Page 39 of Legacy Found

"You absolutely get that many professors for bad news," Declan says. "That's exactly when you get them. I've got three theories and none of them are good."

"We'll find out soon enough," Torres says, easy, and drops into the seat beside me, and I feel that now-familiar warmth of him being close settle something in my chest. We haven't talked about the almost-kiss.

The Chancellor steps forward, and the hall goes silent.

"Congratulations," he says, without preamble. "You have survived your first semester. Statistically, some of you will not survive the rest of the year."

Great, I think. Love a warm opener.

"You have spent these weeks earning Merit Marks," Falken continues, "and, I suspect, comparing them. Today we all will compare, publically." A pause. "Merit Marks are not gold stars. They are not rewards for being clever. They are the single measure of whether you are on pace to qualify for the First Trial at the end of this year — and whether you will still be a student at Luftis when that day comes. Today, for the first time, you will all see exactly where you stand. Relative to the standard. And relative to each other."

The room goes tight as a wire.

He lifts a hand, and a curtain retracts, revealing a board with names, numbers and columns.

The whole class surges forward in their seats at once, everyone hunting for their own name in the same instant, and the whispering starts immediately — little gasps, muttered curses, someone two rows down going "yes" under their breath, someone else going very, very still.

I find my friends first, because I can't help it. Freya's up near the top third — of course. Declan's solidly mid-pack, exactly where he guessed. Sophia's higher than she feared and grabs my arm with a squeak. Renzo's lower, and his grin flickers. Torres is comfortably placed.

Then I find mine.

And my stomach drops.

I'm not near the bottom. That's the first thing my brain reaches for, the small mercy. I'm not in the danger zone at the very bottom of the board where a cluster of names glows an ominous dull red.

But I'm nowhere near where I thought I'd be. Nowhere near where I started — I came out of that first week with the most Merit Marks of any of us, three from Jon in a single class, flying. And now I'm sitting in the lower-middle of the pack, watching names I know are less engaged than me, less curious, less anything than me, sitting comfortably above mine.

I start adding it up before I can stop myself. Faris. Seven marks in one afternoon for helping Renzo find a treaty, and she's docked me twice more since, two here, three there, always calm, always for something I'd do again. Combat, where I keep bleeding points I should be earning. A dozen little moments that didn't feel like they mattered at the time and apparently all did.

The Chancellor's voice cuts through. "For those doing arithmetic," he says dryly, “halfway through the academic year, a student on pace to reach one hundred Merit Marks by the First Trial should currently hold approximately fifty.”

Fifty.

I'm at thirty-seven.

I do the math, fast and quiet. Thirteen behind pace, half the year gone, and every projection I run forward from my current rate lands me short — somewhere in the seventies, nowhere near a hundred.

Short. At the rate I'm going, I don't make it. I don't reach a hundred, I don't qualify for the Trial, and I get sent home.

I keep my face very carefully neutral, and I clap politely when the Chancellor dismisses us, and I do not let a single thing show.

Outside, everyone's comparing before we've cleared the doors.

"Top third," Sophia is saying to Freya, delighted and appalled. "How. How. You never even look stressed."

"I don't skip the boring assignments," Freya says. "The boring ones are worth the most. Nobody does them."

"That's — actually genuinely useful, why did no one tell me that—"

I keep smiling. I ask Renzo how he's doing, and when his grin wobbles I tell him he's got half a year and the exact study trick Freya just handed us, and I watch him steady. I do what I do — I keep everyone else afloat, I keep the group warm, I keep the panic from spreading.

But I go quieter. I can feel myself doing it, the way the running commentary in my head goes flat.

Torres notices. Of course he does.

"You okay?" he asks, low, just for me.

I give him a smile that even I know isn't my best work. "Yeah. I just — need a minute. I'll catch up."