Morning sunlight spilled like liquid gold across the spires of the Academy of Fangs, glinting off banners that fluttered faintly in the early autumn wind. The stone courtyards buzzed faintly with the hum of students heading toward their first lectures of the day. Ash walked among them, cloak drawn loosely about his shoulders, his thoughts still lingering on the perfect second circle he had manifested only yesterday at dawn.
The memory of the circle glowed in his mind—an intricate weave of crystalline lines that pulsed with azure brilliance, every symbol sharp, every curve flawless. He had felt something deeper stir within him as it emerged, a clarity that even now left his chest faintly warm.
"Keep your head straight," he muttered to himself as he pushed into the lecture hall. The scent of parchment, chalk, and old wood welcomed him. Students were already finding their seats, whispering low. He caught fragments of talk—his name, murmured with awe by some, derision by others.
Professor Elowen, tall and elegant with her forest-green robes embroidered in silver glyphs, stood at the front, her hazel eyes carrying both sternness and curiosity. When her gaze brushed over Ash, he thought he saw something flicker there—recognition, perhaps even admiration—but she did not pause to call him out. Instead, she raised her voice above the din.
"Settle down. Today's lecture will be brief, for I bring you an announcement." Her words drew the room into silence. "The Grand Academy Festival will commence in three weeks' time. This is not only a celebration but a proving ground where students may demonstrate their progress before their peers, instructors, and even emissaries of noble families."
A ripple of excitement ran through the hall. The festival was legendary, a stage upon which reputations could rise—or be shattered.
Elowen's voice softened slightly. "Prepare yourselves well. The academy will be watching closely… all of you." Her eyes lingered—just for a moment—on Ash, as though the beauty of his manifested circle had unsettled even her practiced composure. Then she gestured toward the door. "And on that note, allow me to introduce a new companion to your ranks."
The door creaked open, and a figure stepped in.
A girl, perhaps their age, with hair of burnished chestnut tied in a loose braid, eyes bright like sapphire under morning light. Her smile seemed to light the room as much as the rising sun outside. She wore the academy's uniform, but with a sash of white and crimson stitched at the edge—a mark of transfer.
"Students," Elowen continued, "this is Selene Vaeloria. She joins us from the Eastern Provinces, where she has already distinguished herself in her studies. I expect you to offer her the same respect as any of your peers."
Selene gave a small, respectful bow. "I look forward to learning alongside all of you," she said cheerfully, her voice carrying warmth that contrasted with the usual stiff tones of noble-born students.
As Elowen waved her toward an open seat, murmurs filled the air. A transfer student? From the East? It was unheard of. Most watched with curiosity; some with suspicion.
Ash, who had taken a seat midway down, blinked when Selene walked straight past the open rows and stopped at his desk. With a bright grin, she tilted her head. "Mind if I sit here?"
The question alone silenced half the hall. All eyes shifted between them—the infamous commoner who had defeated Caius Serpentis, and the smiling transfer from the mysterious East.
Ash hesitated, but before he could reply, Caius himself shifted, his piercing argent-silver eyes narrowing with mild surprise. "Bold choice," he remarked dryly. His black hair, tied neatly back, caught the faint light like ink brushed with steel.
Selene's grin only widened. "Well, I figured if I'm going to sit anywhere, why not where the interesting people are?"
That earned a short, barking laugh from Garrick Hollow, who leaned across the desk. His sandy hair stuck out at odd angles as usual, his grin mischievous. "Finally! Someone else with good taste!"
Ash sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "You're going to regret this," he muttered under his breath.
Selene only winked. "We'll see."
The lecture rolled on, Professor Elowen describing the Festival's trials and opportunities, but Ash found it hard to ignore the way Selene fit so effortlessly between them. Where Caius's sharp wit and guarded pride met Garrick's humor and easygoing banter, she added a note of cheer and lightness, smoothing the edges of the trio without trying. For the first time, Ash realized how different the rhythm felt—like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
When the lecture dismissed, the group spilled into the dining hall. Banners for the coming festival already hung from the rafters, and the smell of roasted meat and spiced bread filled the air. Yet the usual chatter dimmed as Ash entered, Caius at his side, Garrick trailing, and Selene laughing softly at one of Garrick's jokes. The room seemed to shift to accommodate them, students glancing up, whispers rippling.
It was then that a sharp, disdainful voice cut across the hall.
"Well, well… the commoner walks among us as though he belongs."
Ash turned, his jaw tightening. Darius Redthorne leaned casually against a column, his crimson hair catching the lamplight like fire, his noble crest—a blood-red rose—embroidered boldly across his uniform. His eyes were cold, predatory, narrowed on Ash with thinly veiled loathing.
A hush fell.
Ash met his gaze without flinching. "Better to walk as I am," he replied evenly, "than to stand still, clinging to nothing but a family crest."
The silence broke with stifled laughter, a few gasps, and even Caius's lips twitching despite himself. Selene blinked, impressed. Garrick nearly choked on his bread.
Darius's expression darkened, though he said no more. He turned sharply and strode away, but the glimmer in his eyes promised the matter was far from over.
The rest of the meal passed with quieter conversation, though Ash caught Caius watching him now and then, silver eyes thoughtful. When the day ended, and the halls dimmed beneath moonlight, the whispers of the Festival still lingered in every corner of the academy.
But in one chamber, far from the light, Darius Redthorne sat alone. His fingers drummed against the table, the sigil of the rose glimmering faintly on his ring.
"He humiliated me once," he murmured to himself, crimson hair falling into his eyes. "The Festival will be my stage… and I will see him broken before them all."
The candlelight flickered, and his lips curled into a shadowed smile.