The two weeks of final exams at the Imperial School of Mor in the middle of June were a veritable summer inferno, a trial designed to test the physical, mental, and emotional limits of the students. Far from being a mere formality, it was a whirlwind of tests where each day seemed more stifling than the last, as if the sun itself conspired with the professors to test their resilience. From morning to evening, for eight grueling hours, the exams followed one another relentlessly under an implacable blue sky, transforming classrooms into furnaces and courses into battlefields. All the subjects of the year were reviewed—imperial history, military strategy, sciences—as well as practical disciplines like fencing and dance, where grace had to coexist with precision. Even the extracurricular courses, often considered light escapes, turned into formidable challenges, with tests on subjects as diverse as calligraphy, botany, or diplomatic eloquence, where every word weighed like a sword.
The corridors of the school, usually filled with laughter and light conversations, were plunged into a tense silence, broken only by the buzzing of bees pollinating the jasmine flowers or the faint whispers of students reviewing in the shadowy arches of stone. The thick walls, designed to withstand the harsh winters of Mor, now trapped the heat, creating a stifling atmosphere where the air seemed to solidify. The exam halls, vast and bathed in harsh light, vibrated with the heat that seeped through the high open windows. The linen curtains, a pristine white, billowed gently in the warm breeze, offering little respite from the sweat that beaded on the foreheads. The inkwells, placed on cherry wood desks, exuded an acrid smell of ink mixed with the sweeter scent of beeswax candles.
The nights, short and agitated, saw the candles flickering in the students' suites, their dancing flames casting moving shadows on the walls. The windows, wide open, let in the song of crickets and the sweet scent of blooming roses from the imperial garden, a cruel contrast with the anxiety that gnawed at their minds. Mero, seated at his desk in his suite adorned with accents of Sel—walls draped in blue silk embroidered with silver waves, a mosaic of coral shimmering on the floor—felt fatigue weighing down his eyelids. His fingers, moist with sweat, clutched an albatross feather quill as he scribbled answers on crumpled parchments. Sometimes, a gecko would scurry silently across the ceiling, drawn by the insects swarming around the candles. The professors, their summer robes of crisp linen fluttering around them like ghosts, prowled the aisles with sharp eyes, watching for the slightest mistake. The steady tick-tock of the monumental clock, sculpted in the shape of a phoenix, seemed to amplify the pressure, each second striking like a hammer on the anvil of their endurance.
The physical tests, held in the central courtyard paved with white marble, were torture under another guise. The harsh sunlight reflected off the dust kicked up by the students' steps, creating a golden halo in which they seemed to move like shadows. The green grass, trampled by generations of students, crunched under their boots, and the air shimmered with the radiating heat from the stones. Fencing, a regal discipline of Mor, demanded precision that the heat made almost impossible. The blades, heated by the sun until they were scorching, transmitted their burn to the leather gloves, forcing the students to alternate hands to avoid blisters. Mero, during his duel against Sven, had to use cunning rather than force, feinting a diagonal attack before pivoting to tap his opponent's shoulder. Sven, despite his strength, had slipped on a loose tile, narrowly avoiding a humiliating fall.
Dance, on the other hand, was a test of grace under pressure. The judges, seated under a purple silk canopy, observed every step with the severity of hawks. The linen tunics, normally airy, clung to the skin like a second layer, revealing every tensed muscle. Eleonore, during the imperial waltz, had stumbled on the hem of her dress, a moment of vulnerability quickly masked by an improvised pirouette that earned her an approving glance from the dance master. Ki, however, had dazzled the audience with a step inspired by the tribal dances of her native land, her bracelets of small bells jingling in harmony with the music.
The endurance races through the school's labyrinthine gardens were perhaps the most formidable test. The fountains, usually refreshing, seemed to mock the runners with their murmuring coolness. Mero, balanced in his talents, managed to keep pace with Sven, but his muscles trembled after hours under this ordeal. Dorian, more at ease with books than trails, had vomited behind a laurel bush after pushing himself too hard, his pale face contrasting sharply with his usual composure. Hélène, unyielding, had finished the race in the lead, her golden hair neatly braided, without a hint of sweat visible.
The extracurricular courses added an unexpected layer of complexity. One afternoon, Mero had to improvise a diplomatic discourse before a jury of three retired ambassadors, their faces creased by age and experience. Sweat trickled down his back, tracing a cold path despite the heat, as he searched for his words under their scrutinizing gazes. The subject—resolving a fictional border conflict between Sel and Qit—required finesse he thought he had mastered, until one juror threw him a curveball about the rights of coastal fishermen.
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The music exam, held in the open-air amphitheater, had held surprises. Eleonore, renowned for her rigor, had suffered a memory lapse during her harp solo, her fingers frozen on the strings. Hélène, however, had played a flute melody so pure that the birds had fallen silent to listen, a moment of ethereal magic in the inferno of exams.
The day of the results arrived like a deliverance tinged with apprehension. In the grand central courtyard, under a sky of deep blue streaked with wispy clouds, sheets of parchment were affixed to the warm stone walls, the rankings inscribed in neat black ink. The crowd of students pressed into a nervous throng, their linen tunics fluttering in the breeze like standards. Mero approached, his heart pounding under his damp shirt, his eyes scanning the lists with a mix of eagerness and dread:
- **Imperial History**: 17/20 – *"Good analysis of the Sand Wars, but lacking details on post-conflict economic reforms."*
- **Military Strategy**: 15/20 – *"Solid defensive plan, but neglects logistical resources."*
- **Dance**: 16.5/20 – *"Natural elegance, but lacks fluidity in transitions."*
His overall ranking of **17/20** placed him in third position, behind Hélène and a certain Joran, the governor's son whom no one remembered ever seeing. A mix of pride and frustration gripped him—he had aimed for second place, but a point in strategy had slipped away due to a misinterpreted map.
Beside him, Dorian scrutinized his results with stoic calm. His **18/20 in Literature** and **17.5/20 in Philosophy** shone like trophies, but his **8/20 in Endurance** spoke of hours spent avoiding physical exertion. "I much prefer battles of wit to those of the body," he murmured to Mero, a smirk barely concealing his disappointment.
Sven, on the other hand, wore a triumphant smile. His **19/20 in Fencing** and **18/20 in Dance** were highlighted with glowing comments—*"Remarkable agility"*, *"Innate leadership"*—contrasting with his **11/20 in Strategy**, where he had clearly confused the battles of Keltar and Vorn. "Who needs dates when you can conquer with a sword?" he declared, clapping Mero's shoulder, his laughter echoing off the walls.
The celebration that followed was a riot of colors, sounds, and liberated emotions. The dining hall, transformed into an ephemeral palace, sparkled under crystal chandeliers. Garlands of jasmine and gardenias hung from the beams, their petals raining down in fragrant showers onto tables laden with exquisite dishes: marinated fish fillets seasoned with herbs from Sel, feuilleté pastries filled with mango cream, and fountains of sparkling wine where frozen fruits bobbed.
Hélène, resplendent in a gown of aurora tones, circulated among the guests with the grace of a sovereign, exchanging pleasant words with everyone. Her perfection, far from being distant, radiated a warmth that was almost human this evening. "You almost beat me in strategy," she whispered to Mero as she passed, a glint of challenge in her sapphire eyes.
In a corner, Ki and Dorian shared an animated conversation near a buffet, their laughter bursting out with each anecdote. "Remember the time Professor Garin dozed off on the parchments?" Ki exclaimed, mimicking the scene with such theatricality that it made Dorian spill his drink.
Sven, brimming with energy even past midnight, swept Eleonore into an endless dance to the rhythm of the tambourines. Their steps, initially hesitant, gradually synchronized until they whirled like leaves caught in the wind, drawing applause from the crowd.
Night deepened its hold when a group, led by Sven, headed to the indoor pool, a basin of marble with turquoise waters illuminated by floating lanterns. Mero, a glass of pomegranate juice in hand, approached the edge, captivated by the reflections. "Look, it's like stars fallen into the water," he murmured to Dorian.
Suddenly, a hand—undoubtedly Sven's—pushed him from behind. He plunged into a splash of water, his cry muffled by the cool liquid. Emerging soaked but laughing, he pulled Sven in with him, initiating a generalized water battle. Hélène, the chosen target, evaded three assaults before diving in with the precision of a siren, her crystalline laughter echoing under the vaults. Eleonore, after attempting to stay out of the fray, was dragged into a chase by Ki that ended in an involuntary embrace with a pillar.
At dawn, as the first rays of the sun caressed the gardens, Mero found himself alone at the window of his suite. The echoes of the party—a melody strummed on a violin, stifled laughter—mingled with the song of the birds. In a corner of the courtyard, an abandoned kitten licked the remains of a cake, indifferent to human dramas. He thought of Mandarine, somewhere on the ocean, and wondered if she too was watching the same sun rise. A smile flitted across his lips: these two weeks of hell had forged memories as enduring as the walls of Mor and friendships as solid as its foundations.
The morning bell rang, soft and grave, announcing the start of the holidays. Somewhere, a student knocked over a pile of books while dozing, triggering a stifled laugh. Mor, for a time, regained its tranquility—until the next storm.
