The whispers stopped when the curtain of silence dropped.
Not an enforced silence — not one spoken or commanded. It was the kind of quiet that simply happened when something greater than expectation entered a room.
I didn't see the King at first.
What I saw was Headmaster Orlen Drosset step onto the central stage.
He walked without hurry. Without fear. With the sort of weight a person carries only after earning it, line by line, year by year.
His robe was midnight blue, lined with duskgold embroidery — a color combination used only by the Academy's founders. On the left side of his chest glimmered an eight-pointed star made entirely of polished amberglass — the symbol of the Lyran Quorum, the oldest guild of written memory in the kingdom. He was one of the only living members.
To most students, he was myth. He rarely spoke outside of ceremony and even more rarely appeared in public. But every student knew his name from the very first lecture: Orlen Drosset, author of The Archive Breathes and Ink That Remembered.
He was the only living writer whose works were engraved into the Wall of Eternal Verse in the Citadel of Records.
The man who once wrote, "A quill can wound deeper than steel, if the truth bleeds from it."
And today — he would hand the truth to the King.
He stood at the lectern for a moment without speaking.
Then he raised a hand, and the hall obeyed it like a conductor's cue.
"My friends," he said, and though his voice was calm and even, it carried like stormwind over a canyon. "It is a rare thing for ink to become history before the page even dries. And yet…"
He turned slightly, his eyes scanning the sea of students, pausing — ever so briefly — on Caelum.
Then on me.
"…it seems we are living in one of those moments."
A hush.
"Each year, we celebrate excellence in craft. Precision in tone. Elegance in style. But this year…" He gestured slightly toward the massive scrolls behind him, "...we witnessed something beyond mastery."
He stepped to the side, now facing the faculty.
"We witnessed impact. Not only in our halls, but in the kingdom itself. In court. In houses of nobles and voices of common folk alike. It is no longer simply writing we evaluate. It is witness."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly — polite, restrained, but unmistakable.
Headmaster Drosset turned again, and this time he raised both hands.
With slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the velvet case held by a Guild Scribe beside the podium — and withdrew a slender object of light and crystal: a Magisphere, shaped like a single shard of obsidian caught in starlight.
It pulsed gently, as if breathing.
Magic, yes — but not just magic. Written magic. An artifact of the Guild of Echoes, enchanted to read aloud the outcome inscribed in its sealed core. It could not be altered. Not even by the King himself.
And it held a single spell: the spoken name of the Golden Quill recipient.
Or recipients.
The air grew tighter.
I could feel it in my throat.
Drosset turned — slowly, solemnly — toward the rising marble staircase that led to the royal balcony.
And that was when I saw him.
King Alden Elvarion had already entered.
He stood tall, still, clad not in ceremonial plate or furred robe, but in a dark coat of scholars' black with silver cuffs and a crown so finely crafted it looked like living script circling his brow.
He did not need to speak.
Drosset approached and held out the Magisphere with both hands.
"For you, my king," he said, bowing just slightly. "The voice of this generation. Let it be read by the one who holds the crown."
King Alden descended one step, took the Magisphere gently — reverently — and nodded.
The moment his fingers touched it, the object pulsed brighter. Runes glimmered along its edge, flaring with light that seemed to know it was about to change a life.
Or two.
My fingers curled tight in my lap.
The hall was breathless.
The King raised the sphere.
And just as he opened his mouth to speak—
"Every year," said King Alden Elvarion, his voice neither loud nor soft, but measured, "three students are selected for the Golden Quill."
Even though I already knew — from Headmaster Drosset's hints, from the tension building like thunder behind stained-glass walls — I still held my breath.
"This year," the King continued, his tone neither triumphant nor disappointed, but reflective, "we could only choose two."
A ripple of confused murmurs passed through the audience.
"Two," he said again, slowly now, as if shaping the word with care. "Because these two works stood so far above the rest that to award a third would be to diminish the meaning of what the Quill represents."
He looked down at the Magisphere, and it responded with a soft pulse of white light, as if echoing his truth.
"The first…" He raised the sphere slightly. "Throne of Legacy: The Anatomy of Nobility by Caelum Highridge."
Polite applause followed — warm, proud, especially from the noble seats.
"A sharp, noble-hearted treatise on the lineage of power. A young man's study of what it means to inherit responsibility, rather than seize it. It reminds us that to be born into status is not a reward, but a burden — and one that must be carried with strength."
I glanced at Caelum.
He stood tall, jaw set, the faintest flicker of pride showing at the corner of his mouth. A perfect reaction. Controlled. Regal.
"And the second…" the King continued, and then paused.
The entire hall leaned forward.
"A Kingdom in Ink: Stories Written Between the Stones by Ethan Verne."
My name did not echo.
It thundered.
But the King wasn't done.
He stepped one more pace down the marble stairs, now standing eye-level with the audience. The Magisphere hovered just above his open palm now, its runes swirling slowly.
"This work," he said, quieter now, and more personal, "shocked me."
I blinked.
Me?
"My advisors," he continued, "warned me against allowing a boy's ink to shape my thoughts. But ink," he held the sphere higher, "does not care for age or titles. Ink speaks what it must."
The silence was no longer quiet.
It was reverent.
"Mr. Verne's stories do more than paint hardship or injustice. They do more than cry out. They reveal what most have chosen not to see. They awaken memory."
He turned slightly — not toward me, not directly, but enough.
"In his tale of the Hollow Archivist… I found my brother's fears. In the story of the orphan girl beneath the aqueduct, I remembered a servant girl who once worked in my court, and vanished without a name. And in his final story, The Man Who Tried to Forget, I saw myself."
My heart beat like it wanted to break out of my chest.
"The people across the kingdom wrote letters. Children wept. Scholars debated. And nobles… flinched."
Now he turned toward me.
"Ethan Verne, your words have reached beyond the court. They have crossed the lines of class. They have stirred doubt. Compassion. And reflection. You have won first place."
A sound — no, a wave — of applause rose, and I barely heard it. I was still trying to process those three words.
"You have won first place."
I had to repeat them in my head to believe them.
Caelum didn't move. But I could feel him, beside me, rigid. Dignified. And quiet.
Still second.
Still applauded.
But not first.
Then, the King raised a hand again, and the applause faded.
"It is tradition," he said, "that the winner — and finalists — receive private mentorship, praise, sometimes even patronage from a guild."
A pause.
"This year, I offer more."
Now even Headmaster Drosset looked up.
"I invite Ethan Verne and Caelum Highridge to the Royal Academy of Governance and Histories — for one week only. You will live in the royal wing, observe court sessions, speak with historians, and meet with advisors. For one week, you will walk not as students… but as witnesses."
The hall broke out again — this time into full reaction. Gasps, cheers, even astonishment. I heard someone whisper behind me:
"That's never happened before…"
The King's eyes didn't leave mine.
"I want to know what else you see, Ethan Verne," he said, voice low and direct. "And I want to see whether the words you write next… are meant for a kingdom that listens."
Then, at last, he lowered the Magisphere. It dimmed, as if its duty had been fulfilled.
I didn't bow.
Not yet.
I was too stunned.
But I stood — and the moment I did, the applause surged again.
And as it washed over me, all I could think was:
I just wanted to write.
And now…
Now I was going to the palace.