Culling of Dregs

"It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change."

— Charles Darwin

———

The main assembly hall was designed to intimidate. Soaring stone columns felt less like support and more like silent sentinels judging the students scurrying below. Light from the stained-glass windows—depicting triumphant, long-dead founders—painted the marble floor in pools of sapphire and ruby. It was a pretty way of reminding us we were walking on the graves of legends, and we were found wanting.

At the far end stood a raised platform of dark granite where faculty members gathered in their formal regalia, their faces impassive as marble statues. They arranged themselves in a perfect hierarchy—department heads seated closest to the Headmaster's empty throne, lesser instructors standing at attention behind them. The entire setup resembled nothing so much as a court where judgments would soon be passed, with none of us having any say in the verdict.

I shuffled to the back corner with the rest of the academy's afterthoughts: House Onyx. From our vantage point, the social hierarchy was on full display. House Aurum, naturally, held the front—a cluster of golden peacocks preening around Leo von Valerius. To the east, the silver-trimmed uniforms of House Argent were a testament to pristine ambition. The western section was a void of burgundy, where House Vermillion’s students absorbed light and revealed nothing. They didn't speak; they observed. Vultures waiting for the rest of us to fall.

Our charcoal-grey uniforms looked shabby compared to the other houses, and the students themselves carried the weight of disappointment like a visible burden. Marcus Vellum hunched over a notebook, scribbling frantically as if taking notes could somehow change his circumstances. Thomlin Ashworth stared at his hands, his shoulders slumped in resignation. Even Mira Blackthorn, usually defiant in her cynicism, looked smaller than usual.

Fen sat three seats away from me, her copper-red hair catching the light like burnished metal. Her golden eyes swept the room with predatory intensity, cataloging threats and weaknesses among the other houses. When her gaze landed on a particularly arrogant Aurum student, her lips pulled back slightly, revealing the sharp canine teeth that marked her wolf-kin heritage. A low growl rumbled in her chest, and the tip of her tail twitched, a single, sharp beat against the stone floor. She was a drawn bowstring, waiting for a target.

"Look at them," she muttered, loud enough for nearby students to hear. "Preening peacocks, the lot of them. Acting like they've already won whatever test they're about to throw at us."

Seraphina Valois sat two rows ahead, her silver hair braided with the same methodical care she applied to everything else. She held a small leather journal in her lap, but her grey eyes weren't focused on the pages. Instead, she watched the faculty platform with the intense focus of someone trying to solve a complex equation. Occasionally, her gaze would drift toward me, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl. Whatever she'd seen during her diagnostic examination, it had left her with questions she clearly wanted answered.

Rhys Blackwood sat alone near the edge of our section, his father's spear propped against his chair. The weapon looked even more worn than usual in the grand setting, its leather-wrapped shaft and simple steel head a stark contrast to the ornate surroundings. Rhys himself appeared carved from stone, his face revealing nothing while his knuckles showed white where they gripped the spear's haft. The stress lines around his green eyes spoke of sleepless nights and mounting pressure.

One week. According to the original timeline, you have one week left to live.

The thought sent an uncomfortable twist through my stomach. In the novel, Rhys's death had been a throwaway moment - a few paragraphs describing how a "minor character" died protecting his teammates from a goblin ambush. The author had used it as motivation for Leo, a reminder that heroism required sacrifice and that not everyone could be saved.

But seeing him sitting there, alone and defiant in the face of impossible odds, made the clinical detachment harder to maintain. Rhys wasn't just a plot device waiting to die. He was a seventeen-year-old boy trying to save his sister while surrounded by people who saw him as beneath their notice.

Focus. Emotion is a luxury you can't afford. He's a piece on the board, nothing more.

The mental reminder felt hollow, but I forced myself to maintain the necessary distance. Sentiment wouldn't save Rhys - only careful planning and ruthless execution would accomplish that.

Professor Isolde De Clare strode onto the platform, her boots clicking against the stone. She wore her usual instructor's robes, but they did nothing to hide the powerful frame beneath. Her chestnut hair had been pulled back in a severe knot, secured with what looked like a sharpened steel pin. The thin scar through her left eyebrow caught the light as she surveyed the assembled students like a general reviewing troops before battle.

She carried her silver flask openly, taking a long pull before setting it down on the lectern with deliberate emphasis. The sound echoed through the hall, cutting through the nervous chatter and drawing every eye to her imposing presence.

"Alright, you disappointments," she began, her voice carrying easily to the back of the hall despite its conversational tone. "Time for your first real test. The annual Goblin Subjugation Assessment."

A ripple of tension swept through the assembled students. Some straightened in their seats, eager to prove themselves. Others, particularly among House Onyx, seemed to shrink further into their chairs.

De Clare's amber eyes swept across the crowd with predatory interest, lingering on certain faces before moving on. When her gaze found me, I made sure to look appropriately nervous, shifting uncomfortably in my seat and glancing away as if intimidated.

"Most of you are cannon fodder," she continued with the casual brutality that made her legendary among the students. "The goal is to see which of you are useful cannon fodder."

Nervous laughter echoed from some sections.

"Here are the rules, since I know most of you can't be trusted to remember complex instructions." She began counting on her fingers with exaggerated care. "First - you'll be dropped into the Thornwick Goblin Warren in teams of four. Second - you have six hours to clear your assigned section and retrieve the objective markers. Third - failure to return within the time limit results in automatic expulsion. Fourth - 'accidental' deaths will be investigated thoroughly, so if you're planning to eliminate rivals, be creative about it."