Headmaster Archer's voice, now stripped of anything resembling empathy, rings out in the sparse room. “This is the first of three phases. You will have one hour. Questions are written in standard form. Any attempt to communicate will result in immediate removal and failure.”
What if he’s looking for weakness before we even begin? Is my pulse loud enough for him to hear? Am I more terrified than the others?
My thoughts are interrupted as Archer sets a bundle of quills on each of our desks, a squat glass of ink, and the first question sheet. His hands are huge and elegant; I can’t help but stare at the way his nails are blunted, as if he bites them in private. The he's back at the front of the room, slapping the hourglass onto the table. The sand inside is black, and for a moment I picture
