So they can continue testing until Dermot manages to cut himself trying to operate one of the sharper puzzles and instantly heals himself, with a speed which is uncommon for a magician of his mediocre talents.

Now that...that’s something. Kassandra grabs him, and inspects the freshly-healed wound. “Now how did you do that?”

"I don't know, I just wanted it. Thought about how it should look and not how it was."

There is...a lot to unpack in that small sentence, but Kassandra lets it go. For now. In the meantime- 

“Well, that makes it pretty certain to me! Healer, with a focus on self-regeneration for now. Maybe as you learn more you’ll be able to stretch out that to heal others.”

"That would be nice! Thanks. So what do I do now that we know?"

Kassandra shows him where the Healing dorms are, and shoots off a quick message to Dr Kinloch as she does so, warning her in advance. 

Dermot, finally excited by something about magic school (he has a discipline! not a specialization, but he'll ask his mom whether that's normal when he calls her next), heads to his dorm.

Thistle had spent a very good afternoon figuring her way out through the illusion that hid the Illusion students dorm (an entire castle!), and had made herself at least meet the other students. They had been welcoming, which was a relief. Her room, as well, was comfortable and tidy, and all of her belongings were already in there. She managed to actually feel rested, as she got into bed that night. 

Unfortunately, Brakebills does not seem inclined to allow her a good night's rest. She is awoken on a grassy field, with voices around her muttering in various states of distress. She cannot see, because there is something on her head obscuring her vision.

"-die, my dad will sue your asses!"

"First years! Now that all of you are awake, pay attention."

Bags over their heads start to come off. Thank god, because Coldwater was one more sentence away from getting a spell to the face.

Thistle, dizzy and confused, is relieved to see Quentin, and hastens over to him, wrapping her hand around his wrist. For comfort. 

Zevran takes the opportunity to emerge out of the darkness, shushing the first year nearest him, making them jump a foot into the air.

 “Quiet now, quiet, your queen demands your attention.”

"Listen up, dipshits and half-wits. As upper-classmen- and upper-classwomen- it's our esteemed duty to administer The Trials. The Trials separate the wheat from the chaff; if you're cut out to be a magician, you pass. If not, you fail. Only the strong survive. I can already see some of you thinking, 'Oh no, boo hoo, I should have gone to Harvard, or Yale, or Brown.' Well, it sucks to be you. Pussy up. Brakebills requires actual effort."

"And before you think the faculty will save you, consider that they are the ones making this possible!" 

Zevran winks at Quentin as a sweeps pass. 

Quentin squeezes Thistle's hand.

"Are you okay?"

He ignores Zev and Margo ramble on about the importance of these Trials and blah, blah, blah.

She can't hear him. She can't hear anything-

She turns huge, terrified eyes on Quentin, and points to her ears.

Quentin is struck for a moment by the awful unfairness of- Brakebills? Life?- before he's somewhere else.

"...great. You two."

They're sitting in some kind of- spare classroom? This building has way too many extra halls which are just for sitting in and reading and thinking big-brained thoughts.

"Feel free to leave any time, Quinn," Lori shoots right back.

"What are we doing here?"

Quentin looks for Thistle-

Margo slams her ruler against their table.

"Eyes on the prize, Coldwater. The Trials have begun."

Lori flips through the paper on the table, and frowns at it. "It's a problem, is what it is. I don't think this is in any of our wheelhouses."

Quentin immediately starts trying to study the paper to prove her wrong-

-and Dermot does the same. Neither of them notice this.