The ceremony blurs into movement, into the press of bodies and the roar of voices, and now I stand among the crowd of the other Valthar Initiates and students. I feel numb, and the voices around me seem to bleed together as the room fills with mixed emotions, fear, exhaustion and excitement, as initiates meet for the first time or greet old friends. I listen as the man who spoke previously closes the ceremony. I now know that this is Headmaster Tenebris.

Chaos breaks out as the older students quickly leave the hall, and professors call out to a couple of them to lead us initiates to our new house dorms. A human student with messy brown hair and an untucked crimson uniform comes towards us, not looking too happy with the responsibility of escorting us to our house.

"Keep up, or you will get lost, and no one will help you," he says in a rough voice, not even looking at us to see if you heard before he struts straight for the exit.

I quickly look around the hall and see that the other houses are also making their way to the exit. I quicken my pace so that I do not get lost in the crowd of grey.

Our guide moves with the easy arrogance of someone who has already survived what we are only beginning, and he speaks in bursts, hurrying his words as if they pain him, pointing out landmarks as we pass with jerks of his chin rather than waves of his hand.

"The Rim," he says, gesturing around us on the surface level of the crater, "As you should know, the Harrowing grounds." He tilts his head towards the makeshift campsite I had been in earlier. "If you are lucky, you will come back from there alive. If you are not..." He does not finish before moving toward a gate attached to a tall guardhouse that looks to be well fortified. I look up and can see guards with weapons active on the parapet.

The gate is currently open. "Make sure you are on the correct side of that gate before it closes, or else you will find no way in or out. And you do not want to be out here alone when the sun sets." He chuckles darkly, and without further explanation, he continues through the gate. Once past the gate, there is a wide path carved out of the grey stone that leads down. He does not slow, and some initiates who are too busy looking around start to lag behind, but I do not dare say anything. I just try to keep up.

We make it to the first level, and it opens out to reveal a wide space that has multiple sections. 

"The Crown," our guide mutters. "Senior students building. Professors' quarters. Admin offices." He glances back at us, sixty Initiates stumbling in his wake.
He mutters fragments of information, enough for me to piece together where we are. This is the Crown, the uppermost level, housing senior student dormitories and professor residences, private study chambers and administrative offices. The air is coolest here, with a wind that cuts through the lingering heat from below, and House Aelindra maintains its quarters in tall towers that reach up towards the open sky of the crater.

 "Aelindra house dorms. The Spires. They like to look down on the rest of us."

We then move again, following the stone path, which turns into wide stairs spiralling around the crater as we descend further down.

As we reach the next level, our guide finally pauses, letting us glimpse the vast cavern that serves as the school's heart. Some of the initiates are trying to catch their breath after having to jog to catch up. "This is the Hearth," our guide says, watching our faces, our hunger, our desperate need for rest. "Centre of everything."

The Hearth forms the middle band, containing communal spaces where students mingle most. Waterfalls flow over the edge of the crater into a lake, and an underground river that leads to the sea, and the sound of falling water fills the air with a constant low thunder. The temperature remains moderate and comfortable, a relief after the Crown's cutting wind. Theory classrooms line the walls, and I can see the Refectory dining hall, the Central Library, the Med Bay and supply stores. House Sylmare maintains its quarters here, called the Tidekeep, near the water.

"Where you eat, study, spend spare time if you have any, and... it can get a bit lively..." He chuckles to himself as if he were telling a joke, but no one knew it.

Even now, I can see the older students start to file in on this level. Some look like they are catching up after a break, and others walk towards the different buildings.

He turns away, dismissing the Hearth and its comforts. "Valthar is further down," and starts down the path again. The stairs narrow slightly, the stone walls beginning to darken from grey to black, threaded with veins of dull colours that catch the brazier light.

He leads us to a third level in this crater. It is darker and hotter, the air thick with humidity and the smell of sulphur and fungus that clings to the back of the throat. "This is the Grounds," he says.

This is where some of the practical instruction occurs. Combat arenas, alchemy laboratories, summoning chambers, and leyline practice pits occupy this zone. The walls here grow thick with fungal networks, and mineral springs seep from the rock, creating a damp darkness that feels like breathing through wet cloth. House Drifthen maintains its quarters among these growths, in a place called the Hollow Root.

"They like it damp," he says as he watches the students begin to get hot and wipe the sweat from their faces. "They like it dark."

As we descend further, the heat becomes very intense, a weight against my chest, my face, in the air that I breathe. It feels like it is burning my lungs, with a copper taste on the tongue. The dark walls glow faintly. As I look closer, I can see veins of magma visible through the cracks of the rock walls, and the space shimmers with their light. "The Forge," he says a bit louder than before. "This is the deepest level, where the mountain's heart still beats. This is our space." He seems proud.

Here, the stairs end, and the passage opens into a cavern that makes my breath catch. Black stone walls rise around us, threaded with magma that seems to be slowly moving. Crimson banners hang from iron rods, each bearing the Valthar crest, a flame rendered in gold, stylised and fierce, eternally burning. Above, chain bridges sway between jagged balconies where older students watch us arrive like hawks circling carrion. The heat is immense, a physical thing, and everywhere burns the colour of blood and flame.

"Welcome to the Forge," our guide growls, his voice barely audible over the roar of coals and the hum of leylines running too close to the surface. "Try not to melt before the Culling."

He herds us toward the centre of the cavern, where a pit of coals glows perpetual orange, casting everything in light that flickers and dances. I keep to the edges of the group, scanning for exits, counting the guards posted at the two staircases that lead back up. Sixty Initiates, and I swear I can hear sixty hearts hammering against sixty ribs, all of us wondering if we have traded one death for another.

A dwarf stands upon a raised platform beside the coal pit. He is ancient, his beard braided with iron rings that clank softly as he moves, blackened at the tips as though he has thrust it into flames. His eyes bulge slightly, too wide and too bright, the colour of molten copper. He wears no robe, only leather straps and a crimson kilt, his arms bare and scarred from elbow to wrist with what look like burns. The heat seems to bend around him like he is hotter than the magma itself, and he limps slightly as he paces, favouring his left leg, but the movement does not seem to bother him. He scans the crowd in silence, letting the weight of his presence settle over us before he speaks.

"I am Professor Kek'dran," he bellows, his voice like grinding stone, carrying without effort to every corner of the cavern. "Head of House Valthar. I am your forge and your flame. I will temper you until you are steel, or I will burn you until you are ash. There is no third option."

He paces the platform, the iron rings in his beard clicking with each step.

"You think you have survived, that from here you can relax?" He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Well, so that you know, the Harrowing was a stroll through a garden. Here, we teach you to survive yourself. Your new magic is like a beast. It will eat you from the inside out unless you learn to feed it properly."

He stops pacing and fixes his copper eyes on us. Sixty Initiates, and I swear he looks at each one, lingering on specific faces, letting the silence stretch until the air itself seems to tighten.

"Some of you are soft," he says, almost gently. "Some of you are slow. Some of you are nobodies from nowhere with dirt under your nails and starlight in your veins." His gaze flicks to me, or I imagine it does, and I feel my spine straighten. "I do not care where you came from. I care only that you burn when I tell you to burn, and that you do not gutter out before you have served your purpose."

He gestures sharply, and older students step forward to distribute crimson tunics, gold-threaded sashes, and small iron tokens stamped with the Valthar flame.

"You will sleep in there," Professor Kek'dran points towards a hallway to his left and continues. "You will eat whatever scraps you can get your hands on. You will learn the basic foundations: arcane locks, protection wards, mind-shielding, simple enchantments, transformation theory, and potion brewing. These are the tools every mage must wield, regardless of House. After morning foundations, you will train your Major and Minor resonances with your specific tutors. You will have me for element training, and your timetable will tell you who will be teaching the rest."

He grins, showing teeth.

"Oh, and one more thing. We do not punish fighting here. We encourage it. If you cannot defend your place in the line, your place in the line is not yours. Learn fast, or learn pain."

He steps back, and the older students begin directing us toward the dormitories. I take the clothing given to me, the fabric finer than anything I have worn in months, and clutch it to my chest as I follow the flow toward the left hallway, the one leading toward the dormitory.

The dormitory is a vast, low cavern, longer than it is wide, with no door, only a wide archway that opens onto the passage we came from. Sixty cots line the walls in two rows of thirty, each with a small iron-bound chest at its foot. The stone floor between them is bare, polished smooth by countless boots. Braziers burn at intervals along the walls, but the smoke gathers near the ceiling, creating a haze that stings the eyes and eventually moves through a small vent in the roof.

I read the room as I enter, the same way I used to read battlefields and camp perimeters. I watch the flow of bodies, the clustering near the centre, the hesitation at the corners. I slip between the gaps, finding the weak points in the crowd, and claim a cot near the back left corner, pressed against the cold wall. I look into the metal chest at its foot, which contains two more crimson tunics, a rough blanket, and a wooden practice dagger with a dulled edge. I sit, pulling off my boots to inspect the blisters forming on my heels, and watch the chaos of sixty Initiates trying to secure their place.

Some are too slow. A heavyset boy with half-orc features finds the closest cot already occupied by a halfling girl who simply refuses to move. They argue in low, vicious whispers until an older student passes by and tells them to share or fight. They stare each other down until they agree to share, the boy moving to squeeze onto the narrow mattress with his back to the wall, both of them rigid with resentment.

Others abandon the cots entirely, spreading blankets on the stone floor between the rows, claiming territory with packs and boots arranged like walls. A trio of girls from possibly the same village, judging by their matching accents, drag three cots together and sleep across them sideways, forming a raft of bodies that no one would dare to challenge.

A moment of quiet settles over the dormitory, just long enough for hope to form, for breath to slow.

Then Kek'dran's voice booms from the archway, unexpected and savage.

"Up," he commands. "All of you. Now."

We scramble to our feet, confused, exhausted, some still in their grey Initiate tunics. Kek'dran stands in the archway, his copper eyes gleaming in the brazier light, a twisted smile on his face.

"Dinner is in one hour," he says. "You will miss it."

A murmur of protest rises. He silences it with a look.

"You think magic is learned in classrooms? You think power comes from books?" He spits the word. "Power comes from will. From discipline. From the ability to continue when your body screams for rest, for food, for mercy. Tonight, we begin. The stairs. All the way to the Rim, all the way back down. Three times."

He steps aside, gesturing toward the narrow stairs that climb toward the Rim.

"Move," he roars. "The last ten to finish do it again."

There is hesitation for only a few moments before we all begin to run towards the stairs.

☼☼☼☼☼

The first ascent is brutal. My legs, already weak from the battle in the village, the run through the forest, the creatures and the lightning, burn with every step, my calves screaming with each upward strike. As we burst onto the Rim, the cool night air is shocking after the forge heat, but we turn around and return down the path again.

The heat intensifies again as I descend, the air thinning, the stone walls pressing close. I pass Initiates who stumble, who gasp, who clutch the walls and are shoved onward by those behind. No one helps anyone. To stop is to be trampled.

As I return to the Forge, I hear Professor Kek'dran's voice immediately. "Again!"

The ascent is worse this time. My knees threaten to buckle, cramping with each step, sharp pains shooting through the joints. Someone falls behind me, tumbling, screaming until they catch themselves on a railing. No one stops to help them. I do not stop. I try to count the steps, focus on the rhythm, ignore the hollow ache in my stomach as I have not eaten in over twenty-four hours at this point.

By the third ascent, I am running on instinct alone, my vision tunnelled, my breath ragged, the taste of blood coppery at the back of my throat. I pass the same faces, the same gasping, desperate expressions. The half-orc from the cot argument is weeping silently as he climbs, tears cutting through the grime on his face. A smallish girl with chestnut hair has fallen behind, her pace slowing, her eyes glazed.

I do not help her. I cannot. I am barely helping myself.

Professor Kek'dran waits at the bottom of the third descent, counting us as we stumble into the Forge. His smile has not changed.

"Again," he says.

"No," someone gasps, a boy with the fine bones of a high-noble of somewhere. "We cannot. We need food and water and rest."

The professor moves faster than I thought possible. He is beside the boy in three strides, his hand around the boy's throat, lifting him until his toes scrape the stone. The chokehold lingers, the boy's face turning red, his eyes bulging.

"You need," Kek'dran mimics, his voice soft, almost tender. "You need. You think the world cares what you need? You think the leylines care? The gods?" He shakes the boy once, hard, then drops him. The boy crumples, gasping, clutching his throat. "The world takes. It takes and takes until you have nothing left to give, and then it takes your bones. The only question is whether you will be strong enough to take back."

He steps back, surveying us. Sixty-something Initiates, swaying, trembling, some weeping, some already vomiting from exertion. I lean against the wall, my chest heaving, my legs numb, and I meet the professor's eyes.

He sees me. I know he does. Something in his expression shifts, not approval exactly, but recognition of some type.

"Last time," he says. "To the Rim and back. The first five to finish... will get to eat tonight. The rest..." He shrugs. "Tomorrow is another day."

And with that, we run. Again.

I push harder than I thought possible, my boots striking stone, my arms pumping, my breath ragged and desperate. I pass bodies, weave around stumbling forms, feel my lungs burn and my vision blur. The wiry girl with fire in her palms surges ahead. The tall boy with blank eyes keeps a perfect pace. Others fall behind, gasping, retching, collapsing against walls.

I finish twenty-seventh.

I stumble back into the Forge, my legs giving way, and I collapse against the cold stone wall, sliding down. My chest heaves. My stomach twists with hollow, cramping hunger. I watch the first five collect their tokens from Professor Kek'dran, their faces slack with relief, their steps unsteady as they climb toward the Refectory and food.

The rest of us simply sit, or lie, or curl against the walls like broken things. No one speaks. No one has the breath for it. Kek'dran surveys us, his copper eyes gleaming, and nods once.

"Sleep," he says. "If you can. Morning foundations begin at dawn. Wake before that if you want food. For those who sleep in..." He grins, showing his teeth again. "Eats nothing."

He turns and limps away, his iron-ringed beard clicking softly, leaving us in the haze and the heat and the silence of over sixty empty stomachs.

I am one of the first to move, dragging myself to my cot, every muscle screaming. I do not bother to change my tunic, nor pull the blanket over me. I simply lie on my back, staring at the smoke-stained ceiling, and count my breaths to keep from spiralling into my thoughts.

Eventually, others do the same. But some weep softly into their pillows. Others are already snoring, their exhaustion overwhelming hunger. The boy who shares the cot with the stubborn girl whispers to her, urgent and low, planning something. Alliance, perhaps. Or maybe future betrayal.

I reluctantly close my eyes. The hollow in my belly aches like a wound. I think of the stranger who sent me here, of his final words of prophecy and survival. I think of the stars I saw briefly, impossibly bright, but impossibly wrong. I think of Kek'dran's eyes, seeing something I do not yet understand.

Sleep comes slowly, edged with distant, gnawing fear that I am not in a place that I could call safe. That I left the pan, but now I am in the fire.

But I am still breathing, and for now, that is enough.

☼☼☼☼☼

Morning comes with bells, deep and resonant, vibrating through the stone and into my bones. I wake before everyone else, some instinct honed in war camps, dragging me from shallow sleep into full awareness. My stomach cramps with hunger, a hollow, twisting pain that makes my hands shake as I pull on my boots and drag my fingers through my hair and braid it roughly to keep it from my face.

As I move to the archway, around me the dorm room erupts into motion. Sixty or so Initiates scramble from cots and floor spaces, fighting for the wash troughs, pulling on crimson tunics, desperate to make it to the Refectory. I stand outside the archway and watch them, learning their rhythm. The first five last night ate well and seem to still be sleeping, but the rest are running on empty, and it shows in the desperation, the shoving, the snarled insults as someone cuts the line for water.

I claim a trough outside the dorm, splashing my face with lukewarm water that smells of copper and stone. My reflection stares back, hair frizzing in the plait, hollow-eyed. I really do look like the feral thing that he named me. I smooth my hair as best I can with the water, and follow the river of red toward the stairs.

The Refectory is a cavern vaster than the Forge, carved from pale stone, with detailed designs that seem to drink the morning light and return it softer. Tables of every size scatter across the floor, some seating four, others twenty, no pattern I can discern. The four House colours mingle here, crimson and blue and green and white, though not easily. I see the clustering, the hesitation, the way a Valthar student will choose an empty table rather than share with Sylmare.

The smell hits me next, bread, meat, something sweet and steaming. My stomach cramps so hard I have to stop, brace myself against the archway, breathe through the pain. I have gone hungry before. In the war camps, when supply lines failed, when the fae-demons found our stores. But never with food so close, never with the promise of it so cruelly immediate.

Then I see the serving tables, and I understand why the guide warned of chaos.

There are no lines. No order. Staff in grey uniforms place tureens, trays, and baskets along the far wall, then vanish through hidden doors before the students reach them. What follows is not quite battle, not quite survival, but something between. Older students move with practised efficiency, claiming territory, forming barriers with their bodies and even magic while their friends fill plates. To one side, I see some magic flare, controlled and subtle, that freezes a Sylmare girl to the floor. An Aelindra boy calls wind to snatch a bread loaf from the air. Fire flashed for a moment from a Valthar student, burning another student as they had reached out to take a piece of toast.

I hang back, watching, figuring out the best way to approach. My hunger screams, but my instincts scream louder. To rush in blindly is to be trampled, to be burned, and then to be left with nothing. It does not seem the smart way to approach this chaos.

That is when I notice her, standing at the edge of the chaos like a rock in a river. A girl, slight and pale, with hair the colour of sea foam that falls to her waist in twin plaits. Her ears are long and pointed, unmistakably elven, and she wears blue and silver, Sylmare, the water and enchantment House. She is calm amid the storm, watching the turmoil with a mild expression of amusement. I recognise her from somewhere, the sorting perhaps, though the memory blurs with exhaustion.

"First time?" she says as she approaches me, her voice light.

I turn to face her. "Is it that obvious?" I mumble, more to myself than her.

She laughs, light and brief. "Did your family not warn you? The Refectory is where the real training happens. My brother did not give me details, but my mother called it 'the hunger games.'" She produces something from her sleeve, a wrapped packet, still warm. "Flatbread and honey. I have two. You look like you need one more than I do," as she hands it to me with a friendly gesture.

I stare at her. In my world, food shared was trust earned through blood. But here is a stranger who is offering a lifeline with a smile.

I hesitate before asking, "What do you want for it?"

She looks confused for a moment before laughing loudly. "Oh... no silly, there is no price needed. Maybe with someone else there would be, but I am not like the rest of them." She nods her head towards the other students.

"I am Nhavae," she continues, pressing the packet into my hand. Her fingers are cold, faintly damp. "Sylmare, obviously. Sea elf, if you are wondering."

"Th... thank you. I am Sera," I reply as I look at the food in my hands.

She smiles at me before glancing toward the serving tables, where the chaos is settling into uneasy distribution. "Come. I will show you how to navigate without bleeding."

We move together, not quite friends yet, but we are not enemies either. She speaks softly, pointing out which older students are territorial, which tables are neutral ground, and where the best foods tend to sit. I follow her lead, snatching a random bowl of porridge and a wedge of cheese when her distraction creates an opening.

"Your brother," I say, remembering. "Is he here, or did he graduate already?"

"He is here. You see that group over there?" She gestures towards a large table in the centre, where a crowd of students is chatting and roughhousing. I look and notice the way other students give them a wide berth, the way they occupy the centre as if they own the gravity of the room. I nod.

"That is the group who think they own the air itself." Nhavae's voice stays light, but something hardens beneath it. "Leomaris is a second year, Sylmare, combat and scrying. He is very talented and very aware of it." She finds us a small table near the edge, half in shadow, between a pillar and the wall. Two other Initiates occupy the far end, a boy and a girl in green and bronze who eat in silence, eyes down. "I want to learn who I am without his shadow. It is... difficult, especially now that we are in the same school."

She does not elaborate. I do not ask.

I tear into the flatbread. It is the best thing I have tasted in months. Honey coats my fingers, and I lick them without shame, too hungry for manners.

"Slowly," Nhavae murmurs, amused. "The food will not vanish. Well, not immediately."

I force myself to breathe between bites. I stay silent but look around, sizing up the others who are here.

That is when I see him.

He now sits at the larger table near the centre, surrounded by a pack of students. But there seem to be five students who seem to be the leaders of this group. I count now, one from each House, all of them must be second years, all dressed in fine uniforms that were in excellent shape. The Sylmare boy, must be Leomaris, Nhavae's brother, as they look similar, leans close to Novordet, speaking with the easy intimacy of long acquaintance. The Drifthen boy, with rings on every finger, laughs at something, loud and brutal. The Aelindra girl, tall and thin, watches the room with eyes that miss nothing. And the other Valthar girl, the one with a burn scar on her throat, is tossing a dagger in the air and catching it again.

I watch as they take in the crowd around them. I notice the calculating look in their eyes as if they are figuring out the weak ones.

Novordet does not look at me as I stare at him. I watch as he sips from a cup, listens to Leomaris, and laughs at something the Drifthen says.

I lean towards Nhavae. "Who are the others who are with your brother? They seem..."

Her eyes flicker to them briefly. "Arrogant... brutal bullies? They like to call themselves The Pack." She pauses, searching for the word. "Or some such pretentious name."

I raise an eyebrow at the name. She does not notice and just continues. "Well, there is my brother, then there is the big one who is Varren. He is brawn but no brains, honestly. The Aelindra girl is Rania. She is quiet and sneaky. Keep an eye always on her, or she may stab you in the back before you realise. And the Valthar is Alaric. An ass to be honest. He is firstborn to Duke Thalorien Novordet." She rolls her eyes at that.

As if he heard his name, his gaze passes over my table, over Nhavae, over me, but without pausing. As if I were just furniture or stone, that I am beneath notice.

"That sounds about right..." I mumble as I take another bite.

She looks at me with confusion. "Do you know him?"

Before I can reply, we watch as Varren follows Alaric's absent gaze, or perhaps he simply scans the room for sport. His eyes find me, fix on me, and he nudges the Aelindra girl, Rania, with his elbow. She turns, assesses, tilting her head as she says something soft that makes Leomaris laugh. I feel Nhavae stiffen beside me, her hand tightening around her spoon.

"Ignore them," she whispers. "They are bored. They want a reaction."

I look away and keep eating. My porridge has cooled, but I finish it, every grain, because I do not know when I will eat again. The flatbread and cheese I save, wrapping it in the scrap of cloth from Nhavae, hoarding against the future.

From the corner of my eye, I see Varren standing. He then struts towards our table with the rolling gait of someone who has never been challenged, who has never needed to fear. He circles slowly, his shadow falling across my food, blocking the light. Rania watches, smirking. Leomaris does not even look at his sister and continues his conversation with Alaric, who does not even look at what is about to happen.

"New blood," Varren says, looming over us. He smells of expensive oil and something earthy, fungus or turned soil. "A feral one and the little fish. How charming."

Nhavae does not look up. "We are just eating, Varren."

He grins, showing teeth. "Feisty. Your brother said you had grown claws recently." He reaches out, casual and cruel, and flicks the last of Nhavae's flatbread from her plate onto the floor. "Oops."

I am back in the war camps suddenly, back in the moment before the blade falls. I move before I think, war camp instinct surging through me. My hand catches his wrist, not hard, not yet, but firm. My fingers press into the space between his bones, where nerves cluster, and I feel him tense.

"Don’t," I hiss through my teeth, almost growling.

Varren looks at me. Really looks, scanning over my appearance. His eyes are small, piggy, set deep in that heavy face. Something flickers there, though, surprise, then calculation.

"You touched me," he says, as if confirming a fact. "You actually touched me."

"She is new," Nhavae says, her voice tight. "She does not know the rules."

"Oh, I think she does." Varren leans closer, his wrist still in my grip, his weight threatening to break my hold through sheer mass. He leans in close enough that I can smell his breath, sour with wine. "I think she knows exactly what she is doing. The question is whether she knows what happens next."

The tension hangs for a moment, stretched tight as a wire.

"Varren." The voice comes from behind him, cold, bored. "Leave the Initiates to their breakfast. We will be late to class otherwise." I glance over Varren's shoulder and see Alaric right there.

Varren holds my gaze a moment longer, then twists his wrist free with a practised motion that leaves my fingers stinging. He smiles, all threat and promise.

"Later, feral," he whispers threateningly. "We will finish this."

He returns to the rest of the pack, who are heading to the door. The Aelindra girl raises an eyebrow at me, something like curiosity. Leomaris finally looks at his sister, a glance of warning or dismissal, I cannot tell. Alaric does not even look at me as he leaves.

"Thank you," I say to Nhavae, though I am not sure what for.

"Do not thank me," she replies, her voice low. "You just made an enemy of Varren Renlow. His father owns half the shipping lanes in the Pearlborne Isles. He does not forget, and he does not forgive." She pauses, then adds, almost to herself, "But it was well done. The way you moved. You have been trained."

"Not trained," I say. "Survived."

She studies me with eyes the colour of deep water, then nods slowly. "Even so, you have experience. It will help you make it here."

The bells ring again, deeper this time, signalling the end of breakfast. Students quickly rise and stream toward exits. Nhavae stands, brushing invisible crumbs from her blue and silver tunic.

"Your timetable," she says. "Check it. First days are brutal, and apparently the professors do not repeat themselves for stragglers."

I reach into my tunic, where I stashed the scroll given to me in the forge before breakfast. Unfurl it, read the cramped script.

*Foundations: History. Arcane Theory. Combat Praxis. Elemental Wielding*

Four sessions, with breaks between. The scroll notes that schedules are provisional, subject to change after the Culling reduces our numbers.

"The Culling," I say aloud, not meaning to.

Nhavae's expression flickers, something passing behind her eyes too fast to name. "Yes. In twelve weeks." She touches my arm, brief and cold. "We need to survive until then, Sera. That is all any of us can do, but do not worry, I have a plan for us." She smiles brightly.

"Us...?"

She nods but does not offer an answer as she moves away, joining other Sylmare students, leaving me standing there confused.

The Refectory empties around me, the last students hurrying to class. I stand alone in the sudden quiet, the weight of the timetable heavy in my hand, feeling like a death sentence written in ink. I think of the stars I saw briefly, impossibly bright, and the lightning that still thrums in my bones. I think of Varren's shadow falling across my food, and the war camps, and the way Alaric's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

I blink a couple of times before following the students towards the class stated on my timetable. Thinking that I may have made a friend, I have eaten, and somehow I have survived, barely, in this strange place I have found myself. But the day has barely begun, and already I have made enemies. I am learning that this school is like a battlefield dressed in stone and silk.

I square my shoulders, take a breath, and push the door open to my first class, crossing the threshold like stepping onto new ground.

♥♥♥♥♥

Note to my readers:
Thank you so much for reading this far. Truly. The fact that you’re still here with these characters and this world means more than I can properly put into words. I’ve seen all your comments and questions, even if I haven’t replied to everything just yet. I’ve been a bit sick this past week and also slightly consumed by finishing my World Anvil submission… which means my brain has been juggling lore, deadlines, and tissues. It’s been a time.

I promise I haven’t vanished into the void (or been stolen by my own plot).
I’ve set up discussion boards on my world homepage where you can post questions or start conversations about the story, the world, the characters, or any wild theories you’re quietly building. I genuinely love reading your thoughts, so please keep them coming.

[board:5d68f188-9e01-4677-9436-440d52db04d4]
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