The Dijat of Heka was the farthest into the centre of the city that Radaam had ever been. He’d never been to a Commencement; goodness, he’d hardly ever even had a reason to leave his own neighbourhood until he started attending Udebtekhat, and by then he was so busy with his studies and whatever odd jobs he could find to pay for them that he usually just made a beeline there and back. As such, Radaam expected to have a little trouble finding the place—if the city proper was anything like the outskirts, it would be a maze of twists and turns, a deceptively winding path through ever more lavish buildings even with the landmark of the Silver Tower jutting clear as day out of the skyline.
Still, despite the hassle, the trip was strangely pleasant. Radaam and his family had to ask multiple times for directions, and each time they’d been warmly received, strangers offering words of congratulations before they sent them on their way. Radaam hadn’t expected animosity, mind—even in the wealthier areas of the city, Photepi people were known for their accommodating nature—but it was like the moment each stranger laid eyes on his shining white cloak, they stepped aside more readily, and offered their advice with all the more enthusiasm. Radaam’s mother said it was all to be expected. Sorcerers were simply treated differently.
Seen differently.
She’d meant it kindly, but the very thought chilled Radaam as he stood with the other Novitiates in the Dijat, flesh prickling with goosebumps despite the unrelenting heat. Above every other thought and feeling circling in his head, and for more than one reason, he felt thoroughly out of place. Like an imposter. What was
he doing here? He didn’t belong here, standing among others his age dressed in finery that probably cost more than his home, there with his roughspun tunic and his father’s sandals peeking out from under a cloak finer and purer than anything he’d ever seen, fastened over his shoulder with a brooch that could probably have paid his entire Udebtekhat tuition. Yet there he was, towering over a throng of students who’d most likely graduated from the most prestigious academy in the world, sticking out like a mud brick in a wall of limestone. Which was precisely how he felt; frugal and plain, and not properly suited for the task before him.
Toruk must have sensed his unease, for he slithered out of his place comfortably curled up in Radaam’s pocket to wind around his arm, giving his master a comforting squeeze. Radaam glanced at him fondly—which was to say, ever-so-slightly less stone-faced—and the snake gestured with his head behind them. Turning to see, Radaam caught sight of his parents a few rows back in the crowd, beaming with pride. More notable, however, was his little sister Zahra, bouncing up and down in her clay-coloured dress at the edge of the crowd and waving frantically the moment their eyes met. Her black braids bounced on her shoulders as she did, and her smile was wide enough it threatened to split her face in two, careless of the scars on her face and arms that pulled and stretched like melted wax.
Radaam offered her a tight-lipped smile and a covert little wave of acknowledgement before snapping back to attention as the Vizier-Magistrate began his speech. No, no this wasn’t all bad. It certainly wasn’t what he’d planned for, but he couldn’t turn back now, and not all had to be lost. There was still a chance the Khenetai would choose him; surely even considering their suspicion of Sorcerers, learning the mysteries of the Cult of the Serpent would make up for it. Surely this was a blessing in disguise; not only were his dreams still well in motion, but what he learned from the Serpents may well bring him that much closer to restoring his Zahra to the perfect, pain-free little girl she used to be. Everything was as it was meant to be; he just had to have faith.
“Sorcerer-Magus Callis Dagon of the Cult of the Crow accepts under his auspice… Sorcerer-Novitiate Radaam Esi.”...What?When his name was called, Radaam felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. For a moment he could only stand and stare, certain he must have heard wrong, until Toruk’s anxious fidgeting around his ankle reminded him to move again. Still, even as he shuffled blank-faced to the dais, he couldn’t quite believe it. This must have been some strange, horrible dream brought on by the anticipation, and any moment he would wake up on the morning of Commencement to do it all again the proper way.
But, as moments passed and names were called, Radaam was forced to accept that this was not, in fact, a nightmare. Realizing that, his mind exploded with questions, though one rose in volume above the rest: Why him? Not only was it massively unlikely for a graduate of a lowly school like Udebtekhat to be chosen for the Cults at all, but for the one widely regarded as the first among them? Impossible! What under the sun could they possibly have seen in him? Surely he was a novice compared to his fellow Novitiates, he had no special aptitude in Divination, no social or political connections to speak of—so why
him?The rest of the short ceremony passed as a blur, and by the time Radaam came back to his senses, the Dijat had exploded with colour and food and music, members of the crowd either dispersing or milling about the courtyard and the white-cloaked Novitiates dissociating among them. Once more Radaam found himself surrounded in utterly foreign finery; most of the foods adorning the tables he couldn’t even name, the instruments plucked by Sorcerers between them unfamiliar to him. He vaguely registered his mother waving chastely from the crowd, only for Zahra to tug her toward one of the tables, his parents following dutifully behind and probably deciding to give their son some time to rub elbows with his new colleagues before they set upon him themselves.
He dipped his head at the Vizier’s well-wishes without really hearing what they were, turning once he left to glance jealously at the Serpents’ Magus before his eyes landed on his own. The Magus—Callis Dagon, if he heard correctly—was another foreign and frightening sight; if Radaam didn’t know better, he’d have thought it was a phantom standing above them rather than a man. Radaam felt like his stark blue eyes pierced right through him, passing by his skin to observe whatever was underneath, and the feeling was so uncomfortable that he could only manage a reverent nod before tearing his gaze away. Apparently just in time, too, for no sooner had Radaam turned around than a cheerful-looking boy his age dressed from head to heel in white and gold all but accosted him with a greeting.
As soon as the boy—Khaemtir—opened his mouth, Radaam’s sense of un-belonging only grew more potent. Everything about him, from his fine clothes and jewelry down to the inflection of his words and the lilt of his voice, was foreign; maybe it was Radaam’s own fault for so rarely venturing out of his own community, but he could never have imagined that a simple difference in wealth could make a person seem so…
different. Or, perhaps
he was the different one—in this company, surrounded by wealth and luxury, it certainly seemed that way.
Radaam was silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the boy’s sheer energy and the speed at which he spoke, before he realized he’d look like a fool if he didn’t say something back.
“Yes, hello, I am… Radaam Esi, son of Radames,” he managed to strangle out, as if the name of a Chenziri brickmaker could possibly be familiar to people who wore gold on their arms like linen.
He moved to press Khaemtir and Ishara’s hands to his forehead, a customary Chenziri greeting, but stopped himself when he remembered it might not be taken kindly by people of such standing to be touched by a total stranger. Of course, that left him with nothing to do with his hands, so he ended up awkwardly clasping them behind his back, unsure of what to do next. Could he tell Khaemtir from which school he hailed? Respond to his admittedly intimidating invitation? He’d moved on so fast it was hard to tell if he even wanted an answer, but Radaam couldn’t just say
nothing, right?
A ticklish sensation down his shin brought him out of his deliberating for the time being, and Radaam glanced downward to see Toruk slithering off his leg and onto what must have been someone’s tutelary, a baby hippopotamus with glittering gemstones for eyes. Predictably, Toruk had climbed onto its back, curling gently around its neck to get a look at its eyes. A much closer look than was polite, to be exact.
“Toruk! Stop that!”With unexpected speed, Radaam stooped and grabbed hold of the viper, pulling him off the hippo before he got too close.
“Forgive me, Toruk doesn’t seem to know his manners,” he apologized quickly, though his stern tone—and a look that could curdle milk—was directed more at the snake than his new acquaintances.
Toruk shrank away from his scolding, but Radaam knew better than to think he’d done much more than inconvenience the mischievous little thing. To make up for his rudeness, he offered the pair a small, sheepish smile.
“Yes, forgive me,” he repeated, rubbing the back of his neck.
“This is all very overwhelming, isn't it?” he tried shyly, feeling as if everything that came out of his mouth was somehow wrong or uncouth or otherwise unwelcome.
“Or, I mean—I'm happy to meet you, Ishara, Khaemtir. Your offer is very generous, although… don’t you think we should wait to speak to our master before we leave?” 
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