The Grand Hall has that cssic library smell, like beeswax and old books. It's packed with students sitting on wooden benches, and the warm golden lights make everything feel magical.

  I'm stuck between Freya and some nervous-looking third-year who's fidgeting with his robes, trying to look casual, while my brain takes in every detail of the space because I can't turn off my design instincts.

  The faculty members sit on a raised ptform at the front, organized by department and rank. They're all wearing formal robes that probably cost more than a semester's tuition. In the center is the headmaster, an elderly man with a beard that's clearly enchanted because no natural beard stays that well-shaped, and he's giving what I assume is the traditional welcome speech about excellence, tradition, and responsibility.

  I'm not really listening. I'm scanning the crowd.

  There it is: three rows ahead and to the left. Prince Matthias, easy to spot in his royal blue robes with gold embroidery that catches light every time he moves. He's sitting up straight with a neutral expression, the kind of posture that says, 'I've been trained for public appearances since birth.'

  Next to him is Penelope Ashworth, with blonde hair in an eborate updo, also sitting with perfect poise. They're not touching, but they're clearly together, in that formal way arranged couples are together.

  I watch them for maybe thirty seconds and it's like watching actors recite lines. He leans slightly toward her. She responds with a measured smile. Their gesture is too controlled, and cks any real warmth. This is performance art, political theater dressed up as a retionship.

  "You're staring," Freya says in a whisper.

  "I'm just being observant."

  "That's what people say when they're staring."

  "Shh, I'm doing analysis."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Narrative structure."

  "You're weird."

  "You say that like it's new."

  Movement catches my eye, and I shift focus.

  There was a younger girl, about fifteen or sixteen, with brown hair in a simple braid, wearing standard Academy robes without any customization or embellishment. She's sitting with a group of third-years, but she's kind of on her own, like she's with them but not really. And when she looks over at the prince, there's something in her expression. It's not so much adoration as it is recognition, the way you look at someone who's unexpectedly different.

  That has to be Enid.

  I watch her for a few minutes, trying to identify the protagonist's energy, whatever that looks like. She seems normal, unremarkable even. She's the kind of person who'd blend into crowds, except for how other students react to her. Some people just ignore her, while others watch with obvious curiosity. A few even look at her with a hint of hostility. She's creating reactions just by existing, which is either main character syndrome or I'm reading too much into social dynamics.

  Probably both.

  "That's Enid Fairfax," Freya whispers, following my gaze. "The baron's daughter everyone's talking about."

  "What are they saying?"

  "She's got the prince's attention somehow. Penelope Ashworth hates her. That she's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid for not avoiding the situation."

  "Which do you think?"

  "I think anyone who gets caught in royal romantic drama is probably exhausted. That stuff looks terrible from the outside."

  "Voice of experience?"

  "Voice of common sense."

  The headmaster finishes his speech with something about upholding Academy values, and the crowd appuds politely. Then he's introducing the department heads and going through the list of faculty and their credentials, and I'm back to not paying attention because there's movement on the dais.

  One of the professors, who's younger than the others, maybe in his early thirties, is giving the student body a hard stare. When he looks over where I'm sitting, I get this weird feeling like he's really seeing me, like he's assessing me instead of just looking. Then he looks away, and I tell myself I'm overreacting.

  "First and second years will proceed to pcement evaluations," the headmaster says. "Third through sixth years, go back to your houses for afternoon csses. Transfer students and those needing specialized assessment should report to the Practical Hall."

  Oh, good. My favorite thing. Being tested.

  Freya nudges me. "That's you."

  "I know."

  "Don't blow anything up."

  "That was one time, and it was an accident."

  "I heard about three separate incidents during your summer training."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Celine gets chatty when she's nervous."

  "I'm going to have words with her. You're not coming?"

  "I'm not a transfer student. I already went through this three years ago." She grins.

  We're leaving Grand Hall, and I'm following the signs to the Practical Hall, which is apparently a separate building dedicated to combat training and magical assessment. Inside, there's a big open space with cushioned floors and reinforced walls. Magical barriers shimmer in sections, creating isoted testing zones. There are about twenty other students waiting, all of them looking nervous or confident.

  Maribel is here, which confuses me for a second until I realize she's probably assisting with evaluations or something. She's standing near the faculty area with perfect posture and an expression that suggests she finds this entire process beneath her dignity.

  The professor comes in, the same one who was on the dais. Up close, I can see he's got a face that's hard to read. He's got this professional neutrality, probably from dealing with all these noble students for years. His robes show that he's more into hands-on combat training than just reading about it.

  "Good afternoon. I'm Professor Diablo Thorne, the head of Practical Combat Studies. For those of you who need to be evaluated, we'll be checking your mana density, control, and application of standard fourth-year techniques." He points to the testing zones. "You'll each demonstrate three spells: one offensive, one defensive, and one utility. We're looking for competence that matches your year in school. It's not about being perfect or an absolute prodigy, but rather about doing the right thing and ying a solid foundation."

  That should be simple, except I have absolutely no idea what "appropriate to year level" means in this world's context. My baseline is endgame content. Everything I do is going to be either too strong or too weak.

  "We'll proceed alphabetically. First up, Miss Bckwood."

  A girl with dark hair steps forward and demonstrates competent but unremarkable magic. Her offensive spell is standard fire, defensive is a basic shield, utility is simple levitation. Professor Thorne nods approvingly and makes notes.

  This continues through maybe ten students, each one showing variations on simir themes, and I'm watching carefully trying to gauge what "average fourth-year" actually looks like. The power levels are way lower than I expected; these are people who'd struggle with the skeletons we fought in the outer tomb chambers, let alone anything deeper.

  "Excellent work, Miss Langwood," Professor Thorne says, making notes on a tablet. "That's the kind of thing we're looking for. Next, Miss Shadowmere."

  Oh, good. Follow the genius prodigy. Great.

  I step into the testing zone, trying to look confident, even though I have no idea what I'm doing. The professor is watching closely, and a few other faculty members have shown up to watch too. Maribel is staring at me, clearly expecting me to fail.

  No pressure.

  "Whenever you're ready, Miss Shadowmere."

  Right. Offensive spell. Something basic but competent. I call up [Shadow Bolt] and immediately throttle it down to maybe five percent output, way less than I used on the skeletons. The bolt forms, fires, impacts the dummy with a solid thunk and scorch mark that looks roughly simir to Maribel's lightning.

  Alright. That worked.

  Defensive next. I cast [Void Barrier], but at minimum strength, just enough to create a visible shimmer. This is where I mess up because I'm so focused on keeping the power down that I over-reinforce the structure, pouring mana into stability rather than raw strength. The barrier appears, and it's thin, almost see-through, but when Professor Thorne casts a spell on it, the barrier doesn't just hold up, it absorbs the attack completely and stays intact.

  "Interesting," he says, casting a stronger spell. The barrier holds. "Very interesting."

  He hits it with a third spell, and it's so strong I can feel the mana density from where I am. The barrier wavers but doesn't break.

  "Miss Shadowmere, you can dismiss it now."

  I drop the spell, and the barrier dissipates, but the damage is done. Professor Thorne is looking at me with new interest, other faculty are whispering to each other, and Maribel's expression has gone from expectant superiority to something that might be anger or might be competitive assessment.

  "That's exceptional defensive work," Professor Thorne says. "The structural integrity suggests very advanced understanding of barrier theory."

  "I, um. I had good teachers."

  "Clearly. Proceed with utility demonstration."

  I cast [Mage Hand] because that seems safest, maniputing the object set with careful precision, and this time I manage to keep it competent without being exceptional. It's just basic telekinesis, nothing fancy.

  "Well done. You're cleared for fourth-year practical courses." He makes more notes. "I'd like to speak with you after orientation about pcement in advanced defensive seminars."

  "Advanced?"

  "Your barrier work is well above standard fourth-year level. We have specialized courses for students demonstrating particur aptitudes."

  This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

  "Thank you, professor. I'll, um. I'll think about it."

  I exit the testing zone and Maribel immediately intercepts me, speaking in a low voice so the professors can't hear. "Where'd you learn that barrier technique?"

  "Private tutoring."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the answer I'm giving."

  "The structural principles you used are at least at the graduate level. You're either lying about your background or you've been trained by someone with very specific expertise."

  "Or I just got lucky with the casting."

  "Luck doesn't create that kind of mana efficiency." She's staring at me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. "I've been studying advanced barrier theory for two years and I couldn't replicate what you just demonstrated."

  "Maybe you're not as smart as you think you are."

  Wrong thing to say. Her expression goes cold.

  "I am the top-ranked student in our year with documented mastery of seventh-tier casting. My intelligence is not in question. Your sudden appearance with inexplicable skills, however, is very much in question."

  "Look, I don't know what you want from me—"

  "I want to understand what you're hiding. Because you are hiding something, and I'm going to figure out what."

  She walks away and I'm left standing there wondering if I just made an enemy or if Maribel treats everyone like a research problem. Given what Freya said about her reputation, probably both.

  I head back to the dormitory feeling exhausted despite it only being te afternoon. Room 347 is empty when I arrive, Freya presumably still exploring campus, Maribel probably off doing whatever genius prodigies do in their free time. I colpse on my bed and stare at the ceiling, repying the evaluation in my head and trying to figure out how badly I messed up.

  The door opens maybe twenty minutes ter and Freya walks in carrying books.

  "How'd it go?" she asks.

  "I accidentally made my defensive barrier too good and now the professor wants me to take advanced courses and Maribel thinks I'm hiding something."

  "Are you hiding something?"

  "Obviously yes."

  "Then Maribel is correct and you need to get better at lying."

  "Very helpful."

  "I try." She drops the books on her desk. "For what it's worth, Maribel thinks everyone is hiding something. She's been like that since first year. Treats social interaction like solving puzzles."

  "Is she always this intense?"

  "This is actually her being retively chill. You should see her during exam periods."

  "I'm going to die here."

  "Probably not. But you might want to avoid giving her more reasons to investigate you."

  The door opens again and Maribel enters, arms full of papers and books, and she proceeds to spread everything across her desk in what looks like organized chaos.

  "Oh good, you're both here," she says without looking up. "We need to establish ground rules for cohabitation."

  "Ground rules?" I repeat.

  "For successful room sharing. I've drafted a preliminary framework based on optimal study conditions and equitable space distribution." She produces a document that's at least three pages long, handwritten in precise script. "Section one covers noise restrictions during study hours, section two addresses shared space allocation, section three details cleaning responsibilities—"

  "You wrote a three-page contract for living together?" Freya asks, sounding more amused than surprised.

  "Four pages. Section four covers guest policies and common area usage."

  "This is excessive."

  "This is comprehensive. Ambiguity in shared living situations leads to conflict. Clear parameters prevent misunderstandings."

  "Or we could just communicate when problems arise," I suggest.

  "That approach relies on subjective interpretation of reasonableness. This provides objective standards."

  Freya picks up the document, skimming it with raised eyebrows. "You've designated specific desk zones based on optimal magical resonance."

  "The northeast corner has superior energy flow for advanced casting. I've cimed it based on demonstrated need."

  "And you've allocated shared floor space by percentage."

  "Equitable distribution prevents territorial disputes."

  "Maribel," I say carefully. "This is insane."

  "This is organized."

  "Those are the same thing in this context."

  She finally looks up from arranging her materials, expression genuinely confused. "You would prefer to operate without structure?"

  "I would prefer to operate with flexibility and mutual understanding."

  "Those are unreliable frameworks."

  "Those are how normal people live together."

  "I'm not interested in normalcy. I'm interested in efficiency and productivity."

  Freya sets down the document with a sigh. "How about a compromise. We try your system for one week, see what actually works versus what's theoretical optimization, and adjust based on reality."

  "That's reasonable," I admit.

  "That's acceptable," Maribel agrees, though she looks skeptical. "Though I anticipate the system will prove effective within three days."

  "I anticipate we'll all be exhausted by day two," I mutter.

  "Your pessimism is noted and dismissed as unproductive."

  We spend the next hour negotiating specific points. Maribel defends every cuse with logical arguments while Freya and I try to introduce concepts like "sometimes people need to exist loudly" and "rigid schedules don't account for unexpected circumstances." It's like debating with someone who's never encountered human variability as a concept.

  "Study hours are from evening bells to midnight," Maribel states. "During this time, noise must be kept to absolute minimum."

  "That's six hours of mandatory silence," I point out.

  "That's six hours of optimal learning conditions."

  "What if we have questions about assignments?"

  "Written notes can be exchanged."

  "You want us to pass notes like children?"

  "I want us to respect each other's cognitive needs."

  Freya is reading further into the document. "You've scheduled morning routines in fifteen-minute increments."

  "Bathroom access requires coordination to prevent scheduling conflicts."

  "What if someone takes longer than fifteen minutes?"

  "Then they've failed to pn appropriately and must adjust their routine."

  "This is going to be a disaster," I say.

  "This is going to be efficient," Maribel corrects. "Your resistance to structure is noted but irrelevant to implementation."

  By the time we reach something resembling agreement it's evening and I'm ready to colpse. Freya looks amused, like she's watching an entertaining show, while Maribel has already moved on to organizing her study materials according to some system only she understands.

  "So," Freya says, stretching out on her bed. "First day of fourth year. How are we feeling?"

  "Exhausted," I say.

  "Satisfied with our established framework," Maribel says without looking up from her work.

  "Those aren't the same feeling."

  "I wasn't ciming they were."

  Freya ughs. "This is going to be an interesting year."

  "That's one word for it," I say, colpsing on my own bed. "I was hoping for 'survivable.'"

  "Why not both?"

  "Because interesting usually means complicated and I was trying for simple."

  "You're a half-demon transfer student with mysterious powers rooming with the year's top genius and an elf who's seen too much noble drama," Freya points out. "Simple was never an option."

  She's not wrong. I close my eyes and think about the day—the Grand Hall assembly, the prince and his probably-protagonist problem, the barrier spell that was too good and attracted too much attention, Maribel's comprehensive dormitory regutions. Tomorrow brings actual csses, more opportunities to accidentally reveal I'm way too powerful, more political complications I'm supposed to navigate while pretending to be normal.

  "Well, Nyx," Freya's voice breaks through my thoughts.

  "Yeah?"

  "You did fine today. The evaluation I mean. You looked competent without being too fshy."

  "I nearly made an indestructible barrier."

  "But you didn't completely destroy it. That's a win."

  "Thanks."

  "Though next time maybe aim for slightly less impressive. You caught Maribel's attention and she's like a dog with a bone when something interests her."

  "I noticed."

  "She'll probably try to figure out your secrets."

  "She can try."

  Across the room Maribel is still working, writing notes with focused intensity that suggests she's forgotten we exist. I watch her for a moment, trying to figure out if she's going to be friend or enemy or something more complicated.

  "Lights out in twenty minutes," she announces without looking up. "That provides adequate time for evening routines before optimal sleep period begins."

  "You've scheduled our sleep," I say ftly.

  "I've optimized our schedule for cognitive performance."

  "I'm going to die here."

  "We'll die together," Freya says cheerfully. "That's what roommates are for."

  "That's not comforting."

  "It's not supposed to be."

  I get ready for bed while Maribel continues working past her own scheduled quiet time—apparently she's exempt from her own rules—and Freya hums something under her breath while organizing her books. This is my life now. Magic academy, political drama, roommates who are either going to become close friends or drive me completely insane.

  Probably both.

  The magical lights dim automatically as scheduled—Maribel definitely arranged that—and I pull the covers up, listening to the sounds of two other people existing in the same space. It's different from the estate, from the dungeon, from anywhere I've been in this world so far.

  It feels like the beginning of something.

  I just hope it's the beginning of something good rather than something catastrophically complicated.

  Though knowing my luck, it'll definitely be both.