The assembly hall spread before them like a theater built to remind everyone of their place. Wide and circular in shape, it rose in four balconies above the main floor where marble desks gleamed under light from the single crystal chandelier.
Corren sat in the main floor section with the other first-years, deep crimson cushions soft beneath him. Around him, older students filled the balconies above. The higher the balcony, the higher the nobility. On the top tier, Corren could only make out silhouettes and the occasional shine of family emblems on their chests, glinting like distant stars.
A man stepped to the podium. Vice-Chancellor Garrett, stern-faced and gray at the temples. He cleared his throat once and the murmurs died.
"Good day to all students of Astralis Academy. Today we mark the beginning of a new academic session and the introduction of our new students."
Polite applause rippled through the hall.
"However," Garrett continued, adjusting his spectacles, "due to the absence of the Grand Chancellor, we will not be assigning houses based on trial performance this year. Therefore, there are no reserved dormitories for top-performing students." He paused. "Additionally, individual trial rankings will not be publicly announced."
The hall erupted. Older students shouted protests from the balconies. First-years glanced at each other, confused. Some nobles leaned back in relief.
In the second row, Darius Flamesworth clenched his fist against the armrest. His jaw worked. No announcement. No public ranking. No one would know he hadn't placed first, but in that moment he clenched his fist even tighter him. He had lost all his honor and now he was even happy that his shame was hidden
Corren kept his head down. Relieved. They were hiding the results. Hiding him. The Fragile who'd somehow scored perfect marks. Easier to pretend he didn't exist than to explain him. But at least now no one knew of his existence and wouldn't bother him
Vice-Chancellor Garrett raised a hand for silence. It took a moment, but the noise subsided. He continued with announcements about class schedules, dormitory assignments for those who could afford private rooms, and meal hall regulations. Corren stopped listening halfway through.
Twenty-five hundred thousand valys. The bill had arrived this morning, sealed in crisp Academy letterhead. Tuition, materials, fees. He'd stared at the number until it stopped feeling real.
His entire life savings, two years of brutal factory work extracting cores from Beast corpses, amounted to maybe three hundred valys. And that was gone now, spent just to survive the months between jobs after the foreman had kicked him out.
The assembly ended. Students rose, filling the aisles with chatter and movement. Corren stayed seated until the crowd thinned, then slipped out through a side exit.
Elsewhere in the Academy, in a chamber lined with dark wood and narrow windows, a third of the Imperial Council sat around an obsidian table.
The seats were mostly empty. War pulled people away. Rifts didn't wait for meetings.
A young man stood at the table's edge, hands behind his back. Steven, the Chancellor's assistant. He gestured toward a map pinned to the wall, red marks scattered across the Empire's territories like infection spreading through a body.
"There has been a fifty two percent increase in rift encounters over the last six months," he said, voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Average rift classification has risen from D grade to C grade. Fatality rates among adventurers and hunters have increased by eighty two percent. Guild membership has declined by twenty percent, either from casualties or individuals abandoning the profession to join the military."
Silence hung heavy.
"Thank you for your analysis, Steven," the Prime Commander said from his seat near the table's head. His uniform bore the silver insignia of the Empire's military authority. "You may sit."
"Sorry, Prime Commander," Steven said, still standing. "The Grand Chancellor won't be available today."
"You don't need to apologize, Steven," the Arbiter said from across the table, his masked face unreadable. "We don't expect him to be here."
"What do you suppose is the reason for these statistics?" The voice belonged to a man with deep red hair and shoulders like a war engine. Mr. Flamesworth, head of the Flamesworth family, still wore field armor. Soot streaked one pauldron. He'd arrived directly from closing a B class rift alone.
"Sir Flamesworth," Steven began carefully, "the real problem is that we don't know why."
Flamesworth smirked, hands flat on the table. "After all the millions of valys donated to your research and development, You've probably been using it all to drink fancy tea and cake. But well, what can you expect from a false noble."
The tension in the room surged.
"What do you imply, Flamesworth?" The Prime Commander's voice carried warning.
The temperature dropped. Not physically. Something deeper. Reality rippled, and a woman appeared in the chair opposite Flamesworth, as if she'd always been there.
"How many times have I told you to come in through the door, Witch," Flamesworth said, irritation edging his tone.
She was dressed elegantly in silk, 3 colorful feathers protruding from her purple hair. She smiled, bright and casual. "Force of habit."
The tension eased slightly. Her presence, eccentric as it was, had interrupted Flamesworth's building hostility.
"Since we don't know about the cause of the rifts," the Witch said lightly, "tell us about the Awakening ceremony. What type of talent did this year produce?"
The Arbiter shifted in his seat. "This year's ceremony was quite interesting. There were several young talents of exceptional quality. A Flamesworth heir with remarkable density. An Ironborne with striking control." He paused. "On the other hand, there was a case I had not experienced before. It was a Veil that had holes, like it was broken. Its aura was weak and could barely be sensed by the Stone. Poor kid."
The Witch's demeanor changed. Subtle, but present. Her fingers stilled against the armrest. "What was his name?"
"Ashveil, I believe. Corren Ashveil or something like that."
"Is this important?" the Prime Commander asked, glancing at the Witch.
"No," she said smoothly. "It's not."
The meeting continued. Discussions of rift containment strategies, resource allocation, mandatory student contributions to the war effort. The Witch participated when required, her tone light, her suggestions practical.
But her mind had already left the room.
Corren walked the empty corridor outside the assembly hall, the bill folded in his pocket like a lead weight.
Two hundred and fifty thousand valys. He'd never held more than a few hundred in his life. Wouldn't even know where to begin earning that kind of sum.
He'd passed the trials. Shattered a barrier an experienced proctor couldn't reinforce. Scored perfect marks. And now he couldn't attend because he was an orphan born poor.
"Corren."
He turned. Lyra stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed.
"You got the bill," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"How much?"
He pulled it from his pocket, handed it over. She unfolded it, read the number, and went still.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand," she said quietly. "Corren, that's..."
"Impossible. I know."
She looked up at him, frustration and worry warring in her expression. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet." He took the bill back, folded it carefully. "But I'll figure something out. There are jobs. Dangerous ones pay more. Maybe I can find work with a guild or something."
"That's insane. You'd have to take contracts that would kill you just to make a fraction of that in time for registration."
"Maybe." He exhaled. "But I have to try."
Lyra bit her lip, clearly wanting to argue further, but no solution presented itself. Her family wouldn't pay tuition for an orphan, a peasant with a Fragile Veil. The scandal alone would damage their standing.
Corren saw the conflict in her face and felt something shift in his chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Thank you."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For dragging me to the entrance exam." He managed a faint smile. "Before that, I was just... existing. Going through the motions. Factory work until I died or got too injured to continue. You gave me something to aim for, even if I can't reach it. So. Thanks."
Lyra stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah."
"You're going to get yourself killed trying to earn that money."
"Probably."
She turned and walked away, boots echoing down the corridor. Corren stayed where he was, staring at the bill in his hand.
He'd find work. Something that paid enough to cover tuition and still let him attend classes. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing ever was.
He pulled the folded bill from his pocket, smoothed it against his palm, then tucked it away again.
Twenty-five hundred valys. He had three days to find it before registration closed.