The hallway stretched before me, a river of dark uniforms flowing in both directions.

  Brown. Dark grey. Black. Three colors defining the three year levels. The War Academy's color scheme seemed designed by someone who thought creativity was a sin.

  I glanced down at my own attire - brown jacket with brass buttons, brown trousers, brown everything. Even my boots were brown.

  I preferred black, but I would have to wait until my third year to don such apparel.

  They're certainly not very creative here in the War department.

  Students moved around me with the organized chaos of indoctrinated youth forced into military structure. Most walked with purpose - books under arms, some with mock rifles slung over shoulders, expressions ranging from determined to exhausted.

  First week of the semester and already half of them looked like they regretted their enrollment.

  I kept walking, observing.

  The hallway was ninety percent men, maybe more. The War Academy didn't exactly advertise itself as welcoming to women, and the few I spotted proved why. They kept to themselves, walking in tight groups or alone with faces set in expressions of grim determination. Serious. Focused. Refusing to acknowledge the looks they received.

  And they definitely received plenty.

  Some students simply stared - curious, surprised to see women in a space traditionally male. But others... their gazes carried malice. Disdain. Disgust.

  I watched a young woman - maybe sixteen, first year by the brown of her uniform - walk past a group of older students. One of them muttered something. His friends laughed. The girl's jaw tightened but she didn't stop, didn't react, just kept walking with her head high in an attempt to maintain her dignity.

  I shook my head, feeling that familiar weight of disgust settle in my chest as I stared at the men.

  Pricks.

  Same shit, different building.

  The Empire preached equality under the Almighty. The Church spoke of souls being genderless, classless, pure. It was the usual bullshit. It didn't stop with gender, it was merely just one face of the coin of prejudice that the Empire spent every day.

  Mary had her work cut out for her if she wanted to change this.

  And I was here for the ride. If the Empire were to survive, the masses needed as few reasons as possible to revolt.

  We're already dealing with the rumblings of a class revolution - we don't need to add gender into the mix.

  The hallway ended at a set of double doors - heavy oak reinforced with iron bands. Two soldiers flanked them, rifles held at parade rest, faces locked in expressions of professional boredom as they watched the endless stream of students flow past.

  Neither looked particularly thrilled to be here.

  I approached, already reaching into my coat.

  "Dean wishes to see me." I said, keeping my tone polite but neutral.

  The soldier on the left - older, maybe thirty, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow - shifted his attention to me. Barely.

  "ID."

  I pulled out a small black book from my inner pocket. Thin. Leather-bound. It resembled a passport, which made sense since that's essentially what it was - proof of identity in an academy where thousands of new faces appeared every semester.

  The soldier took it, flipped it open, then looked me up and down with the practised assessment of someone who'd done this a thousand times.

  "Damian who?"

  "Damian Solmere."

  "From?"

  "Morren."

  His eyes narrowed slightly. "City or district?"

  I smiled politely despite his scrutiny. "Morren City. Greater Morren District."

  The soldier nodded, passing the ID to his companion - younger, cleaner-shaven, trying too hard to look intimidating. This one studied me with more obvious suspicion, gaze lingering on my face, my uniform, my hands.

  After what felt like an unnecessarily long examination, the older soldier started to speak.

  "You're granted access to the administrative building." The older soldier's voice carried the flat authority of someone reciting instructions for the hundredth time today. He pulled out a pocket watch, checked it with practiced efficiency. "Report back to before..." Click. "Eleven AM. So twenty-three minutes. We will give you back your ID then. Don't be late, or we will come find you."

  "Understood." I nodded politely and stepped forward.

  The doors swung open.

  And I entered bureaucratic hell.

  ---

  The hallway beyond was busy.

  Not student-busy. This was adult-busy. Professional-busy. The kind of controlled coas that came from running an institution housing sixty thousand students across multiple departments.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Professors in academic robes swept past, arms full of papers and books. Administrators in formal wear hurried between offices, expressions harried. Clerks pushed carts loaded with files, navigating the traffic with experience even I could notice from a glance.

  No one looked at me.

  No one cared.

  I was just another student with business in the administrative wing, invisible among the hundreds who passed through daily.

  Perfect for me.

  I'd prefer this over the opposite any day of the week.

  I could use a smoke right about now.

  The thought came as noise pressed against my skull - voices overlapping, boots on stone, doors opening and closing, the distant clatter of what might have been a typewriter or possibly someone's patience finally snapping.

  Too loud. Too much. My head throbbed with residual pain from last night's dream.

  The Empire must survive, or everyone will die.

  I shook my head, erasing the thought.

  It always came in times of exhaustion. The thought was overwhelming, usually transitioning to an extreme urge. A compulsion.

  One I couldn't be bothered dealing with right now.

  I scanned the walls, looking for direction among the organised chaos. Arrows had been painted at regular intervals - simple, efficient, pointing toward different sections of the administrative complex.

  ADMISSIONS.

  FINANCES.

  FACULTY OFFICES.

  DEAN'S OFFICE.

  Bingo.

  I followed the arrows, climbing a staircase that spiralled upward through three floors of increasingly quiet hallways. The noise faded with each step. By the time I reached the top, silence had replaced cacophony - broken only by the distant sound of voices behind closed doors and my own eerie footsteps on polished stone.

  The corridor ended at a set of doors.

  Not as imposing as the entrance below, but elegant in a way that spoke of authority rather than intimidation. Dark wood. Polished brass handles. And embedded in the center of each door, worked in silver-white and black thread that caught the light from gas lamps mounted on the walls-

  A dove and crow, intertwined.

  Wings overlapping in eternal comradeship.

  The symbol of the Empire.

  I stopped before the doors, straightening my jacket reflexively.

  Then knocked.

  Lightly at first. Three measured taps that should have been audible to anyone inside.

  No response.

  I waited a few heartbeats, then pushed gently.

  The door swung open with a whisper of oiled hinges.

  Voices reached me immediately - low, urgent, the tone of people discussing things they'd rather keep private.

  "...increased patrols in the Eleventh District, but the Ministry insists-"

  "Warnings mean nothing if we can't act on them. Another incident and the Nobility-"

  "The Church will demand oversight. You know how they-"

  I stepped fully into the room.

  Three people stood huddled around a large desk positioned before floor-to-ceiling windows. Morning light spilled through the glass, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Maps covered the desk's surface - district layouts, building schematics, marked with red pins I couldn't quite see from this distance.

  All three turned to look at me.

  I bowed immediately, hand over heart. "Apologies. I must not have knocked loudly enough."

  One of the men - mid-forties, greying temples, expensive suit that screamed administrative power - opened his mouth with an annoyed face.

  "Who-"

  "I invited the boy." The woman in the middle cut him off with casual authority, one that seemed very effective at shutting the man up.

  She stood between the two men like a centerpiece, and everything about her spoke of organization and control. Long black hair pulled back in a severe style that emphasised sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Formal clothing tailored to perfection - dark jacket, straightened white shirt, trousers instead of a skirt. Her whole appearance screamed practicality.

  Something I made sure to make a mental note of.

  "Gentlemen." she continued, gaze never leaving me even as she addressed them. "We'll continue this discussion later. Please."

  It wasn't a request.

  The two men exchanged glances. The one who'd started to question my presence - stocky, with the bearing of ex-military - nodded curtly. "Of course, Dean Ashcroft."

  The other - younger, slimmer, with the refined features and careful preperation that marked him as nobility - bowed slightly. "As you wish, Madame." His accent carried the precise French accent of someone who'd learned Vallesian as their first language. The language of the Nobility.

  "Thank you, Monsieur Beaufort. Director Wells." She inclined her head fractionally.

  They gathered papers from the desk with practiced efficiency, but I caught their expressions as they moved toward the door. Professional on the surface. But underneath...

  Annoyance.

  Not directed at me. At her. At being dismissed. At whatever power dynamic existed in this room that seemingly left them dissatisfied.

  Though I could probably guess what power dynamic it was.

  Director Wells passed close enough that I could smell tobacco and coffee. Monsieur Beaufort followed, giving me a single assessing glance - a lion evaluating what it considered to be an ant - before both exited and closed the door behind them with a soft click.

  The silence that followed felt heavy.

  I maintained my slight bow, hand still pressed over my heart, smile polite and deferential.

  "Damian Solmere, reporting to the Dean as requested."

  She studied me for a long moment. By the time she decided to speak, it felt as though my back was about to snap.

  "Do you recognise me?"

  I didn't look up.

  "I apologise if we've met before, Dean Ashcroft. I'm afraid I don't-"

  She reached into her jacket.

  Her hand emerged holding something small - a thin knife, maybe six inches long, with a blade that gleamed in polished silver. A gemstone sat embedded in its hilt. Small. Grey. Pulsing faintly with energy that made my divine blood stir in recognition.

  "Perhaps, this will remind you."

  She pointed the blade downward.

  Wha-

  My legs collapsed.

  Gravity slammed into my body from every direction at once - immediate, absolute weight that drove me to my knees.

  My eyes went wide. Breath exploded from my lungs. Arms pinned to my sides. Head forced down until I was staring at the floor - which despite the sudden increase in gravity around me, seemed unperturbed.

  Footsteps approached.

  Slow. Measured. The click of expensive boots on stone.

  "You may speak," she said, voice carrying that particular edge of amusement mixed with authority. "Though in all honesty, I'd prefer you didn't."

  The weight on my head eased slowly. The crushing pressure on my chest relented just enough to draw breath. Yet the rest of my body still remained imbolie - gravity pushing it in precise directionality.

  Such precise control, and such a unique element, pointed to only one person.

  I blinked.

  I looked up, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. Strained. Bitter. But functional enough to serve as a mask.

  "There's no way." The words came out rough, scraping past a throat still slightly closed up from the previous crushing force. "An Inquisitor is the Dean of the Academy?"

  She smiled.

  Not the professional smile of Dean Ashcroft addressing a student.

  The smile of someone who found my words entertaining - as if she were having fun watching me kneel. Someone far more stronger than me.

  Someone who I had seemingly provoked with my mere existence.

  That bastard sure made a lot of enemies.

  "Funny, isn't it?" She descended the steps from her desk platform, gravity knife still pointed casually downward. "The War Department's Dean. One of six deans of the Imperial Academy. An Academy, ironically, declared to be neutral ground to all political forces of the Empire."

  She stopped a meter away, looking down at me with the same amused expression.

  "All the while, an Inquisitor had infiltrated it all the way to the position of a Dean."

  The gravity shifted. Not crushing anymore, but present. Holding me in place with the gentle insistence of hands on shoulders, keeping me kneeling while she stood.

  "Welcome to the Imperial Academy, Inquisitor Solmere of the Watchers Hand." Her smile widened fractionally. "I believe we have much to discuss about your... extracurricular activities."

  The knife in her hand pulsed once.

  And the world grew very, very heavy.