The morning sun bathed the open training grounds in sheets of gold.
A broad field stretched out before the new students, enclosed by high stone walls and dotted with targets, sparring dummies, and reinforced steel pillars driven into the ground like skeletal towers.
Beyond the walls, the faint silhouettes of the Academy's towering spires loomed, reminding everyone that even here, discipline ruled.
The air smelled faintly of steel, smoke, and the earthy tang of freshly churned dirt.
Students stood in lines across the field, their black-and-silver uniforms crisp, cloaks fluttering lightly in the wind. Murmurs drifted through the crowd as excitement mixed with nervous anticipation.
At the front of it all stood Frost Winister, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
A large case rested at his feet, locked with runic seals that pulsed faintly with blue light. He swept his eyes across the gathered students, his gaze sharp yet calm.
