Chapter 3: The Gates of Almass

The streets of Old Brass shimmered under a noon sun that offered no mercy, its heat pressing down like a heavy hand. Kente moved through the market's clamor, his sack lighter than he'd hoped—two bent spoons, a cracked kettle, nothing worth more than a cedi or two. His encounter with Zaria lingered in his mind, her silver eyes and cryptic words circling like the dust in the alleys. The tag in his pocket felt heavier today, its faint hum a quiet nag against his thigh.

He'd stopped at Rashid's yard earlier, trading the kettle for a single cedi and a grunt of approval. "Slim pickings," Rashid had muttered, eyeing the sky. "Sturmguards been thick lately—folks are hoarding." Kente hadn't argued. The patrols had doubled, their armor glinting through the haze, their presence a silent threat that kept the scavengers on edge.

Now, he wandered toward the western edge of the market, where the stalls thinned and the air grew taut. A commotion drew him—a knot of people gathered near a crumbling wall, voices rising in sharp bursts. Kente edged closer, keeping to the shadows, his dark eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the scene.

A boy—lanky, loud, maybe sixteen—stood at the center, his fist raised over a smaller figure crumpled on the ground. Kente recognized him: Uche, a bully who prowled these streets like a stray dog with too many teeth. The smaller figure clutched a necklace, its crescent pendant glinting faintly—Zaria. Her silver eyes flashed defiance, though her voice trembled as she spat, "I said no, you jackass."

Uche sneered, his gang of three closing in. "Don't make this hard, witch. That little trinket's worth more than your scrawny hide."

Kente's fists clenched, the bead on his forehead warming unbidden. He didn't owe Zaria anything—not really—but the sight of her pinned there, the echo of her words from yesterday ("Stuff like that brings trouble"), pulled at something raw inside him. He stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Back off, Uche."

The gang turned, startled. Uche's scowl twisted into a laugh. "What's this? Trash rat playing hero? This don't concern you."

"It does now," Kente said, stepping closer, his stance steady despite the odds. "Let her go."

Uche's grin widened, malicious. "Or what? You gonna cry me to death?"

Kente didn't answer with words. His fist snapped out, fast and sure, catching Uche's jaw with a crack that sent him staggering. The gang rushed him—clumsy, angry—but Kente moved like the streets had taught him, ducking a wild swing, driving an elbow into one's gut, kicking another's shin hard enough to drop him. Uche recovered, lunging with a snarl, but Kente sidestepped, shoving him face-first into the dirt.

Breathing hard, he turned to Zaria. She was on her feet, clutching the necklace, her silver eyes wide but steady. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded, brushing dust from her tunic. "Yeah. Thanks."

He gave a curt nod, ready to walk away, when something caught his eye—a folded slip of paper peeking from Uche's pocket as the bully groaned on the ground. Kente hesitated, then crouched, snagging it with a quick tug. The scavenger in him couldn't resist.

"Always picking something," he muttered to himself, unfolding it. Bold letters stared back:

Almass Academy Entrance Exam

Today – Noon – Uche Okoro

Kente's breath hitched. Almass Academy—whispers of it floated through Old Brass like smoke: a place for juju masters, Sturmguards, the elite. He glanced at Uche, still out cold, then at the sky. Noon was close—too close.

Zaria peered over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"Trouble," he said, pocketing it. "But maybe his trouble, not mine."

She smirked. "You're gonna use it, aren't you?"

Kente didn't answer, but the bead pulsed faintly, and his feet were already moving.

The western district of Old Brass rose sharp and proud, its streets wider, its buildings less bowed by time. Kente had never ventured this far—scavengers didn't belong here—but the slip of paper burned in his pocket, pulling him toward the academy's gates. They loomed ahead, immense and gleaming, wrought iron carved with scenes of battles and swirling juju runes. Two statues flanked the entrance—stern figures in Sturmguard armor, their stone eyes watching him approach.

He slowed, the grandeur sinking into his bones. This wasn't his world. The bead warmed again, a quiet hum against his forehead, and he pressed a hand to it, steadying himself. "Just checking," he muttered, half-convincing himself he'd turn back after a look.

A crowd of kids—dozens, maybe hundreds—milled near the gates, their chatter buzzing like flies. Some wore clean tunics, others armor scraps, all clutching papers like his. Kente slipped into the throng, keeping his head down, the tag and bead silent but heavy. A receptionist—a wiry woman with braided hair—stood at the entrance, collecting forms with a bored nod. Kente handed over Uche's slip, expecting a question, a challenge. She barely glanced at it, waving him through.

"Hall's straight ahead," she said. "Exam's starting."

The gates creaked open, and Kente stepped into Almass Academy's grounds. The air shifted—thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm. Ancient stone buildings rose around him, their walls draped in ivy, their edges sharp with glass and steel. He felt small, out of place, a scavenger in a kingdom of giants.

Inside the hall, the space swallowed him whole—vaulted ceilings, rows of desks stretching into shadow, a thousand seats half-filled with nervous faces. Kente found an empty spot near the back, dropping his sack beside him. The bead pulsed once, faint, as he sat, and he rubbed it absently, scanning the room. Kids whispered, fidgeted, their energy crackling like static.

A man in a white suit stepped to the front—tall, stern, his eyes cold behind wire glasses. "You may begin," he said, voice flat, and a ripple of tension swept the hall.

Kente glanced at the paper before him—simple questions, history and trivia about South Volstadtin. He scratched answers with a borrowed pencil, his handwriting rough but sure. Old Brass's mines, the capital's rise, the Sturmguards' oath—things he'd picked up from street talk and Rashid's rants. It was easy, almost too easy, and his mind drifted, the bead's warmth a quiet distraction.

Then it hit.

A wave—silent, invisible—rolled through the room, heavy as a fist. Kente's chest tightened, his breath catching as if the air thickened to mud. Around him, students jerked, gasped. One boy near the front convulsed, foam bubbling at his lips, his body twitching like a broken doll. Another slumped forward, pencil clattering to the floor, eyes rolling back. Screams erupted—sharp, panicked—as desks toppled, bodies hit the ground, and the hall descended into chaos.

Kente gripped his desk, heart pounding, the bead burning hot against his skin. "What the hell—?" He turned to the examiner, shouting over the din. "Hey! What's happening? They're dying—do something!"

The man didn't move, didn't blink, his white suit pristine amid the madness. Kente lunged forward, desperate to shake answers loose, but a force slammed into him—blunt, unseen—knocking him flat. He sprawled on the floor, dazed, the room spinning as more students fell, their cries fading to gurgles.

"This… this is hell," he rasped, pushing himself up. His eyes darted—some kids stood untouched, calm amidst the storm, their faces blank or smug. A big, nervous boy nearby chewed dry bread, muttering, "Didn't sign up for this…" Another, sharp-featured and cold, watched with a sneer, arms crossed.

Kente staggered to his feet, the bead pulsing harder, a faint whisper brushing his mind—"Safe… stay safe…"—but no power came, no shield. Just heat, just fear. He didn't belong here. He never had.

A woman entered then, her long braids pinned with a gleaming ornament, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Those still standing, step forward."

Kente blinked, legs shaky as he joined seven others—nervous boy, smug boy, a few more he didn't know. The woman smiled faintly. "Congratulations. You've passed the first test. Follow me."

He followed, numb, the bead's warmth fading as the hall's screams echoed behind him.