“Well, since you asked, I’m happy to verify our parameters. There are nearly ten billion people in the world at present, correct?” he prompted, and Libby and Nico, both a bit bewildered, nodded warily. “Nine and a half billion, to be more specific, of which only a portion are magical. Five million, give or take, who can be classified as witches. Of those, only six percent are identified as medeian-caliber magicians, eligible for training at the university level at institutions sprinkled across the globe. Only ten percent of those will qualify for the best universities, like this one,” he said, gesturing around to the NYUMA banners. “Of those, only a fraction—one percent or less—are considered by our selection committee; the vast majority will be cut without a second glance. That leaves three hundred people. Of those, another ten percent might have the requisite qualifications; specialties, academic performance, personality traits, et cetera.”
Thirty people. Nico gave Libby a smug look like he knew she was doing the math, and she shot back a contemptuous one like she knew he wasn’t.
“Then comes the fun part, of course—the real selectivity,” the man continued. “Which students have the rarest magic? The most inquisitive minds? The vast majority of your most talented classmates will go on to serve the magical economy as accountants, investors, magical lawyers,” he informed them. “Maybe the rare few will create something truly special. But only thirty people in total are good enough to be considered extraordinary, and of those, only six are rare enough to be invited through the door.”
The man smiled slightly. “By the end of the year, of course, only five will walk back out of it. But that’s a matter for future consideration.”
Libby, who was still a little taken aback by the selection parameters, allowed Nico to speak first.
“You think there are four people better than Rhodes or me?”
“I think there are six people of equally remarkable talent,” the man corrected with an air of repetition, as if that much had already been established, “of which you may be qualified or may not.”
“So you want us to compete against each other, then,” Libby observed sourly, flicking a glance at Nico, “again.”
“And four others,” the man agreed, holding out a card for them both. “Atlas Blakely,” he informed them, as Libby glanced down, eyeing the card. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker. “As I said, I would like to make you an offer.”
“Caretaker of what?” Nico asked, and the man, Atlas, gave him a genial smile.
“Better that I enlighten all of you at once,” he said. “Forgive me, but it is quite a lengthy explanation, and the offer does expire in a matter of hours.”
Libby, who was never particularly impulsive, remained warily opposed. “You’re not even going to tell us what your offer is?” she asked him, finding his recruitment tactics needlessly furtive. “Why on earth would we ever agree to accept it?”
“Well, that part’s really not up to me, is it?” Atlas prompted, shrugging. “Anyway, as I said, I do have quite a pressing schedule,” he informed them, tucking his umbrella onto his arm again. “Time zones are a tricky business. Which of you may I expect?” he asked, glancing pointedly between them, and Libby frowned.
“I thought you said that was up to us?”
“Oh, it is, of course, eventually,” Atlas said with a nod. “I merely presumed, given how eager you both seemed to be to go your separate ways, that only one of you would accept my invitation.”
Her glance collided with Nico’s, both of them bristling.
“Well, Rhodes?” Nico said, in his softly mocking tone. “Do you want to tell him I’m better, or should I?”
“Libs,” came Ezra’s voice, jogging up to her from behind. “Ready to go? Your mom’s waiting outs-”
“Oh, hello, Fowler,” Nico said, turning to Ezra with a disdainful smile. “Project manager, hm?”
Libby inwardly flinched. Of course he’d said it like an insult. It was a prestigious position for any medeian, but Nico de Varona wasn’t just any medeian. He would go onto be something big, something… remarkable.
He was one of the six best in the world.
In the world.
And so was she.
For what, though?
Libby blinked, startling herself out of her thoughts, when she realized Nico was still talking.
“—in the middle of something, Fowler. Perhaps you could give us a moment?”
Ezra slid a wary gaze to Libby, frowning. “Are you…？”