With that, Amaeren left the hall, and the silence that had held twelve hundred people captive throughout the examination at last broke, murmurs spread into conversations, then into a tumult of questions and exclamations that swept from one row to the next, filling the vastness of Ashwing Hall. They were waiting, for they had heard that the head of Aethoria, Guru Ayhsate, delivered an address after the examination but when the stewards began calling upon them to leave the hall in orderly lines, confusion spread among the disciples. Some looked towards the doors, others towards the dais, while those already standing began asking their neighbors whether the guru had departed without addressing them.
"My father said registration, examination, and Guru Ayhsate," one disciple remarked. "That was how the first exam was supposed to conclude."
"Perhaps he has been delayed," another offered, craning his neck towards the entrance.
"Delayed? Where could he possibly be?" a third asked.
"Did Guru Amaeren deliver the address on his behalf?" someone called from a neighboring row.
"Who cares about the address? I wanted to see whether he is as handsome as they say!" another exclaimed.
"That is why you came to Aethoria, then?" his companion teased.
"One must have reasons beyond examinations to endure such a journey!" came the cheerful reply.
A burst of laughter rose from one of the rear rows, while elsewhere disciples continued debating the man's absence. Some insisted he would appear before they were permitted to leave, others already convinced that the address had been cancelled. A few had begun gathering their belongings, impatient to find food, while their companions urged them to wait lest they miss the very man they had travelled so far hoping to see.
The stewards called for order again, but twelve hundred disciples, each with questions, companions to find and places to reach, were not easily persuaded into orderly departure. Lines began to form only to break apart as some hurried towards the exits, others stopped to exchange words and still more searched the departing crowd for familiar faces.
Rhovyn allowed his gaze to wander across the dispersing crowd, seeking the gleam of golden hair. It was a curious preoccupation, and he was not entirely pleased to find himself so occupied. He had only seen her back once, after all, so there was no reason to look for her, still less to feel disappointed when she was nowhere to be found. At last, finding no trace of her, he turned away and fell into step beside Erynae and Bram.
"I knew most of it," Bram said, scratching at his forehead. "What I did not know was the founding year of the Sentinels of Order."
"The paper has already been collected," Rhovyn reminded him.
"I know that."
"Then stop changing your answers inside your own head," Erynae said.
Bram glanced between them. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"It is what you've been doing ever since you handed it in." Erynae's mouth curved with quiet amusement for she was beginning to find Bram rather charming, especially the earnest way he worried over things.
"Did either of you know the founding year?" Bram asked.
"Aye," Erynae and Rhovyn answered together.
Bram looked from one to the other, but whatever question had formed in his mind was wisely abandoned. "Food, then," he said, then remembered his manners and extended his hand towards Rhovyn. "I am Bram."
"Rhovyn Aestlae," Rhovyn replied, accepting his hand.
They began making their way through the departing disciples. "I must confess, I had hoped to see Guru Ayhsate before leaving," Bram remarked. "I thought he would address us after the examination."
"Perhaps we shall see him yet," Erynae looked ahead as they walked. "I should be disappointed to leave without so much as laying eyes upon him."
They exchanged smiles and together made their way towards the gates, and a moment later, Ryska, behind them, rounded the corner of the path leading towards those same gates. She came within a single step of leaving Aethoria before stopping abruptly, one foot still upon the threshold, as though something unseen had arrested her in the midst of her stride.
She could not have known what had made her stop, nor could the man walking behind her have foreseen that she would come to such an abrupt halt, he walked straight into her, and the sudden collision sent them both off balance. Ryska closed her eyes, bracing herself for the stones or the bodies of those around her but a hand caught her wrist and pulled her back, and her back came against a man's chest, her breath came hard and uneven, fear and shock mingled until her vision blurred, yet even after the danger of falling had passed, the hand remained around her wrist, as though whoever had caught her had no intention of letting go just yet.
"Take your time," Valere said gently, his gaze moved over the back of her head, over the golden silk of her Draconian hair.
Ryska gathered herself, her thoughts returned to the abrupt halt that had brought them both so close to falling. Why had she stopped? She could not recall seeing anything in her path, nor had she heard anything that might have drawn her attention and yet, she had stopped as though something had called her to a halt, leaving her with no explanation for it.
I need to go to Tev's, she reminded herself, the warmth of his chest still lingered against her back. Tev's Inn was... Ryska searched her memory for the distance, but the answer eluded her. She could not recall how far the inn stood from the university gates, though she had walked the route that morning and even though the lapse was slight, the thought lingered.
It is merely hunger, she told herself. The examination had occupied the greater part of her morning, and a proper luncheon would surely restore her spirits and dispel this peculiar unease. There was no cause to linger at the gates as though she had suddenly forgotten how to find her way out.
The wind stirred, lifting strands of her hair against his face, and Valere closed his eyes. His friends beside him and the people passing by cast curious sidelong glances in their direction, but he saw nothing beyond the gold so near him. Ryska, meanwhile, drew a long, deep breath, took a step and walked out without so much as a backward glance at the man.
Valere blinked after her, momentarily taken aback. "Rude," he muttered, caught between amusement and genuine offence.
"What would you expect from a Draconian?" Shanje remarked beside him, her blue eyes fixed on the woman, whose golden hair remained visible through the crowd.
"War has reached Aldaene without Aldaene ever having fought in it?" Valere asked.
"They have done enough to our borders," Shanje argued.
"I do not appreciate any of the prejudice in Aldaene," Valere cut in.
"Sorry," Shanje replied.
"You are arguing over entirely the wrong matters," Vahyu said, stepping in behind them. "I saw her, and good heavens, Valere, she is a sight to behold!"
"You've lost your senses," Valere muttered.
"If you had seen her face, you would have lost yours as well," Vahyu declared. "You would have forgotten to breathe, forgotten the world existed, and your vision would have deserted everything except her."
"Valere does not go for faces," Shanje answered at once.
"Doesn't he?" Valere turned to Shanje. "Have you ever seen a man who didn't go for beauty? I like a beautiful face as much as any man, and if you know one who doesn't, I certainly wouldn't take his advice on women."
"So, you do have a weakness for beautiful faces, then?" Shanje asked, her gaze lingered on him for a moment before flickering aside, as though she had revealed rather more than she intended.
"She must also carry a mind that does not bend where mine refuses and a will that does not shrink where mine stands."
"So, someone born to your rank..." Shanje murmured, lowering her gaze.
"Someone who can loose an arrow without so much as taking aim yet strike my heart before I even realize it was hers to claim."
"Such expectations," Vahyu scoffed with a disdainful laugh. "I would sooner choose a woman fashioned in the likeness of those painted queens."
"Have we forgotten to go home?" Sytara finally interjected, drawing every eye towards her.
"Pardon my distraction," Vahyu said. "That Draconian girl is simply too pretty."
Shanje, Sytara, and Valere gave a quiet shake of their heads and continued onward, leaving him to his fancies. Vahyu, it seemed, remained as the gods had wrought him, an incurable devotee of beauty, forever clothing the humblest sight in poetry worthy of kings and legends alike.
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