Four steps into the building and I was already regretting ever coming here.
The door had screamed behind me as though it genuinely resented being opened, and the corridor didn't bother pretending to welcome anyone— dim and stale, with dust drifting through thin slices of light. Someone had painted arrows on the wall pointing in three different directions, and none of them looked remotely trustworthy.
So I kept walking and followed the sound instead.Voices carried down the hallway— bright, confident, polished in the way people sounded when life had never tried to kill them. Definitely not my kind of people.
The corridor widened into a hall overflowing with first-years. Most of them looked like they'd walked straight out of a carefully posed family portrait: polished boots, freshly pressed cloaks, hair that had clearly made recent contact with a brush. Their glances skimmed over me— quick, sharp, entirely unfiltered.
"Is she lost?"
"Borderlands?"
"Maybe she works here."
Good. Let them invent whatever made reality more comfortable.
A professor in heavy dark robes raised his voice, sounding smooth and faintly bored, as if he'd delivered the same speech so many times he'd started reciting it in his sleep.
"When your name is called, step into the seal. Divisions this year are: Elemental Mastery, Lifeweave, Crestborn Arts, Duelist Division, Aether Arts, and Null Division."
Names rolled out one after another, each followed by polite applause. A girl burst into tears of joy; a boy grinned so hard he looked like he'd personally conquered a kingdom.The whole room buzzed with people desperate to impress one another.
Then I heard it:
"Farrell, Leslie."
Wonderful.
The hall didn't fall silent, but attention shifted— warm, intrusive, pressing against my skin. I stepped toward the glowing circle and forced my movements to look relaxed. Hard to pretend when every instinct in me trained for survival whispered for invisibility.
The seal felt ice-cold beneath my palm.
I drew in a breath, and something inside the circle tugged— sharp and sudden.
Light detonated across the floor, bright enough to make several students yelp. Dust rained from the rafters.
My bracelet heated once— an intense pulse— and then split cleanly in two.
Someone gasped. Someone swore.
"…Aether Arts," the professor announced, and he didn't sound remotely pleased.
The whispers erupted immediately.
"Aether? Her?""She doesn't even look—""Did she break something?"
I stepped back— and collided with someone who definitely hadn't been standing behind me a heartbeat earlier.
A hand closed around my arm to steady me. Firm, casual— far too casual for someone who had silently appeared out of nowhere.
I turned, startled.
He was tall—of course he was— blond hair that looked like he only remembered it existed when it got in his eyes, sleeves rolled unevenly, coat hanging off one shoulder as if wearing it properly was an insult to his lifestyle. His face would've been annoyingly perfect if not for the expression: sharp curiosity layered over a lazy impatience that looked well-practiced.
His gaze swept over me— not admiring, not dismissive. He looked at me the way someone studies a puzzle they didn't expect to find interesting but suddenly does.
"You hit the seal harder than half the Crestborn did," he said. "Didn't expect that."
"Sorry to ruin your expectations," I muttered.
"It's not ruined," he said lightly. "Just… surprising."He tilted his head. "You don't exactly look like someone who would erupt like that."
"And what exactly should I look like?"
"Less likely to explode."
Before I could explain precisely what I thought of his expectations, a younger student skidded to a stop beside him.
"Sir, do you need something?"
"Yeah," the blond said, still watching me. "A registration slip."
"For you?"
"For her."
The boy sprinted off without another question.
I crossed my arms. "I can get my own slip."
"Probably," he agreed. "But he's already bringing it, so you'll just hand it to me."
"No."
That actually made him pause. Not offended— amused. Like he'd just spotted something rare in a crowd of predictable faces.
"You're not used to being told what to do?" he asked.
"I'm very used to it," I said evenly. "I just don't take orders from strangers who dress like they fought their closet and lost."
His mouth twitched — almost a smile, but not quite. A brief spark of interest slipped through the cracks of his composed exterior.
"Kael!"
A girl in lavender approached with precise, polished steps, her annoyance practically radiating off her. A younger replica shadowed her— same cut of the jaw, carrying a sharper edge of attitude.
"You're ignoring everyone again," Lavender Girl said sharply.
Kael didn't even glance at her.
"Yeah. Busy."
Her jaw clenched.
He finally stepped back, giving me space, though his attention didn't drift an inch.
"You'll want to get control of that Aether burst," he said. "Unless you enjoy collateral damage."
"I'll manage."
"That's what everyone thinks at first."
Lavender Girl made an irritated sound— the delicate, brittle frustration of someone accustomed to being the center of every room.
Kael lifted a brow at me. "See you around, Farrell."
"I hope not," I replied.
He laughed under his breath— low and amused, like I'd just handed him a challenge he didn't mind taking. Then he walked away— coat slipping, hair a mess, leaving a quiet wake of staring girls behind him.
Good for them, I supposed, though I still couldn't understand why anyone would look twice at him. Either way, it wasn't my concern.
I pushed into the corridor, eager for air that didn't reek of perfume and performance.
The noise faded behind me until a whisper drifted through the crowd:
"…His Highness is calling a gathering. Saturday. Late."
Another voice, tense:"After what he heard? Yeah. That makes sense."
I turned, but the speakers were already swallowed by the flow of students. My boot brushed against something on the floor—a soft crinkle. A small folded slip of paper lay half-crushed against the wall.
I picked it up. Inside, a single line of neat handwriting read:
After lights-out. Door 3C.
No name. No seal. Only a faint pressed mark in the corner— nothing the Academy would ever use. Most likely just something someone had dropped in the chaos.
I tucked the note inside my sleeve and kept moving. It was probably nothing— someone else's scrap, someone else's problem. But if it pointed me even half a step closer to the person I'd come here to find, I wasn't going to ignore it.