The first thing I remember about that morning is the cold.
Not the kind that bites, but the kind that clings. It settled into the wooden boards, the thin mattress beneath me, and the stale air of the dormitory. It always smelled faintly of soap, old wool, and too many bodies sharing the same space. It seeped into my bones during the night and wouldn't leave.
Something warm pressed against my side, shifted, and mumbled.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above my bunk was plain—just dark planks, one with a crack that curved like a crooked smile, another with a nail that had been hammered halfway and left behind. Light squeezed in through the narrow window across the room. It was thin and gray-blue, not yet bright enough to chase the shadows from the corners.
"Arthur…" a small voice whispered against my shirt.
Her breath tickled through the fabric before the word did.
"I'm awake," I murmured.
I turned my head. A mess of tangled dark-blond hair was tucked under my chin, little fingers clinging to my sleep shirt in tight fists. Her face was half-buried, cheeks puffed with sleep, mouth parted just enough to leave a damp spot on the cotton.
"Mm." She nuzzled closer like a cat, refusing to leave the warmth we'd gathered between us.
My arm had gone numb during the night beneath her weight, but I didn't move it. I just watched her for a moment, letting the reality of the morning settle around the words I'd been repeating to myself for days.
Today.
The thought sent a small, tight ripple through my chest—part nerves, part something like excitement that I wouldn't admit was closer to fear.
A floorboard creaked somewhere beyond the bunks. Someone yawned, and a cough scratched through the air. The orphanage was waking.
"Hey," I whispered, dipping my chin until my mouth brushed her hair. "Mira."
She hummed, eyes still shut.
"If you keep pretending to sleep, they'll eat your porridge."
Her eyes cracked open instantly, bright and already suspicious. "No," she croaked, her voice rough from sleep.
"Yes," I said seriously. "All of it. Especially the good part."
"There is no good part," she said, scowling. "It's gray."
"It's grayer when you're late," I said. "Come on."
I pulled my arm free as gently as I could and swung my legs over the side of the bunk. The wood felt cold under my bare feet. Mira rolled, blankets tangling around her small body, then sat up slowly like someone whose mind woke faster than her limbs.
Her eyes found me immediately.
"Is it today?" she asked.
Her voice held none of the pretend grumble now—just that strange mix of hope climbing over worry.
I took a breath, feeling it fill my ribs, wanting to catch. "Yeah," I said. "It's today."
The word hung between us.
The Academy. Oathspire.
I watched her take it in. I noticed how her fingers tightened in the blanket, and how her mouth pressed into a small, determined line that didn't belong on a child's face.
You're six, I thought. You don't have to look like that yet.
But the world doesn't care how old you are when it decides to stand on your chest.
"You'll pass," she said with simple conviction that made lying feel wrong.
"Obviously," I said, because if I agreed softly, she might notice the tremble in my voice. "They'll see me and beg me to join. I'll make them work for it."
That got her to crack a small smile. Small victories.
She held her arms out. "Help?"
I reached for her. Her feet felt cold when they landed on the floor beside mine, her body thin and lighter than it should have been. I always forgot that when she was asleep, warmth made her feel fuller somehow.
I helped her straighten her nightshirt, then hopped off the bunk to grab the clothes folded on the rickety stool beside it. The shirt had been washed until the color faded from blue to something uncertain. There was a patch on the right elbow that didn't quite match the old fabric, Matron's stitches neat but visible. The trousers were the same ones I'd worn yesterday and the day before, brushed clean as best I could.
The boots sitting beneath the stool were scuffed and cracked at the toe, the laces mended with different thread halfway up. Salem from the next bunk helped with that, tongue between his teeth, hands steady in ways mine weren't with delicate things like needle and thread.
They weren't much, but they were mine.
And today they'd carry me to Oathspire.
I moved automatically—shirt, trousers, boots, belt. The familiar rhythm steadied me. I tied my hair back loosely at the nape of my neck to keep it out of my eyes, then grimaced at the small shard of warped metal nailed to the wall by the door. It pretended to be a mirror, but it was just cruel.
I caught a flash of myself in it anyway—wavy sun-browned hair falling out of the tie, eyes too bright for someone who pretended not to care, and a jaw set tight.
I stuck my tongue out at my reflection. It didn't help much, but it made Mira snort behind me, so that was something.
"Arms," I said.
She raised them without arguing this time, and I helped her into her dress, tugging it down over her shoulders and smoothing it as best I could. It had been someone else's before. The hem sat high above her ankles, but at least there were no holes—just one small patch near the hip.
I knelt to pull her stockings straight and help her into her little boots, double-knotting the laces. When I looked up again, she was watching me with a deep furrow in her brow.
"What?" I asked.
"You're making that face again," she said.
"What face?"
"The thinking one." She poked between my eyebrows, where I apparently carried my worries. "You only make it when you're going to do something stupid."
"That's not fair," I said. "Sometimes I do stupid things without thinking at all."
She huffed. It wanted to be a laugh but tangled with anxiety.
I sat back on my heels. "I'm going to take you to the wall today," I said. "Before I go up."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really." I nodded toward the door. "But only if we beat Salem to the porridge."
That did it. She bolted for the door, braid half falling apart, boots thumping on the boards. I followed, ducking between bunks, stepping over a discarded toy carved from scrap wood, nodding to the other kids blinking sleep from their eyes.
"Morning, Arthur," croaked Jeno from his bunk, rubbing at his face. He was twelve and already thought the world was a disappointment.
"Morning," I said. "Move fast if you want breakfast."
He groaned, but his feet hit the floor a moment later. Hunger was the closest thing to magic we all understood.
The hallway outside was narrow, lit only by the thin windows at each end. The paint on the walls—someone's attempt at warmth—peeled in places, revealing older, darker boards beneath. The air smelled of wood smoke and something boiling in a big pot downstairs.
Mira's hand found mine automatically as we made our way to the stairs.
"Do you think they'll have honey?" she asked.
"They never have honey," I said.
"They might," she said. "It's a special day."
"It's a special day for me," I pointed out. "For them it's just another morning to get thirty screaming children to eat from one pot."
"Twenty-nine," she corrected.
I blinked. "You counted?"
She nodded as if it were obvious. "You're leaving."
The words hit me like a knock on bone from the inside.
"I'm not leaving leaving," I said carefully as we hit the landing and turned toward the common room. "I'm leaving for today. For the exam. That's all."
"For now," she said.
She wasn't wrong. I hated that she wasn't wrong.
The common room was already full. Benches crowded up against rough tables, the fire cracking in the large stone hearth, trying its best to push back the cold. Children were crammed shoulder to shoulder, bowls in their hands, spoons clinking.
The pot in the hearth spat and bubbled. A thin, oat-smelling porridge swirled inside, gray and thick. There was a faint sweetness when the steam reached my nose, but that could have been wishful thinking.
"Arthur, Mira." The matron's voice cut through the low roar of chatter, and the noise faded around us. She stood by the pot, ladle in hand, her apron already splashed with food. Her hair, once dark, had turned mostly white, coiled tightly in a bun. Lines framed her mouth and eyes, carved by stress and determination, not cruelty.
"You're late," she said.
"Only a little," I replied, gently pulling Mira forward. "Heaven forbid we miss the chance to wrestle for gray sludge."
The matron's eyes softened slightly. "Mouth."
"Sorry," I said, and I meant it. Mostly.
She filled two wooden bowls and held them out. I took both, feeling the heat seep through the wood into my palms, and guided Mira toward a gap on one of the benches. She climbed up, swinging her legs, and accepted her bowl as if it were more than boiled oats.
A drizzle of something golden topped it. Not much. Just enough to shine.
Mira's eyes widened.
"You did have honey," she whispered, as if louder could make it disappear.
"Once," the matron said from behind us, her voice gentler than usual. "And today felt like a day to use it."
I turned back, surprised.
She was already moving down the line, refilling bowls and scolding a boy trying to sneak an extra scoop. But when she passed me, her hand rested briefly on my shoulder.
"Eat," she urged. "You'll faint on their steps otherwise, and then where will we be? I'm too old to pretend I don't know you."
"Yes, Matron," I replied.
Mira had already scooped a careful spoonful, trying to drag as much honey into it as possible. She held it out to me.
"First bite," she insisted.
I hesitated. "It's your honey."
"Your exam," she countered.
There was no arguing with her when she used that tone. I leaned in and let her shove the spoon into my mouth.
It was still porridge. But there, in the middle of the bland, something sweet hit my tongue and spread, stubborn and bright. I swallowed and felt it settle in my chest like a small, warm promise.
"Good?" she asked.
"Terrible," I said. "You should probably eat the rest so I don't suffer."
She glared and yanked the bowl back. "Liar."
I smiled into my own bowl and started eating.
The room buzzed with the clatter and chatter of a hundred small lives. Somewhere behind my left shoulder, Salem complained about the cold again. To my right, Jeno read the same worn book, bowl balanced precariously on one knee.
Above it all, the clock on the wall ticked too quickly.
By the time my bowl was empty, my stomach felt a bit less hollow, and the edges of my nerves dulled enough for me to stand without my legs feeling like they had forgotten how.
Mira finished half of hers and pushed the rest toward me.
"Can't," I said. "Matron will know. She sees everything."
"She'll know if you faint too," Mira said. "Eat."
"I won't faint."
"You might," she replied. "You do stupid things."
Somehow, that was both insulting and reassuring. I took a few quick bites, just enough to satisfy her, then set the bowl aside.
"Come on," I said, dropping off the bench. "We've got somewhere to be."
"The wall," she said, sliding down after me.
"The wall," I agreed.
The matron watched us as we headed for the door. Her lips pursed as if she wanted to say something. After a moment, she did.
"Arthur."
I stopped, hand on the rough wood of the doorframe. "Yeah?"
She studied me for a heartbeat. Whatever she saw there must have been enough, as the lines around her eyes softened again.
"Don't pick a fight with anyone important," she warned. "On the first day."
"Define important," I replied.
"Arthur."
"Yes, Matron. I'll be a model citizen."
She snorted. "Saints save us."
Then, softer, she said, "Good luck."
Mira and I stepped out into the street.
The capital always felt more intense after the warmth of the orphanage, no matter how thin that warmth was.
Cold air rushed at us, crisp and clean, filled with smells the common room never had—fresh bread baking somewhere upwind, the sharp tang of iron from a nearby forge, and the faint, metallic hum of mana lamps dimming with the dawn.
The orphanage sat on a side street halfway up one of the city's gentle slopes. From there, I could look downhill and see the street spill into a busier avenue, where carts were already trundling past and shopkeepers pushed open their shutters.
Stone and wood formed the city's structure. House fronts leaned slightly toward each other over narrow lanes, windowsills crowded with plants, laundry lines stretched like flags of surrender between buildings.
Above it all, in the far distance, Oathspire's silhouette pierced the pale morning sky. White towers, dark spires, a shape that resembled a blade hammered upright in the heart of the world.
"You're staring," Mira said.
"So are you," I replied.
She smiled without denying it.
We started walking.
I kept her hand in mine as we navigated the slope, our feet familiar with cracks in the cobbles and the places where frost lingered. The sun angled up now, light pooling in the low spots between buildings before climbing the walls.
By the time we reached the main avenue, people filled the streets. A woman carried a basket of red fruit balanced on her hip. A group of older boys jostled each other, laughing too loudly. A mage's apprentice, dressed in an oversized robe, carried a bag of crystals that hummed quietly as he passed.
And soldiers.
They marched in pairs along the wider streets, steel plates sparkling in the light, cloaks marked with the empire's crest—tower and flame. Their boots struck the stone in steady, measured rhythms that organized the air around them by sound alone.
They weren't there for anything specific anymore. This was merely what peace looked like when it wore armor. Crowds parted for them automatically.
Mira tilted her head as they walked by. "Do you think you'll get armor like that?" she asked.
"Better," I replied.
"You don't even have one sword," she pointed out, practical as always.
"Not yet," I said.
She scrunched her face. "Anyone can say yet."
"Anyone can," I agreed. "Not everyone can mean it."
She rolled her eyes at me as if I had said something unnecessarily dramatic on purpose. Which I had. Partly because it was fun, partly because if I didn't say it out loud, it might wither on the way out.
We turned where the avenue split, angling towards the district that climbed the low ridge on the eastern side of the city. The Wall stood there, more a balcony than a barrier, built when threats still came from the sky. Now, it mostly served as a place for people to gawk at the beauty below.
As we walked, the city shifted around us.
Houses grew taller. The stone underfoot became smoother, less cracked. The people's clothes gained more color, more layers, more unnecessary embellishments. Mana lamps hung from wrought-iron posts, their blue cores dimming slowly as natural light increased.
I caught a few glances aimed our way—eyes drawn to Mira's patched dress, to my mended boots. They quickly moved on. There were more interesting things to see that day.
Children in fine coats walked with their parents, voices high and excited.
"—Oathspire, look, you can see the top from here—"
"—only the first exam, there will be others if you faint—"
"—remember your circles, darling—"
I kept walking. Mira's fingers tightened around mine when a woman wrinkled her nose at the orphanage token stitched discreetly near my cuff and looked away as if we were something unpleasant.
"Arthur," Mira said quietly.
"I know," I replied.
"Do you hate them?" she asked.
The question felt too big for her small voice.
"No," I said. "I don't hate them."
I hated what they could afford not to see. I hated the way they never looked over their shoulders at the sky, never checked where the nearest cellar was, never counted exits in their sleep like they were blessings.
But I didn't hate them. Not exactly.
"I just plan to stand where they have to look up," I said instead.
Mira made a pondering noise. "That sounds like hating them politely."
I snorted. "Maybe a little."
The street narrowed as we climbed, then opened onto a broad stone walkway that curved along the ridge. Low walls—chest-high to me, nearly eye-level to Mira—marked the edge. Beyond them, the city spilled outward in layers of roofs and chimneys, dissolving into fields beyond.
We weren't the only ones there. A few couples leaned on the rail, watching the morning. A boy about my age sat with his legs dangling over the drop, holding a half-eaten bread roll, gazing far past the horizon.
Mira rushed toward a gap between two older men and pressed her hands to the stone, standing on tiptoe. I stepped up behind her, resting my palms on her shoulders.
From here, the capital was… something else.
Roofs stacked like mismatched scales. Smoke rising in thin, lazy lines. Streets threading between buildings like veins. And beyond the last row of walls and towers, the land rolled away in unbroken stretches until it met the faint line of the outer watchfires, their embers barely visible in the morning light.
And above it all, Oathspire.
It rose from the city's heart, thick towers growing more intricate the closer you looked. Some were thick and square, others thin and needle-like, connected by arcane walkways that shimmered faintly as mana coursed through them. The tallest spire pierced the sky like a blade's point, higher than any other structure in sight.
"That's where you'll be?" Mira asked, not taking her eyes off it.
"If they're smart," I replied.
"If they're not?"
"Then I'll make them regret it when I build a bigger tower," I said.
She giggled, the sound knocked out of her by the wind that whipped up the ridge. It tugged at her hair, the hem of her dress, the sleeves of my shirt. Somewhere in the distance, bells began to ring—first one, then another, overlapping.
The hour. The city was shifting gears.
The sound made something in my chest jump.
Time.
I checked the sun's angle, then the tower shadows.
I'd walked this route enough times in my head to know exactly how long it took from the Wall to the Oathspire outer gate. I'd walked it in my dreams. I'd walked it on nights when I couldn't sleep, lying on my back and tracing streets on the ceiling with my gaze.
Mira turned her head, sensing the change before I spoke.
"You have to go," she said.
It stung a bit how easily she said it.
"Yeah," I replied. "I have to go."
She glanced back at the Academy for a moment, then down at the city, her eyes moving as if she could see the path between where we were and where I needed to be.
"When you're inside," she said, "and you're learning sword stuff and magic stuff and… all of it… will you think about me?"
"Of course," I assured her.
"Not just when you're eating good food," she added quickly.
"You think that's the only time I think?" I asked.
"Sometimes."
I laughed, though it came out tighter than I wanted. I dropped to one knee so we were eye-to-eye, the stone making a faint damp patch on my trousers. Her eyes were so big up close, the same dark-blond as her hair, mixed with tiredness and stubbornness.
I reached out and took her small hands where they rested on the top of the wall.
"Listen," I said. "Mira. Look at me."
She did.
"I am going to Oathspire," I said, slowly and carefully, like I was carving into something that didn't forgive mistakes. "I am going to learn. I am going to get stronger. Strong enough that no one can ever do to us what they did before. Strong enough that no one has to stand where you stood that day."
Her throat moved. "Arthur…"
"I will give you everything you want," I said. The words felt too big for my mouth, yet exactly the right size for the space they'd been sitting in my chest for years. "Not right away. Not easily. But I will. I swear it. On whatever gods are still watching and on the ones that aren't."
Her fingers tightened around mine until it hurt.
"You already give me everything," she said.
"Not enough," I replied.
I thought of fire in the sky. Of walls falling. Of screams. Of crimson bleeding over cobblestones that looked a lot like the ones under us now. Of a hand slipping from mine, slick with blood.
My jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, the wind tasted like ash instead of clean cold.
Mira's thumb brushed the back of my hand. That snapped me back.
I exhaled slowly.
"Matron will take you to watch from the lower hill, remember?" I said. "You'll see the top of the gate. Maybe even part of the courtyard."
"I want to see you," she said.
"You will," I replied. "I'll wave."
"Promise?"
I lifted our joined hands and pressed the side of her little fist to my chest, over the place where the warm feeling still sat with the ache.
"I promise," I said.
She nodded once, sharply, as if sealing the contract in her own head.
I stood, brushing grit from my knee, and looked one last time at the Academy.
From here, it seemed distant and unreal, like painted towers in old storybooks. Too clean. Too bright. Too far from the alley corners where nightmares hid. The kind of place other people went. Noble sons. Merchant daughters. Children who never had to learn how to steal an extra slice of bread without getting caught.
But the thing about distance was: you could walk it.
"Come on," I said. "Matron will skin me if I make you late too."
We retraced our path down from the Wall, the city swallowing us again. The closer we got to the Academy district, the thicker the crowd became. Children in crisp new clothes holding entrance papers. Parents with anxious faces. A few older teens in academy uniforms directing people with bored authority.
Matron was waiting near the base of the hill leading to Oathspire's outer gate, her apron replaced with a heavier coat. She straightened when she saw us, relief and irritation mixing on her face.
"You took the long way," she said.
"I took the only way," I replied. "She needed to see."
Mira slipped from my hand and ran the last few steps to her, burying her face in the older woman's coat. Matron's hand landed automatically on her head, fingers gently combing through her hair.
"You'll be late," Matron said to me for the third time that morning, in different words.
"I won't," I said.
She eyed me, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment. It was already creased along white-worn lines.
"Your number," she said, pressing it into my palm. "Don't lose it. Don't eat it. Don't light it on fire to show off."
"Why would I light it on fire?" I asked.
"Because you're you," she replied simply.
I smiled despite myself. "Fair."
Mira turned in her arms and reached for me with one hand. I caught it and squeezed.
"I'll be at the bottom of the steps," she said. "If they let us close."
"They will," I assured her, as if I had any say. "Watch the middle. I'll be the one making everyone else look slow."
"You already do that," she remarked.
Matron released her long enough for us to pull each other into a quick, hard hug. Her arms wrapped around my neck, surprisingly strong.
"Don't die," she whispered into my shoulder.
It was half a joke. Only half.
"Too much paperwork," I said, pulling back. "Think of the forms."
She made a wet, strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
I stepped away before any of us could start looking like what we were pretending not to be.
The hill to Oathspire's outer gate wasn't steep, but it felt like climbing more than just stone. People were funneled up it in a shifting line—children with their tokens and papers, instructors checking lists at the top, guards in white-and-gold standing still as carved figures on either side of the gate.
I fell into line with the others, the parchment scrap held carefully between my fingers. The number inked on it was simple. Sharp. Final.
My pulse tapped against my throat in time with my steps.
Below, at the edge of the crowd, I saw Mira and Matron, two familiar shapes in a sea of strangers. Mira waved her hand once, small and bright like a banner.
I lifted mine and waved back high, so she could see.
For a moment, everything else fell away—the nobles' children, the judging eyes, the weight of towers and history staring down.
It was just me. My sister. A hill.
And the gate at the top.
I reached the first step.
The stone was colder here. Cleaner. As if the city and all its grit couldn't quite climb this high.
A robed attendant glanced at the parchment in my hand, checked it against the list on his board, and jerked his chin toward the shadow beyond the arch.
"Arthur Valebright," he read, slightly mispronouncing the last syllable. "Candidate. Go on, then. Try not to fall on your face."
"Noted," I said.
I stepped under the arch and into Oathspire's shadow.
The air changed.
It tasted like stone and old magic and something waiting with its eyes closed.
I didn't know it then, standing there in cheap boots with my heart racing, but the path from that step led all the way to the oak tree in the fields and the old man under it.
Back then, it was just a boy walking into a courtyard, trying not to look up too much.
I lifted my chin anyway.