Dawn barely lifts the frost from the window when Priya and I spring from our narrow beds. The tower room still holds last night's chill, and our breath clouds the air as we fumble for tunics and belts. Outside the door, hurried voices skate along the corridor—first-day nerves wrapped in linen.
"I told you the second bell would come too soon," Priya mutters, tying back her hair with a strip of ribbon already fraying. Her sketchbook thuds into her satchel; charcoal dust smears across her fingers, but there's no time to wash.
I snatch the copper schedule tablet from the sill. Fundamentals of Mana—Hall of Jia—Second Bell. I fasten my cloak one notch tighter than comfort. "We shall not be the pair they watch stumble," I declare.
We step into the dormitory hall just as a knot of novices sweeps past—pale robes fluttering, whispers thick with spell-terms they only half understand. The scent of lamp oil and fresh parchment follows them. Priya and I fall in behind, boots tapping the stone in near-perfect unison.
Down the spiral stair, across the cloister, and into the star-garden we go. Night-bloom jasmine litters the path like pale script. Ahead, the stained-glass arcade waits—panes beginning to glow as the first rays crest Orion's eastern roofs.
A single, deep note rolls across the gardens—the first warning of the bell tower. We quicken our pace. When the second peal answers, louder, richer, the colored windows ignite, throwing bands of crimson and sapphire across our cloaks. That is the Academy's summons; any scholar still dawdling will feel its weight.
Priya grips my sleeve, eyes bright with a mixture of awe and worry. "We are on time," I assure her, though my pulse drums its anxious rhythm.
Inside the Hall of Jia, marble tiers rise beneath a vaulted ceiling. Glyphs hover like drifting snow, chalk-white against the high air. Students settle, quills poised. Magister Sai—thin, ash-haired—glides to the lectern. He lifts one elegant hand, and every wandering glyph snaps into a neat column of light.
"Mana," he begins, voice soft yet carrying, "follows grammar before will. Learn the grammar, lest your will break upon it." His gaze sweeps the tiers and lingers on me a heartbeat longer than comfort. I straighten, lifting my chin.
When he asks the class to name the verb-sigils that bind raw flow, my hand rises first. Pride shapes the answer into crisp syllables—perhaps too sharp, for a few students glance over, yet Magister Sai only arches a brow in silent note.
The tower chime splits again—a brief intercourse bell, mere moments of respite. Priya leans close, charcoal smudge on her thumb. "Your stance was off," she murmurs, showing a quick sketch of Sariel's wrist. "Anchor the glyph with the heel of your palm." I study the drawing, fix the posture in memory, and nod.
Practice follows: Mana Threading. Crystal posts ring the floor, faint pulses linking stone to stone. Each novice must draw a living filament from the soul to focus. I inhale, feel the First Light kindle, and cast. My thread burns too bright—silver flame that snaps, scorching the air, singeing pride. Gasps ripple; I swallow a curse.
Priya's turn: her strand glows gold-green, steady as sunrise. Sai grants the smallest nod. Envy pricks but cannot overwhelm admiration.
When the exercise ends, I stride toward the archway, heat in my cheeks. I pause there, pressing my fingers to the copper pendant at my collar. Its cool weight and soft chime steady me. I breathe once, then slower, and the flare inside me settles to a disciplined ember.
The third bell rolls across the cloisters, mid-morning meal. In the Great Hall, steaming herb broth and crusty bread await. Murmurs swirl of "the First-Light flare." I keep my spine tall. As Sai passes, he taps my pendant with a fingernail. "Raw brilliance burns," he murmurs. "Return after vespers—we will temper it." Then he is gone, robes whispering.
Priya and Raphael exchange glances; neither speaks the sympathy I would reject. Instead, Raphael slides a wooden spoon toward me. "Eat," he says. I do. It tastes better with broth than with ashes.
Afterwards, the library calls. Floating tomes drift in slow orbits under vaulted lanterns. We hunt through motes of dust-lit air until I claim On Controlled Radiance. Priya tucks a star-map scroll beneath her arm; Raphael marks exits on a scrap of parchment, ever the sentinel.
Afternoon parts our paths—Priya to Cartography of Constellations, Raphael to the wardens' blade drills, and I to Rune Ethics, where law binds power tighter than chains. Hours pass in ink and echo.
Come twilight's fifth bell, we regroup on a high balcony. Priya's parchment glows with fresh-drawn constellations. Chalk scuffs mar Raphael's tunic; he looks content. I hold notes dense with cautions—each line a bridle for unruly light.
Night settles. Lanterns bloom along the courtyards below. We vow that every evening shall end thus—light, art, and steel laid together, lessons braided tighter than the day before. The sixth bell answers, low and distant.
I touch the pendant at my throat. Its warmth is gentler now, as though approving my resolve. "Tomorrow," I whisper, "steadier." Raphael nods once. Priya smiles into the rising moon.
And so the first day closes.
—----
At dawn, the dormitory remained hushed. Priya was still asleep, curled beneath her blankets. We had more time today; classes wouldn't begin until noon. Fauna Taming was scheduled for the entire afternoon—a course infamous for its unpredictability.
I slipped on my uniform, buttoned it to the collar, and pinned the badge over my chest. A sigil of First Light mana—delicate, radiant, and rare. It marked me not only as a student of the empire's academy, but as one gifted in a particularly esteemed branch of mana. First Light: a force that dances in illumination, on the edge between the visible and the unseen. I didn't fully understand its potential, but I knew enough to recognize the way people looked at me.
The hall outside the dormitory buzzed faintly with footsteps and soft conversation, but I made no effort to linger. I kept my head down. I didn't need their stares to remind me—I was the only one here with this type of mana. Their curiosity was never subtle.
At the dining hall, I chose a corner seat, away from the clatter of more social students. The food was simple this morning—porridge, boiled eggs, dried figs. I ate in silence. It was routine now, the solitude. Expected.
Until a shadow interrupted the morning calm. Not quiet—deliberate.
Someone sat beside me.
I didn't look up. Not at first. I told myself it was a mistake. Someone misjudging the space, who would shift away once they realized. But he didn't move. He set down his tray with the kind of controlled stillness that draws more attention than noise.
Then I felt it—that subtle tension in the air. Like standing at the edge of a duel circle. Not hostile, not yet. But charged.
I turned.
He was already watching me.
Cai.
The scholar with clever eyes and a calm that pressed, rather than soothed.
The one I had danced with once—under soft lights, under scrutiny.
The one who hadn't spoken to me since.
His smirk was there, but thinner than I remembered. Not quite amusement. Not quite anything I could read.
He lifted a fig to his lips, gaze locked with mine a fraction too long.
"You always sit alone?" he asked finally, voice low.
My pulse ticked faster. I didn't answer right away.
He didn't need one. He was already returning to his breakfast, but the silence between us no longer felt like peace. It felt like a question waiting to be sharpened.
—----
The bell for midday had just chimed when I found myself in the open courtyard, the sun beating down mercilessly. Fauna taming class. I'd been warned early on—my skills with beasts were lacking, almost nonexistent. Yet here I was, pretending to belong among those who could coax life from the wild.
High noon. The air shimmered with heat and the faint scent of dust and restless creatures. The instructor, a stern woman with scars across her forearms, gestured sharply at the gathered students.
"Today, we tame lesser beasts," she barked. "No more excuses. Those who cannot bend the beast to their will will find themselves left behind."
I took my place near the back, shoulders hunched, watching the others. Some had already begun their attempts—whispering, gesturing, offering treats. A few managed to quiet the creatures, coaxing them into submissive calm. But not me.
I lowered my hand, trembling slightly, as a small, snorting fox-like creature with mottled fur and sharp eyes eyed me from the shadows. Its tail flicked with impatience, nostrils flaring.
I remembered what little I knew—how to speak softly, to hold my ground. But the creature sensed my hesitation. It backed away, snarling softly, tail bristling. I felt the heat of failure rising in my chest.
"Miriel!" The instructor's voice cut through the din. "Focus! The beast senses your weakness."
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe slowly. I reached out again, voice barely a whisper. "Easy now," I said, trying to sound confident. The creature's eyes flicked toward me, wary.
It was no use. My skills with fauna were a shadow of what they should be. The creature edged farther away, snorting, and I knew—once again—I had failed to tame what was meant to be tamed.
I sank to my knees, feeling the weight of my inadequacy. The others continued their work—some succeeding, some struggling. But I knew my place: the outsider, the one who could not command the wild.
A distant bell rang—midday's end—and I pushed myself to my feet, eyes fixed on the ground. No matter how deep my frustration, I had to keep going. Because if I couldn't tame the beasts, what hope did I have of mastering anything else?
And yet, deep inside, a flicker of stubbornness refused to die. I would try again. Tomorrow. And the next day. Until I could command even the faintest whisper of the wild.