Gol and I stepped through the academy's grand double doors into an entrance hall that managed to feel both imposing and welcoming at the same time. The ceiling vaulted high above us, supported by carved stone pillars that bore intricate designs, runes and symbols worked into the surface with deliberate artistry. Sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, casting long beams of golden light across the polished marble floor. The air smelled faintly of parchment and stone, old wood and something else I couldn't quite name, something that felt like concentrated knowledge waiting to be unlocked.
Students moved through the space in clusters, some chatting nervously, others walking with the stiff-backed confidence of those who had been raised knowing this moment would come. Uniforms varied in small details, marking different years or houses, but the overall atmosphere was unmistakable. This was the beginning. The starting line.
Gol guided me toward a long desk positioned near the center of the hall, where several academy staff members sat with ledgers spread before them, quills scratching steadily as they processed new arrivals. Behind them, shelves lined with scrolls and documents rose toward the ceiling, meticulously organized.
When our turn came, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and graying hair tied back in a severe bun looked up from her ledger.
"Name and house," she said, her tone clipped but not unkind.
"Theodore Valtair Roosevelt," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
She scanned her list, her finger tracing down the page until she found my name. A brief nod. "Confirmed. Year one, primary intake." She reached beneath the desk and retrieved a small metal badge, circular and engraved with the academy's crest, a stylized tower surrounded by what looked like interlocking rings. She slid it across the desk toward me.
"This is your student badge. Do not lose it. It grants you access to academy grounds, dining halls, libraries, and your assigned dormitory. Without it, you will not be permitted entry."
I took the badge carefully, running my thumb over the engraved surface. It felt heavier than it should have been, weighted with significance beyond mere metal.
"Thank you," I said.
The woman's gaze flicked briefly to Gol, then back to me. "Attendants are not permitted beyond this point. Students proceed alone to the waiting hall for class allocation."
The words landed with quiet finality.
Gol, standing just behind me, inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood."
I turned to face him, suddenly aware that this was a dividing line. Beyond this moment, I would be walking into the academy alone. No butler. No guide. Just me and whatever I had managed to become over the past few days.
"Young master," Gol said quietly, his voice steady as always, "you will do well. Trust in your training. Trust in yourself."
"Thank you, Gol," I said. The words felt insufficient, but they were all I had.
He offered a small, respectful bow, then stepped back, his presence receding as I moved forward.
I followed the flow of students through a side corridor, the noise of the entrance hall fading behind me. The waiting hall, according to the brief directions I'd been given, was just ahead. A place where all new students would gather before being sorted into their respective classes and dormitories.
As I approached the doorway, I heard it.
A commotion. Raised voices. The sharp edge of confrontation cutting through the otherwise subdued atmosphere.
I stepped through the entrance and into a large, well-lit room filled with students standing in loose groups, conversations halted mid-sentence as everyone's attention turned toward the center of the space.
A girl stood with her back against the wall, her posture unnaturally calm despite the situation unfolding around her. And in front of her, leaning in with one hand braced against the wall beside her head, was a young man whose stance radiated entitlement and arrogance.
"Come now," the young man said, his voice loud enough to carry across the room, dripping with false charm. "There's no need to be so cold. We're all nobles here. Surely you can spare a moment to speak with me properly."
He was tall, dressed in an expensive uniform that had clearly been tailored to emphasize his build. His dark hair was slicked back, and his face bore the kind of sharp, aristocratic features that probably opened doors for him in most situations. But there was something unpleasant in the way he smiled, something that made my skin crawl.
Lannorr Valtair Feymim.
The name floated up from Theodore's inherited memories, vague and distant. A distant noble. Another branch of some extended family tree I barely understood. Not close enough to matter in daily life, but close enough to claim connection when it suited him.
The girl, however, did not look scared.
She stood perfectly still, her expression composed, almost serene. Her elegance was something you could spot in the first look, the kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself because it simply existed. Her silver hair gleamed under the light streaming through the windows, catching the eye like polished metal, and her crimson red eyes, sharp and clear, regarded Lannorr with a calm that bordered on disdain [2].
She said nothing.
Just looked at him.
And in that single glare, something shifted.
Lannorr's smile faltered. His hand, still braced against the wall, twitched slightly. His jaw tightened, lips pressing together as if he were biting back words he suddenly didn't dare speak. For a heartbeat, he held her gaze, and then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he stepped back.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice lower now, stripped of its earlier bravado. "Suit yourself."
He turned away, his movements stiff, pride visibly bruised. A few of his companions, other students who had been watching with varying degrees of interest or discomfort, followed him as he stalked toward the opposite side of the hall, muttering something under his breath that I couldn't quite catch.
The girl remained where she was, utterly unbothered, her crimson eyes tracking Lannorr's retreat with the detached interest of someone observing an insect that had momentarily annoyed her before scuttling away.
The tension in the room deflated, conversations resuming in hushed tones, though more than a few glances were still directed toward the silver-haired girl.
I found myself staring as well, not out of rudeness, but out of recognition.
Silver hair. Crimson eyes. Elegance that felt deliberate, practiced, as if she had been raised knowing exactly how to carry herself in any situation.
This had to be her.
Aeriel. The hidden princess.
Before I could process that realization fully, a sound cut through the murmur of the waiting hall.
A door on the far side of the room creaked open, slow and deliberate, the hinges groaning softly as if the weight of the wood was too much for them to bear silently.
A silhouette appeared in the doorway, backlit by the light from the corridor beyond, making it difficult to see details at first. But the shape alone commanded attention. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of presence that filled a space before a single word was spoken.
The room fell silent.
Every conversation stopped mid-sentence. Every head turned toward the door.
The figure stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the waiting hall, and the light finally revealed the face.
An older man, perhaps in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray and eyes that looked like they had seen too many battlefields to be impressed by anything a group of first-year students could offer. He wore the academy's faculty robes, dark and austere, with a single silver emblem pinned to his chest marking him as someone of rank.
His gaze swept across the room, assessing, cataloging, measuring each of us in the span of a breath.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and carried effortlessly to every corner of the hall.
"First-year students," he said. "Follow me. Your class allocation begins now."
No one moved for a heartbeat.
Then, slowly, the room shifted into motion, students filing toward the door in a loose procession, some eager, others hesitant, all of us stepping forward into whatever came next.
I glanced once more at the silver-haired girl.
She was already moving, her steps measured and graceful, blending seamlessly into the crowd as if she had done this a hundred times before.
I took a breath, adjusted the badge pinned to my chest, and followed.