A long line snaked out the door of the Capitol Building and looped around the tower. More than a few looked at me funny whenever my stomach acted up, but for the most part I didn’t feel like I stood out much among the eclectic lot that’d gathered to take the citizenship test.

I passed the time without engaging anyone in conversation, shuffling forward at a nudge on my back or hobbled whenever I blinked to see the gap in front of me had widened. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt so tired. My staff was the only reason I could remain standing. Mostly I leaned on my staff and rested my eyes, but a few times I didn’t catch myself before I dozed off.

After waiting for what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been nearly that long, I yawned and almost bowled over an official. Although the old man’s gray hair and liver-spotted skin spoke to a long life, he gave off an air of vitality that made him seem much younger than he looked. The doddering administrator politely ignored my state of dress and motioned for me to approach.

“Citizenship test? You’ll need to complete these forms first. Please take a number before you leave. Feel free to take a seat while you wait for the examiner to arrive,” the official said, handing me a fat stack of papers and a peculiar writing utensil.

I wobbled a bit and squinted my eyes, trying to make out individual words through my blurred vision. Did I really have to apply to register for citizenship, and take a test? Magisterium was either firmly under Afobos’s grip, or home to a team of bureaucratic slavedrivers.

“Make your personal mark wherever you find a blank in the documents if you find yourself unable to understand the legalese. Worry not, you are in good company. Many of our citizens are unable to read, but their lives are no lesser for it,” the official’s face creased into a timeworn smile.

I returned the smile. “Right. Thanks.”

He thought I couldn’t read? Well, I wasn’t going to disabuse him of that notion. I smiled and thanked the official again, then I headed inside and sat down in the closest open seat I could find. My bones felt like jelly and my eyelids wouldn’t stay open more than a crack, but I signed in all the blanks I could find. Not a moment later, my head fell against my chest and I started to snore, loudly.

An authoritative voice tore me from my dreams and forced me awake. “This is your last chance to leave prior to the exam’s commencement. Otherwise, you’ll be required to complete the test before you’re allowed to leave. Of course, whether you pass or fail all of you will be free to decide whether you’d like to leave Magisterium.”

There was a pregnant silence, shuffling of feet, a spattering of awkward coughs. But no one, not a single person who had arrived that day to take Magisterium’s citizenship test, left. Considering the fact that so many people had gathered that they filled the circular main hall of Capitol Building to bursting, that was quite astonishing. My blurry eyes melded together the teeming mass of people.

The examiner spoke again, this time softer and more reassuringly. “If after the examination you are unsatisfied with the level of citizenship you receive, do not despair. You will be granted every opportunity to ascend to the upper echelons of society— although the most talented of you will do so more quickly than others.”

We lined up in order according to the number we’d received— mine was 787006— and waited on further orders from the proctor of the exam. With startling efficiency we were split up into groups of ten to twenty. Each group was assigned a proctor, which made me take a second look at what I assumed to be the senior-most examiner.

Unlike the guard and the examiner— the two others I’d met who held positions of power— the senior examiner was a spry young fellow that couldn’t have been much more than a decade my senior. Apparently Magisterium’s governing body was perfectly amenable to rapid upward mobility, to the extent that they would appoint a young man to the position of senior examiner. Curious and curiouser.

I scratched at what passed as facial hair for me. “I wonder… what kind of test can figure out if someone’s qualified to be a citizen?”

“You mean you don’t know?” came the astonished whisper.

“I don’t see why it matters. All I have to do is pass, right?” I asked naively.

“Are you serious?”

I was too tired to formulate a coherent response, so I stared levelly at the— was that a man or a woman? I couldn’t tell— person that I’d accidentally engaged in conversation.

The proctor shushed us before we could speak more, and we quieted obediently. It was no wonder. Everyone was starved for information, and I was eager to get this all over with so I could get some well deserved shuteye.

“There will be no discussion between applicants during the exam. You may speak when spoken to, and only to answer a direct question. Any and all queries should be saved for after the successful completion of your exam. Take a few minutes to prepare yourselves, then we will begin.”

I leaned against a wall and propped my staff up beside me. An attempt to gather my wits was futile, so I settled for rubbing my itchy, burning eyes. I fished out an eyelash and scraped a few clods of dirt off my boots, and was about to give my cloak a similar treatment when the air in the room suddenly changed.

I looked around. The rest of my group was following the proctor out of the little room we’d funneled into. Pushing off the wall to get going and using my staff to keep myself from falling flat on my face, I caught up with the rest of the party as they exited a door that led outside.

As I followed on the heels of the people in front of me, I noted the small size of the open air space that we’d entered. I sensed an odd distortion above and craned my neck to look. Although the blue sky above appeared real at first glance, there was something off about it. I concluded that we hadn’t yet left the Capitol Building.

So, magic. “Why bother with the theatrics?” I mumbled.

We assembled around a circle inlaid upon a raised dais. The circle was composed of four concentric rings, each made of a different precious metal. From the innermost band to the outermost, it went: silver, gold, malachite, then aedonite. Set an even distance apart were runes that had been inscribed into the metal with expert precision.

The examiner pointed imperiously. “You.”

“Me?” asked a shy, lilting voice.

“Yes, you! Hand me your forms— they better be complete! Step into the center of the Sorting Rings. And be quick about it!” the examiner snapped.

A young girl handed over her papers, then meekly walked into the assigned position. She was a girl— my vision wasn’t swimming so much anymore, so I could tell— certainly too young to be called a woman. I sensed the Nervous energy and tense excitement had found an outlet in the frail teen that moved ahead of the others in the group.

When there were no further instructions, the girl shifted her weight from foot to foot restlessly. She was probably too embarrassed to ask what she was supposed to do, or too intimidated by the stern examiner. At least I wasn't alone in not understanding one bit of what we were supposed to do.

Looking clinically unimpressed, proctor ticked a box on a preprepared grading sheet. “That will be all. Take this and proceed to the exit,” the examiner said.

Before she took it from his hands, the proctor was already pointing out the next contestant. “Next!”

An elderly person waddled into the Sorting Rings. Their examination was as uneventful as the first. The proctor took their papers carelessly, ticked off a box, handed them back and sent the applicant on their way.

The process repeated itself. “Next!” A mother reluctantly released a young boy from her arms, and off he went. Was it just me, or did he look as bored and tired as I was?

I grew bored. I was so bored, and so tired. So very tired. It couldn’t hurt to rest my eyes a bit while the examiner called the others up to be examined, could it?

The next thing I knew, there were six of us remaining. “You there! You deaf man? You’re next!”

I guessed that meant it was my turn. My papers had acquired a few stains here and there where my drool had landed on them. I was fairly impressed with myself when I avoided fumbling the delivery and placed them in the proctor’s waiting hands without a hitch.

The examiner broke character when his usually impassive face filled with disgust. He wiped his hands on his pants and held my papers like they might be diseased. Then he realized I hadn’t moved to the assigned position, and he shooed me in appropriate direction.

“Go on now, get on with you.” His hand gesture made it look like he was sweeping up rubbish.

So I took my turn and stood impassively in the middle of the Sorting Rings. Or at least I did, then all four of the rings flared to life. The air around me grew dense, almost soupy, with anima. All present were at a loss for words, myself included. The status quo had been irrevocably altered, and it changed every assumption I had going into the examination.

There was only one explanation. Sorting Rings were designed to gauge the magical capability of anyone who stepped inside them. I didn’t know how I measured up against another gifted’s capacity to harness anima, but based on our group size I could guess that no more than one in ten or one in twenty would possess enough anima to activate the rings.

“That will be all!” the examiner yelled shrilly.

Stepping out of the Sorting Rings, I almost fell over, but I caught myself with my walking stick. I bet canes came in real handy too. Looking over my shoulder, I watched the vaporous anima swirl around. Before it naturally dissipated, the rings absorbed the energy. Superheated metal hummed and waves of heat blasted me in the face. The Sorting Rings flashed awhile and then, finally, went dark.

“So, did I pass?”

Should the proctor have looked that shocked? “I— erm— that is, congratulations, applicant. You’ve passed. I’m assigning you a first class designation with level four privileges. The Hall of Lords will assign you a role that suites you best and benefits Magisterium the most. Welcome to Magisterium, honored citizen.”

I was practically delirious, so I had to be coaxed to leave through the exit by the suddenly-less-authoritative proctor. For my part, I didn’t do much besides lean on the guy and try not to vomit. He practically carried me across the threshold.

Immediately after I passed through the door I was confronted with a clean-shaven man with a buzz cut. It hurt my eyes to look at him. Wherever I looked, his skin was covered in fantastical tattoos.

“Please, have a seat.”

Those words were music to my ears. oomph. “Gladly.” I sat.

“A pleasure to serve you today, honored citizen.”

“Believe me, the honor’s all mine.”

“Your courtesy is flattering,” the man cast around for a way to change the subject, “Would you prefer the right arm or the left, honored citizen?”

I considered. My right arm was the dominant one, and it’d already been beaten up enough lately. Plus I rather liked the scar on my bicep and didn’t want to paint over it with a bunch of ink. So, left.

“Left, please.”

“Do you happen to have a preference with regards to the upper or lower portion, honored citizen?”

“Uhh… huh? Oh. The forearm is fine.”

My honored designation was already getting on my nerves. The title created a separateness and difference that I couldn’t ignore, because I’d lived the majority of my life being separate and different. Granted, half my annoyance could be chalked up to the fact that I was cranky from hunger and lack of sleep.

“Splendid. Then, if you would…” the glorified tattoo artist mimed what I was supposed to do.

I played along and held out my left arm so he could strap it into the restraints built into the chair. The tattooist revealed the tools of his trade: bottles of shimmery black ink and a precision implement that ended in a fine point. There was none of the tubing I expected, so I didn’t know how ink was fed into the inking tool and through the needle… but I knew the answer was magic.

“I’ll begin whenever you’re ready, honored citizen.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name…?” I prompted.

“Jimmy Porter is the name, but everyone just calls me Porter. I would be honored if you would do the same,” Porter said.

“Good to meet you then, Porter. I’m Shiro.”

When I got to thinking about how much getting a tattoo might hurt, the exhaustion I’d held back for so long hit me like a brick wall. My body went into total shutdown. I went numb all over and my brain simply… stopped. Even as Porter lowered the needle to my skin, I fell asleep. I didn’t regain consciousness at any point during the process.