Inside the grand, elaborately decorated hallway walked one of the most despised men in the Ministry. A human whose pompous air was so thick, it felt like it could choke the life out of you. His flawless face was almost always fixed in a smug grin. He practically reveled in the knowledge that, if he wished, he could ruin lives with the mere snap of his fingers. As he passed a group of trainees, they quickly averted their eyes and slipped out the door leading to the training field.

  His uniform—pure white, custom-tailored, and adorned with gold brooches masquerading as medals—was practically blinding in the morning light. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to his beige, knee-high boots. He wouldn't sully himself with the filth of the outside world or the "disguised peasantry," yet there he stood, waiting for the next group of examinees to emerge, hovering like an aristocrat at a gladiator match.

  Outside, beneath the looming shadow of the Hollowglass Spire, apprentices from the Ministry of Magic's Training Academy shuffled nervously into position on the cracked stone courtyard. It was the second of three practical examinations—the Spellcraft Assessment—and tension clung to the cool morning air like condensation on a potion flask.

  The exam was simple in theory: perform a designated binding ritual, neutralize an illusionary witch using a Ministry-standard wand, and contain the magical residue within a stasis orb. Simple… unless you were shaking from anxiety, sweating through your uniform, and struggling to remember which end of the wand didn't blow your eyebrows off.

  In the field, Witchfinders were rarely alone. Standard Ministry protocol called for two Witchfinders—typically a mix of arcane expertise and practical skill—accompanied by a Witchhunter, a physical specialist trained in both magical and mundane subdual techniques, and, more morbidly, tasked with executing outlawed witches. But here and now, the apprentices had no backup. No senior Hunters to shield them from failure like in the first exam. Only themselves, and the sharp-eyed evaluators watching from the sidelines.

  One of those evaluators was Garrick Sacavo—and he had just found the perfect targets for his scorn.

  Leaning against the entranceway, arms folded and lips curled into a look of predatory amusement, Garrick watched as the two hapless apprentices stumbled through the first phase of the binding rite.

  "Look at them," he muttered, loud enough for the nearby instructors to hear. "Like two drunks wrestling a ghost."

  The taller of the two—an unfocused boy with glassy eyes and the posture of overcooked pasta—barely lifted his wand with enough energy to spark the incantation. His binding glyph flickered once, then died with a pitiful hiss. His partner, on the other hand, was far too enthusiastic—swinging her wand like a kitchen knife filleting a fish, channeling excessive magical force and scattering ritual powder in every direction.

  One insisted she knew best. The other weaponized his incompetence to shift the burden. It was a nightmare to evaluate—but from Garrick's perspective, it was pure entertainment.

  Deciding it was worth dirtying his boots for a moment of fun, Garrick sauntered toward the pair. After all, his presence was a gift. They should be grateful for the privilege of such personalized attention.

  Or so he deluded himself.

  He leaned toward the apathetic merfolk boy and sneered. "You—are you attempting to bind the target, or bore it into leaving? Because I promise you, that little cockroach would've scurried off long before your single brain cell realized you'd been hit with a lethal spell."

  Then he turned to the small redhead, who stood frozen with her wand still sparking in her grip. "And you, dear—did you mistake ritual chalk for confetti? Planning to celebrate the witch into submission? If this were a real engagement, you'd both be paste in under thirty seconds—assuming you didn't manage to blow yourselves up first. And get that out of your face, you disgusting troglodyte!"

  His eyes narrowed at the boy, who was casually picking his nose with his wand.

  "Hey now! We are trying! You love him alone he is trying his best! None of that was not very constructive criticism!" the redhead snapped. Then, after a beat, added with less certainty, "...Well, maybe that last part was."

  She tugged on her partner's arm to lower his wand.

  That was all Garrick needed.

  He grinned, practically salivating at the chance to unleash the signature catchphrase all of Atlandrian nobility loved to wield.

  "Know. Your. Place."

  But before he could add to that, a low, gravelly throat-clear cut through the courtyard.

  Garrick stiffened.

  Nexalia Ivankov, his superior officer, stepped into view. Towering and lupine, with the slender frame of a werewolf, she regarded him with all the interest one might offer an insect they were considering squashing.

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  "Sacavo," she said, voice calm but edged with the thick accent of the northern ice countries, "this is not your exam. Save your remarks for the servants you mistreat at home."

  "I don't—"

  She raised a single, clawed finger with a quiet growl.

  "Not. A word."

  He noticed her other hand clench into a fist at her side.

  Would she really hit a noble?

  Garrick wisely chose silence, glaring up at the towering woman with the rune-etched sniper rifle slung across her back.

  "I do not approve of your conduct, Garrick," she said flatly. "Your family may have bought you the rank of Captain to keep you out of harm's way, but you've earned not a shred of respect. This is not one of your polished private schools. Here, we measure worth in rank and hard work—things I will personally ensure you experience, per your father's request when you were spoon-fed this desk job."

  She leaned in, her shadow falling over him like a guillotine's blade.

  "If I catch you clubbing seals like this again..." she paused, voice low and cold, "I club you."

  Garrick held her gaze, trying—and failing—to look unshaken. He couldn't speak. Not to her. Nexalia Ivankov was a veteran with over ten years in the field. The one who confirmed the kill of the infamous Witch of Darkness. His throat locked, as if fear itself lodged there to keep him alive.

  Behind them, a glyph popped wetly—an explosion of acid soaking one apprentice's sleeve. Nexalia turned with a sharp exhale, striding over to help the panicking merfolk boy.

  Garrick, red-faced and fuming, adjusted his cuffs and scowled. The nerve of that mutt to speak to him that way. Humiliated. Powerless.

  She wouldn't dare lay hands on a noble. Papa wouldn't let her. Right?

  Right...?

  He stormed off, chewing on the conversation like rotten fruit.

  The courtyard buzzed with strained magic and frustration. Apprentices fumbled through the Spellcraft practical, sparks and sigils crackling in the cool air as sweat beaded under their collars.

  Petunia Cherrywine—barely four feet tall in flour-dusted boots and a frilly apron—stood with arms crossed and a scowl sour enough to curdle cream. Her fiery red curls were pinned beneath a bonnet, slightly askew, and a streak of powder ran down her cheek like warpaint.

  She stomped toward Lieutenant Nexalia Ivankov, ducking under a fizzing rune mid-collapse.

  "Beggin' your pardon, Lieutenant," she said politely, though her tone burned with stubborn fire. "But I gotta say—I think this whole practical's a bit stiflin'. It don't account for any skill outside of forced removal or trackin' witches like they're mice under a porch."

  Nexalia arched a brow and turned to fully face the Titch. Her arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable—save for the faintest hint of amusement twitching at the edge of her snout.

  "It's basic field training, Apprentice," she replied. "Spellbreaking, stabilization, containment glyphs—this is what keeps you alive when things go wrong. You'll need it whether you're cooking soup or dodging curses."

  Petunia huffed, jabbing a flour-dusted finger behind her.

  "With respect, Lieutenant—if things go violent before we try co-operation, haven't we already failed? We're not hunters. That was made clear from day one. I'm here to help folks. Calm 'em down. Feed 'em. Heal 'em. Undo what the witch did to them. People talk more when they feel like they owe you their life."

  Nexalia didn't interrupt. Petunia continued.

  "And as for the witches… I wonder how many of 'em are just tired and hungry from runnin'. We're supposed to protect them, right? In that tower?"

  She pointed to the top of the spire, where a man-made structure pierced the sky.

  "For their safety... and ours," Nexalia replied quietly. "No matter how delicate or helpless they seem, they are tied to the Abyss. That power—that corruption—shattered my homeland. The barrier protects us from it. You may see them as people, but eventually, they become just another number in the spire... or another corpse. Don't let your feelings outweigh the need to keep that tower functioning. To keep that magic contained."

  Petunia's expression faltered. Her heart sank, mind spinning with dark imaginings of what happened inside that tower.

  Nexalia's lode stone flashed with a message. She glanced down, then nodded curtly.

  "Speak of the devil. I have to go. We'll reassess you tomorrow. Dismissed."

  Nexalia headed to oversee the towers newest arrival. She placed her hand on a magical console in the main atrium of the tower. The tower played an automated warning telling all personal to stand clear and be respectful of the newest arrival. The busy atrium fell silent and into position to receive their guest. From the main entryway 3 people walked out and through the quiet chamber towards the lieutenant. She allowed them to pass after assessing them. She brought out a device that chimed towards the person in the center before letting them through and following behind.

  The air in the tower's inner sanctum was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft echo of footsteps on polished obsidian stone.

  Between the two Ministry agents, a figure moved—small, slow, and trembling with each step. The girl was blindfolded and gagged, her hands bound tightly behind her back with shimmering silversilk cord that pulsed faintly with suppressive enchantments. A low hum of runework stitched itself into the air around her, part of the tower's wards reacting to her latent magic indicting the the presence of a witch.

  Nex looked proud but didn't say a word to them. Tradition dictated they were as respectful as they could be to the witch especially one that gave up willingly without the aid of a Hunter. A moment of silence. They were after all sacrificing their freedom, there whole life, all of it, for the sake of the world.

  She wore a ceremonial garb, though its elegance was an eerie contrast to the restraints. Layers of soft, pale lace clung to her form like mist, delicate and ghostlike, stitched in sacred patterns meant to absorb excess eldrich energy. Ribbons of deep violet and muted ivory threaded through the fabric, swaying gently as she was guided forward.

  Her cowl was high-collared and regal, lined with the same lace as her gown. It masked most of her features, and the blindfold—part of the cowl itself—fit snug across her eyes, sewn with protective glyphs to veil identity, orientation, even facial expression. Only her lips and the edges of her face were visible—young, perhaps, the usual outcome. Taken on their compulsory checkup when they turn 18. Always female.

  There was something reverent in her presentation, yet also something cold and impersonal—like a precious relic being delivered to its pedestal, or perhaps a lamb to its altar.

  As the magical elevator pulsed with light and the doors opened silently before them, the witch flinched—just barely. A soundless intake of breath behind the gag. She could not see where she was going. She could not speak, struggle, or ask why her?

  She was guided into the lift.

  The doors closed behind her.

  And the tower accepted its next witch.