The white marble flagstones of the Central Plaza trembled beneath the weight of iron-shod hooves.
Two hundred heavy warhorses entered the academy’s northern gates in strict, flawless formation. Their black lacquer barding clattered against iron stirrups with a steady, rhythmic cadence. Behind them rolled six iron-banded carriages, their massive iron-sheathed wheels screeching against the polished granite.
A cheer went up from the gathered crowd of disciples.
Hundreds of outer and inner students lined the marble balustrades, waving green academy pennants and craning their necks. For weeks, rumors had spread through the dormitories that the Grand Regent was sending imperial evaluators to witness the upcoming sword trials.
At the front of the pavilion steps stood Vice-Dean Karst and Senior Disciple Vayne.
Karst wore his formal ceremonial robes of crimson silk, his chest puffed out like a fat pheasant. Vayne stood half a pace behind him, hands folded respectfully in his wide sleeves, his narrow eyes gleaming with greasy triumph.
“Welcome the honor guard of the Iron Citadel,” Karst bellowed, his voice amplified by a brass speaking talisman. “Rejoice, students of the White-Lotus! Our top ten Golden Core graduates from last year’s assembly have returned to inspect your progress.”
The crowd erupted into another round of deafening cheers.
