went through the side door where the stone is cool and the sound changes.

The door closed with a soft click. Nobody knows what fate awaits for John.

(End of Chapter Seven.)

End of the volume one of void lord. A new future is waiting for John.