The chime that marked the end of the examination was not loud, but it rang with finality. A soft echo that rolled across the vast amphitheater like the last note of a funeral bell. Pens dropped. Scrolls rolled shut. Breaths were exhaled like prisoners being granted a stay.
And still, Gabriel remained standing.
"Pass the scrolls forward," Alexandra called, her voice cool and clear. "Proctors, verify signatures and ether stamps. No one leaves until your name is cleared."
No one argued.
The Department of Spite moved with the efficiency of war veterans. Scrolls were gathered, stacked, sorted. One student tried to sneak a last-minute addition—Julian caught it before the ink dried. Irina double-checked magical residue against assigned seats. Rafael began organizing stacks with alarming precision, muttering revenge-themed poetry under his breath.
