Beacon Academy
Today marks a new beginning.
From every corner of Remnant, young men and women gather at the gates of one of the four great Huntsman academies—Beacon Academy. Each arrives carrying their own hopes, ambitions, and quiet fears. The air hums with nervous excitement, the kind that settles in the chest and refuses to stay still.
Most come from Vale.
Others travel from much farther away—drawn by dreams, expectations, or the simple desire to start over.
Among them is a young man named Erik Lioren.
He steps into the grand auditorium, his footsteps echoing softly against polished marble floors. Tall pillars stretch upward, supporting a vaulted ceiling etched with careful stonework. Light spills in through high windows, giving the space a near-ceremonial glow.
Erik stops just inside the entrance.
"…Wow," he mutters.
He turns slowly, taking it all in, eyes bright with genuine curiosity rather than awe-struck reverence.
"Yeah," he adds under his breath, lips twitching, "my pocket is definitely crying already. If this is just the auditorium, I don't even want to imagine the maintenance bill."
A small smile forms.
"No wonder this place is famous."
He weaves through the growing crowd of first-years, slipping between hushed conversations and nervous laughter, until he settles near the middle of the room.
That's when he notices her.
A girl standing beside him, posture straight but not rigid. Long crimson hair is tied into a flowing ponytail, catching the light with every subtle movement. Her emerald eyes are calm, observant—taking in the room without being overwhelmed by it.
They stand there quietly, side by side.
The silence stretches.
Erik glances at her, then back at the stage.
He's never been a fan of silence that lingers too long.
"Hey," he says easily, tone light and unassuming. "Mind if we talk? First days are a lot less painful if you know at least one person."
The girl turns toward him, startled for a fraction of a second—then her expression softens. There's relief there, faint but unmistakable.
"Oh—um, sure," she replies. "That would be nice."
"I'm Erik," he says, offering his hand. "Erik Lioren."
She takes it, her grip warm and steady.
"Pyrrha Nikos."
The name passes through the air.
And nothing happens.
No pause.
No widened eyes.
No sudden change in posture.
For the first time in a long while, Pyrrha feels something loosen in her chest.
"Nice to meet you, Pyrrha," Erik says with an easy smile.
"Nice to meet you too, Erik."
Pyrrha Nikos.
Champion of Mistral.
Tournament prodigy.
A name spoken before the person behind it.
Most people see the medals. The expectations. The perfection.
Very few ever see the girl underneath.
But Erik doesn't react. He doesn't stare. He doesn't adjust the way he speaks.
He just keeps going.
"So," he says, glancing around the auditorium again, "where're you from?"
"Mistral," Pyrrha answers.
He lets out a soft whistle. "That's a long trip. I'm guessing you didn't walk."
She laughs quietly. "No. But I was too excited to feel tired."
"That tracks," he nods. "Hard not to be, in a place like this."
She hesitates, then asks, "What about you?"
"Vale," Erik replies. "Close enough that I don't get homesick. Far enough that it still feels like leaving something behind."
She smiles at that. "And why Beacon?"
He considers it for a moment—just long enough to be honest.
"Fresh start," he says. "Good training. And… I heard the food isn't terrible."
She laughs again, more freely this time.
"That's a very practical answer."
"I aim for survival," he says with a grin.
Then, after a brief pause—casual, unforced—he adds:
"Hey, once things settle down, would you want to explore Vale together? I know a few good places to eat. And some quiet spots too, if crowds aren't your thing."
Pyrrha blinks.
Not because of the invitation—
But because of how normal it feels.
"I… I'd like that," she says softly. "Very much."
That's when the whispers start.
"Is that guy seriously talking to Pyrrha Nikos?"
"He must be clueless."
"Even clueless people know who she is."
The murmurs slice through the air, sharp and careless.
Pyrrha's heart stutters—not with anger, but fear.
Fear that Erik will hear them.
Fear that recognition will settle in.
Fear that this small, ordinary moment will shatter.
Before Erik can turn—before the weight of her name can reach him—Pyrrha lifts her voice, just enough to drown the whispers.
"Of course, Erik," she says brightly. "I'd be happy to go with you."
Her words ring clear.
Silence follows.
Students nearby stare, stunned—not at Erik, but at her.
Pyrrha Nikos doesn't do this. Pyrrha Nikos doesn't say things like that.
Erik blinks once.
Then again.
Surprised—but not alarmed.
A smile spreads across his face, genuine and warm.
"Great," he says, clearly pleased. "Then I'll try not to disappoint."
Pyrrha exhales quietly, relief washing through her.
For the first time since arriving at Beacon, she doesn't feel like a symbol.
Just a girl standing beside a boy who doesn't see her as anything more—or less—than herself.
Around them, the auditorium continues to fill with voices and movement. But for just a moment, standing there together, neither of them feels quite so alone anymore.
"I'll keep this brief,"
Came the calm, steady tone of Professor Ozpin.
"You've come here in search of knowledge-to hone your craft and acquire new skills. And when your journey is done, you will pledge yourselves to the protection of others. But what I see before me... is wasted potential. Energy without direction. Hope without purpose. You assume knowledge alone will carry you. But it is you who must take the first step."
A beat of silence followed. The weight of his words settled in.
Ozpin stepped back, replaced by the poised and authoritative voice of Deputy Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch.
"Tonight, you will all gather in the ballroom to rest. Tomorrow, your initiation begins. Be ready. You are dismissed."
As the crowd begins to thin, Erik glances around once more, then looks back at Pyrrha.
"So," he says casually, rocking slightly on his heels, "are you hungry? First day feels like it should come with food."
Pyrrha blinks—then smiles, this time brighter, less guarded.
"I am, actually," she admits. "That sounds nice."
"Great," Erik replies easily. "I was hoping you'd say yes. Navigating a cafeteria alone on day one feels risky."
She laughs softly as they start walking side by side toward the exit, their steps naturally falling into rhythm.
Conversation comes easily after that—small things at first. Where to sit. Whether Beacon's reputation for terrible coffee is exaggerated. Erik makes a joke about surviving the orientation on sheer curiosity alone, and Pyrrha laughs more than she expects herself to.
For the first time in a long while, Pyrrha doesn't feel watched.
She isn't Pyrrha Nikos, Champion of Mistral.
She's just a student, walking to lunch with someone who treats her like any other person.
And she realizes—quietly, almost shyly—that she likes that feeling.
Very much.
By the time the sun sinks low beyond the academy walls, the day's noise fades into memory. Beacon settles into a gentle hush, lights glowing softly in windows as night takes hold.
Night falls, and with it comes a gentle stillness.
Inside the ballroom, dozens of students settle into sleeping bags, scattered across the polished floor like constellations against a dark sky. Soft voices fade one by one, replaced by the quiet rustle of fabric and the distant hum of Beacon at rest.
Erik lays his sleeping bag down beside Pyrrha's, keeping a comfortable distance—but close enough to feel companionable rather than lonely.
He glances around once, then toward her.
"So," he says quietly, "do you know anyone here?"
Pyrrha shakes her head. "No. I was invited directly by Professor Ozpin."
Erik hums in acknowledgment. "Same. I came from a small combat school. Pretty sure I'm the only one who made it here."
She turns slightly to look at him. "Then… I suppose we're both starting from zero."
"Looks like it," he replies.
There's a brief pause, the kind that isn't awkward—just thoughtful.
"Maybe," Pyrrha says softly, "destiny brought us here."
Erik repeats the word under his breath. "Destiny…"
He turns onto his side, propping his head up slightly. "What does that mean to you?"
Pyrrha considers the question carefully.
"I don't think destiny is a single destination," she says at last. "It's more like a path. Every step you take, every hardship you face… it's something you move toward, not something that simply waits for you."
Erik listens, genuinely.
Then he smiles faintly.
"Huh. That's pretty idealistic."
She laughs quietly, not offended. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," he says easily. "Just… different."
He lies back, staring up at the ceiling.
"I think I believe more in choices. Small ones. Practical ones. The kind you make because they make sense at the time."
He glances toward her again. "I have a feeling we might disagree about that someday."
Pyrrha smiles, warm and unbothered. "Maybe."
He chuckles softly. "But I don't think that'll be a bad thing."
"I don't either," she agrees. "As long as we keep walking forward."
Erik lets out a quiet breath, the day finally catching up to him.
"Well," he says, voice already heavier with sleep, "I'm exhausted. I'm turning in."
"Good night, Erik," Pyrrha says gently.
"Good night, Pyrrha."
As his breathing evens out, Pyrrha remains awake just a little longer. She turns her gaze toward the tall windows, where the night sky stretches wide above Beacon Academy.
Stars glimmer faintly—distant, patient, unchanging.
For the first time since arriving, she feels calm.
Whatever destiny truly is—path or choice or something in between—she has the quiet sense that this is where it begins.
To be continued...