The eight-meter sapphire orb revolved slowly on its axis, glowing brighter with each new submission. Already, the Lumen Orb was beginning to pulse with life as students fed it first drafts of their projects. Competition was fierce. Groups scrambled to impress, each desperate for points, for rankings, for glory.

  Few were more relentless than Elisabeth. She dragged her group headlong into the race, her ambition flaring hotter each day. Rosalyn endured it quietly, Victor stayed indifferent to her outbursts.

  Rosalyn had felt unease from the beginning. The last time they'd stood in Nexus Auditorium, where the Orb hung like a suspended star, she'd shivered, not from the orb itself, but from the strange metallic case embedded beneath it. Elisabeth, however, was enchanted. Victor remained unreadable, standing behind the girls, hands in his coat pockets, his silence thicker than words.

  Needless to say that the group dynamic and cooperation wasn't stellar. Elisabeth's contempt for Rosalyn was open from the start, her remarks sharp with irony and mockery. Rosalyn in turn absorbed them calmly, unmoved. She wasn't immune to them though. They still hurt. Her loneliness however had sharpened her endurance and patience. She remained still which only irritated Elisabeth even more. Victor meanwhile worked in silence, aloof, occasionally casting Rosalyn a glance she clearly felt but carefully chose to ignore.

  Brainstorming was mostly one-sided. Elisabeth tossed out ideas, dismissed Rosalyn's, and Victor contributed only a cryptic note here and there. In the end, they settled, mostly Rosalyn compromising and Victor indifferent, on City Reflections: a hollow journalism-style project: Elisabeth's clippings of street interviews, photos and articles about Arctar life, Rosalyn's neat architectural diagrams, and Victor's cryptic essay on alienation.

  It looked like a half-edited newspaper supplement. When they fed it into the Orb, it gave only a dim flicker, paling against the wild bursts of light that followed other submissions.

  A week later, the rankings confirmed what they already knew. Elisabeth was livid.

  "Out of 5833 groups we ranked 4199th ?! Unbelievable!" she seethed pacing her TA office, where the trio had now gathered. "How humiliating! Stupid Orb -it must be defective! It should've glowed for us instead of flickering like some pathetic firefly!"

  "It isn't that bad, Elisabeth." Rosalyn said, trying to appease her. Victor leaned against the windowsill, arms folded, silent. "We're in the lower 30 percent. It's definitely not a bottom rank. Besides it was only the first draft. We can improve."

  "And this is exactly why you'll never get far, redhead," Elisabeth snapped. "The first draft is everything. It decides whether a project gains traction, whether it will attract the public or not. At the editorial office, when I see a trash article like this, it ends up in the bin. I call the writer and make sure they see me shred the paper to bits. I want that humiliation carved into their brain so that they never hand me garbage again... Ugh! I'm this close to storming Nexus and smashing that Lumen Orb into pieces!"

  "Then we'd be disqualified. And expelled." Victor said flatly.

  "Shut up!" Elisabeth yelled. "Why don't you go brood in your corner like you always do?!"

  Victor simply stared at her longer, his left eye hidden. He said nothing. Rosalyn tried again, quieter this time.

  "Why are you so desperate to be at the top?" she asked.

  Elisabeth stopped pacing. Her jaw clenched; her fists tightened. She could still hear it, Deborah's laugh from that night, a sound she'd replayed a thousand times. Deborah had dismissed the frenzy Elisabeth had built around the Lumen Orb with the press, coolly reducing it to nothing.

  Deborah had been seated at her vanity, watching Elisabeth through the glass of the mirror, that practiced smile in place as if she enjoyed the show.

  "Well, congratulations, dear," she had purred. "You managed to cling to someone else's success once again."

  "What do you mean?" Elisabeth had asked, fists tightening.

  Deborah's smile didn't falter. "The Lumen Orb is David's triumph, not yours. You merely execute his orders. Still, do not fret, dear. Some people are meant to receive the good graces of more benevolent souls. After all, you stand at the head of Arctar's press because of my influence. You are a receiver. Be grateful, and stay quiet, will you, dear?"

  Elisabeth had left the room swallowing fury. Once inside her own quarters she had grabbed a vase and smashed it against the floor, letting the ceramic shards scatter and cut her palm. The wounds had stung but not as much as the anger that raged inside her. One day she would show her aunt what she's worth and escape the claws she called graces.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  When the memory faded, Elisabeth stood for a long, quiet moment, lost in plans and poisons of thought. Rosalyn did not interrupt; Victor only glanced from the side. Then Elisabeth slammed her fist on the desk, eyes alight with a new, hard resolve.

  "We're breaking into the Academy Archives."

  A few seconds of stunned silence hung in the air before Rosalyn, eyes wide, found her voice.

  "What? Why?"

  "It's the only way to get a real scoop and feed it to that stupid Orb so we can blow it up on the leaderboard," Elisabeth snapped. "Think about it. The Archives are sealed. Only David has access, no one else, not even the researchers, unless he allows it. Why? Previous chairmen never locked them. David did it about seven years ago and talked his way through it with his usual silver tongue. Imagine what's buried in there. Imagine what we could find."

  "But Elisabeth, this is insane. Do you realize what will happen if we're caught? The penalty could be worse than expulsion-"

  "You're such a doormat. No risk, no success. You grab an opportunity while it's still fresh, no matter the price."

  Rosalyn crossed her arms, frowning. "It's easy for you to say. You're a TA with a secure job in the newspaper and a salary. What about Victor and me? We're students. Expulsion ruins careers. If, in addition to that, the chairman blacklists us, other universities won't ever let us enroll either. This is our future you're gambling with."

  "Then don't get caught, okay?" Elisabeth shot back.

  "That's not even an argument." Rosalyn said. "I'm absolutely against this whole idea."

  "Doormat."

  A low voice suddenly cut through the room. "I'm in."

  Both girls turned to Victor in disbelief. Elisabeth smirked, delighted.

  "Ha! Two to one! You lose, redhead!"

  Rosalyn looked away, jaw tight. Victor pushed off the windowsill and came to stand beside her.

  "What are the security and the locking systems for the Academy Archives?" he asked gravely.

  "David's overly secretive," answered Elisabeth "He doesn't let the security corps near the Academy archives because it would attract too much attention to them. Cameras at the entrance door report only to his private console. The door itself looks plain at first glance, no key hole, a totally smooth surface. Because of that, the lock system seems to be electronic. However when I stared at the door longer I noticed a barely visible needle-sized hole in the center. The lock's thus mechanical not electronic. And I think David must be using a... what's it called... a needle-key to open it."

  "What is a needle-key?" Rosalyn asked.

  Victor's expression didn't change. He explained:

  "A rare type of key. A long, needle-thin rod made of a rare alloy." Then he added more grimly, "And it's dangerous."

  "Dangerous how?" Elisabeth scoffed. "We'll prick ourselves and run to the nurse?"

  "If you do, your skin will disintegrate at the point of contact."

  Elisabeth's smirk instantly faded.

  "...What?"

  "A needle-key reacts to human chemistry. It's usually entirely coated with a compound that ignites violently on contact with sweat and oils. It causes instant burns and skin disintegration. It's designed to reject all human touch."

  "Fits David perfectly," muttered Elisabeth.

  "How do you know so much about that, Victor?" asked Rosalyn.

  "...I first studied military training and strategy before reorienting to philosophy."

  Rosalyn nodded thoughtfully while Elisabeth rolled her eyes.

  "All right, moving on. If what you're saying is true, how does David handle the key?"

  "Needle-keys are difficult and costly to produce," Victor said. "So they're designed to react positively only to their owner. An ID of sorts. The reactive coating is counteracted by an inertizing compound. That inertizer is usually integrated into something only the owner can use to handle the key."

  "Like what?" Rosalyn asked.

  "Could be anything," Victor replied. "But you look among the practical items specific to the owner. Things they always carry or wear."

  They fell quiet, thinking. Then Elisabeth snapped her fingers. "His white gloves! He always wears them. I remember Deborah mentioning one of his rare commissions, ridiculously pedantic and custom made. As much as David hates it, all things trade-related pass through my aunt's hands. I live with her, so I see how she likes to flaunt it."

  "Gloves could work," Victor said. "Custom-tailored to the chairman's anatomy: fingerprint ridges, vein pressure points, sweat patterns, even his exact skin acidity. The inertizer could be woven into the fabric so the glove neutralizes the reactive coating only when it sits perfectly on David's hand. A literal, chemical ID."

  "Yes—we're getting somewhere," Elisabeth said, smile wide. "But how will we handle the key then? We don't have David's gloves. And even if we did they'd be useless for us."

  "No ordinary measure can stop the burn a needle-key causes. Too powerful," Victor said. "But it's fine."

  "Fine how?" asked Elisabeth.

  "We can manage," Victor answered calmly.

  "But you just said-"

  "I said it was fine," he repeated more gravely. "You better think of a way to get the chairman out of his office so that we can search through it for the key. That's the priority now."

  Elisabeth scoffed. "Oh please! Just tell him Sir Vu is paying the Academy a surprise visit with an army of gnomes riding flamingos. He’ll storm out of his office in fury in a flash."

  Then as the last rays of the setting sun illuminated her features, she added smirking "Tomorrow, group 47 will reach glory."

  "Or doom." Rosalyn whispered.