Liberty Academy

Countless students of Liberty Academy watch the iron gates swing open - myself included. The towers were gigantic - to the point of disappearing into the morning mist. I see hundreds of students flood through the courtyard, some even surrounded by servants, horses, carriages, and, of course, family members.

Today marks the beginning of the new academic year in the prestigious knight school.

“Move aside.”

One funny guy pushes through the crowd, barely glancing at others.

“Three days,” their friend mutters. “That’s all we have before the first-year assessment.”

“Don’t worry. My family’s been sending knights here for two hundred years.”

“Must be nice.”

A bell rings through the courtyard. The conversation slowly dies down.

An elderly man stands at the top of the academy’s grand staircase, dressed in a black and silver robe - the primary colors of the academy. His voice carries effortlessly through the crowd.

“First-year students. Welcome to Liberty.”

The massive doors behind him open wider.

“From this day onward, you are no longer children of kings, daughters of nobles, sons of merchants, or children of farmers,” he says, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “You are students of Liberty. And Liberty does not care where you came from. It cares only about what you will become.”

I roll my eyes.

The doors behind him had fully opened by now as students made their way. I gather with the rest of them in the legendary Grand Hall, looking at the name carved on the marble walls. Hundreds of students begin to move inside, making the space feel tight. We might not know it yet, but among them were future knights, kings, traitors, heroes, rivals, or legends.

I look around, and the room seems to swallow us all whole. Vaulted ceilings stretch impossibly high. Torches flicker in iron sconces during dawn, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished floors.

I was surrounded by nervous laughter. A few steps away - a girl with red hair and freckles adjusts her grip on her leather bag. She looks nervous. Her uniform is plain - no family crest, no embroidery. She catches my eye for a moment and offers a hesitant smile before looking away.

The head masters voice rang through the hall again.

“You have three days before your first assessment. During that time, you will be assigned your quarters, introduced to your instructors, and given time to prepare.” he pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “Your performance in the assessment will determine your initial rank among your peers. That rank will follow you throughout the year. Some of you will rise quickly. Others will struggle.” he stops again, gaze sweeping across the crowd. “Do not mistake the first assessment for the final one. Liberty is not kind to those who rest on their accomplishments. And it is merciless to those who underestimate their rivals.”

A ripple of tension passes through the hall.

The headmaster gestures toward a corridor.

“Your instructors are waiting. Follow them.”

Students begin to split into groups on the bat. That is the primary survival strategy here. At least when you are a first year. A few nobles push ahead, their servants trailing behind. The red-haired girl hesitates.

The hall slowly empties as the first years are led away. I remain where I stand, listening to the whispers. The crowd empties around me like a river around a stone, eager to follow the instructor. A cluster of noble girls passes close by, their voices low.

“I heard the Ashcrofts sent their daughter this year,” she murmurs, her dark hair in braids. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice anymore after a couple of words. “She’ll probably top the combat rankings before the first week ends.”

“Give me strength,” herf friends groans. “How is anyone supposed to compete with that?”

Ashcroft?

“By hoping she breaks an ankle.”

They giggle with the easy arrogance of girls who have never had to fear being someone else’s target. From the side corridor, a sharp voice barks, “Keep moving! If you’re not in your assigned group by the time the second bell rings, you can explain yourself to the weapons master before the assessment.”

He had a badge on his chest and gestured impatiently at others, herding them forward. He was also older, a prefect - second or third year.

“That’s my father’s,” a calm voice carried through the hall. A couple of heads turned to the pale boy with blonde hair. His shoes were polished, a clear indicator of his high status. He is the type that doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

The servant in front of him was trembling as he placed the sword from the ground in his master’s hand.

“Clumsiness isn’t a trait I plan to tolerate for long,” he says quietly, leaving the servant behind, apologizing to no one he bumped into.

I was still near the center of the hall. The red-haired girl stumbles into my line of sight, her bag slipping from her shoulder. She catches it awkwardly. She’s alone.

No servant, no family, no entourage.

Just like me.

I approach the girl, smiling. “Excuse me. I must have slept through the introduction. What are we supposed to do again?”

The red-haired girl flinches. It took a few seconds before she realised I was talking to her. Up close, I could see freckles across her nose and green eyes. She looked British.

“Oh-um.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The headmaster finished, so everyone’s supposed to follow the instructors to get our dormitory assignments. They said we need to find our assigned group before the second bell rings or...” she says, gulping. “I didn’t hear what happens if we don’t. I was too busy worrying about the first part.”

The bag slips off again, which she pulls back up with both hands. Her uniform is clean but shapeless, the kind that looks like it was folded for a long time before being worn.

“I’m Rosa.” The words come out like a reflex, and she cringes. “Sorry. That’s probably not helpful. Servants were handing out group assignments near the east doors,” she adds quickly. “Maybe we can just... follow the crowd before someone notices.”

We follow the crowd until we were swallowed into the current of first years. We had to walk quickly before having a chance of being separated. The stone walls here were older and rougher. Their surface was worn. The air was also much cooler in this corridor. Ahead, voices bounced and overlapped. We saw several long wooden tables arranged in a rough semicircle. The servants were indeed still there, and a line of students stretched loosely in a churning queue.

Rosa presses close, her voice tight. “We made it, I think.” She tilts her head. “I hope they don’t split us up. I mean- not that we’re... I just meant, it’d be nice to know at least one person before the rooms are assigned.”

A pair of older students- second- or third-years- flank the line and watch newcomers.

One, a sturdy boy with close-cropped brown hair, mutters to his friend like on the gossip table. “Count the commoners. I bet three of them faint during the first combat trial.”

His companions snicker.

Students at the front are given folded papers, then directed toward different stairwells and passages that branch off the antechamber like veins. Some go alone. Others linger, peering at their assignment sheets with visible anxiety.

A girl in front of me turns towards her friend. “Which dormitory are you hoping for?” she asks. “I heard the west wing has windows facing the mountains, but the east wing is closer to the training grounds. My brother said the east wing is better if you want extra practice before the assessment.”

The line shuffles again, and the low murmur of voices gets quieter.

Rosa lowers her voice. “Do you know what group number you’re given? I never got one. I was too far in the back when the headmaster explained the process.” She bites her lip. “At this rate, I’ll be the only one in the room without a bed.”

“Come on, keep moving,” the stocky boy calls in a bored tone. “The headmaster already left, and I’m not going to be the one to explain why a pack of first years missed roll call.”

The line shifts again, and the faint creak of a heavy door echoes from somewhere deeper in the academy. The torches near the tables gutter slightly, then steady. I mean, it’s not the 8th century; why can’t they get a lamp light? A lean boy with pale platinum-blonde hair steps out of the line and glances back, searching for something in the crowd. He pauses when he spots me and Rosa, then offers a tight nod before disappearing towards the east stairwell.

I rip my gaze from him, shifting my attention in front.

At the head of the line, the administrator behind the center table straightens. “Next,” she says, and her voice cuts cleanly through the crowd.

“A room without a bed?” I chuckle. “How would that be possible?”

“I don’t know. I just meant-” She gestures vaguely toward the line, the tables, and the branching corridors. “This place is old enough to have rooms without floors if they wanted. My brother said some of the east wing ends at a wall because they built over a collapsed tower and never repaired it.” She fidgets with the cuff of her sleeve. “I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just- everything here looks ready to swallow us.”

The line shuffles forward. The girl in front of us moves toward one of the tables, and the administrator hands her a folded parchment with a wax seal the size of a thumbprint. She turns and walks toward a southern stairwell without looking back.

The prefect student watches her go, then glances at me and Rosa. “What are you two chattering about? Missing room assignments already?” His tone is half mocking, but his eyes sweep over our uniform with the same disinterest as before. He turns his attention back to his friend, who is lankier, with a faint scar across the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t bother. First-years always exaggerate,” his friend said.