The Weight of Living Volume 3 Part 1: The Price of Wanting

The Weight of Living

Volume 3: The Price of Wanting

Part 1: The Life He Never Expected

Written by HollowVow

Chapter 1: The Price of Admission

Ren Kurose’s Perspective

Wanting things was dangerous. It gave the world something new to take from you. Unfortunately, I was beginning to want them anyway

Wanting things was dangerous. It gave the world something new to take from you. Unfortunately, I was beginning to want them anyway.

It was a realization I found rather inconvenient.

For most of my life, wanting something had been an exercise in discovering precisely how little control I possessed over whether I would receive it. Food, shelter, a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Such things were necessities rather than ambitions, and even those had once proven remarkably difficult to obtain. Anything beyond them seemed like an invitation for disappointment. I’d learned to avoid those invitations whenever possible, which had worked reasonably well until I encountered a girl who insisted upon sharing her bread with strangers and behaving as though the world might eventually reward her kindness.

It hadn’t.

And yet, six months after emerging from a forest that had nearly killed me, I was sitting upon the edge of a wagon with a sword at my hip, clean clothing on my back, and an irritating sense of anticipation concerning what the coming day might bring.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Asterwyn lay ahead.

We had first seen it the previous afternoon, spread across an enormous valley beneath the sunlight, its towers rising above the surrounding districts like pale stone fingers reaching toward the sky. The caravan had made camp on the wooded heights rather than attempting the final descent before nightfall. According to Edric, approaching a city of Asterwyn’s size with tired horses and limited daylight was an excellent way to spend several unnecessary hours waiting behind other travelers who’d demonstrated similarly poor judgment.

I had no particular objection to stopping.

After half a year on the road, another night beneath the trees hardly seemed worth complaining about.

Now, however, the city was considerably closer.

The morning mist had begun retreating from the valley, revealing broad avenues that crossed the surrounding countryside before disappearing among clusters of buildings. Farmland stretched along both sides of the road, divided by low stone walls and narrow irrigation channels. Merchants traveled toward the city in steady procession, their wagons carrying grain, timber, cloth, livestock, and whatever else people considered worth transporting across considerable distances. Several mounted travelers passed us wearing fine coats and polished equipment, while others walked beside heavily burdened animals with expressions suggesting they had already spent more time traveling than they cared to remember.

Above it all, the towers of Vaelcrest Academy remained visible.

Even from the road, they were difficult to overlook.

The academy occupied a raised portion of Asterwyn’s central district, its immense collection of pale towers and connected buildings surrounded by walls that seemed more appropriate for a royal residence than a school. Several narrow bridges joined structures whose foundations stood at different elevations, and the uppermost spire caught the early sunlight in a way that made its stone appear almost silver.

I’d spent much of the previous evening looking toward it.

Not because the architecture was particularly interesting.

Though it was.

But because somewhere within those walls were people who might possess answers I hadn’t been able to find anywhere else.

I shifted slightly upon the wagon’s wooden edge.

My left arm rested beneath the long sleeve of my black traveling robe, its unnatural contours hidden by the fitted protective covering Mara had helped arrange. The leather glove concealing my hand was comfortably secured, and the sword I’d purchased in Briarford hung at my right hip. My longer hair remained tied behind my head with a strip of dark fabric, though a few loose strands occasionally moved across my forehead whenever the wind changed direction.

Beside me, Cassia leaned forward to examine something in the distance.

“Can you see the eastern towers from here?”

I followed her gaze.

There were far too many towers.

“Possibly.”

“The ones beyond the larger dome.”

I examined the skyline.

“That narrows it down considerably.”

She looked toward me.

“You’re not even trying.”

“I’ve been told I possess that talent.”

Cassia sighed, then returned her attention to the city.

Her copper-auburn braid rested over one shoulder, and the morning sunlight brought out the freckles scattered across her cheeks. She had spent the previous evening preparing her belongings with an enthusiasm I found difficult to understand, repeatedly checking the contents of her bags as though Vaelcrest might refuse admission to anyone who arrived without a sufficiently organized collection of writing materials.

Sabine walked beside the wagon, listening to our conversation with the faintly amused expression she often wore when Cassia became particularly excited.

“She’s been talking about those towers since we woke up,” Sabine said.

“I noticed.”

“They’re part of the engineering complex,” Cassia informed us. “Or at least I think they are. Some of the older diagrams aren’t particularly accurate, and Tovin said several buildings have been expanded since his last visit.”

“Tovin says that about everything,” I replied.

“Because everything changes,” came a voice from ahead.

I looked up.

Tovin stood beside the next wagon, holding a rolled map beneath one arm.

“Cities, roads, borders, rivers. Even mountains change, though considerably less enthusiastically than the people who insist upon drawing maps of them.”

Cassia smiled.

“See?”

I looked toward her.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Tovin continued explaining something about Asterwyn’s architectural expansion.

I stopped listening when he began discussing the development of its northern districts several centuries earlier.

Some things, apparently, were best left to the people who found them interesting.

The wagons continued descending toward the city.

And for the first time since leaving Aurevane, I found myself approaching a place I actually wanted to enter.

Asterwyn’s outer districts began well before its main walls.

The farmland gradually gave way to workshops, warehouses, inns, and long rows of closely arranged houses. Broad stone roads intersected the main trade route, carrying an increasingly dense mixture of pedestrians, carts, riders, and delivery wagons. Shops opened directly onto the streets, their signs painted with elaborate symbols or fitted with small magical inscriptions that glowed faintly even beneath the morning sunlight.

The buildings became taller as we approached the city proper.

Some rose three or four stories above the road, their upper floors supported by thick wooden beams extending from pale stone foundations. Others possessed narrow balconies adorned with flowering vines or protective railings engraved with decorative patterns. Public fountains stood at several intersections, water flowing continuously through channels that appeared to be maintained by modest magical mechanisms rather than ordinary pumping systems.

I noticed a series of small crystalline lamps mounted along the street.

Each rested within a metal frame inscribed with narrow, interlocking symbols.

Sigil.

Probably connected to a central source of mana, though I couldn’t identify the precise arrangement.

Cassia noticed me looking.

“Those use a distributed inscription network.”

I glanced toward her.

“Do they?”

“Yes. The individual lamps don’t need someone constantly supplying them with mana. They’re connected to larger storage mechanisms that distribute energy throughout the district.”

I examined the nearest lamp.

“Seems expensive.”

“It is. Initially.”

She leaned forward.

“But maintenance costs are lower than replacing hundreds of individual power sources, and the newer designs lose considerably less energy during distribution.”

I nodded.

That made sense.

It also explained why the lamps appeared primarily along the larger roads rather than the narrow streets branching away from them.

Asterwyn possessed extraordinary magical conveniences.

That didn’t mean everyone could afford them.

Some things remained reassuringly consistent.

The population was considerably more varied than anything I’d encountered in Aurevane.

Humans remained common, but I also noticed travelers whose appearances revealed their origins from other continents. A tall man with pointed ears and pale hair stood outside a bookshop, examining several volumes displayed beneath its awning. Near a crowded intersection, a broad-shouldered merchant with animal-like ears argued over the price of imported fabric while his tail moved impatiently behind him. Farther along the street, a pair of shorter, heavily built men with thick beards carried metal instruments into a workshop, their conversation punctuated by the sharp clinking of tools.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in staring at them.

I found that noteworthy.

Aurevane had possessed visitors from other nations, of course, but those who looked different frequently attracted attention, particularly among people who had little experience beyond the capital’s walls.

Here, the presence of different peoples appeared almost ordinary.

The city had been built around the movement of scholars and merchants from across the world.

Apparently, that included learning how to mind one’s own business.

A valuable skill.

The caravan eventually joined a broad avenue approaching one of the city’s great gates.

The wall surrounding the inner districts rose above us in pale stone, its surface decorated with enormous engraved patterns that resembled protective inscriptions. Two towers flanked the entrance, their upper platforms occupied by guards wearing polished armor and dark blue cloaks. Beneath the archway, officials inspected traveling documents while separate lanes directed merchants, residents, and visitors toward different parts of the city.

Edric handled the necessary formalities.

His familiarity with the procedures made the process considerably less unpleasant than it might otherwise have been.

After a brief inspection, the guards permitted us through.

The city opened around us.

And I understood why Cassia had been unable to stop talking about it.

Beyond the gates stretched an immense avenue lined with pale stone buildings, their windows reflecting the sunlight in hundreds of shifting fragments. Elevated walkways crossed portions of the street, connecting upper levels of neighboring structures, while narrow channels of water ran beside the road beneath decorative bridges. Several enormous trees grew from carefully maintained courtyards, their branches casting shadows across benches occupied by students and travelers.

Students.

They were everywhere.

Some wore formal uniforms marked with unfamiliar emblems, while others carried books beneath their arms or spoke animatedly about examinations, instructors, and subjects I only partially understood.

I noticed a young woman demonstrating a small sphere of water above her palm as she argued with another student. A boy nearby had apparently attempted to impress his companions by producing several sparks between his fingers, only to accidentally singe the corner of his own sleeve.

His friends laughed.

He looked offended.

I watched them as we passed.

Six months ago, magic had seemed distant.

Something ordinary people possessed while I remained inexplicably excluded.

Now, surrounded by students who manipulated mana as casually as breathing, I felt that difference more sharply than I had in weeks.

Still, I didn’t look away.

There was too much to learn.

The caravan turned off the main avenue toward a large commercial yard adjoining several warehouses and inns. Edric had arranged for the wagons to remain there while he completed his business in the city, though most of the group intended to continue traveling once their supplies and cargo had been settled.

Vaelcrest lay farther uphill.

For the first time since joining the caravan, I wouldn’t be continuing with them.

The realization settled quietly in my thoughts as the wagons came to a stop.

Farewells were unpleasant.

Not necessarily because they were sad.

Mostly because I had very little experience knowing what I was supposed to say.

Over the previous six months, the caravan had become a collection of familiar routines. I knew where everyone usually sat during meals, who complained most frequently about the weather, which guards preferred the earliest watches, and precisely how long Tovin could continue discussing historical geography before someone interrupted him.

I’d grown accustomed to Mara asking whether I’d eaten.

To Garrick appearing beside me with a wooden practice sword.

To Edric handing me some unpleasantly heavy object and explaining that moving it was an important part of maintaining the caravan.

These things had become ordinary.

Now I was expected to leave them behind, at least for a while.

I stood near the rear wagon with my belongings gathered into a manageable pack. My clothing had been carefully folded, Corvin’s borrowed book had already been returned to him, and the silver flower earring remained secured within the inner pocket of my robe.

Mara approached first.

She carried a small parcel wrapped in cloth.

I looked at it.

“No.”

She stopped.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“I recognize the expression.”

“What expression?”

“The one you wear before giving me something.”

She smiled.

“Then you should know arguing won’t help.”

I sighed.

Mara handed me the parcel.

It was warm.

Naturally.

“Food,” she explained. “For later.”

“I assumed.”

“Something substantial. I don’t know what the academy serves its students, and I refuse to have you starving because someone decides three potatoes constitute an adequate meal.”

I examined the parcel.

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’d be surprised.”

She adjusted the collar of my robe, smoothing a section that had folded awkwardly near my shoulder. I stiffened slightly out of habit, though I no longer felt quite the same impulse to retreat whenever she approached.

Mara noticed.

She always noticed.

Her expression softened.

“Take care of yourself, Ren.”

I looked toward her.

“I will.”

“Eat properly.”

“Yes.”

“Sleep at reasonable hours.”

“Occasionally.”

“Ren.”

“I’ll try.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself.

Then, without making much of a ceremony of it, she placed one hand lightly against my shoulder.

“You’ve come a long way.”

I glanced toward the wagons.

Six months.

A distance that could be measured in hundreds of miles.

Or perhaps in other things.

“Mostly because you kept feeding me,” I replied.

Mara laughed softly.

“Well, someone had to.”

I hesitated.

Then looked directly at her.

“Thank you.”

She became quiet.

I continued before I could reconsider.

“For the food. The clothes. Everything.”

Mara regarded me for a long moment.

Then her smile changed.

It became smaller.

Warmer.

“You’re very welcome.”

She didn’t insist upon anything more.

I appreciated that.

Garrick approached next, carrying the wooden practice sword he’d been using during our final training sessions.

I looked at it.

“If you’re planning another lesson, I should warn you that I’m trying to leave.”

He smiled.

“Not today.”

“How generous.”

He stopped in front of me.

At six feet one, he still stood slightly taller than I did, though the difference had become considerably less noticeable over the previous months. His broad shoulders and graying hair gave him the appearance of a man whose life had involved more battles than he particularly cared to discuss, while the old scar along his jaw remained an enduring reminder that even experienced fighters occasionally made mistakes.

He looked toward the sword at my hip.

“Remember what I taught you.”

“Footwork.”

“Among other things.”

“Balance.”

“Good.”

“Don’t attempt to overpower someone when I can outmaneuver them.”

His smile widened.

“Excellent.”

“And apparently I’m still terrible at defending my left side.”

Garrick laughed.

“You’re improving.”

I looked toward him.

That was considerably more encouraging than his usual assessment.

He extended his right hand.

I accepted it.

His grip was firm.

Familiar.

“Keep practicing,” he said. “Asterwyn might be a city of scholars, but plenty of people there know how to handle a sword.”

“I intend to.”

“Good.”

He released my hand.

“And Ren?”

I looked up.

“Don’t become so obsessed with learning that you forget to live a little.”

I stared at him.

“That sounds like something Mara would say.”

“She’s a clever woman.”

“An unfortunate influence.”

He laughed again.

For a moment, I considered saying something more.

That I hadn’t forgotten our lessons.

That I understood how much time he’d spent teaching someone who initially knew little beyond attacking whatever stood in front of him.

That I was grateful he’d treated me as someone capable of learning rather than a burden he was obligated to tolerate.

Instead, I simply nodded.

“Thanks, Garrick.”

His expression softened.

“Anytime.”

He gave my right shoulder a brief squeeze before stepping aside.

There was no declaration that we’d never meet again.

No dramatic farewell.

Garrick still had friends and business throughout Thalmyr, and the caravan’s travels might eventually bring him back to Asterwyn.

For now, that was sufficient.

Tovin required considerably more time.

He presented me with a small folded map showing the major districts surrounding Vaelcrest, then proceeded to explain which streets were oldest, which libraries possessed reputable collections, and which historical accounts should be approached with skepticism.

I listened.

Somewhat.

“Remember,” he said, tapping the map, “the oldest sources are not necessarily the most accurate. People have been making confident mistakes for thousands of years.”

I examined the paper.

“An enduring human tradition.”

“Precisely!”

He looked delighted.

I suspected I’d made a mistake by encouraging him.

Fortunately, Edric arrived before the lecture could develop into a complete history of Asterwyn’s street names.

“Give the boy a chance to attend school before you start teaching it yourself.”

Tovin looked offended.

“I was offering useful advice.”

“You were halfway through a lecture.”

“An important distinction.”

Edric shook his head.

Then turned toward me.

He held a small leather purse.

I frowned.

“What’s that?”

“Your remaining wages.”

I stared.

“I thought the sword and clothes used most of them.”

“They did.”

He handed me the purse.

“But not all.”

I accepted it with my right hand.

The weight was modest.

A few coins.

Enough for small necessities, perhaps, though not nearly enough to support myself in a city of Asterwyn’s size for very long.

Still, it was money I’d earned.

That felt different from receiving something freely.

Edric seemed to recognize the thought.

“You worked for it.”

I nodded.

“Thanks.”

He adjusted the satchel resting against his side.

“Corvin says the academy provides meals and lodging once you’re admitted. Until then, use what you need. And if the place decides to be unreasonable, you know where we’re staying for the next few days.”

I looked toward him.

“You’re assuming they’ll be unreasonable?”

“I’m a merchant, Ren. I prefer planning for likely outcomes.”

I smiled faintly.

He returned it.

Then extended his hand.

“Take care of yourself.”

I shook it.

“You too.”

“Try not to start any trouble.”

“I rarely start it.”

Edric raised an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t the reassurance you think it was.”

I considered explaining.

Then decided against it.

He laughed and stepped backward.

I looked at the three of them.

Mara.

Garrick.

Edric.

Tovin stood nearby, still holding his map case and looking as though he had several additional things to say.

They’d found me at the edge of the wilderness.

Or perhaps I’d found them.

Either way, they’d given me far more than transportation.

I wasn’t certain how to express that properly.

So I settled upon something simple.

“I’ll see you again.”

Mara smiled.

“Count on it.”

Garrick nodded.

Edric raised one hand.

And Tovin immediately began explaining that Asterwyn possessed an excellent correspondence service, which meant I had absolutely no excuse not to write.

I suspected I would regret learning that.

But I nodded anyway.

Then I turned toward the city.

Corvin waited near the street with Cassia and Sabine.

Our paths had finally separated from the rest of the caravan.

At least for now.

As I approached them, Cassia examined the parcel beneath my arm.

“Mother gave you more food?”

“Apparently.”

She sighed.

“She gave me some too.”

“Tragic.”

Sabine smiled.

“Ready?”

I looked toward the distant academy.

“No.”

Cassia blinked.

“Really?”

“Not particularly.”

She stared.

I continued walking.

“That doesn’t seem like a reason to delay.”

Sabine fell into step beside me.

“Fair enough.”

Behind us, the familiar sound of the caravan gradually faded into the noise of the city.

I didn’t look back immediately.

When I finally did, I could still see Garrick standing beside the wagons.

He raised one hand.

I returned the gesture.

Then continued toward Vaelcrest.

The academy gates were enormous.

That was my first conclusion upon reaching them.

My second was that whoever designed the entrance had possessed a remarkable amount of money and apparently felt compelled to demonstrate it.

Two immense pillars of pale stone rose on either side of a broad arched gateway, their surfaces engraved with intricate magical inscriptions that followed the natural curves of the architecture. Beyond the entrance stretched a wide avenue paved with polished gray stone, bordered by carefully maintained gardens and enormous trees whose leaves shimmered faintly beneath the sunlight.

Several statues stood along the path.

Some depicted armored figures holding weapons.

Others portrayed scholars surrounded by books or practitioners raising their hands toward representations of magical energy.

I couldn’t identify most of them.

That was probably something the academy intended to correct.

Farther ahead, the grounds expanded into a vast courtyard surrounded by lecture halls, administrative buildings, and elevated walkways. Students moved in every direction, some wearing uniforms decorated with distinctive emblems while others carried examination papers or waited beneath shaded awnings.

The academy was even more impressive up close.

Which was irritating.

I’d already spent the previous afternoon attempting not to be impressed.

Corvin led us through the gates without hesitation.

His dark navy coat moved lightly behind him, and the silver threaded through his black hair caught the sunlight as he passed beneath the archway. Several students recognized him immediately, stepping aside or offering respectful greetings.

He acknowledged them with brief nods.

Apparently, being an instructor at Vaelcrest came with certain advantages.

We followed him toward a large administrative building overlooking the courtyard.

“The entrance examinations have already begun,” he explained. “I’ve arranged for your applications to be processed together, though your individual assessments will differ.”

Cassia nodded eagerly.

Sabine listened.

I looked toward the students gathered near the entrance.

“How many applicants?”

“This year? Several thousand.”

I considered that.

“How many are accepted?”

“A fraction.”

“Helpful.”

Corvin glanced toward me.

“The precise number varies according to departmental capacity, academic performance, and the council’s judgment. Vaelcrest does not maintain a fixed acceptance quota simply for the convenience of applicants.”

I nodded.

That sounded appropriately unpleasant.

“Your written examination will be conducted alongside the others,” he continued. “Cassia and Sabine will proceed to their practical assessments afterward.”

I looked toward him.

“And me?”

“Your circumstances require a separate review.”

Cassia glanced toward us.

“Will the council really consider exempting him?”

“They will consider the request.”

“That’s not quite the same thing.”

“No,” Corvin replied. “It isn’t.”

He looked toward me.

“My recommendation grants you an opportunity to request exemption from the combat assessment. It does not guarantee that the Eight Seats will approve it, nor does it guarantee admission.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

He adjusted the papers beneath his arm.

“Your written performance will matter considerably. Do not assume that the council will overlook poor academic results simply because your circumstances are unusual.”

I nodded.

That seemed reasonable.

The prospect of standing before eight influential strangers and asking them to ignore one of their admission requirements was considerably less appealing.

But I’d traveled for six months to reach this place.

A few unpleasant conversations seemed like a relatively minor price.

Corvin stopped beside a large doorway.

“One more thing.”

We looked toward him.

“Do not attempt to impress the examiners by offering answers you do not understand. If you are uncertain, explain your reasoning. A well-supported incomplete answer is preferable to confident nonsense.”

Cassia smiled.

“Understood.”

Sabine nodded.

I considered the advice.

It was disappointingly sensible.

Corvin opened the door.

“Then let’s begin.”

The examination hall smelled of parchment, ink, and anxiety.

Hundreds of desks filled an enormous chamber beneath a high vaulted ceiling, arranged in long, orderly rows that stretched toward a raised platform at the far end. Tall windows allowed afternoon sunlight to spill across the polished stone floor, while several suspended crystals provided additional illumination in places the natural light couldn’t reach. Each desk held a sealed examination booklet, an inkpot, several sheets of parchment, and a small metal disc engraved with an unfamiliar inscription.

Applicants entered through a series of doors along the hall’s western wall.

Several appeared confident.

Others looked as though they were approaching an execution.

I found both reactions excessive.

Then again, I’d never placed much importance upon examinations before.

Most of my education had consisted of whatever books I could obtain, the lessons Father Matthias had provided during my time at the orphanage, and the considerable amount of material Corvin had insisted I study throughout the caravan journey. I’d spent months learning magical principles that other applicants had probably practiced since childhood, often reading until the lantern beside my bedding threatened to burn through its remaining fuel.

Whether that was sufficient remained to be seen.

An examiner directed us toward our assigned seats.

Cassia was placed several rows ahead.

Sabine sat nearer the opposite wall.

My desk stood close to the center of the hall, surrounded by applicants who appeared considerably better prepared than I felt.

A young man seated to my right wore a fine dark coat decorated with silver embroidery. He was examining his writing instruments with the seriousness of someone preparing for a duel.

To my left, a girl with pale hair and delicately pointed ears sat perfectly still, her hands folded upon the desk.

Neither acknowledged me.

I appreciated their restraint.

At the front of the hall, an elderly examiner stepped onto the raised platform.

“Applicants. You will have three hours to complete the written examination. The assessment contains questions covering fundamental magical theory, Path classifications, historical developments, applied magical principles, and the interpretation of unfamiliar phenomena.”

He paused.

“Certain questions may possess more than one defensible answer. You will be evaluated upon the accuracy of your reasoning as well as your conclusions.”

That was encouraging.

I’d developed a considerable collection of conclusions that appeared unreasonable until someone understood how I’d reached them.

“Any attempt to communicate with another applicant or manipulate the examination materials through unauthorized magic will result in immediate disqualification.”

Several students shifted uncomfortably.

The examiner gestured toward the metal discs resting upon our desks.

“These will register prohibited magical interference. You may begin when instructed.”

I examined mine.

The inscriptions were too complicated to identify at a glance, though their arrangement reminded me of the monitoring devices Corvin had demonstrated during his lessons.

I wondered whether they could detect Ichor.

Probably not.

But the possibility was unpleasant enough that I kept my left arm resting quietly beneath the desk.

A bell sounded.

The examination began.

I opened the booklet.

The first question concerned the distinction between internal and ambient mana.

Simple enough.

I wrote the answer.

The second asked applicants to explain why two individuals possessing similar quantities of mana might demonstrate considerably different effectiveness when performing the same technique.

I considered that.

Control.

Affinity.

Experience.

Casting efficiency.

The relationship between a practitioner’s understanding and the actual structure of the technique.

Corvin had spent an entire afternoon explaining why raw magical capacity was a terrible measurement of someone’s practical ability.

I’d found the lesson reassuring.

Mostly because my own magical capacity remained approximately useless.

I wrote carefully.

The questions gradually became more difficult.

Several concerned the differences between magical energies and the Paths through which practitioners expressed their abilities. Others described hypothetical scenarios involving damaged inscriptions, unstable mana flow, or environmental conditions that interfered with ordinary casting.

I recognized some immediately.

Others required considerable thought.

One question presented a village suffering from an unusual decline in vegetation. Local practitioners had identified traces of unfamiliar magical energy within the surrounding soil, while several animals displayed physical abnormalities that couldn’t be explained through conventional disease.

Applicants were asked to propose a method of investigation.

I paused.

The description reminded me of the corrupted forest.

Purple leaves.

Fungal growths.

The unpleasant sensation of air that seemed almost alive with something invisible.

Miasma.

Probably.

But assuming that every abnormal plant indicated Miasma would be foolish.

I began writing.

First, isolate the affected area.

Examine the distribution of the abnormalities.

Determine whether the changes were spreading through soil, water, living organisms, or ambient energy.

Avoid introducing additional mana until the nature of the disturbance became clearer.

I hesitated.

Then added a warning concerning the possibility that living creatures exposed to the environment might undergo further changes even after leaving the affected region.

I knew little about the precise mechanisms.

But I’d witnessed enough to consider the risk worth mentioning.

The next page concerned monster adaptation.

I stopped again.

A diagram depicted a hypothetical creature whose body had developed protective structures after surviving repeated injuries. Applicants were asked to identify the likely advantages and disadvantages of such adaptation.

I stared at the illustration.

For a moment, I remembered the lizard in the forest.

The way its body had changed after consuming something that should probably never have entered its stomach.

The grotesque transformations that followed.

The enormous cost of altering living flesh.

I lowered my pen.

There was something almost amusing about being asked to speculate on a process that had already taken one of my arms and replaced it with something capable of becoming a weapon.

At least this time, nobody’s trying to eat me.

I resumed writing.

Adaptation could increase survival against particular threats, but changes beneficial in one circumstance might become detrimental in another. Altered body structures required energy and biological resources. Excessive transformation might compromise ordinary movement, sensory function, or the organism’s ability to maintain itself.

I paused.

Then added that observed adaptations shouldn’t automatically be interpreted as improvements.

Some transformations simply allowed an organism to survive long enough to experience the consequences.

I’d learned that lesson rather thoroughly.

The examination continued.

Questions concerning Divinity were particularly difficult, largely because reliable information about it remained limited. Several historical questions referred to names, dates, and magical developments I’d never encountered. I answered what I could and left the others rather than inventing something convincing.

By the time I reached the final section, my right hand had begun aching.

The last question was unusual.

It presented a short passage supposedly recovered from an ancient Trial.

Only those who abandon their burden may pass beyond the final gate.

Below it, the examination asked how an adventuring party should interpret the instruction before attempting to proceed.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

An ordinary answer would probably involve discarding equipment.

Perhaps abandoning something of personal significance.

But the wording was vague enough that either interpretation might be wrong.

What constituted a burden?

Weight?

Possessions?

Responsibility?

Guilt?

A living companion?

I frowned.

The passage contained insufficient information to determine its actual meaning.

So that was what I wrote.

I explained several plausible interpretations, outlined the dangers of committing to any single assumption, and suggested investigating the surrounding environment for additional clues before making an irreversible decision.

Then I added one final observation.

If the final gate required the abandonment of something, it was possible that the true challenge involved determining what the Trial considered a burden rather than simply surrendering an object.

I looked at the answer.

It was probably more complicated than necessary.

Then again, anyone who constructed an ancient magical Trial with deliberately vague instructions deserved to have their intentions questioned.

I closed the booklet.

The final bell sounded shortly afterward.

Around me, applicants began exhaling with varying degrees of relief and despair. The young man beside me stared at his completed examination as though hoping the answers might rearrange themselves into something more impressive.

The girl on my left appeared entirely untroubled.

I stood, gathered my belongings, and followed the others toward the exit.

Outside, the afternoon sunlight had softened.

Cassia approached almost immediately.

“How was it?”

I considered the question.

“Long.”

She stared.

“That’s all?”

“Some of the questions were interesting.”

“Which ones?”

“The monster adaptation section.”

Her expression brightened.

“Oh, that one was awful. I couldn’t decide whether they wanted us to explain energy expenditure or the changes in physical structure.”

“Probably both.”

She stopped.

Then looked mildly horrified.

I considered offering reassurance.

Unfortunately, I suspected it would require lying.

Sabine joined us a moment later.

“Finished?”

I nodded.

She looked relieved.

“Good.”

Cassia folded her arms.

“I’m going to spend the next several hours thinking about every answer I might have gotten wrong.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” I replied.

“It is.”

“Then don’t.”

She gave me a look.

Sabine laughed quietly.

Before Cassia could explain why my advice was unhelpful, Corvin appeared near the entrance.

“Cassia. Sabine. Your practical assessments begin shortly. The examination staff will direct you to the appropriate facilities.”

Cassia straightened.

Sabine nodded.

Corvin turned toward me.

“Ren, come with me.”

I looked between them.

“Good luck.”

Cassia smiled.

“Thanks.”

Sabine gave a small nod.

“You too.”

I considered correcting her.

I wasn’t about to participate in a combat assessment.

Then remembered what came afterward.

Perhaps luck would be useful after all.

Corvin led me through a quieter portion of the academy.

The examination hall’s crowded corridors gradually gave way to broad passageways lined with paintings, engraved plaques, and tall windows overlooking the gardens below. The architecture became increasingly elaborate as we approached the administrative district, its polished stone floors reflecting the light of crystalline lamps suspended beneath arched ceilings.

I followed several paces behind him.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

Eventually, I glanced toward him.

“How long until they review the examination?”

“Initial evaluation is already underway.”

I frowned.

“That quickly?”

“The examination materials are processed through a series of specialized inscriptions. Standardized responses can be assessed immediately, while the written explanations are reviewed by faculty examiners.”

He looked toward me.

“Your application was scheduled for priority review because of the exemption petition.”

I considered that.

“Convenient.”

“Administrative preparation tends to be.”

“Unfortunate that more people don’t practice it.”

Corvin’s mouth curved faintly.

“An observation I’ve made several times.”

We continued walking.

A few minutes later, we entered a smaller chamber where several officials sat behind long desks examining stacks of documents. One approached Corvin, handed him a sealed folder, and exchanged a few quiet words.

Corvin opened it.

His expression remained unchanged.

That was generally unhelpful.

He turned a page.

Then another.

Finally, he closed the folder.

“Your written results are sufficient.”

I looked toward him.

“How sufficient?”

“Quite.”

“That sounds deliberately vague.”

“It is.”

I stared.

Corvin regarded me calmly.

“Your theoretical performance exceeded the expected threshold. Several of your extended responses have also attracted attention.”

I considered that.

“Good attention?”

“That remains to be determined.”

Wonderful.

He tucked the folder beneath his arm.

“The Eight Seats are prepared to hear the petition.”

I glanced toward the corridor beyond the chamber.

“All eight?”

“Yes.”

“Seems excessive.”

“They govern the academy.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you’ll understand why an exception to admission requirements concerns them.”

I sighed.

Corvin began walking again.

“One final piece of advice.”

I looked toward him.

“Be honest.”

I considered my concealed left arm.

My inability to circulate conventional mana.

The strange power I’d manifested in the forest.

The things I couldn’t explain.

“Within reason,” I replied.

Corvin glanced toward me.

For a moment, I thought he might question the response.

Instead, he said, “An answer I find disappointingly familiar.”

I followed him toward an enormous pair of dark wooden doors.

Beyond them waited the Eight Seats.

Apparently, surviving the forest hadn’t exhausted the world’s capacity for unpleasant experiences.

The council chamber was shaped like an octagon.

Naturally.

Eight enormous chairs stood around an elevated central floor, each positioned upon a slightly raised section of pale stone. Behind them rose narrow columns engraved with symbols representing various magical disciplines, their intricate patterns extending toward a domed ceiling where a series of crystalline lights illuminated the room.

The chamber was beautiful.

In the way expensive things often were when their owners possessed absolutely no interest in subtlety.

I noticed another chair positioned beyond the eight council seats, elevated upon a broad platform overlooking the entire room.

It was empty.

Corvin guided me toward the center.

The doors closed behind us.

Eight pairs of eyes turned in our direction.

The council members differed considerably in appearance. Several were elderly, their faces marked by age and long familiarity with positions of authority. Others appeared much younger, though their composed expressions and elaborate formal clothing suggested they had little concern for how old anyone believed them to be.

One woman wore dark robes decorated with silver geometric patterns.

A broad-shouldered man near the opposite side possessed a scarred face and the unmistakable posture of someone accustomed to combat.

Another council member rested a gloved hand upon a thick book, occasionally turning a page while the others examined the documents placed before them.

I couldn’t determine their magical ranks.

That was probably for the best.

Knowing precisely how many extraordinarily powerful practitioners were currently deciding whether I deserved an education wouldn’t have improved my mood.

A silver-haired woman seated nearest the entrance spoke first.

“Professor Ashford.”

Corvin inclined his head.

“Honored Seats.”

She looked toward me.

“This is the applicant?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Ren.”

I nodded.

“That’s correct.”

She examined the documents before her.

“No registered family affiliation. No established magical certification. No record of formal academy preparation.”

A man to her right spoke.

“And no demonstrated mana circulation.”

I remained silent.

The woman turned toward Corvin.

“Yet you recommend that we exempt him from the practical combat assessment.”

“Correct.”

“On what grounds?”

Corvin stepped forward.

“His theoretical aptitude, demonstrated discipline, and unusual practical experience.”

The scarred council member leaned back.

“Practical experience?”

“Survival under dangerous circumstances. Familiarity with monsters and hazardous environments. Six months of supervised study during our journey.”

The man regarded me.

“Can he cast?”

“No,” Corvin replied.

“Can he reinforce his body with mana?”

“Not through conventional means.”

“Can he demonstrate an affinity?”

“None has been confirmed.”

The man spread his hands.

“Then what exactly are we discussing?”

I considered answering.

Decided against it.

Corvin’s expression remained composed.

“Whether Vaelcrest Academy exists exclusively to educate individuals who already possess established magical abilities, or whether exceptional theoretical potential can justify an alternative academic pathway.”

A faint murmur traveled between the council members.

The silver-haired woman frowned.

“Our standards exist for a reason, Professor.”

“Naturally.”

“Allowing applicants to bypass practical assessment invites others to question the legitimacy of our admissions.”

“Only if the exception lacks a legitimate basis.”

The woman looked toward me.

“And you believe this applicant possesses one?”

“I do.”

A man wearing a dark green robe examined the examination results.

“His written performance is impressive.”

Several council members turned toward him.

He continued.

“Particularly the sections concerning anomalous energy interactions and Trial interpretation. His responses demonstrate reasoning beyond what we ordinarily expect from first-year applicants.”

I looked toward him.

That was encouraging.

Then he added, “However, theoretical aptitude alone does not make one a magical practitioner.”

Less encouraging.

The scarred man nodded.

“Precisely.”

Another council member spoke.

“Perhaps he’d be better suited to an ordinary scholarly institution.”

I frowned.

An ordinary scholarly institution.

As though there were countless schools scattered across Thalmyr offering access to the same research and materials Vaelcrest possessed.

As though my reason for coming here had been an inability to find somewhere to sit and read books.

I kept the thought to myself.

For now.

The silver-haired woman addressed me directly.

“Ren. Are you aware of the purpose of this academy?”

I looked toward her.

“Education.”

Several council members shifted.

Corvin closed his eyes briefly.

The woman stared.

“More specifically.”

I considered whether that had been an unreasonable response.

Probably.

“To educate capable practitioners and scholars in the study and application of magic,” I replied.

“Correct.”

She leaned forward.

“Then explain why we should admit someone who cannot perform even the most elementary practical exercise.”

I paused.

There were several possible answers.

I could explain that I had traveled for months to reach this place.

That I had studied whenever possible.

That I possessed experiences concerning magical phenomena the academy might find unusual.

I could mention Ichor.

My arm.

The creature I’d killed after somehow forcing it to kneel.

That would certainly make the discussion more interesting.

It would also be catastrophically stupid.

So I chose something else.

“Because understanding magic and using it aren’t the same thing.”

The woman watched me.

I continued.

“A person can understand the structure of a bridge without being strong enough to lift its stones. They can study medicine without possessing Wellspring affinity. They can recognize a dangerous magical phenomenon without being able to reproduce it.”

I hesitated.

“At least, that’s my understanding.”

The man in green robes nodded slightly.

The scarred council member looked unimpressed.

“Knowledge without application has limitations.”

“Yes,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow.

I continued.

“So does application without knowledge.”

Silence.

A few members exchanged glances.

Corvin looked toward me.

His expression suggested that he found the answer acceptable.

Which was fortunate.

I’d briefly considered adding something considerably less diplomatic.

The silver-haired woman folded her hands.

“You speak confidently for someone requesting an exception.”

“I was asked a question.”

“And you believe your answer justifies admission?”

“No.”

She paused.

I continued.

“I believe it explains why my inability to cast doesn’t necessarily mean I have nothing worth learning here.”

The woman studied me.

For the first time, her expression became thoughtful rather than dismissive.

Then the scarred man spoke again.

“Even if his academic performance is sufficient, the combat assessment remains a requirement. We’ve permitted alternative assessments in exceptional circumstances, but rarely a complete exemption.”

Another council member nodded.

“And the limitations of his physical condition remain uncertain.”

Their attention shifted toward my covered left arm.

I kept it still.

Corvin stepped forward.

“His injury is not the basis of my recommendation.”

“Then what is?”

“His potential.”

The scarred man scoffed.

“Potential is not evidence.”

“No,” Corvin agreed. “But a written examination demonstrating advanced understanding, combined with months of direct observation, constitutes more than speculation.”

The debate continued.

They discussed precedent.

Standards.

Academic credibility.

The responsibilities of instructors toward students who couldn’t participate normally in practical coursework.

Some members appeared willing to consider my admission.

Others remained firmly opposed.

I stood in the center of the chamber while eight influential strangers debated whether I possessed sufficient value to justify the inconvenience of teaching me.

It was a familiar arrangement.

People with authority discussing what someone without it deserved.

The circumstances were more civilized than those I’d experienced in Aurevane.

The furniture was certainly more expensive.

But the underlying process hadn’t changed very much.

Eventually, the silver-haired woman raised one hand.

The conversation quieted.

“Professor Ashford, the council acknowledges the applicant’s written results and your professional judgment. However, I do not believe sufficient grounds have been established to exempt him from a fundamental admission requirement.”

Several members nodded.

“Agreed.”

“His theoretical ability is noteworthy, but insufficient.”

“We cannot alter our standards for every unusual applicant.”

I looked toward Corvin.

His expression remained composed, though a faint tension had appeared near his jaw.

Apparently, we’d reached the unpleasant part.

The woman continued.

“Unless further evidence is presented, I propose that the petition be denied.”

She glanced around the chamber.

Several members signaled their agreement.

Not all.

But most.

I exhaled quietly.

Well. That was a productive afternoon.

Then a voice spoke from above us.

“I find that conclusion rather disappointing.”

The chamber became silent.

Every council member turned toward the elevated platform.

I followed their attention.

A man stood beside the previously empty chair.

I hadn’t heard the doors open.

Hadn’t noticed footsteps.

I wasn’t even certain when he’d entered.

He was tall and slender, wearing a simple charcoal robe decorated with delicate silver embroidery near the cuffs. Long ash-silver hair had been tied loosely behind his head, and his face possessed the composed, angular features of a man somewhere in his forties. A faint scar extended from his left temple toward his cheekbone, almost disappearing beneath the pale strands framing his face.

His eyes were gray.

Unusually pale.

And, for a moment, I had the uncomfortable impression that they were examining considerably more than my appearance.

The silver-haired councilwoman stood immediately.

“Principal Valcairn.”

The others followed.

Even the scarred man.

Corvin inclined his head.

I remained where I was.

Partly because nobody had instructed me to move.

Mostly because I hadn’t expected the principal to appear in the middle of what had seemed like a perfectly ordinary bureaucratic rejection.

Orien Valcairn regarded the chamber with a faint, almost apologetic smile.

“Please, sit. There’s no need to make this more ceremonial than it already is.”

The council members returned to their seats.

He descended from the platform.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

There was nothing particularly threatening about his appearance. He wore no elaborate crown, carried no staff, and displayed none of the overwhelming magical pressure I’d heard powerful practitioners could deliberately project.

Yet the room had changed.

The Eight Seats no longer appeared entirely comfortable.

That was interesting.

Orien stopped several paces away from me.

He examined the papers Corvin handed him.

Then looked up.

“Ren.”

I nodded.

“Principal.”

His smile deepened slightly.

“You’re remarkably calm for someone who has just been informed that his future may depend upon a room full of strangers.”

I considered the observation.

“I’ve experienced worse.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

He regarded me for a moment.

Then glanced toward the documents.

“I see.”

Something about the way he said it made me uncomfortable.

Not because he sounded suspicious.

Because he sounded as though he’d heard an answer he expected.

The principal turned toward the council.

“Professor Ashford’s recommendation is sound.”

The scarred man leaned forward.

“With respect, Principal, the applicant cannot demonstrate conventional mana manipulation.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then surely you understand our reservations.”

“Entirely.”

Orien examined the folder again.

“However, I am curious why those reservations have become sufficient reason to disregard the remainder of his qualifications.”

The silver-haired woman spoke carefully.

“Our responsibility is to preserve the academy’s standards.”

“An admirable responsibility.”

He looked toward her.

“Provided we remember what those standards are intended to accomplish.”

A pause followed.

Orien continued.

“Vaelcrest has spent centuries cultivating individuals capable of expanding humanity’s understanding of magic. Some accomplish that through extraordinary practical ability. Others through research, experimentation, or the patient correction of mistakes made by people considerably more confident than themselves.”

His gaze passed over the council members.

“An institution devoted to knowledge should exercise caution before deciding that someone has nothing left to learn.”

Nobody responded immediately.

I looked toward Corvin.

His expression remained unreadable.

The principal returned his attention to me.

For several moments, he said nothing.

His pale eyes settled briefly upon my covered left arm.

Then moved back to my face.

I felt an inexplicable urge to step backward.

Not fear, exactly.

Something closer to the sensation I’d experienced upon entering unfamiliar territory in the forest and realizing that the surrounding silence wasn’t entirely natural.

A warning without an identifiable source.

Then Orien smiled.

It disappeared.

“Tell me something, Ren.”

I hesitated.

“All right.”

“Why did you come to Vaelcrest?”

I considered the question.

It was different from the others.

The Eight Seats had asked why I deserved admission.

Orien was asking why I wanted it.

I looked toward the floor.

Then toward the principal.

“Because there are things I don’t understand.”

He waited.

I continued.

“And I want to.”

Silence.

It was a rather unimpressive answer.

I knew that.

There were probably applicants who would have delivered grand speeches about becoming legendary practitioners, bringing honor to their families, or changing the course of magical history.

I possessed no such ambitions.

I wanted answers.

That was all.

Orien regarded me thoughtfully.

Then, for the briefest moment, something changed in his expression.

Not recognition.

Not surprise.

Something quieter.

An interest that seemed to have existed before I entered the room.

“I see,” he said.

Again.

I was beginning to dislike those two words.

He turned toward the Eight Seats.

“His exemption is approved.”

The councilwoman straightened.

“Principal?”

“Professor Ashford will remain responsible for coordinating the applicant’s academic accommodations. Ren will be admitted to the first-year program.”

The scarred man opened his mouth.

Orien raised one hand.

“His class placement will follow the ordinary assessment procedures. He will receive no exemption from academic standards, disciplinary regulations, or the requirements for future advancement.”

He glanced toward me.

“Merely the opportunity to meet them.”

The room remained silent.

Then the silver-haired woman bowed her head.

“As you wish, Principal.”

Several others followed.

The matter was settled.

Just like that.

I stared.

After an afternoon of arguments, questions, and increasingly elaborate explanations concerning why I didn’t belong, one man had entered the room and decided that I did.

Apparently, authority was extraordinarily convenient when it happened to favor you.

I wasn’t certain how I felt about that.

Orien returned the folder to Corvin.

“See that he’s properly enrolled.”

“Certainly, Principal.”

Then he looked toward me once more.

“Welcome to Vaelcrest, Ren.”

I hesitated.

“Thank you.”

His expression softened slightly.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I stared at him.

There was no reason for the remark to bother me.

I’d just told him why I wanted to attend.

Yet something about his tone made the words feel less like an ordinary courtesy and more like a statement whose meaning I hadn’t been given enough information to understand.

Before I could respond, Orien turned away.

The council chamber doors opened.

And our audience was over.

I didn’t speak until Corvin and I had left the administrative building.

Then I looked toward him.

“Does that happen often?”

“What?”

“Your principal appearing out of nowhere and deciding things.”

Corvin considered the question.

“No.”

I frowned.

“Wonderful.”

He glanced toward me.

“You’ve received admission to one of the most prestigious institutions in Thalmyr. I would have expected a more enthusiastic response.”

“I am enthusiastic.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m expressing it internally.”

“How efficient.”

I looked toward the campus.

The afternoon had begun fading into evening, and the academy grounds were filled with students carrying examination papers, discussing results, or waiting outside administrative offices.

Some smiled.

Others looked devastated.

Several appeared incapable of deciding which emotion was appropriate.

I suspected that last group understood my circumstances rather well.

Corvin led me toward a smaller administrative office, where a clerk examined the principal’s authorization and began preparing my enrollment documents.

The process involved an impressive number of forms.

Apparently, even an Ascendant principal couldn’t free students from paperwork.

A reassuring limitation.

Eventually, the clerk handed me a sealed envelope containing my dormitory assignment, enrollment confirmation, and instructions for the following morning.

“Your class designation will be included with your timetable,” she explained. “Preliminary placement indicates Frog Class.”

I looked toward her.

“Frog?”

“The fifth skill tier.”

I considered that.

“What are the other four?”

She listed them.

Phoenix.

Wyvern.

Gryphon.

Wolf.

Frog.

I waited.

There was no sixth tier.

Apparently, I’d reached the bottom.

An impressive achievement for my first day.

The clerk continued explaining that students were assigned according to examination performance, magical proficiency, and demonstrated aptitude. Advancement remained possible through later evaluations and approved challenges, but first-year placements were rarely reconsidered before the beginning of regular instruction.

I nodded.

The arrangement made sense.

Academically, I’d performed well.

Magically, I remained useless by conventional standards.

The result was predictable.

Corvin accepted the final documents and handed them to me.

“Your accommodation assignment is in the western residential quarter.”

I opened the envelope.

A building designation.

A room number.

Several instructions concerning academy regulations.

I glanced toward the address.

“Is it far?”

“Not especially.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Corvin looked at the time displayed upon a nearby clock.

“I need to attend to several administrative matters. Can you find the dormitory yourself?”

I examined the map included with the documents.

Probably.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Good. Your courses begin tomorrow. Read the schedule carefully, and remember that theoretical excellence doesn’t exempt you from ordinary student responsibilities.”

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment.”

His mouth curved faintly.

Then his expression became more serious.

“Ren.”

I looked up.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been given an unusual opportunity. Make good use of it.”

I considered the words.

The Eight Seats.

Orien’s unexpected intervention.

The fact that I now possessed an academy enrollment document despite being unable to circulate mana through my body.

“I intend to.”

Corvin nodded.

“Then I’ll see you in class.”

He turned toward the administrative offices.

I watched him disappear into the building.

For a moment, I remained beneath the awning, holding the documents in my right hand.

I was a student.

A Vaelcrest student.

The realization felt strange.

Not particularly triumphant.

Just unfamiliar.

I’d spent so much of my life being told what I couldn’t do, where I couldn’t go, and why I didn’t belong that receiving permission to enter somewhere prestigious seemed almost suspicious.

But the document was real.

The principal’s authorization was real.

And tomorrow, apparently, people would expect me to attend lectures.

I looked toward the western residential district.

How troublesome.

Then I began walking.

The difference between the academy’s residential quarters became apparent almost immediately.

Near the central campus stood several magnificent dormitory buildings surrounded by landscaped gardens and polished stone walkways. Their windows were enormous, their entrances decorated with elaborate architectural details, and several possessed private courtyards where students sat beneath shaded pavilions.

I noticed a sign identifying one such building as part of the Phoenix residential complex.

Naturally.

A little farther along, the accommodations became somewhat less extravagant.

Still impressive.

But the elaborate gardens gave way to simpler courtyards, and the buildings lost some of their decorative flourishes.

The Wyvern and Gryphon residences occupied broad sections of the middle campus, while the Wolf buildings stood farther west near the training grounds.

My assigned dormitory was beyond them.

Much farther beyond them.

I continued walking.

The paved paths gradually narrowed, and the surrounding architecture became older and considerably less impressive. Several buildings possessed weathered stone walls, narrow windows, and wooden doors whose surfaces had been repaired often enough that determining their original appearance seemed nearly impossible.

The westernmost residential complex stood beside a neglected courtyard.

Its roof was steep.

Its windows were small.

And one of the gutters appeared to be held in place through an arrangement that inspired very little confidence.

I examined the building.

Then checked my assignment.

Correct address.

Of course.

I looked back toward the distant Phoenix residences.

They were barely visible beyond the intervening towers and gardens.

Apparently, the frogs live in the swamp.

I approached the entrance.

A metal plaque beside the door displayed the academy’s emblem above a small stylized frog.

Below it, the words First-Year Residential Wing had been engraved into the stone.

I entered.

The interior was clean enough, though the walls showed considerable wear and the wooden stairs creaked beneath my boots. Several lamps illuminated the corridor, their magical inscriptions flickering faintly whenever someone passed beneath them.

A few students moved between rooms carrying luggage or bedding.

One young man struggled to maneuver an enormous trunk through a doorway while another provided advice that appeared to be making the situation worse.

I stepped around them.

My room was on the second floor.

Near the end of a narrow hallway overlooking the courtyard.

I stopped before the door.

Read the number.

Then opened it.

“You’re here!”

I blinked.

A boy stood near the opposite bed, holding a folded shirt in one hand.

He had untidy sandy-blond hair, warm brown eyes, and the sort of friendly expression that suggested he considered meeting strangers an enjoyable activity rather than a necessary inconvenience. He was slightly shorter than me, lean and lightly tanned, with his sleeves rolled up and several unpacked bags scattered around his feet.

His face brightened immediately.

“You must be my roommate.”

I looked at him.

“Apparently.”

He grinned.

“Excellent. I was starting to think they’d assigned me a room by myself.”

I glanced around.

The room contained two narrow beds positioned against opposite walls, a pair of wooden desks beneath a single window, and a shared wardrobe that looked barely large enough to accommodate one person’s belongings.

There was a small shelf above each desk.

A washbasin stood near the door.

And the ceiling possessed a faint discoloration suggesting that water had once entered through the roof.

Possibly more than once.

A private room would’ve been an impressive achievement.

The boy set down his shirt and approached.

“Darian Holt.”

He extended a hand.

I accepted it with my right.

“Ren.”

His grip was enthusiastic.

“Nice to meet you, Ren. Where are you from?”

I hesitated.

“Thalmyr.”

Darian stared.

Then laughed.

“Well, that narrows it down to an entire continent.”

I considered the observation.

Accurate.

“Aurevane.”

“The capital?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously? I’ve never been. Heard it’s enormous.”

“It is.”

“What’s it like?”

I paused.

The question was ordinary.

Innocent.

And considerably more complicated than Darian probably realized.

“Crowded.”

He waited.

I said nothing else.

Then he smiled.

“Fair enough.”

He gestured toward himself.

“I’m from Stormhaven. My family’s in shipping. Mostly coastal transport and supplies, nothing especially glamorous, although my father insists hauling crates between ports is the foundation of civilization.”

I nodded.

“He may have a point.”

“That’s what I keep telling him when he complains about me leaving.”

He laughed.

Then glanced toward my belongings.

“Want some help unpacking?”

“No.”

“All right.”

I stepped toward the unoccupied bed.

It stood beside the window, its narrow mattress covered by a plain gray blanket. The wooden frame looked old but serviceable, and a small desk occupied the space beneath the sill.

I placed my belongings upon it.

The room was cramped.

The furniture was worn.

The mattress was thin enough that I could probably identify the wooden slats beneath it by touch.

I considered the accommodations.

A bed.

A roof.

A door that closed.

A window.

And nobody demanding that I surrender my possessions before entering.

I’d lived in considerably worse places.

Darian watched me examine the room.

“Pretty awful, isn’t it?”

I looked toward him.

“No.”

He blinked.

“Really?”

“It’s fine.”

He glanced around.

“The wardrobe barely closes, the lamps keep flickering, and I’m fairly certain the ceiling leaks.”

I considered that.

“Does it?”

“The boy who delivered my bedding said it did.”

“Then perhaps we should move the desks.”

Darian stared.

Then burst into laughter.

I waited.

He eventually shook his head.

“You’re a strange one.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not exactly normal either.”

I examined him.

That seemed plausible.

He returned to organizing his belongings.

I unpacked quietly.

For several minutes, the room filled with the ordinary sounds of clothing being folded, drawers opening, and Darian occasionally muttering to himself as he attempted to determine where everything belonged.

Then he glanced toward me.

“So. Frog Class?”

I paused.

“Yes.”

“Same.”

He smiled.

“Apparently, my practical assessment was less impressive than I’d hoped.”

I looked toward him.

“What Path?”

“Primal. Wind, mostly.”

He raised one hand.

A faint current moved through the room, stirring several loose strands of his hair.

Then the movement faltered.

A sheet of parchment resting upon his desk lifted unexpectedly and sailed toward the floor.

Darian stared.

I looked at the parchment.

He lowered his hand.

“...Still working on control.”

I nodded.

“Apparently.”

He retrieved the sheet.

“That was better than yesterday.”

“Encouraging.”

“I thought so.”

He placed the parchment back upon the desk and weighed it down with a book.

Then he smiled again.

“I’ve also got some Aegis affinity, though I can’t do much with it yet. I’m hoping the instructors can help me develop both.”

I looked toward him.

“Why Aegis?”

He shrugged.

“Seems useful.”

I waited.

Darian glanced toward the window.

“My family’s worked around ships for generations. Storms can turn nasty pretty quickly, and sometimes there’s not much ordinary people can do when things go wrong.”

His expression changed slightly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that his usual easy smile became more thoughtful.

“I saw a practitioner save a bunch of people during a harbor accident when I was younger. Used wind to keep a damaged vessel from hitting the rocks, then barriers to protect the passengers until help arrived.”

He looked back at me.

“Figured I’d like to be able to do something like that.”

I considered his answer.

It was straightforward.

A purpose.

A reason to study.

Something he wanted to accomplish.

I found that strangely interesting.

“Sounds reasonable.”

Darian smiled.

“Thanks.”

He looked toward my covered left arm.

Then, after a brief pause, returned his attention to my face.

“What about you?”

I hesitated.

“Magic.”

He laughed.

“Well, we’re certainly in the right place.”

“Hopefully.”

“What Path?”

I examined the documents resting upon my desk.

“None.”

Darian blinked.

“None?”

“Not one I’ve demonstrated.”

He regarded me for a moment.

Then glanced toward the academy grounds outside.

“Huh.”

I waited for the obvious questions.

How had I been admitted?

Was I joking?

What kind of student couldn’t cast magic?

Instead, Darian shrugged.

“Well, I suppose there’s nowhere better to figure that out.”

I looked toward him.

That was not the response I’d expected.

“No,” I admitted. “There probably isn’t.”

He smiled.

Then returned to unpacking.

Apparently, the conversation was finished.

I found that unexpectedly pleasant.

By the time evening settled over the academy, Darian had spoken enough to provide me with a reasonably comprehensive account of his childhood, several embarrassing incidents involving unsuccessful wind techniques, and his belief that the dining hall would almost certainly become the most important building on campus.

I agreed with the final assessment.

The others were less certain.

We eventually found our way to the lower-tier dining facilities, where the food was simple but plentiful enough that I could satisfy most of my appetite without attracting too much attention.

Darian noticed how much I ate.

Naturally.

He seemed impressed.

I considered that preferable to concerned.

After supper, we returned to the dormitory.

The corridor was quieter now, with most students either preparing for the following morning or gathering in small groups to discuss their examination results. Several doors remained open, allowing conversation and laughter to drift through the building.

Darian stopped outside one room to introduce himself to another student.

Then another.

Then a third.

By the time we reached our own door, he’d apparently made more acquaintances in an hour than I had during several years of my childhood.

An impressive talent.

Exhausting.

But impressive.

I entered first.

The room had grown stuffy during our absence, and the faint smell of old wood lingered beneath the warmer air.

I placed my belongings near the bed.

Then approached the window.

Outside, the courtyard lay beneath the dim glow of several lamps. Narrow paths wound between patches of uneven grass, and a large tree stood near the adjoining wall, its branches reaching toward the second-story windows.

I unfastened the latch.

The window opened with a faint creak.

Cool evening air entered immediately.

I exhaled.

Better.

Behind me, Darian was attempting to organize several books upon his shelf.

He appeared to be losing.

“Are you planning to go anywhere tomorrow after classes?” he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder.

“Why?”

“Thought we could explore the campus. Maybe find a few places worth visiting.”

“I imagine the library will be sufficient.”

Darian stared.

“The library?”

“Yes.”

“We’re attending one of the most prestigious academies on the continent, and your first plan is to sit in a room reading?”

I considered that.

“Probably several rooms.”

He closed his eyes.

“Unbelievable.”

I returned my attention to the window.

Then stopped.

Something moved among the branches outside.

Small.

Black.

Familiar.

Two pale amber eyes appeared between the leaves.

I stared.

The eyes stared back.

For several moments, neither of us moved.

Then the creature stepped forward.

A small black cat emerged from the shadows, balancing upon the branch with the practiced confidence of something that had spent considerable time ignoring the ordinary limitations of gravity. Its sleek fur blended almost perfectly with the darkness, and the familiar nick in one ear made its identity unmistakable.

I looked toward it.

“You.”

The cat blinked.

I glanced toward the courtyard below.

Then back toward the animal.

How in the world...

The cat stepped closer.

Its tail moved slowly behind it.

I leaned slightly toward the window.

“You’re supposed to be with the caravan.”

It opened its mouth.

A faint meow emerged.

I stared.

Apparently, that was its entire explanation.

Then, without waiting for permission, the cat leaped.

I instinctively stepped aside.

The small black shape passed through the window and landed upon my desk with almost no sound.

Several sheets of parchment shifted beneath its paws.

The cat examined the room.

Then looked toward me.

As though evaluating whether the accommodations met its expectations.

I sighed.

“Of course.”

Behind me, Darian turned.

“What was that?”

I looked toward him.

He looked toward the desk.

Then stopped.

There was a long silence.

“Ren.”

“Yes?”

“There’s a cat on your desk.”

“I noticed.”

“Why is there a cat on your desk?”

“It climbed through the window.”

Darian stared.

Then glanced toward the open window.

Then toward the cat.

“...We’re on the second floor.”

“Apparently, it can climb.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then approached carefully.

The cat watched him with evident suspicion.

Darian crouched.

“Hello there.”

The cat took one step backward.

He smiled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

It regarded him for another moment.

Then turned away.

Darian looked toward me.

“Is it yours?”

I considered the question.

“No.”

The cat jumped down from the desk and approached my bed.

Darian followed it with his eyes.

“It seems to disagree.”

I sighed.

“Frequently.”

He stood.

“What’s its name?”

I paused.

The cat had followed me for months.

Stolen food.

Occupied my bedding.

Woken me in the middle of the night by stepping directly upon my chest.

Yet I had never bothered giving it a name.

“Doesn’t have one.”

Darian stared.

“You’ve got a cat that follows you around, and you haven’t named it?”

“It’s not mine.”

The animal leaped onto my bed.

Turned in a small circle.

Then settled upon the blanket.

Darian looked toward it.

Then toward me.

“Right.”

I considered arguing.

Decided against it.

The evidence was becoming increasingly difficult to dispute.

Darian approached the bed and crouched again.

The cat watched him.

He extended a hand.

Slowly.

The animal leaned forward, sniffed his fingers, and then withdrew without allowing him to touch its head.

Darian smiled.

“Well, it’s friendly enough.”

“That’s generous.”

He looked toward me.

“Do you think we’re allowed to keep it?”

I hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

“Could probably ask tomorrow.”

“Probably.”

He stood.

Then smiled.

“Well, I don’t mind.”

I glanced toward him.

“Really?”

“Why would I?”

I looked at the cat.

It had already begun cleaning one paw.

“Because it steals food.”

Darian laughed.

“I’ll survive.”

“And occasionally sleeps on people.”

“That sounds adorable.”

I considered correcting him.

Then decided that experience would probably be more effective.

He returned to his side of the room.

I closed the window partway, leaving enough space for fresh air without allowing the evening chill to become unpleasant.

The cat watched me.

Then returned to washing its paw.

Apparently, it had decided the dormitory was acceptable.

How reassuring.

The academy bells sounded sometime later.

Low, resonant notes carried across the grounds, announcing the approaching end of the evening. Outside, the courtyard lamps glowed steadily beneath the darkening sky, while the distant towers of Vaelcrest stood illuminated against the stars.

I sat upon my bed, examining the enrollment documents one final time.

My name appeared near the top.

Ren.

Below it stood the academy’s official seal.

Then the words confirming my admission.

It was still strange to see.

I traced the edge of the paper with my right thumb.

Tomorrow, I would begin attending classes.

I’d learn about the six energies.

The magical Paths.

Monsters.

Trials.

Perhaps, eventually, I’d discover something that explained the power I’d manifested within the forest.

Or the strange condition of my left arm.

Or the dark throne that continued appearing in the recesses of my memory whenever I allowed myself to think about it for too long.

I didn’t know.

But for once, the uncertainty didn’t feel entirely pointless.

I folded the document and placed it carefully inside my desk.

Across the room, Darian was arranging his bedding.

“So,” he said, “first day tomorrow.”

“Apparently.”

“Excited?”

I considered the question.

“Moderately.”

He smiled.

“I’ll take it.”

I removed my sword and placed it within reach beside the bed. Then I loosened the outer fastenings of my traveling robe, folded the garment, and set it upon the nearby chair.

The protective covering around my left arm remained secure.

I’d have to develop a routine for caring for it privately.

Sharing a room complicated matters.

But Darian seemed the sort of person who could be distracted by almost anything.

That might prove useful.

I adjusted the blanket.

The bed was narrow.

The mattress was considerably thinner than those I’d occasionally slept upon at the caravan’s better inns.

Yet it was dry.

Clean.

And mine.

At least for the foreseeable future.

I sat for another moment.

Then lay down.

The ceiling above me possessed a faint crack extending toward the window.

I examined it.

A small detail.

An ordinary imperfection.

Something that would probably remain exactly where it was tomorrow.

I found that strangely comforting.

The cat approached from the foot of the bed.

I looked down.

It stepped carefully across the blanket.

Paused beside my waist.

Then continued upward.

I watched as the small black creature settled directly upon my chest, turning twice before lowering itself into a compact shape of warm fur and folded paws.

Its amber eyes regarded me.

I stared back.

“You have an entire bed.”

The cat blinked.

“Several places to sleep.”

Nothing.

“And you choose this.”

It lowered its head.

Apparently, the discussion was over.

I sighed.

Then rested my right hand lightly against its back.

The cat began purring.

A soft, steady vibration.

Almost inaudible beneath the distant sounds of the academy.

Across the room, Darian laughed quietly.

“I think it likes you.”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Sure.”

He extinguished the small lamp beside his bed.

The room darkened.

Outside, the distant towers remained visible beneath the moonlight.

I looked toward them through the narrow window.

Vaelcrest Academy.

The place I’d spent six months traveling toward.

I’d reached it.

Not through some extraordinary display of power or a sudden discovery of hidden talent.

But through a written examination, Corvin’s recommendation, and the inexplicable interest of a man whose authority had silenced eight powerful council members.

It was an unusual beginning.

Then again, most things in my life had been unusual.

Darian shifted beneath his blanket.

“Good night, Ren.”

I looked toward him.

“Good night.”

Silence returned.

The cat continued purring against my chest.

I closed my eyes.

For a moment, I thought about the caravan.

Mara preparing supper.

Garrick waiting beside the practice grounds.

Tovin unfolding another map.

Edric examining his ledgers.

Cassia talking far too much.

Sabine smiling quietly at something I’d said without intending to be amusing.

Those memories no longer felt particularly distant.

And perhaps that was because, for the first time, I wasn’t leaving everything behind without knowing whether I’d ever see it again.

They were still out there.

Living their own lives.

Traveling their own roads.

I had simply chosen a different one.

The thought settled quietly.

Tomorrow, there would be lectures.

Questions.

New people.

Probably several inconveniences I hadn’t yet considered.

And somewhere within this enormous academy, there might be answers worth finding.

I didn’t know whether they would give me a reason to live.

But I wanted to find out.

That was new.

Uncomfortable.

And, despite my better judgment, not entirely unpleasant.

I drew the blanket a little higher, careful not to disturb the small creature sleeping upon me.

Its purring continued.

The academy bells faded.

And beneath a roof that was neither temporary nor borrowed from the wilderness, I fell asleep with the weight of a small black cat resting warmly against my chest.

For once, I found myself looking forward to morning.