Morning sunlight spilled across Crowns Academy's east wing, painting the white-stone walls gold. The smell of dew-wet grass drifted from the training courts, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of alchemy fumes from the southern labs.
The Academy was never quiet in the mornings. Even before the first lecture bells, the clang of wooden practice swords and the low hum of cultivation exercises filled the air. Students in crisp uniforms hurried between halls, some clutching armfuls of scrolls, others chatting with the easy arrogance of those who thought they already belonged at the top.
Edran stepped out from his dormitory wing, adjusting the strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder. The eyes that followed him hadn't faded since the courtyard duel with Cain.
Some nodded politely, others whispered behind palms.
The first class of the day was Combat Principles & Applied Footwork in Hall Sevrin.
The instructor, Master Taren, was an older man with the look of someone who had seen far more battlefields than classrooms. His gravel-rough voice carried easily.
"Combat isn't art for the sake of beauty. It's art for the sake of survival," Taren said as students filed in. "If your technique is pretty but can't keep you alive, it's worthless."
The lesson was half theory, half live demonstration. Pairs of students sparred on the central mat while Taren prowled, barking corrections.
When it came time for Edran's turn, the instructor raised an eyebrow. "You've had enough eyes on you this week. Let's see if you can learn with them watching."
Edran's opponent was fast, skilled — but hesitant. The duel was over in under a minute. Not brutal, but decisive.
"You don't waste movement," Taren said afterward, "but don't grow complacent. Complacency kills."
By midday, the corridors buzzed as students moved toward their next classes. Edran's schedule brought him to the Arcane Strategies & Tactical History lecture in the west wing's vaulted chamber. Here, the learning was slower, denser — maps unrolled across tables, miniature armies carved from wood, the air thick with the dust of old tomes.
It was after the midday bell that Edran's path finally crossed with hers.
Freya.
She stood under the flowering arch that led toward the library courtyard, sunlight threading through her hair like spun gold. She wasn't wearing the elaborate academy dress reserved for formal events—just a light blue tunic and dark fitted trousers—but there was an air of refinement in the way she carried herself. Those who passed gave her space without thinking.
"You're Edran, aren't you?" she asked as he approached, her tone curious rather than challenging.
He inclined his head. "And you are?"
"Freya." She smiled faintly. "Dean Harrow's daughter."
He had heard whispers of her before—sharp mind, sharper tongue when provoked. "A pleasure."
"I've heard much about you since the tournament," she said, studying him. "Whispers say you fight like someone who's been training in secret for years. Others think you're just… unnaturally lucky."
Edran met her gaze evenly. "And what do you think?"
"I think," she said, turning slightly toward the courtyard, "that luck doesn't move the way you did in that match. Which means you're either hiding something, or you're very good at keeping people guessing."
He said nothing, which seemed to amuse her.
"Walk with me," she suggested, and without waiting for agreement, started toward the library. He followed.
They spoke little of the tournament itself. Instead, she asked about his impressions of the Academy, the instructors, the training styles. Edran answered carefully, keeping his replies free of unnecessary detail. But he noticed something—she listened closely, more than most, as if weighing every word.
When they parted at the library steps, she glanced over her shoulder. "Careful, Edran. Around here, victories make as many enemies as they do allies."
Second Class — Arcane Strategies & Tactical History
The west wing's vaulted chamber smelled of dust and ink. Great tables bore sprawling maps of historical campaigns, miniature armies carved from oak and iron, and stacks of worn tomes.
Freya Harrow sat two rows ahead, her posture unyielding, quill poised as though even her note-taking could be a form of discipline. The sunlight from the high windows caught in the pale gold of her hair, turning each strand into a thread of fire.
She didn't look back at him, but when the instructor posed a question about the siege of Kaldrin's Keep, her answer was immediate and precise. Not just correct—insightful.
When the bell chimed, students rose in a flurry of parchment and murmurs. Edran found himself walking beside her down the wide corridor toward the courtyard.
"You fight clean," she said suddenly, without turning.
"You watched the duel," he replied.
"I watch many things." Her tone was calm, deliberate. "Most who win as quickly as you did either overestimate themselves afterward… or end up surrounded by enemies they didn't see coming."
"A warning?"
"A test," she said, finally glancing at him. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. "To see which kind you'll be."
They reached a fork in the path. She turned toward the library tower, pausing only to add, "You'll find survival here isn't just about who you can defeat. It's about who you can't afford to."
Then she was gone, the faint click of her boots swallowed by the hum of the courtyard.
---
Third Class — Alchemy Lab
The afternoon heat lingered in the air, but the alchemy labs were cool, the stone walls keeping in the scent of chalk, dried herbs, and faint sulfur.
Instructor Marlen, a stern woman with burn scars along her forearms, strode between the benches. "Control, patience, and preparation," she said, "are the difference between a potion and a poison. Fail to grasp this, and you will not leave here with eyebrows intact."
Students worked in pairs, grinding reagents, simmering mixtures over controlled flames.
Edran was partnered with a lanky, nervous boy named Kel who kept glancing at him like he might sprout wings.
"You… um… fought Cain Fall, right?" Kel asked as they measured powder into a simmering base.
"Yes."
"And you… won?"
Edran gave him a sidelong look. "You sound surprised."
"No! I mean—yes, I mean—" Kel flushed and nearly dropped the vial.
Across the room, Edran noticed Freya again, working with another student. Her hands moved with practiced precision, her expression unreadable. Once, her gaze flicked toward him, lingering just long enough to be intentional, before returning to her work.
When class ended, Marlen made them clean every bench spotless. The faint scent of mint and smoke clung to Edran's sleeves as he stepped outside.
---
Late Afternoon — Training Yard & Rumors
The sun dipped lower, spilling long shadows across the central training yard. Edran passed a group of second-years speaking in hushed tones near the water trough.
"…saw them near the east wall last night—three of them, hooded. Not instructors."
"You're imagining things. No one gets past the ward gates."
"I'm telling you, something's—"
They broke off when they noticed him, eyes flicking away quickly.
He moved on without comment, but the conversation lodged in his mind, echoing the Dean's warning from days before.
---
Evening — Library Tower & Conversation
The library tower smelled of aged parchment and candle wax. Edran came to return a borrowed tactical treatise and found Freya seated by the tall windows, reading by the last of the daylight.
"You're here late," she said without looking up.
"So are you."
She closed the book, marking her page with a ribbon. "The Academy rewards those who prepare. And swallows those who don't."
"You speak as though you've seen both happen."
Her lips quirked, almost a smile. "Maybe I have."
They spoke a little longer—about strategy, about instructors, about the unspoken rivalries that threaded through every classroom and courtyard. She was guarded, but not unkind.
When he finally left, the moon was rising over the eastern wall, silver light spilling across the stone. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled the hour.
And in the shadow of the garden arches, someone watched him go.