The ground wyvern moved with a steady, rolling power that made the landscape pass like a slow river outside the window.
Ground wyverns, as I had learned shortly after departure, were the second kind of wyvern in this world. They did not have wings to fly; no sweeping silhouettes against the sky, no dramatic descents from clouds. Instead, every bit of their strength was concentrated into the body that stayed on the earth.
Without wings to weigh them down, their legs were built for speed, thick and corded with muscle under scaled hide. Their running speed matched that of the finest horses; their durability was far greater. They could travel longer, endure harsher conditions, and charge through terrain that would break most normal beasts. Because of that, they were considered high-value creatures, luxuries in harness.
Only nobles with real authority could buy them, let alone use them casually for travel.
Which meant, whether I liked it or not, I was firmly in the category of people who could.
It would take a week to reach the capital; seven days of travel between the manor and the heart of the kingdom. The capital's name, I had been told, was Voyeur, a name that sounded expensive even in my thoughts, like something pulled from the kind of fantasy novels I used to read half-heartedly on my phone between classes. Voyeur, capital of the kingdom, city of power, center of politics and magic and opportunity; the kind of place where stories began and ended.
On the second day of travel, we made camp near the border of a small village. The sun slipped behind a ragged line of trees, leaving the sky streaked in muted purple and orange. We stopped in a clearing just off the road, where the ground wyvern could rest and the dragger could be checked for any strain. A small fire was lit, casting a warm glow over the assembled group.
There were six of us in total, including me.
Sirius, a butler from the castle, younger than Gol, with neater lines in his uniform and hands that still moved with the slight hesitancy of someone carrying responsibility that felt a little too large for his age.
Hynus, a maid from the castle, efficient and calm, her hair tied back in a practical knot, her movements quiet but sure.
Nirumel, one of the castle's knight troop, armored even in travel, his sword always within reach; eyes scanning the perimeter of the camp with practiced ease.
Figusus, the castle's cook, whose broad shoulders and steady hands made every meal feel like it had been pulled from a well-worn home rather than a traveling pot over an open flame.
Julius, the driver, who handled the ground wyvern's reins with confidence and the familiarity of someone who had worked with these creatures for years.
And me.
Theodore Valtair Roosevelt, in name if not in origin.
The night camp was peaceful in a way that felt almost unreal. Crickets hummed at the edges of the clearing. The fire cracked quietly, sending up sparks that danced briefly before disappearing into the dark. Voices rose and fell in comfortable conversation as Figusus served simple but warm food. No immediate threats; no looming monsters. Just six people sharing space under the same sky.
At some point, with my plate half-finished in my lap, I shifted closer to Julius.
He sat with his back against a wagon wheel, legs stretched out toward the fire, fingers absently tapping a rhythm against his own knee. His face bore the lines of someone who had spent years in the sun and on the road. Not old, but far from young; stable and grounded.
"How long have you worked as a driver?" I asked.
Julius glanced at me, then gave a small, thoughtful nod as if marking the beginning of a story. "Fourteen years now, young master." His voice carried the rough warmth of someone who spoke more on the road than at court. "Started when I was in my twenties; been with the Valtair household since then."
"Fourteen years…" I repeated. That was longer than my whole life in my previous world had felt, at least the part I could remember clearly. "Do you have a family?"
His eyes softened at the question. "I do. A daughter, twelve this year; and a son, nine. They live in a town near the river, middle belt of the kingdom. Safer there than closer to the border." He smiled faintly, a quiet, private expression. "My wife handles them better than any knight could."
I could almost picture it from the way he spoke: a modest house, two children waiting by a doorway, a woman with arms crossed, ready to scold and embrace him at the same time.
"You sound like you miss them," I said.
"Of course I do." He chuckled. "Work keeps me away, but it feeds them; that is life, no?"
He paused for a moment, then added, "I used to be a knight, you know. Back in my time."
That pulled my attention sharply. "A knight?"
He nodded. "Served in one of the outer patrol units. Long days; longer nights. Fought beasts, bandits, sometimes worse. But injuries pile up; choices have to be made. I laid down the sword and picked up the reins." He tapped his knee again, slower this time. "Driving is kinder on the body. Most days."
I looked at him through the firelight, at the slight stiffness in his movements, the careful way he shifted his weight when he stood or sat; signs I would have missed if he hadn't said it aloud.
Everyone here has a family, I realized. Julius with his wife and children. Figusus talking fondly about a younger sister who lived in the capital. Hynus mentioning an uncle who had first gotten her a worker's position in the manor. Nirumel, who spoke little, but polished a ring on his finger with too much care for it to be just ornament.
Everyone, except one.
Sirius.
He sat a little apart from the fire, close enough to respond if needed, far enough to avoid being pulled into idle conversation automatically. His expression remained neutral, eyes lowered as he checked the inventory list one more time in the firelight. No one mentioned family around him; no casual references. Nothing tied him to anywhere other than his work.
He was too young for the weight he carried, roughly the same age as I had been in my past life; old enough to stand on his own, too young to have traded so much of himself to duty. I did not ask him about it yet; some questions felt too sharp to touch without preparation.
By the seventh day, the novelty of travel had worn off into a steady rhythm of motion, meals, and short conversations. My body had adjusted to the constant sway of the dragger and the distant thrum of the ground wyvern's gait. The world outside the window shifted from open fields to denser roads, from lonely stretches of land to scattered houses, then to clusters of buildings that grew closer together.
And then, finally, we reached the capital.
Voyeur rose up on the horizon like something drawn by a dramatist rather than built by human hands. Tall walls encircled the city, their stone faces etched with faint, complex patterns that might have been purely decorative; or might have been something else, wards or protections, old magic sunk into stone. Towers pierced the sky at intervals, some slender and elegant, others wide and fortified.
As we drew closer, the road widened, filled with more travelers, more carriages, more draggers of different designs. Banners fluttered on poles. Voices blended into a low, constant hum. The air smelled of smoke, metal, spices, and too many people living too close together.
This was the capital; Voyeur.
The place where the academy waited.
The place where, if stories from my old world were any indication, everything was truly about to begin.