Soft morning light spilled across the dorm room. The quiet hum of the SkyStream wristband blinked awake on Isadora's nightstand. She stirred, blinking into the pale glow — and saw Naelle already halfway through dressing, her hair in a loose ponytail and one boot still untied.
"Morning," Isadora mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.
"Hey," Nell replied, glancing at the mirror. "Sorry, I'm kind of rushing. We've got an urgent project meeting — the members want to go over the designs before class."
Isadora pushed herself upright, rubbing her eyes. "Busy day?"
"Yeah, seems like it." Nell grabbed her Sky stream card and slung her bag over one shoulder. "What about you?"
Isadora reached for her StreamCard, the screen flickering to life with a soft blue light. "Just a morning class."
"Lucky," Nell laughed, tugging on her jacket.
Isadora scanned the room quickly — the third bed already empty. The faint trace of floral perfume still hung in the air. "Guess rosier's been gone for a while. She's always up before dawn."
Nell replied smiling faintly. "Yeah. I think she runs on sunlight."
"Ha! Probably." Dora chuckles
Nell checks her wristband. "I'll grab some snacks on the way, so don't wait for me, okay?"
"Got it."
With a quick wave, Nell hurried out. The door slid shut behind her, leaving the room quiet again.
Isadora sat for a moment, stretching. "Laundry day's coming up," she muttered under her breath as she gathered her uniform with her bag. A few minutes later, she headed for breakfast — determined, for once, to eat alone.
****
The dining hall was alive with quiet movement. Students drifted between the self-cleaning tables and digital swipe panels along the walls. Each panel projected a list of available meals, and small trays slid forward when a card was swiped., some followed a digital queue displayed in holographic lanesThe space was busy but orderly, every student navigating their own routine.
Isadora joined the line, glancing at the breakfast options projected in soft holographic panels:
Spinach and mushroom frittata
Avocado toast with poached egg
Berry oatmeal with nuts and honey
Each choice shimmered briefly before fading. She selected the frittata, ignoring the dessert option since it cost an extra credit, and slid her StreamCard across the reader.
A warm tray emerged at the panel's surface, ready for her to carry forward.
As she moved along, fragments of students' murmurs floated through the hall. She wasn't listening intentionally, but snippets reached her:
"Only 24 credits left… why did I even buy that midnight snack?"
"Fifty points for the month—impossible to last…"
"Primax … thousand… barely shows up…"
The last remark caught her attention. She realized the student was repeating something he overheard from a Primax bragging to a friend.
She finally reached an empty table and set her tray down. Attracted by a soft ping, she glanced at her StreamCard. The transaction history shimmered in faint cyan and gold fonts—magical tech making the numbers hover for a moment:
Transaction history
100 credit allocation
Recent
_5 credit - breakfast
Previous day
_5 credit - dinner
_5 credit - lunch
+2 credit - contribution points
_5 credit. - breakfast
Balance : 82 credits
She traced the numbers with her eyes, noting how the credit points seemed to govern everything. "Someone's gotta be careful… Only a few days in, and over
twenty points gone.
If I'd known, I would have skipped lunch yesterday," she mused, while the murmurs of the hall, the trays sliding along the panels, and the faint hum of tech all blended into the background—normal at first glance, yet layered with subtle hierarchies she was only beginning to notice.
With her tray settled on the table, Isadora began eating, letting the quiet rhythm of the morning wash over her as her mind drifted toward the day ahead.
****
The lecture hall glowed softly, digital panels lining the walls and shifting lights above giving the space a calm, focused energy. Students filtered in, some opening notepads, others tapping their StreamCards. Isadora slid into her seat, Lyra flickering to life at her side, displaying the day's agenda.
The lecturer, a tall man with sharp eyes and a precise tone, introduced himself:
"Good morning. I'm Professor Marlowe. Today, we'll explore adaptive installations — systems that respond dynamically to human interaction and environmental factors. Imagine a gallery where lighting, projections, and sound adjust automatically based on visitor movement and the placement of artwork."
He paused, scanning the room. "The goal is to balance technical efficiency with artistic expression. Observing how humans interact with systems can reveal patterns that guide design."
After a moment, he posed a scenario to the class:
"In a gallery with three interactive light panels, visitors move unpredictably, and the system must adapt to maintain both ambiance and energy efficiency. What method or algorithm could manage this smoothly?"
Several hands went up. A confident student, Kai, spoke clearly:
"We could use a weighted input system that prioritizes visitor flow and integrates predictive modeling. The panels adjust gradually to avoid abrupt changes, balancing energy use and aesthetic experience."
The lecturer nodded, and +3 credits appeared briefly above Kai's head on the visible class tracker. A ripple of reactions spread through the room: some students whispered envy, others muttered in frustration at being too slow to answer, while a few quietly noted:
"Legacy student, that explains it…"
Kai caught a sidelong glance from one student and returned a sharp glare. Recognition, even in digital numbers, carried weight—admiration, envy, and subtle hierarchy all evident.
Once the murmurs settled, Professor Marlowe addressed the class directly:
""Notice how points were awarded. Contributions in class, questions asked, answers given — all of these are tracked and visible to everyone. By now, you should understand the importance of credit points, so strive to engage and participate wherever you can. Your peers see the recognition; it encourages collaboration, and, of course, adds to your standing. Think of credit points as both currency and reputation. Participation matters as much as skill."
Isadora nodded to herself, watching the ripple of understanding across the room. The points weren't just numbers; they were a visible measure of effort, knowledge, and influence, shaping how the class interacted and competed.
Toward the end of the class, professor Marlowe added, his tone calm but deliberate:
"When designing adaptive systems, always think about the user experience first — technology should serve creativity, not the other way around."
"And remember, subtle adjustments often make the biggest impact; even small changes in light, sound, or layout can transform how people engage with a space."
"All clubs are now open for registration. I strongly encourage you to participate — clubs contribute to your overall credit ranking."
Murmurs rippled through the hall: some students whispered excitedly, others groaned. Credits again, Isadora thought. The word seemed to follow her like a shadow.
Isadora, observing quietly, felt a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Legacy students weren't just well-known—they carried privileges, and the ripple effect of those privileges extended into everyday classroom dynamics.
****
The Central Atrium — a wide, airy space filled with holographic panels glowing with lists of clubs and societies. Students mill about, fingers swiping through the projections, murmuring to each other.
Isadora steps into the atrium, scanning the panels. She passes Arts Guild, Aerial Sports, Quantum Debate Circle… her eyes linger on the Tech-Builder's Guild.
She hesitates. It's not her field, but the description resonates:
"For those who see art in circuitry and magic in motion. Creativity meets code."
She taps to join. A soft chime rings on her wristband:
"Welcome, member of the Tech-Builder's Guild. Orientation at 12:00 in Lab C."
Nearby, she notices students subtly circling Kai, drawn by his legacy status — a few whispers, a nod here or there. She realizes he's not the only Legacy around; there are others scattered through the atrium, quietly observing or being observed. Isadora watches quietly, a small frown forming.
Remembering what Elian said the first day they met during orientation, she glanced at the clusters of Legacy students.
"They're the ones who really run the social environment. You won't see the Primax much — when they're not around, the Legacy take over everything here."
The memory lingered, and she wasn't exactly proud of it, but she'd told herself to be careful around them — to stay out of their way, if she could. The Legacy students had their own world, their own quiet power, and she didn't want to be the one who accidentally stepped on it.
****
She heard her name and looked up.
Jace was there, falling into step beside her, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.
Jace always had a way of showing up just when she least expected it.
It was almost funny — how he always seemed to appear when her thoughts started spiraling, like some invisible protection charm she hadn't asked for.
The thought made her smile. She really did like having someone around in moments like this.
""Hey," Jace greeted with an easy grin.
"What's got you smiling like that?"
""Hi—oh, nothing," she said quickly, though her smile lingered.
"Nothing, huh?" He raised a brow, grin tugging at his mouth. "Well, if it's about me, I'll allow it."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You wish."
"Can't blame a guy for trying," he said with a grin.
They walked a few steps before he asked,
"So, what club did you end up joining?"
"Tech-Builder's Guild."
He blinked, surprised.
"Seriously? Didn't peg you for the gears-and-circuits type."
"Guess you don't know everything about me," she teased.
He chuckled.
"Funny you said that — I picked the same club".
She looked at him, eyes narrowing playfully. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Guess we're destined to be teammates."
She rolled her eyes, laughing again. "That's one word for it."
Their conversation drifted easily after that , jokes about class, professors, and how the credit system was obviously rigged. It felt light, unforced, the kind of moment that slipped by without her noticing how much better she suddenly felt.
As they stepped out into the sunlit corridor, she realized she was still smiling. Maybe everyone needed a charm like that, she thought , someone who showed up just when your thoughts got too loud.
****
Lab C shimmered with soft light from the glass walls. Drones hovered lazily above curved tables, their reflections gliding across the white floor. Around twenty students gathered, the air humming with low conversation and the faint scent of metal polish.
At the front stood Rhea Marent, third-year student and president of the Tech-Builder's Guild. She carried the quiet confidence of someone used to being listened to. The ceiling lights caught her obsidian brooch rimmed with gold, marking her as a Legacy. As she shifted, the glint drew eyes without demanding attention.
"Welcome to the Tech-Builder's Guild," she began warmly. "I'm Rhea Marent, third-year, and your club president. This is where we experiment, create, and occasionally blow something up — responsibly."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
"I know some of you joined for the credits — I was like you too, once," she added, teasing. "But somewhere between the sparks and sleepless nights, I fell in love with the work. I hope you will too."
She gestured toward the front row.
"Let's start with introductions, just the key members today. You'll meet the rest as projects roll in.
Tamsin Rowe stepped forward — tall, composed, precise. Her gold-rimmed brooch caught the light differently than Rhea's, its slender crest etched with delicate lines.
"Tamsin. Fourth-year, Vice President. I handle structural code and automated designs. If something seems off, I'll notice it."
Her quiet authority was subtle but undeniable.
Jax Morren, sleeves rolled, silver brooch glinting faintly, stepped next.
"Jax. Tech Operations Lead. Scholarship stream. I focus on interface systems and drone mechanics. Don't worry — I don't bite, unless the circuits do first."
His easy smirk earned a few chuckles, balancing the room's formality with approachability.
A few students introduced themselves next, their brooches catching the light: gold for Legacies, silver for Scholars, bronze for a rare few. As they spoke, the pins seemed to tell their own story, lineage, merit, status — without anyone needing to say a word.
When Isadora rose, she was acutely aware of the bare fabric at her collar — no glint of brooch to mark her place. She took a small breath.
"Isadora. First-year. I'm more into design aesthetics, but I like to build too."
Rhea's warm gaze met hers.
"Welcome, Isadora. Everyone starts somewhere."
"We also have our faculty supervisors," Rhea added, turning toward the display wall. Five names appeared, including Mr. Thorne, marked on leave.
"They'll be introduced formally when they're available."
The meeting continued — discussion of projects, credit systems, and participation expectations. Gold, silver, and bronze caught the light like scattered constellations across the lab, a quiet map of the school's social hierarchy.
When the introductions ended, Jace slid into the seat beside Isadora, his silver brooch flashing faintly.
"Not bad for our first club," he said, smirking. "Think we'll survive the semester without electrocuting anything?"
Isadora laughed. "If you stop touching things you shouldn't."
"No promises," he replied with a wink.
As they left the lab, Isadora felt a surprising warmth. For the first time this week, she wasn't just observing — she was part of something. And for the first time, she didn't feel entirely out of place.
The corridor outside Lab C buzzed with scattered chatter as students streamed out in pairs and small groups.
"You heading to lunch?" Jace asked as they stepped into the open air.
"Not really," Isadora said, adjusting her bag. "I'll just grab a snack. I'm trying to save credits."
"Smart," he said with a grin. "Cafeteria meals cost, what—six credits now?"
"Five if you skip dessert," she replied dryly.
Jace blinked. "Wait—you'd skip dessert?" His expression was half-shocked, half-amused, like he couldn't quite process the idea.
She smiled at his reaction. "I'd skip a meal if I had to."
Jace let out a low chuckle. "You're really hardcore."
"More like broke," she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Then come on. Snack station's this way."
At the snack kiosk — a glass station with auto-dispensing trays that slid out with a soft hum , Isadora scanned her wristband. Three blue dots blinked away.
"Three credits," she murmured, watching the packet drop — crispfruit chips, tangy-sweet and paper-thin. A ping followed on her wristband. Swiping her card, she saw the newly completed transaction:
3 credits
Balance: 79 credits
Jace grabbed a mocha energy roll. "Guess that's the price of survival."
""Could be worse," she said, glancing at groups of students trooping toward the dining halls, their brooches gleaming gold, silver, and bronze in the light.
They settled on a bench near a courtyard green patch, soft tech-light vines climbing the glass walls nearby.
"You always pick the most efficient option, huh?" he asked, unwrapping his snack.
"Only when I'm hungry," she said, biting into a chip.
He smirked. "Guess I'll keep that in mind."
A short pause , easy, simple. A nice contrast to the lab's intensity.
So, where to after this?" Jace asks munching a chip.
"Assignment Hub," dora replies
He raised a brow. "Ah, doing the responsible thing. Figures. Unlike you, I'll be meeting with a friend to test and check on a small project before it goes to testing."
"Pretty loyal, aren't you?" she replied teasingly.
"Told you I'm a keeper," he countered with a grin.
She laughed rolling her eyes. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks. See you around, snack partner," he called after her.
"Snack partner?" she asked, quite amused.
"Hey, we share the same menu philosophy — that has to count for something," he replied defensively.
He waved and left. Isadora lingered, watching students cross the courtyard, light shifting against glass and metal.
Maybe this place wasn't as cold as she thought.
****
The Assignment Hub was a vaulted space tucked into the North wing of Creisleigh Hall, a cathedral of stone and soft, living light. Unlike the lively chatter of the atrium or the hum of the snack stations, the Hub was hushed — a sanctuary for focused work.
Rows of Focus Wells lined the floor: circular pods outlined in thin, glowing bands of light. Each well was keyed to a student's energy code, recognizing them as they approached.
Once a student stepped inside, the well adjusted automatically: the chair shifted, screens floated into place, tools materialized, and the ambient lighting and soft soundscape responded to their preferences.
Some students preferred total silence; others had faint music or white-noise hums that pulsed with their heartbeat.
Above, the ceiling arched high, etched with veins of luminous silver, like circuits in the stone. Hovering lanterns flickered warmly, reflecting off the polished surfaces of the wells.
Students moved in quiet lines or individually toward their wells, some murmuring softly about the complexity of their tasks, others already lost in thought.
Inside each Focus Well, tasks awaited on softly glowing consoles, subtly reminding them of priorities and responsibilities.
Though the room held dozens of students, each pod felt intimate, as if it existed in its own pocket of space-time, tuned precisely to its occupant's energy. Every action — completing a task, putting in extra effort, or missing a step — had its impact, yet the details remained private to each student.
Isadora stepped into her Focus Well, the circular ring of soft blue light pulsing in sync with her heartbeat. The tools she needed — her Tether Stylus, Silva-Screen, and Emotion Sync Board — shimmered into place automatically, each hovering just where her hands could reach them.
A gentle chime drew her attention to the main holo-screen above the console.
Professor Elleven's assignment had already loaded:
"Your assignment this week is to choose a feeling you've never personally felt—but one you think machines should understand. Write it. Map it. Make your AI assistant respond emotionally, not logically."
Beneath the instructions, a spectrum of emotions glimmered faintly, each pulsing like a heartbeat:
Bittersweetness
Yearning
Suspicion
Survivor's Guilt
Quiet Joy
Isadora leaned forward, pulse crystal humming lightly in her palm, watching the colors dance across the console.
She could already feel the hub syncing to her energy, anticipating her choice. This wasn't just a writing assignment — it was an exercise in intuition, imagination, and translating human subtlety into something a machine could comprehend.
She tapped the spectrum thoughtfully, the stylus hovering over the first option. Bittersweetness. The console pulsed softly, waiting for her decision.
Nearby, other students were already working — some adjusting sentences, others carefully coding small projects, their credit balances flickering on small wristband-like displays or holo-panels embedded in the pods. A soft whisper floated from one student:
"Ugh, lost 2 points… forgot to submit my club contribution."
Isadora settled into her Focus Well, letting her pulse crystal hum gently in her hand. She focused on a single emotion — Bittersweetness — letting it guide her writing.
He asked if I remembered him. I lied. Of course I remembered. You don't forget the boy who made you promise he'd survive.
A soft chime pulsed from her console. Lyra's holographic form shimmered faintly.
"Bittersweetness," Lyra repeated, her voice tentative. "Is that… when something hurts and makes you feel warm at the same time?"
Isadora smiled slightly, tapping her stylus.
He asked if I remembered him. I said no. But I remembered everything — the laughter in the rain, the way his mother sobbed when she thought I couldn't hear. I remembered the last time he bled for me.
The Emotion Dial flickered from yellow to orange, then a brief flash of violet. Closer. Good enough.
"I think I almost feel it," Lyra murmured, the light in her form pulsing with each word. "Like… remembering something you wish you could forget?"
Satisfied for the moment, Isadora leaned back. One emotion down — several more awaited her attention. She tapped the console, sending her work through. Credits would be deducted automatically for this submission.
Her eyes drifted to the other pods around her. The hum of the Vaults was steady, alive with students and their assistants exploring their own emotional landscapes. Lyra's light flickered gently, as if processing, learning, and waiting for the next lesson.