The Sexton's Ledger

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, / Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit / Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, / Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."

— Omar Khayyám

———

The last comment drew shocked gasps from some students.

"What? You think I don't know how these things usually go? At least half of you are here because your families want you to fail spectacularly. The other half are here because your families want someone else to fail spectacularly. I'm just acknowledging reality."

She gestured toward the wall behind her, where a magical projection began forming. Names appeared in neat columns, organized by team assignments.

"Team assignments are non-negotiable. Don't bother whining about wanting to switch - I don't care if your best friend is on a different team or if you have 'personality conflicts' with your assigned partners. Learn to work together or die separately."

My eyes found the list immediately, scanning for the names I knew mattered.

Team 1, "The Scions," read like a collection of legendary heroes in training. Leo von Valerius led the group, his name printed in bold letters that seemed to glow with their own light. Elena Morgenthorne, Gareth Stoneheart, and Lysander Ashford completed the roster - every one of them a future pillar of the kingdom's nobility, destined for greatness in the original story.

Team 7 made my stomach clench. Rhys Blackwood's name sat at the top, followed by three others I recognized from my knowledge of the novel: Petra Goldhand, a miner's daughter with fire magic; Finn Redbrook, a shepherd's son with basic healing abilities; and Jorik Ironwill, a blacksmith's apprentice with more courage than sense. In the original timeline, all four would die in the goblin warren, their deaths serving as a grim reminder of the assessment's dangers.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

I found my own assignment near the bottom: Team 12, alongside Marcus Vellum, Thomlin Ashworth, and Seraphina Valois. A team of misfits and outcasts, exactly what I'd expected. Marcus would provide tactical knowledge from his noble education, Thomlin had combat training even if his confidence was shattered, and Seraphina's healing abilities would be invaluable. More importantly, none of them were marked for death in the original story.

Perfect. I can keep them alive while positioning myself to save Team 7.

Movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention, drawing my reluctant gaze forward. Vance Thorne lounged three rows ahead, surrounded by his House Argent teammates, his sandy blonde hair meticulously coiffed into that deliberately "windswept" style that probably took him half an hour to perfect despite the early morning hour. He'd been assigned to Team 3—naturally—a solid group with both impressive combat potential and the right political connections to ensure their success. When he noticed my attention, he turned in his seat with exaggerated, theatrical slowness.

The smile he gave me was a masterpiece of controlled malice, a work of art in cruelty. It started at the corners of his mouth and spread with calculated deliberation across his face, a predator's display that never reached those flat, muddy brown eyes. They remained cold, promising pain. He held my gaze for several long, uncomfortable seconds, letting the unspoken threat of future violence hang between us like a poisoned blade, savoring my imagined fear as I squirmed under his stare.

Still angry about the spar, are we?

I let my face cycle through appropriate emotions - confusion, fear, and finally a nervous attempt to look away. Vance's smile widened at my apparent discomfort, and he turned back to face the platform with obvious satisfaction.

Keep thinking you rattled me. Keep believing you're the predator and I'm the prey. It'll make what comes next so much sweeter.

"Questions?" De Clare called out, though her tone suggested she hoped there wouldn't be any.

A brave Aurum student raised his hand. "Professor, what exactly are the objective markers we're supposed to retrieve?"

"Goblin chieftain totems. Each section of the warren has one, usually kept in the deepest chamber where the strongest goblins nest. You'll know them when you see them - they're covered in bones, skulls, and other charming decorations."

Another hand went up from House Argent. "What about equipment restrictions?"

"Bring whatever you want, within reason. No siege weapons, no explosives that could collapse the tunnels, and no poison gas that might drift into other sections. Use your common sense - assuming any of you possess such a thing."

Fen's voice cut through the nervous murmur that followed. "What happens if we encounter something other than goblins down there?"

Vance's amber eyes found the wolf-kin student with obvious approval. "Smart question. The warrens occasionally house other creatures - dire rats, cave fishers, the occasional owlbear that wandered in looking for easy prey. If you encounter something beyond your capabilities, retreat and report it. Dead heroes impress no one."

Except that's not entirely true. There's at least one encounter that's been deliberately arranged.

In the original story, Team 7's death hadn't been caused by random bad luck or overwhelming goblin numbers. The Morgenthorne family had arranged for the safety wards in their section to fail, creating a trap that would eliminate Rhys while appearing to be a tragic accident. The plan was elegant in its simplicity - remove a potential threat to their mining interests while providing Leo with motivation for future heroics.

But they don't know I know. And they certainly don't know I can do something about it.

"Departure is set for dawn, one week from today," De Clare announced, bringing my attention back to the present. "Spend the time wisely. Train together, plan your approach, make peace with whatever gods you pray to. Some of you won't be coming back."

A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the hall. The casual bravado that had filled the room moments before evaporated, replaced by the cold weight of mortality.

"Dismissed," De Clare called out, already reaching for her flask. "Try not to embarrass yourselves too badly between now and then."

The hall erupted into nervous chatter as students began filing out, but I remained seated for a moment longer, observing the scene with practiced detachment. My eyes tracked every subtle shift in the room's dynamics, cataloging information for my master's benefit. Around me, the political landscape was already transforming like pieces on a chessboard. The stronger teams gravitated toward one another, their voices low and urgent as they discussed tactics and potential alliances. Meanwhile, the weaker groups huddled in corners, faces drawn with the dawning realization that no amount of last-minute preparation could bridge the vast gulf between their meager abilities and the deadly challenges that awaited them.

My attention settled on Rhys Blackwood, who hadn't stirred from his position. He sat frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the team assignments with the vacant stare of a condemned man awaiting execution. His calloused hands clutched his weathered spear with such force that his knuckles had blanched to a bloodless white, and deep furrows of worry carved themselves into the skin around his forest-green eyes. The raw tension in his shoulders told a story even clearer than words—he understood perfectly well what this assignment truly meant for him.

He knows. Maybe not the specifics, but he knows this is a trap.

The smart play would be to approach him directly, offer assistance in exchange for loyalty. But that would draw attention from exactly the people I needed to avoid. Instead, I'd have to be more subtle, more indirect.

Time to set the stage. One week to save four lives and steal whatever skills I can in the process.

I stood slowly, maintaining my facade of injury-induced weakness, and began shuffling toward the exit. As I passed Seraphina's row, I caught her grey eyes studying me with unsettling intensity.

Another problem to manage. At least she's on my team now.