Morning in Caldonia did not announce itself gently.
Carriages rattled over stone. Steam hissed from vents beneath the streets. The city was loud, yet free of pain, as laughter and cheer replaced the anguish of the night.
Hordes of students rushed towards the orientation ceremony of a prestigious academy. Among them was Enark.
He wore his uniform neatly. Bandages covered his right arm yet no scar lay beneath it, with another against his cheek where the blade cut him. His eyes, no longer hidden behind a black blindfold, were shielded by circular shades, blue like the ocean.
He stood there like a ghost amid the crowd, as if time had slowed down.
Listening to all around him.
Footsteps striking stone. Breaths drawn and released. Heartbeats. Gossip. Joy. Hope. He raised his hand and bit off a piece of toast, chewing thoughtfully.
The city was awake, and Enark grew a faint smile on his face, treading forward with his fellow students.
Enark had been blind since he was ten years old - a truth known only to his close family. To everyone else, he merely postured, steering attention away from his peculiarities.
*BRRNNGG!*
The academy bell shrieked through the air.
"Oh--shoot, I'm gonna be late! Enark nearly choked on his breakfast as he broke into a sprint into the academy.
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The assembly hall buzzed with restless chatter as students filed into their seats.
Then a man walked towards the podium and the hall became silent.
He wore a pressed coat of fine make. Silver thread tracing the academy's crest along his collar. The fabric bore no sign of wear, as though it had never known haste or compromise. His presence alone straightened backs.
"Good morning to all," he said calmly. "This is your formal orientation to the Western Branch of the Xiphonos National Academy and State Institution."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"This academy exists to educate the future pillars of our nation," he continued. "Whether born to royalty, nobility, or commoners, you are here because you were chosen from your own effort."
His gaze swept the room, lingering on crests stitched in gold, silver, and plain thread alike. The man's voice carried effortlessly, settling into every corner of the hall.
"You sit here today beneath the name Xiphonos," he said, "not merely as students—but as inheritors."
Enark tilted his head slightly, listening.
"Inheritors of law," the man said. "Of discipline. Of order. Of justice."
The last word echoed strangely in Enark's chest.
"Caldonia is a city built on principles," the man went on. "The academy exists to preserve those ideals—and refine them in you."
Around Enark, students straightened. Some leaned forward eagerly. Others shifted, restless and already bored. He could hear it all—the tap of fingers against wood, a nervous swallow, someone stifling a yawn too late.
"Your classes begin immediately following orientation," the man continued. "You will be sorted by discipline and aptitude. Bloodlines play no factor in your class placements."
"And some advice to those of you seeking distinction—earn it, fight for it, and crawl your way up to that glory. But for those seeking comfort—shake off the dust of your feet and depart from this place. It is not for you."
A faint smile touched the man's lips, yet it did not reach his eyes.
"Welcome to Xiphonos Academy."
Applause broke out, scattered at first, then swelling. Enark joined in a moment late, clapping softly. The loud, discordant sound irritated his ears, but he kept the rhythm anyway.
The assembly dismissed. Students poured into the corridors, voices overlapping, laughter colliding with conversation. Enark moved with the current, letting it carry him along.
Even in the chaos, the rhythm of the crowd steadied him—footsteps, voices, breaths falling into place.
It was loud. It was overwhelming.
But silently, in that crowd, Enark was smiling.