The Academy wakes differently on the morning the heirs arrive.
Yesterday, Aetherion Academy felt intense, vast and bright, brimming with promise. However, today... It feels aware. Like crystalline halls and marble flooring are holding their breaths in anticipation.
Even the established students are moving differently.
Clusters of robed individuals along the upper walkways whisper and gossip. Sponsored students stood apart, straight but nervous, while commoners like Ryn and me... tried our best to look like we weren't looking too hard.
Ryn is trying his best not to look impressed.
That lasted about thirty seconds.
We're guided towards the arrival concourse. All around us, we could see the city glitter in the morning light; floating transit skiffs slid between towers in smooth arcs.
"The Academy looks great in the morning," Ryn says
"I agree."
Just as we arrived, a platform, flanked by tall crystal pylons, cast prismatic shadows across the crowd. Each pylon was inscribed with dense runic lattices that vibrate quietly as more and more people gather.
The Codex wakes up alongside the Academy.
[ASSEMBLY DENSITY: HIGH]
[SECURITY PRESENCE: ELEVATED]
[AMBIENT AETHER PRESSURE DETECTED]
A bell rings once, soft, clean, and absolute.
All conversations collapsed into silence.
At the far end of the platform, a wide ceremonial gate stands open to the sky. There is nothing beyond it. Just air, sunlight, and the distant shimmer of Valoria.
Then the air bends, as if the world itself tilts its head to peek through.
Foreign Aether signaturedetected.
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
[DISTANCE: 120 METRES - APPROACHING]
Ryn gives me a slight nudge. "That's them," he whispers.
I don't answer. I don't need to. The pressure they emit alone is enough of an answer.
Aether gathers above the gate in a slow spiral, blue-golf and luminous, forming a circular distortion. A portal, stable and elegant. It's Aether-controlled to an absurd degree. The runes on the pylons brighten in response, anchoring the distortion to physical space.
"Aether is amazing," I mutter.
A hush spreads through the crowd like a tide.
Then the fanfare begins. There are no trumpets, no drums, just the sound woven into the air.
It's the kind of ceremony that doesn't ask for attention.
It takes it.
The first figure, clear of the rest, steps through the distortion, sharpening the world around him.
There's a fiery aura to him.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a cloak of black edged with crimson. His hair is dark, almost blue in the light, and his eyes burn like coals. Traces of heat follow him in a controlled, present manner.
The announcer's voice carries across the platform.
"Cyril Valenhardt."
A murmur ripples, reverent and fearful in equal measure.
Cyril doesn't look at the crowd the way a student might.
He looks at it the way a ruler looks at their subjects. Dominant over others.
The Codex pulses.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: IGNIS]
[ENERGY DENSITY: OVERWHELMING]
Ryn's jaw tightens. "Of course, the heir from House Valenhardt is a fire specialist."
"Specialist?" I ask.
Ryn responds, explaining calmly. "Someone with their main affinity as fire magic."
"Is that common?" I asked.
"It depends. Most mages lean towards a particular affinity, but some can have dual—maybe even triple affinities, although that's extremely rare."
Interesting... I wonder what my main affinities are. I'm assuming one of them is at least Ignis.
The Codex pings.
The User is able to use all affinities.
What?
A single line caused a world of confusion and questions.
'What do you mean I can use "all" affinities?'
The User can use all affinities, as long as they increase their comprehension of the affinity.
The User's first experience of Aether was watching a travelling mage perform Ignis magic.
So that's why my main magic is Ignis right now, it was the first one I saw, and practised.
'So if I witness other affinities being used and practice them, I can increase my comprehension and therefore, my proficiency in them?'
Yes.
Cool.
"Ryn, how common is it to have affinities for all types of magic?"
Ryn looked at me, dumbfounded, as if I asked the most stupid question in the world. "It isn't, there hasn't been a recorded case of having all affinities. At least not that I know of."
"..."
"And you know a lot?" I teased.
"Ok, Kael, you know what—"
The crowd noises cut off Ryn as Cyril took centre stage.
He lifted his hand, not to wave or to greet, but to raise his palm and reveal a small flame blossom, one that was the size of a coin.
It doesn't flicker. It doesn't dance.
It sits perfectly still, burning with such control that it looks unnatural. He rotates his wrist, and the flame stretches into a thin ribbon, a crown-like arc above his knuckles.
"Ignis: Sovereign Flare."
The spell is simple in form, but the quality of it makes the air feel thin. It's not a combat demonstration. It's a statement: I can do this without effort. I can do this in public. I can do this while barely paying attention.
He lets the flame collapse into nothing, as if it never existed. Then his eyes sweep the crowd and stop on the ranking board display hovering at the platform's edge.
Not curiosity.
Expectation.
Like he's already decided where his name belongs.
Behind him, the distortion brightens again, and another figure steps through, moving like a thought made into flesh.
A girl, pale-haired, dressed in robes that shimmer faintly with star-like patterns. Her gaze is calm, but it doesn't soften. It measures. She doesn't smile. She doesn't frown.
She sees.
"Elya Veyrannis," the announcer declares.
The crowd's reaction is quieter, less explosive than Cyril's, but deeper. There's a mystery to her presence. The people in the crowd don't cheer for her, but they wouldn't dare disrespect her.
Elya's eyes travel across the platform…and land on me.
Not briefly. Not accidentally.
Directly.
And I could feel a shudder down my spine.
The Codex flickers like a warning light.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: UNKNOWN]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
User is being targeted.
What? Targetted? Why?
Ryn notices instantly.
"Am I imagining things, or is she looking directly at you?" he mutters.
"You're not," I whisper back.
Elya doesn't hold my gaze long. She turns her head slightly, as if satisfied she's seen what she came to see, and continues forward.
"Why was she looking at you?"
"I have no idea."
The feeling doesn't leave. It's as if I've been marked, not by threat, but by interest.
The distortion blooms again. This time, another boy steps through.
The air changes.
It's not heavier. Not sharper.
But lighter. Like a breeze sleeping into a closed, stuffy room.
He's about our age, but taller; his hair was a warm chestnut brown, and his eyes were bright green with mischief. His robes are tailored like the rest of the nobles, but only he wears them like he's always about to spill something on them. He walks with an easy swagger that feels completely out of place in a ceremony this formal.
"Taron Caelvarin," the announcer says, voice carrying the faintest edge of amusement, as if even the Academy expects trouble from that name.
Taron looks around, his smile broad, and with no warning, he raises both his arms as if greeting a crowd at a festival.
It was odd.
Not in a bad way. In fact, in a good way. He had this weird way of drawing people in, kind of opposite to Cyril.
A ripple of laughter breaks through the tense silence. Not from nobles. From some of the sponsored students. Even a few faculty members in the background shift, as if they're hiding smiles.
Ryn blinks in amusement. "Ummm... Is he allowed to act like that?"
"I don't think anyone is ever gonna tell him he can't," I say.
"..."
"I also don't think he particularly cares either," I add.
Taron's eyes scan the candidates, and when they find us, common robes to the noble ones, no crest, but he doesn't look away like the others.
He grins wider and points.
"Hey!" he calls, voice carrying. "What's wrong, guys?! You lot look terrified. Relax! It's just a school. It's not like you're gonna die!"
A few nobles scowl, and a few commoners stiffen.
Ryn mutters, "Ok, I hate him."
"You've never even met him."
"I hate him preemptively."
Taron laughs as if he heard, then flicks his fingers casually.
"Ventus: Ribbon Step."
A thin band of wind curls around his boots, and he glides forward, not quite floating, not quite walking, but like the ground is too slow for him. It's playful, unnecessary, but technically impressive.
He ends the spell with a little flourish, as if bowing to invisible applause.
Somewhere in the background, faculty members sigh like they've been dealing with Caelvarins for decades.
The distortion pulses again, and the mood shifts.
A boy steps through who doesn't carry himself like a student.
He carries himself like a soldier. At least like the ones from my old world.
'Old world, huh? Still haven't got used to saying that.'
He's tall, with wide shoulders, dark hair neatly cut, eyes calm in a way that feels immovable. His robes are earth-toned, threaded with faint metallic lines that glint like veins in rock.
"Darius Renora," the announcer declares.
There's no cheering. No laughter.
Just a respectful silence.
Darius looks across the platform at the Academy towers above, and his expression is faintly… possessive. Not awe. Not admiration.
Assessment.
Judging to confirm if the great Aetherion Academy is as valuable as he was told it was.
The Codex hums.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: TERRA]
[ENERGY DENSITY: EXTREME]
Darius steps forward, and as he does, the stone beneath his boots seems to respond; it's subtle, almost imperceptible. Aether in the platform's runic lattice aligns with him the way iron filings align with a magnet.
A demonstration without a spell name, and somehow that feels more threatening than Cyril's flame.
Four different heirs. Four entirely different presences.
And that was only the beginning.
The portal pulses again, and the next heir arrives, announced by another name the crowd seems already to know how to fear.
"Selene Lysoria."
A girl with hair like pale gold, eyes the colour of dawn. Sound seems to cling to her, not in a loud way, but in a soft, deliberate harmony, like the air itself is listening. She moves as if she belongs on a stage, posture perfect, expression warm enough to disarm.
But her gaze... as it flickered to the crowd... didn't soften.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: RESONANCE]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
She gives a small, elegant bow to the faculty, then gracefully glides into position beside the others.
Next comes "Marin Thornevale."
She looks different from the others, less polished and more grounded. She had dark hair that was braided back, her eyes calm, a presence that felt like a forest after rain: quiet, patient, persistent. When she steps onto the platform, the Aether in the air cools a fraction, like mist settling.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: VERDANT]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
Ryn exhales. "She seems… normal."
"I don't think any of the heirs can be considered as normal," I murmur.
Ryn had a point, though. Compared to Cyril's arrogance and Taron's playful chaos, Marin's quiet composure feels strangely human.
Another heir arrives, announced as "Lucielle Ardentis."
Her robes catch the sunlight and scatter it in soft gold. She moves with a serene certainty that feels practised, not humble, but controlled, like a priest or a judge. Her smile is radiant in the way banners are radiant: designed to inspire.
"Lux: Halo Weave," she says softly, and a ring of warm light forms behind her like a sunrise held in place.
The crowd sighs as one.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: LUX]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
Warning. The User has a contradiction with the detected affinity.
'I have a contradiction with light affinity?'
"Rein Drakovar," the name cutting through my thoughts, as a burly man enters the centre.
He steps through like a mountain, determined to walk. Broad shoulders, quiet eyes, jaw set in calm discipline. His robes are darker, practical, with metal-thread reinforcement along the seams. He doesn't look at the crowd much, but when he does, the gaze is steady and strangely honest.
He places a hand on the crystal pylon as he passes. For a moment, the runes brighten, then settle.
"Ferrum: Iron Ward," he murmurs, and a faint metallic sheen runs across his forearm before fading.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: FERRUM]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
Next is "Astrid Solvane."
She arrives like winter walking into a warm room. Pale hair, pale eyes, expression composed to the point of severity. Her robes shimmer faintly with frost-thread patterns, and the air around her feels colder, but not uncomfortable, just precise.
"Glacis: Stillfield," she says quietly. A brief ripple of cold spreads across the platform, then stops exactly at the edge of her cloak.
It was clear she had one thing.
Absolute control.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: GLACIS]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
And then finally, "Veyra Nythra."
She steps through without sound, dressed in dark fabric that seems to drink light. Her eyes are calm and sharp, and when she looks at the crowd, it feels like she's seeing what people don't want to see.
No spell was demonstrated, but the edges of the platform seemed to dim slightly around her, as if the shadows had been given instructions to gather and sharpen.
[FOREIGN AETHER SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[CLASSIFICATION: HUMANOID]
[AFFINITY INDICATION: UMBRAL]
[ENERGY DENSITY: HIGH]
Ryn's shoulders loosen. "Another one I don't like."
"I don't think she's the type to care, Ryn," I say.
Ten heirs now stand in a line, arranged like pieces on a board. The air is thick with their combined Aether signatures, each one a different flavour of power, and suddenly it's impossible not to understand what everyone else has always known.
This world doesn't worship cleverness.
It worships blood.
Ryn whispers, barely audible, "This is hilarious, you know, these guys don't even look real!"
"And yet... they are," I say.
The faculty remain calm, but even they watch with a certain attentiveness. The Academy might be a power in its own right, but it still operates within the gravity of these names.
Cyril's gaze drifts over the crowd again, and this time it catches on me for half a second. The exchange of my silver eyes meeting his coal eyes.
His expression doesn't change.
But there was something about the way his Aether came off; it was subtle, but instinctive, the feeling of a predator noticing movement.
[HOSTILE INTENT DETECTED]
[SOURCE: CYRIL VALENHARDT]
[INTENSITY: LOW]
'Great. I haven't even taken my entrance exams, and there's someone from the Ten Houses who already dislikes me.'
Elya Veyrannis, standing a few paces away, turns her head slightly and looks at me again. Not long. Not dramatic.
Just once, like checking a variable.
'Oh, lovely... another person from the Ten House personally looking at me'
"What's wrong Kael?" Ryn asked out of nowhere.
"Nothing. Why?"
"Well... you're making a weird face right now."
"..."
"I'm fine," I respond
"Do you need to take a dum—" said Ryn, with a deadpan face.
"No."
"..."
"Are you sure? It's fine if yo—"
"I do not." I glared back at Ryn, as if in disgust.
Not too far away, Taron noticed both of us and was looking in our direction. Our eyes met.
He grinned as if we shared a joke.
Then he mouths, exaggeratedly: Good Luck.
Ryn sees it and groans. "He's really starting to piss me off."
"Why?" I murmur.
"Because he thinks this whole situation is some fun game."
Maybe it is, for him.
I think I finally started to understand the separation. It was apparent not just by appearance, but also by everyone else's attitude.
It wasn't just money. It wasn't just status.
It was a difference in how the world responds to you by default.
These heirs walk into a platform, and the air changes.
Commoners walk in, and the air stays the same.
The announcer's voice returns, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Let the Academy bear witness," he proclaims, "to the heirs of the Ten Great Families that have arrived in full to begin their first year within these very Aetherion's halls."
The sound of cheers rises, loudest from nobles, restrained from everyone else.
The heirs begin to move forward, guided by faculty and attendants. The line breaks into a procession, flowing up the crystal steps toward the upper terraces.
As they pass, their Aether signatures brush the crowd like invisible tides.
I stand still, watching them go, mind racing.
The Codex can tell me the energy density. Affinity indications. Threat levels.
But it can't quantify the force of legacy.
This world worships bloodlines, not understanding.
I feel Ryn beside me, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed, the look of determination and something emotionally deeper on his face.
He doesn't say anything, but the silence is loud enough.
I take a slow breath.
Prepared or not, this is the reality I've stepped into.
And if I want to rise here... if I want to understand Aether, to understand the system that rules this world. I'll have to climb through the shadow of people who were born with the finish line already beneath their feet.