Evening settled over the academy without urgency, the light of the Sol stretching long shadows across the stone corridors as the day's heat slowly released its grip. The third day since the academy had opened felt quieter than the first two, as if the building itself had relaxed now that the initial sorting was done. From the dormitory windows, the Sol looked less imposing—still radiant, still constant, but softened by distance and routine.
Cyros sat on the edge of his dormitory bed, his student jacket folded neatly beside him. The room was simple and spare, built for function rather than comfort. A single desk, a narrow bed, a tall window that caught the Sol's light at an angle, and stone walls smoothed by years of use. He had not unpacked much. There hadn't seemed to be a need.
A knock came without warning, sharp and impatient.
Before Cyros could respond, the door opened halfway, and a head leaned in, brown hair already dishevelled as if its owner had lost a quiet argument with gravity.
"You're in here," Taren said, sounding pleased with himself. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside without invitation. "I checked three wrong rooms first. Almost walked in on a Guard polishing armor. He did not appreciate the interruption."
Cyros glanced up from the window. "You could have waited for an answer."
Taren waved the comment away and flopped backwards onto the empty bed opposite Cyros', arms spread wide. "If I waited for permission, I'd never get anywhere in life. Or in this academy."
Cyros didn't respond. He turned his attention back to the window.
Taren propped himself up on his elbows, studying the room. "You know," he said, "for someone from Helior Prime, your room is aggressively normal."
"I asked for it that way."
"Of course you did," Taren replied. "Come on. There are people outside. Actual people. With personalities. Some of them might even be interesting."
Cyros stood slowly, reaching for his jacket. "If this turns into you narrating your thoughts for an hour—"
"Then you'll endure it quietly, like you endure everything else," Taren said, already standing. "Now move. The courtyard looks good this time of day."
They walked through the dormitory corridors together, footsteps echoing softly against stone. Taren filled the silence with commentary about the day—about Patrol drills, about how one student had nearly fainted during conditioning, about how Nagumo Sensei's presence made people stand straighter without realising it. Cyros listened without interruption, occasionally responding with a nod or a short remark.
The courtyard opened before them as they stepped outside. Wide and circular, it was framed by low stone walls and scattered with benches worn smooth by years of use. The Sol hovered above, lower now, its glow bathing the open space in gold and amber. Students lingered in small groups, voices low and relaxed, the tension of the academy easing with the coming night.
Taren stretched his arms overhead. "See? Much better than staring at stone walls."
Cyros scanned the courtyard out of habit rather than curiosity. He noticed movement first—two tall figures standing near the far side, leaning casually against a railing that overlooked one of the lower workshops.
"They look familiar," Taren said, following his gaze. "Craftsmen, I think."
The two boys turned as they approached. They were nearly identical in height and build, both tall and well-muscled in the quiet way of people used to physical work rather than training drills. Their hair was cut to the same length, dark and neatly kept, and both wore easy smiles that seemed permanently settled on their faces.
The only immediate difference was in their uniforms. One wore a Craftsman jacket outlined in deep purple, the stitching clean and precise. The other's outline shimmered faintly silver, catching the Sol's light when he moved.
"Evening," the one in purple said, pushing off the railing. His posture was open, welcoming. "You look lost."
"Only spiritually," Taren replied. "I'm Taren. Patrol. This is Cyros."
The silver-outlined twin inclined his head in a small nod. "Gin."
"Kevin," said the one in purple, extending a hand. His grip was firm but relaxed. "Craftsman class. You Patrols look less intimidating than people make you out to be."
"That's because we save the intimidation for paperwork," Taren said. "Where are you two from?"
Kevin answered immediately. "Ashmere. Industrial city, south of Helior Prime. Loud, crowded, always rebuilding something."
Gin added, "We came for the workshops. Academy has better facilities."
Cyros leaned slightly against the stone wall, listening. He noticed the way Kevin spoke with his hands, fingers tracing shapes in the air as he described designs and mechanisms, while Gin stayed quieter, eyes sharp, observing reactions rather than contributing unless necessary.
Conversation flowed easily. Kevin asked about Patrol training, genuinely curious, while Gin asked fewer questions but listened intently to the answers. Taren, for his part, exaggerated freely, embellishing Nagumo Sensei's reputation until Kevin looked impressed and Gin looked skeptical.
"You're overselling him," Cyros said calmly.
Taren grinned. "I'm underselling him. That man could make the Sol apologise for shining too brightly."
As laughter faded, a new presence approached, footsteps light against stone.
"Sorry to interrupt," a gentle voice said, warm and unhurried.
They turned to see a girl standing a few steps away, a small cloth bundle cradled in her arms. She wore the pale blue uniform of the Medic class, sleeves rolled just enough to free her hands. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, a soft brown that caught the evening light, and her expression was openly kind.
"I made too many," she said, lifting the bundle slightly. "Would you like one?"
She unwrapped the cloth to reveal neatly stacked cookies, still faintly warm, the scent subtle but inviting.
Taren's eyes lit up. "You are officially my favourite person here."
She laughed softly and handed one to each of them. When Cyros took his, he noticed her hands—steady, practiced, as if accustomed to careful work. There was something familiar about her, something in the gentle tilt of her head, the calm in her eyes.
"I'm Lara," she said, settling onto the bench beside Kevin. "Medic class. Third day already feels like a week."
Kevin smiled. "Kevin. This is Gin. Patrols over there."
Cyros nodded in greeting. As Lara sat, he noticed it more clearly—the resemblance. Not exact, but present in the softness of her features, the composed way she held herself. It reminded him of Ken Sensei, of the peaceful authority she carried.
They talked easily as the Sol dipped lower. Lara spoke of her classes, of learning under pressure, of how medics were trained to stay calm when others panicked. Kevin and Gin talked about crafting assignments, about instructors who cared more about function than theory. Taren, between bites of cookie, launched into a story about Nagumo Sensei that grew more dramatic with each retelling.
As he spoke, Cyros's attention drifted. On a bench across the courtyard, partially obscured by shadow, someone sat alone.
Lucian.
He was unmistakable even at a distance, posture straight, hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the courtyard. His Sorcerer uniform caught the fading light, the fabric subtly reflecting the Sol's glow.
Taren followed Cyros's gaze mid-sentence. "That's him, isn't it?"
Kevin frowned slightly. "Sorcerer?"
"Lucian," Taren said. "From Frostveil. Apparently made the crystal sing."
Lucian looked up then, as if sensing the attention. His eyes met theirs briefly. There was no hostility in his expression, only distance. After a moment, he stood and walked away, his steps measured, disappearing into the corridor that led toward the Sorcerer wing.
A brief silence followed.
"Must be lonely," Lara said quietly.
"Or peaceful," Cyros replied.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Lara, what are you doing here?"
The voice was calm but firm, familiar.
They turned to see Aerin standing just inside the courtyard's entrance.