The Academy did not rise like a fortress.

  It unfolded.

  Terraced stone curved outward from a central spire, buildings layered in deliberate symmetry. Mana did not linger in the air, it was bound into rails, embedded beneath lamps, traced through etched markers cut deep into stone. Nothing glowed without purpose. As students passed, the lines remained dull and quiet, waiting for command, not presence.

  Lysara slowed.

  First check point. Names were recorded. Tokens issued. Directions given. No one raised their voice. No one rushed.

  Kayden stayed close, voice low.

  “Registration first,” he said. “They’ll take your name, assign housing, and tag your specialization later. Don’t volunteer more than asked.”

  They joined the line. Lysara felt it then—the shift. Not danger. Attention. Eyes passed over her the way fingers passed over ledgers, noting shape, weight, deviation.

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  She kept her shoulders relaxed. Her breathing even.

  A rune-lit panel flared as they reached the front. The registrar—a woman with silver-threaded braids and eyes too sharp to be kind—studied Lysara without blinking.

  “Name.”

  “Lysara.”

  A pause. The panel pulsed.

  “Origin.”

  “Black Hollow.”

  “Acceptance letter?”

  Lysara quickly passed it on, eyes squinted, something flickered it was too fast to name.

  “Guardian?”

  “None.”

  The woman pressed a seal into wax and slid a small iron badge across the desk. “Temporary clearance. Housing assigned at dusk.”

  Lysara took it. Metal cool against her skin.

  Kayden leaned in. “See? Easy.”

  A bell chimed. A runner appeared at Kayden’s shoulder, breathless.

  “Second-years. West wing. Now.”

  Kayden sighed. “That’ll be me.”

  He glanced back at Lysara. “Remember—keep your head down. Watch first. Ask later.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He grinned. “You’ll do fine.”

  Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students moving with practiced ease.

  Lysara stepped aside, suddenly aware of herself again.

  She felt it before she saw it.

  A gaze.

  Not curious. Not friendly.

  Assessing.

  She turned slightly and caught the look—an older student, maybe faculty, standing near a column etched with classification sigils. Their eyes traced her outline, lingered a fraction too long at her hair, then dropped a token in her hand.

  Lysara adjusted her hood. Shifted her stance. Smoothed her breathing.

  Hide better, she told herself. Same rules. Just more eyes.

  Around her, the Academy continued—ordered, precise, indifferent.