Page 23 of Fractured Fates

Securing my grip on Pip, I lift my chin and stride defiantly into the chamber. I may be nervous, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to show it. My footsteps falter, though, as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room.

It’s not just the aura of dominance that fills the room. There’s something else about it too. Something that makes my skin crawl. This chamber is familiar. As if I’ve been here before.

The faces of at least ten men and women stare at me. They are all a lot older, dressed in expensive clothes, valuable jewels hanging from their ears and looping around their necks. The chamber walls are gilded with gold and above is the center of the glass dome, the night’s sky somehow amplified so that the stars and planets appear as if I could reach out and touch them.

The men and women sit in a circle, except for a pale, bald man, his wrinkled skin almost translucent, a heavy chain around his neck and glasses resting on his nose. He is only slightly taller than me, but beside him a woman with much darker skin towers above him. Her silver hair is clipped in tight curls and she’s dressed in a tweed skirt and matching jacket. I’m surprised she’s not clutching a riding crop.

The man squints at me with shrewd eyes behind his glasses.

“Miss Blackwaters.”

I shake myself out of my trance and cross further into the room, stopping before the man and the woman.

“I am Chancellor Stermer,” he tells me, not introducing the woman beside him who simply stares without blinking. “You are unregistered. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” I say.

He waits for me to add more. When I don’t, he frowns. “The Council has come to a decision about your fate.”

Oh god, I want to make some snarky comment to this stuck-up man, but I bite down hard on my tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and wait for their decision.

“Failing to register your magical status with the authorities is a grave misdemeanor, punishable with a sentence of hard labor in the North of the country. Every magical has a responsibility to this great country to make themselves known, to accept the training the authorities provide and to stand ready to defend our people from attack.”

I glare at him some more. I’m not averse to hard physical work and I’m not some coward.

“However,” he continues, “given your young age, and what we believe may have been your aunt’s influence on your thinking, you will not be feeling the full force of the authorities’ hand. Miss Blackwaters, it is important that you understand this. We are showing leniency and mercy here. But do not test our patience. We will be watching you.” He squints at me a second time as if to emphasize his words. “You will not be sent to the labor camps, nor will you be sent to the juvenile detention center. The Council has decided that, like other magicals your age, you will attend Arrow Hart Academy until you graduate in the year of your 21st birthday.” The Chancellor gestures to the woman. “This is Professor York, principal of Arrow Hart Academy. She has kindly agreed to this unusual request made by the Council even though you are likely to be considerably behind your peers in terms of learning.

“The Council has agreed to loan you the money for your academy fees and board until you graduate,” the Chancellor adds. “This loan will then need to be repaid in full after your graduation.”

“Loan?” I gape at him. “I don’t have any money.”

An academy sounds expensive. Something I could never afford.

“After the academy, you will take up a position in the defense forces, like every other young magical, and will be paid a wage accordingly. One which I’m sure will allow you to pay off any debts.”

It’s not something I actually need to worry about. I’ll be long gone before graduation. Just as well. Plunging me into debt seems like a perfect way for the authorities to keep me under their heels. It’s looking like my aunt wasn’t so wrong about them.

“Fine,” I say. The Chancellor smirks. “Just as long as I can bring my pig,” I add.

What follows is a lengthy argument between me and the Chancellor, me and the principal, and me and various Council members. Nobody thinks Arrow Hart Academy is a suitable place for a pig. I disagree. If it’s suitable for me, it’s suitable for him. After half an hour of going round in circles, the Chancellor’s face growing redder and redder with frustration by the minute, as if it might pop, he shouts:

“Would you prefer we sent you to the labor camp, Miss Blackwaters?”

“If I could take my pig, then, yes!”

Principal York’s lips twitch.

“The pig may come to Arrow Hart Academy, Miss Blackwaters.” The Chancellor growls but the principal silences him with an obviously practiced smile. “But he must remain in your room–”

“He needs outdoor space.”

“I believe there is a patch of grass outside your dorm room.”

I swallow. Dorm?

“Thank you,” I manage to mumble.

“But,” she adds, “you will be required to undertake additional chores as payment for this exceptional dispensation.”