The cloaked figure advanced, black robes rustling like dry leaves. The air grew cold. A chill that had nothing to do with the night wind. The man’s face remained obscured by his deep cowl, but the metallic voice carried an authority that brooked no challenge. “I am Judge Veridian. Who is the head of this seminary?” Ilias, still frozen by the sight of the stable flame, recovered first. He inclined his head with rigid deference. “Excellency. Ilias Corvin, First Novice of the Luminarium. Our Arch-Priest is currently observing the Midnight Vigil. May I be of assistance?” The visitor's cowl tilted slightly. “You may direct me to the source of the recent power surge. The diviners at the Great Archive recorded a spike of unprecedented magnitude.” His gaze swept over the courtyard, lingering on the scorch mark where Cato’s initial experiment had melted the flagstone. Cato felt tension tighten across his ribs. The visitor's arrival spelled ruin for rational inquiry. He had to contain the damage. “Your Grace,” Cato began, shifting slightly, careful to maintain a junior student's humble posture. “The disturbance was a momentary surge of sacred fervor during a standard purification ritual. A rare blessing, no doubt.” The man turned his concealed gaze toward Cato. “A blessing, you say? A blessing that caused a seismic tremor across three districts and disrupted the very essence-flow of the Aetheric Leylines? Your Arch-Priest’s report was… less poetic.” The metallic voice held a rasp. “I require a full accounting, beginning with a purity inspection of all candidates present.” The gathered students went taut. Purity inspections were not gentle affairs; they involved specific runes designed to probe a mind's private convictions, exposing small infractions or unexpressed resentments to harsh castigation. The visitor raised a hand, revealing a gaunt, gloved finger. “Form a line. We begin with the instructors.” Instructor Boran, the portly priest who had publicly shamed Cato for his earlier struggles, blanched. He adjusted his tunic, glancing left and right. The judge produced a polished jet shard, etched with swirling silver lines that glowed with a faint, cold light. He held it before Boran’s face. “Speak your name, and your unwavering fealty to the Silent Flame.” Boran stammered, “Instructor Boran, Your Grace. My loyalty is absolute.” The jet shard flared with an angry crimson. The judge pressed it closer. “Your heart aches for advancement, does it not, Boran? You resent the younger, more talented novices who bypass you. You spoke ill of your superiors last week, wishing for their positions. You also secretly altered the assignment logs to give young Cato Basian an undeserved demerit, hoping to slow his progress.” Boran’s face crumpled. His mouth fell slack in horrified recognition of his own private thoughts laid bare. Whispers spread through the ranks. Boran was dragged away by two silent templars, his cries of “It was a small thing! A small, human envy!” quickly fading. Cato watched in stony silence. The tribunal cared nothing for magical reality; it cared only for hierarchy and compliance. The methods were blunt tools to crush dissent and reinforce the hierarchy's grip. “Next!” the examiner barked. A petite novice, no older than fifteen, stepped outward, trembling. She was asked about a minor infraction from weeks ago, about sharing a forbidden sweet during a fast, and was publicly shamed. The jet piece gleamed, an undeniable arbiter of small faults. Ilias, watching the scene unfold, subtly shifted his weight. As the queue of trembling students dwindled, the hooded gaze fell upon him. “First Novice Corvin. Your turn.” Ilias came ahead, his posture straight. The judge held the dark mineral before him. “Speak your name, and your unwavering loyalty.” “Ilias Corvin. My allegiance is absolute, to the Silent Flame and its sacred doctrine.” The mineral emitted a faint, reassuring gold. The official grunted, seemingly satisfied. But before he could dismiss him, the young aristocrat spoke again, his voice clear and even. “My lord, I believe I can offer more direct assistance in your search for the anomaly. The records of our academy’s historical energy fluctuations are housed in the Gold Hall. Perhaps there, you might find a pattern to this unusual event, a precursor to the recent surge that points away from… simple human error or fleeting doubt.” The hooded figure paused, his head turning. The Gold Hall was the repository of ancient, cataloged manuscripts, a detour away from the immediate scene and the remaining students. It was a plausible, if slightly circuitous, suggestion. “Lead the way, First Novice,” the official commanded. He cast a final, sweeping glance over the remaining candidates, his cowl seeming to bore into Cato, before turning and following Ilias. Cato stood in surprised relief. Ilias had deliberately diverted the investigator, buying precious hours. Later, under the waning light of the evening, Cato found Lena in the infirmary. She sat by a cot, her head bowed in prayer, her young brother, Theron, lying pale and still. The boy’s skin was translucent, stretched over sharp bones. Runes, crudely etched into his forehead and chest by the healing priests, glowed weakly, their light flickering like dying embers. Each breath was a shallow gasp. “They said the healing rituals aren’t enough anymore,” Lena whispered, her voice raw with grief. “The priests tried everything. They say it’s the will of the Flame. That his spirit is too weak to hold the divine grace.” Cato set his pride aside. This was not merely an abstract debate; a child lay dying. He leaned closer to the runes on Theron’s chest. They were intended to channel vital essence to sustain tissue, but they flickered erratically, consuming far more mana than they produced in stable restorative warmth. *Inefficiency.* The word echoed in his mind. The crude, rote-learned designs, the sacred forms passed down through generations. They weren't optimized. They were like a sieve, leaking precious essence into the void, failing to hold the ‘divine grace’ because they were fundamentally flawed in their design. The boy was fading not because his spirit was weak, but because the magic itself was bleeding him dry. His academic quest transformed into a desperate, personal mission. He had to understand. He had to fix it. He had to prove magic was a natural law, because natural laws could be understood, quantified, and *improved*. This was not heresy; it was the only hope. As he stood by Theron’s cot, a shadow fell across the flagstones. He turned to find the investigator standing in the infirmary doorway, Ilias behind him, grim and pale. The man held a small, polished wooden sphere in his gloved palm. A slender silver needle protruded from its surface, whirling without pause until it clicked to a sudden, rigid halt. It pointed directly at Cato, shivering in the gloom. “The Gold Hall was… informative, Corvin,” the metallic voice cut through the silence. “But this device, an Aetheric Compass, is never wrong.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrow, cold slits beneath the cowl, fixed on Cato. “The anomaly,” he rasped, “is you.”

A Test of Faith