The silence ended.
"Two hundred and fifty of you came into this examination," the Commandant said. "There were fifty places. That means most of you could not succeed, and most of you did not."
He looked across the rows.
"To those of you who did, congratulations. You met the standard. To those of you who did not, listen to me. Failing this examination does not mean you cannot become a good soldier. Those of you who remain eligible may apply again, through the proper process. Others may choose to enlist directly in a recognised military force, including the forces of the Great Families. You will train there, and you will serve, and you can rise. There is more than one honourable road into service."
Owen thought of Edith Rooke, and the road she had taken.
"And to those of you who passed," the Commandant went on, "remember that you have earned a chance. Nothing more. You will be Officer Cadets, not officers. You have not earned the right to command anyone. For the next three years, you will study. You will develop your cultivation and your fighting. You will learn discipline, and you will learn to work alongside each other. And you will show us that you have the judgment we expect of an officer." His gaze moved slowly along the front row. "Your family names won’t excuse you from any of it. Neither will today."
He explained the arrangements for the night.
Nobody who had failed would be sent out into the dark. Temporary rooms had been prepared for them, and transport had been arranged for the following morning, to take each of them on to where they needed to go. Academy staff would show them to their rooms and give them the rest of their instructions. The fifty who had passed would be given their own quarters, and would be taken there by the staff responsible for them.
"While you are on these grounds," the Commandant said, "you will follow the instructions of this Academy’s staff. All of you."
Then, at last, he came to the results.
"The scores from the examination have been checked and confirmed. The fifty successful candidates have been identified. The highest score in the examination was achieved by Lucien de Clare."
Heads turned.
Owen found him among the rows. Lucien was standing very straight, his face controlled, his replacement arm at his side. He inclined his head slightly toward the platform, and that was all.
A few weeks ago, Lucien had lost that arm in front of half the capital. Now he had come first out of two hundred and fifty. Whatever else Owen thought of him, it was no small thing.
He heard whispers around him.
"That’s de Clare. From the capital."
"The one who lost the duel? Against the Ferrers boy?"
"He came first. With that arm."
"The Academy has also reviewed the incident involving the creature," the Commandant said. The whispers stopped. "It was not part of the examination. Killing it did not register through the bracelets, and no points were recorded for it."
He paused.
"However, several candidates acted with considerable courage during that emergency. They protected the injured. They supported one another. And they faced a threat far beyond anything this examination was meant to contain. Having reviewed the incident reports and the records of the observation projections, the Academy has approved awards for exceptional merit."
A murmur went through the square.
"These awards are separate from the examination results," the Commandant said. "Admission was decided by the hunting scores, and it remains decided by them. No candidate who earned a place through the examination will lose it because of these awards."
He looked down at the paper in his hand.
"Elias Ward. Eveline Harcourt. Marianne Loxley. Each of you is awarded fifty points of exceptional merit. You protected injured candidates, you stood with your companions, and you kept fighting against a creature far beyond what this examination was ever meant to hold."
Owen heard the names, and he remembered.
Elias planting himself in front of him with his shield, when Owen couldn’t get up off the ground. Marianne’s spear driving into the thing’s side to drag it away from him. Eveline coming in low behind it and slashing its leg.
Without them, he would probably be lying back there in the forest, too.
"And for defeating the creature," the Commandant said, "and ending the threat it posed to every other candidate in those grounds, Owen Ferrers is awarded four hundred points of exceptional merit."
The square erupted into noise.
"Ferrers? That’s him?"
"The one from the duel, with de Clare—"
"He killed it? The thing that killed that boy?"
"The Grand Duke’s son?"
"How strong is he, to do something like that?"
Owen heard them. He kept looking straight ahead and didn’t answer any of them.
Behind the Commandant, the honours were already being displayed. At the very top, above every other name, stood his own.
Owen Ferrers. Highest overall merit.
Lucien’s name remained at the head of the examination results, exactly where it had been.
Owen looked across the rows.
Lucien had turned his head and was looking straight at him.
His jaw had gone tight. Down at his side, the fingers of his replacement hand curled, slowly, into a fist.
Owen knew that look. Lucien had fought for twelve hours to take first place. He had done it. And now, in front of every candidate in the square, the greatest honour of the night had gone to someone else. To Owen, of all people.
But Lucien didn’t say a word. He didn’t interrupt. He held Owen’s eyes a moment longer, then turned back to face the platform.
Owen didn’t try to provoke him.
He was glad of the honour. He would have been lying to himself to pretend otherwise. But even now, standing in the lamplight with his name at the top of the board, part of him was still back on that slope, looking down at a creature with tears on its face.
"Congratulations to those of you who succeeded," the Commandant said. "From tomorrow, you will train under this Academy’s rules. All of you, no matter who you are or where you come from."
He turned toward the rows nearest the eastern side of the square. "Those who did not pass will now follow the staff assigned to your accommodation. The fifty successful candidates will remain in the marked section of the square until the residential officer calls you to form up."
"Dismissed," the senior instructor called. "By rows. Front row first. Move."
* * *
As the candidates who hadn’t passed began to file away toward their guides, the square came back to life around them.
Some of them looked crushed. Others were already talking quietly about trying again next year, or about going home and joining their families’ forces instead. Here and there, someone stopped to clasp a friend’s hand or pull them into a hug, and promise to write.
Owen watched them go.
Every one of them had woken up in that field wanting the same thing he had. And now, some of them were leaving in the morning, and some of them were staying, and one of them was never going home at all.
"Owen!"
Elias came weaving toward him through the crowd, beaming so widely it looked painful.
"Highest overall merit," he said. "Highest. Out of everyone. And I followed you all day." He spread his arms. "That has to be the single best decision I’ve ever made in my life."
"You earned your place yourself," Owen said. "You fought for every one of those points."
"I did, didn’t I?" Elias said happily. He didn’t look even slightly modest about it.
Marianne and Eveline found them a moment later.
"We’re in," Marianne said. "Both of us. In case anyone was wondering." She looked at Elias. "Fifty extra points of merit. You’re going to be unbearable about that, aren’t you?"
"Completely unbearable."
"Congratulations, Owen," Eveline said. She smiled at him, and it was a warm smile, a real one. "And to you, Elias. You told us you’d barely hunted anything before today. And look at you." She glanced around at the four of them. "I’m glad. That we’re all going to be here."
"Candidates who passed the examination!"
The voice cut straight across the square, sharp and clear. A woman’s voice.
Owen turned.
She had stepped out near the head of the path leading toward the residential buildings. She was tall and lean, in an Academy uniform that fitted her perfectly, with insignia neat on her collar and sleeve. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, without a single strand out of place, and she held herself as straight as a drawn blade. She had a roster in one hand.
"Every one of you who passed," she called. "Form a line. In front of me. Now."
The conversations nearest her broke off.
Some of the candidates went to her at once. Others stood where they were, looking around, trying to work out where they were supposed to go.
"Close those gaps. One line. Straight. I won’t say it again."
"—and honestly, when you think about it," Elias was still saying, "if I hadn’t been there with my shield at exactly that moment—"
"Elias," Marianne said. "She means us."
Eveline had already started walking.
Owen turned and followed her. Elias came after him, still muttering about his shield, and Marianne caught Eveline’s eye and smiled.
The candidates were sorting themselves into a line in front of the woman. She walked slowly down it, checking names off her roster and calling people out to make sure they were where they ought to be. Owen knew some of the names from the board. He heard Mira Calder answer, crisp and clear. Then Adrian Holt. Then Lucien de Clare.
"Owen Ferrers."
"Here."
She pointed him to his place. He stepped into it.
"Elias Ward. Eveline Harcourt. Marianne Loxley."
They each answered, and each went where she sent them.
Owen looked down the line.
Fifty of them. Twelve hours ago, they had been strangers scattered across a field, every one of them competing against the others for a place. Now they were standing here together, side by side under the lamps, waiting to be told where to go.
He felt something settle quietly in his chest.
He had made it.
There were still questions he couldn’t answer. About the creature, and what it had said. About the rifle, and how long he could keep the Infinite Arsenal to himself. But they could wait.
For now, all he wanted to know was what life at the Imperial Military Academy was going to be like.
At the head of the line, the woman closed her roster.
"Right," she said. "Follow me."