Aron was left alone without ceremony.
The escort walked him through a narrow side corridor that curved just enough to hide its end, the stone beneath his boots smooth and faintly cool. The air smelled clean in a way that felt deliberate—not fresh, not pleasant, just absent of anything unwanted. No damp. No dust. No lingering traces of people who had passed through before him.
It made him uneasy.
They stopped in front of a door set flush with the wall. No frame. No markings. No handle.
"This is your assigned lodging," the taller man said, as if reading from a ledger.
He pressed his thumb against a small panel beside the door. The panel warmed briefly, then the door opened with a soft click that sounded final.
Aron hesitated for half a breath before stepping inside.
The room was small, but not cramped. Measured. Every object sat where it was meant to be, spaced just far enough apart to allow movement without comfort. A bed fixed to the wall, narrow and perfectly aligned. A desk anchored to the floor, its surface unscarred. A chair that didn't invite you to lean back.
No decorations. No imperfections.
The taller man handed him a thin slate. It was lighter than it looked, cool against Aron's palm.
"Your schedule will update automatically," the man said. "Meals are provided. Movement outside designated areas is restricted during orientation."
Orientation.
The word sounded temporary. Provisional. Aron didn't trust it.
"If you have questions," the man added, already turning away, "they will be answered when appropriate."
The door closed behind them with the same quiet click.
Aron stood where he was, bag still slung over his shoulder, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps fading down the corridor. No murmured voices. Just silence so complete it felt padded, as if the room had been designed to swallow sound before it could travel too far.
He set his bag down slowly, the fabric brushing against stone with a soft whisper that felt louder than it should have.
The bed didn't creak when he sat. He bounced on it once to test it, then stopped when it didn't respond. He ran his hand along the edge of the desk, fingers trailing over a surface too smooth to belong to anything used regularly by people.
No scratches. No dents. No signs of carelessness.
No signs of life.
Aron stood and crossed to the window. It was set high in the wall, narrow and rectangular, admitting a strip of pale light. He had to stretch to see through it. All that waited beyond was sky—washed white, featureless, giving him no sense of height or direction.
No streets. No roofs. No movement.
He lowered his gaze and caught his reflection faintly in the glass.
He looked smaller here.
Not physically—though the room did nothing to help—but conceptually. His jacket, patched and repatched, looked rough against the space's clean lines. His boots, scuffed and worn, seemed louder than they ever had before.
He adjusted his collar out of habit, then dropped his hand, irritated with himself.
No one was here to see him.
That realization didn't comfort him the way it should have.
The slate hummed softly when he picked it up. His name glowed at the top in clean lettering, followed by a list of times and locations he didn't recognize. Blocks of the day already accounted for, stacked neatly from morning to night.
Someone had planned for him.
The thought settled in his chest, weighing him down.
He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was smooth, unbroken, without cracks to count or stains to trace into shapes. Nothing to distract him. Nothing to ground him.
His knee throbbed dully, reminding him of the beam, the dust, the way the street had almost decided wrong. He shifted until the ache dulled, then lay still again.
After a while—he couldn't tell how long—the slate chimed once.
Orientation.
He followed the indicated path out of his room. The academy revealed itself gradually, never all at once. Corridors curved subtly, staircases opened into landings that led into more corridors, walls rising just high enough to keep you from seeing too far ahead.
It felt intentional, like a place that didn't want to be understood quickly.
Students appeared in ones and twos, then small clusters. Their clothing varied, but all of it fit better than his. Their posture carried an ease he recognized immediately—not arrogance, but familiarity. The kind that came from knowing you belonged somewhere.
Conversations dipped when Aron passed. Not abruptly. Just enough to notice.
He kept his eyes forward.
The room designated for orientation was large and tiered, its stone seats arranged in shallow arcs. Light filtered in from high windows, diffused so evenly it cast no harsh shadows. Students took their places with practiced ease, bags set neatly at their feet.
Aron chose a seat near the back without thinking.
As he sat, he felt it—that faint tightening in the air, like a breath being held. It wasn't strong enough to alarm him. Just present enough that he shifted once, then stilled.
Someone a few rows down glanced back at him. Their eyes moved over his clothes, his posture, the way he sat slightly forward, as if he were ready to bolt.
The look wasn't hostile.
It was measuring.
A woman stepped to the front of the room. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"Welcome," she said, and the room settled further. "You are here because you meet certain criteria."
Aron's shoulders tightened despite himself.
"These criteria will not be discussed," she continued calmly. "Your presence here is provisional. Your continuation will depend on performance, conduct, and adaptability."
No murmurs followed. No shifting. As if everyone else had already accepted this.
Aron wondered how many of them had been told they were provisional—and how many believed it applied to them.
The woman's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Aron. Not long enough to draw attention. Long enough that he felt it.
"Your schedules are available to you," she said. "Follow them. Observe. Ask questions when invited."
She paused.
"Interference," she added, almost casually, "is not always corrective."
Something in Aron's chest tightened, sharp and familiar.
The session ended without dismissal. People began to stand, conversations resuming in soft threads that wove around him.
He waited until the flow thinned before rising.
As he stepped into the corridor, fragments of conversation brushed past him.
"—outer districts—"
"—mid-term intake—"
"—why would they—"
He didn't turn his head.
He followed the slate to the next location, then the next. Rooms blurred together. Demonstrations he observed but did not participate in. Names he heard but didn't commit to memory. Concepts were introduced without explanation, as if understanding them were assumed.
By the time he was released for the day, the light filtering through the high windows had shifted.
He returned to his room and closed the door.
Only then did he exhale.
He sat on the bed and pressed his palms into his knees, grounding himself in the pressure. The academy hadn't threatened him. Hadn't punished him and hadn't even spoken to him directly beyond procedure.
And yet—
He felt placed.
Categorized.
Like the crate he'd carried that morning—important enough to move, not necessary sufficient to protect.
He lay back again and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the building, footsteps echoed. Measured. Unhurried. They passed and faded.
Aron closed his eyes.
The street had hesitated.
This place didn't.
And that, he thought, might be worse.