Part I: The Morning Rhythm
The bell that rang through the dormitory halls of the Schola Minor was not a shriek. In the Union, bells were alarms, signaling raids or punishments. Here, in Observo Marus, the bell was a deep, rhythmic pulse—a heartbeat of the city waking up.
Sola opened her eyes. The ceiling above her was smooth, dark stone, warmed by the geothermal piping running through the walls.
She didn't groan or pull the covers up. She sat up, her split-tone hair tumbling over her shoulders. Around her, twenty other girls in the dormitory were doing the same. There was no shouting, no chaos. Just the soft rustle of movement.
Sola slid out of bed and immediately dropped to her knees. She wasn't praying; she was checking. She pulled the black canvas satchel from beneath her bunk—her Readiness Kit.
Every child in the Schola was issued one. It contained a coil of rope, a small filtered water skin, a flint striker, and a solar blanket.
Check the seal. Check the weight. Secure the strap.
It was a lesson drilled into them from day one: The Raven protects us, but we must be ready to walk if the ground shakes.
Satisfied, she dressed in the uniform of the Schola Minor: a tunic of slate-grey wool, thick trousers, and boots with reinforced toes. The fabric was high quality, devoid of holes or patches. In the Union, she had worn rags. Here, she dressed like a citizen.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was a study in logistics. Hundreds of children sat at long obsidian tables. The food wasn't sweet pastries or gruel; it was fuel. Bowls of oat porridge mixed with protein powder derived from coastal algae, hard-boiled eggs, and slices of nutrient-dense bread.
"Eat the yolk, Sola," Torin whispered from beside her. He tapped his own bowl. "Instructor Davos says it builds the eyes."
Sola smiled and ate the yolk. She needed her eyes. She had a lot to read today.
Part II: The Architecture of Thought
The classroom had a view of the sprawling city of Observo Marus, but Sola's eyes were fixed on the slate at the front of the room.
Matron Vara stood before a map of the continent. It was split into two colors: the chaotic, fractured red of the Union territories, and the solid, unified violet of the Imperium.
"Who can tell me," Matron Vara asked, her voice calm, "why the Union territories struggle with famine?"
A boy in the front row raised his hand. "Because they lack soil?"
"Incorrect," Vara said gently. "The soil is rich. What do they lack?"
Sola raised her hand.
"Sola?"
"They lack Order," Sola said clearly. "In the Union, three warlords will fight over one field. They burn the wheat to starve each other. They value the fight more than the bread."
"Precisely," Matron Vara nodded, drawing a circle around the Imperium. "Here, we have the Grand Logistics. The Ethnarchs report the harvest. The Raven Lord's scribes allocate the grain. We do not fight for food; we distribute it. Order is the father of plenty."
The lesson shifted to Arithmetic, but it wasn't abstract. They didn't count apples.
"If a standard merchant caravan carries fifty crates of ore, and the tax for the maintenance of the roads is two Imperium Marks per crate," Vara asked, holding up a silver coin stamped with the Raven's profile, "what is the total contribution to the city infrastructure?"
Sola scribbled on her parchment. It wasn't just math; it was civic duty. They were being taught that money wasn't for hoarding—it was the blood that kept the city alive. It paid for the streetlamps, the heaters in the orphanage, and the armor of the Legionnaires who guarded the walls.
Sola liked the numbers. They made sense. In the Union, money was a bribe to stop a soldier from hitting you. In Observo Marus, money was a brick in the wall that kept you safe.
Part III: The Art of the Survivor
After the midday meal, the mood shifted. The slate boards were put away, and the children filed into the Gymnasium.
The floor was padded with thick mats. The air smelled of sweat and determination.
Instructor Davos stood in the center. He was a retired Legionnaire, his face mapped with scars, his left arm replaced by a mechanical prosthetic of brass and steel. He didn't treat them like soldiers—he treated them like precious cargo that needed to know how to stay in the crate.
"We do not look for fights," Davos rumbled, pacing the line. "The Legion fights so you do not have to. But the world is wide, and shadows can have teeth. If a stranger grabs you, what do you do?"
"Scream!" a young girl shouted.
"Good," Davos nodded. "But breath is for running. Sola, front and center."
Sola stepped onto the mat. She was small for her age, but wire-thin and quick.
Davos knelt so he was only twice her size instead of three times. "Grab my wrist, child. Tight as you can."
Sola gripped his flesh hand with both of hers.
"Now," Davos said, "if I pull, you will fall. You cannot out-muscle a giant. So you must use the laws of physics. Where is the thumb?"
" The gap," Sola recited.
"Exploit the gap."
Sola didn't pull back; she twisted her body, using her entire weight to torque his wrist against the joint of his thumb. It was a movement of pure leverage.
Davos let out a grunt of approval as his grip was forced to break.
"Excellent," he addressed the class. "You do not need to be strong to survive. You need to be smart. You need to be fast. And you need to know that your life is worth fighting for."
He looked at them, his hard eyes softening.
"The Raven Lord built these walls to keep the monsters out," Davos said. "But until he arrives, you are the shield for your own heart. Never freeze. Never surrender. Make them work for every inch."
Part IV: The Silent Hum
The final hour of the day was Sola's sanctuary.
The Library of the Schola Minor was open to all students. It was a two-story vault of knowledge, filled with books bound in leather and obsidian-infused paper to prevent rot.
While other children read adventure stories about the First Age or histories of the great beasts, Sola sat in the back corner, near the section labeled "Theoretical Foundations of the Arcane."
She pulled a heavy tome from the shelf: The Resonance of Will: An Introduction to Magic.
Most of the words were too big for her. She didn't understand "aetheric density" or "somatic components." But she understood the feeling.
When she traced the diagrams of spell circles with her finger, the paper seemed to warm under her touch. The obsidian floor beneath her chair vibrated softly, like a cat purring against her leg.
She closed her eyes. She didn't try to cast a spell—that was forbidden without a Master present. She just listened.
She could feel the Amplus Observo around her. She could feel the massive enchantment that held the tower together. It felt like... him. It felt like the Raven Lord's heartbeat, slow and steady, buried in the stone.
I hear you, she thought, projecting her small, fierce will into the floor. I am here.
The stone hummed back, a distinct, affectionate vibration that made the hair on her arms stand up. The magic of the Imperium didn't just tolerate her; it recognized her. It knew her faith was absolute.
"Sola?"
She jumped, the connection breaking. Matron Vara was standing at the end of the aisle.
"The bell rang five minutes ago, child. It is time for the evening meal."
Sola quickly closed the book. "I'm sorry, Matron. I was... reading."
Vara smiled, glancing at the complex title of the book. She didn't scold her. She noted it.
"Come along," Vara said. "Eat well tonight. You will need your energy."
Sola slid the book back onto the shelf. "Why, Matron?"
"Because tomorrow is the seventh day," Vara said, her eyes twinkling. "Tomorrow, the Schola goes into the city. We are visiting the Forge Halls and the Great Market of Observo Marus."
Sola's heart leaped. She grabbed her satchel and ran to catch up.
Tomorrow, she would see the heart of the city. Tomorrow, she would see what the Raven Lord had built. And deep in her chest, the stone whispered that tomorrow, the city would see her too.