The quiet murmur of students spread across the courtyard hushed when the Headmistress stepped onto the small dais. The weight of her presence alone seemed to ripple through the air, and one by one, voices faded.
She stood tall beneath the daylight, her figure now revealed fully rather than veiled in the shadows of the labyrinth night before. Black hair fell in a straight, silken cascade down her back, catching faint glints of silver at the hem of her cloak. The cloak itself draped fluidly over her shoulders, its embroidery woven with patterns that shimmered in and out of sight, as though reluctant to stay still under the sun.
Round spectacles framed her face, delicate yet oddly dissonant with the piercing violet of her eyes. Those eyes moved slowly across the courtyard, unblinking, assessing, and wherever they fell, students found themselves standing straighter, as though compelled by something beyond will. She did not command silence — silence seemed to arrive with her.
The air carried a strange stillness in her presence. Not fear, exactly, but the awareness of someone who had seen far more than any of them ever would. Every step she made toward the center of the platform was measured, controlled, and yet natural, as though the ground itself yielded willingly to her passage.
Noah and Syl rose from where they had been resting under the shadow of a tall tree. They didn't push forward with the others but chose instead a spot farther back, where the view was still clear but the press of bodies less stifling.
The courtyard shifted with quiet motion as groups of first-year students found their places. Some gathered on the wide marble benches that curved around the dais, eager to be close. Others stood scattered, drawn nearer by curiosity but unwilling to crowd the center. Only a handful, like Noah and Syl, lingered at the edges — close enough to hear, far enough to breathe.
Then the hush fractured under the rhythm of approaching footsteps. From the far end of the courtyard, where the corridor of trees opened into the garden, three figures advanced. Their steps carried them straight down the aisle between the benches, and heads turned as the trio passed, each one carrying a weight in their bearing that immediately stilled the younger students' whispers.
They moved with a kind of confidence born not of arrogance but of survival. A quiet reminder that they had already stood where the younger ones now stood — and endured.
The first to appear was a young elf whose presence radiated poise. Her hair was a cascade of pale gold, her movements refined, deliberate, as if she carried a melody only she could hear. Draped across her shoulders was a black uniform trimmed with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly in the morning light, the runes etched into the fabric catching and holding it like threads of starlight. A single glove of black leather climbed up her left arm to the elbow, traced with luminous sigils that pulsed softly, alive. Resting at her hip, she bore a saber — elegant, and its design so close to Syl's own weapon that Noah blinked in surprise. She paused just a heartbeat, her gaze flicking toward Syl. A delicate smile curved her lips, subtle but unmistakable.
A few paces behind her came another girl, her long hair dark as ink, catching hints of blue wherever the light touched it. Her eyes held the calm stillness of deep water, her expression unreadable. The same black uniform embraced her frame, though its embroidery shimmered in cobalt, the threads curling into shapes that resembled waves unfurling on a shore. The glove on her left arm bore drop-like runes, glowing faintly as if fed by an inner current. She did not look left or right, only forward, each step smooth and measured, like the pull of a tide.
The third was altogether different: taller, broad-shouldered, and moving with a deliberate weight. His uniform was traced not with light but with bronze, dull and earthen, the lines forming steady, angular patterns across the fabric. His gloved arm bore geometric sigils, sharp-edged and unyielding. There was no arrogance in his stride, only the immovable certainty of stone — a quiet reminder of the element he carried with him.
Noah leaned slightly toward Syl, his voice low.
"Who are they?"
"Second- and third-years, most likely," she murmured without taking her eyes off them. "I remember my sister wearing those uniforms at the end of term."
Noah glanced at his own plain shirt, lips quirking. "And… aren't we supposed to have uniforms too?"
Syl's answer came crisp, tinged with amusement. "Don't be so impatient. The Headmistress hasn't even started her speech. They'll probably hand them out afterward."
From the same corridor, more footsteps followed — lighter, quicker, carrying a different cadence. Three more figures emerged, their uniforms near mirrors of the third-years, though without the capes that lent such weight to their elders. The gloves on their left arms gleamed not black but violet, the etched runes glowing faintly as they moved.
The first was a girl of lean grace, her hair a stormy silver-green that caught the light whenever the wind shifted. Her uniform shimmered with pale emerald threads, the patterns flowing like rushing air, restless and free. She walked with an ease that bordered on playful, her gaze sweeping lazily across the rows of first-years. And then, as she passed, her eyes locked on Noah. The corner of her mouth tugged into a smirk.
"Looks like we have a cutie this year…"
Her words were low but deliberate, meant to be heard. With a wink timed perfectly, she slipped past him, close enough that the brush of her sleeve stirred the air against his arm.
A few steps behind her came a boy shorter than most, his build compact and restless, every stride landing a fraction too quick, as though his energy barely fit inside his frame. His uniform blazed with deep crimson embroidery, the sigils burning faintly even in daylight. Mischief flickered in his eyes, an irrepressible spark that matched the fire he carried, and he seemed seconds away from breaking into a grin.
The last of the trio was so unremarkable that it became striking in contrast. Average height, average build, brown hair cropped neatly, brown eyes steady and plain — there was nothing at all that should have drawn attention. His violet glove flexed once, the bronze sigils of earth etched into his uniform glowing faintly as if itching for a test of strength.
Syl's fingers pinched lightly at Noah's sleeve, sharp enough to make him twitch. Her voice was low, teasing but with a hint of edge.
"Seems you're already popular, mister I-don't-want-attention…"
Noah rubbed the spot with a faint wince, muttering as his hand lingered on his arm. "Popular? Look who's talking. That first one — the elegant one with the saber like yours — she smiled at you when she passed. I saw it."
Syl let out a soft laugh, the corners of her lips betraying her attempt at composure. "She's my cousin, you fool."
Noah blinked, caught off guard, then gave an awkward little nod as if trying to cover himself. "Oooh, that… actually makes sense now."
The line pressed forward, and as the path widened into the full garden, the group advanced straight toward the platform. One by one, they stepped into the open space, halting in a single line before the dais where the Headmistress stood. The flowers of the archway swayed behind her in the mountain breeze, their colors — gold, crimson, green, brown, blue — mirrored in some fashion upon the attire of those who now stood as living examples of the Academy's higher ranks.
In perfect unison, the students bowed, a gesture sharp and deliberate. It was less a salute than a statement: we have endured, we stand ready.
The Headmistress inclined her head in acknowledgment, her violet eyes passing briefly over them, unreadable. And when she straightened again, the line of upper-years remained fixed in place, silent sentinels at the front of the assembly.
Then, as if dismissed, them turned and took the front row of marble benches. Their movements were sharp, disciplined, a mirror to the awe their presence stirred in the first-years behind them.
Only one of them broke the rhythm. At the end of the row, the elf with the brown uniform from second year. His gaze cut backward, not at the crowd in general but at Noah specifically. The look was sharp, narrow, laced with an anger that felt far too personal to someone he had only just met.
Noah returned the look, not with defiance but with the detached patience one might give a child throwing a tantrum. His face stayed calm, almost bored, as if the stare were little more than a gust of air passing by. Eventually, the elf's jaw clenched, and he turned away first, lowering himself onto the stone bench beside the others.
Noah gave a small shrug, the faintest shake of his head at the oddity of it, and was still brushing the thought aside when Syl leaned closer, her fingers grazing his sleeve to draw his attention.
Syl's voice was low, almost reverent.
"Last night it was too dark to notice… but the Headmistress — she's beyond beauty, even compared to what I've seen among royalty."
Noah turned toward her. The way her gaze lingered on the dais, lit by the pale sun, made him pause. For a moment, he simply looked at her — the soft white of her shirt, its back open and partly hidden by the fall of golden hair, the braid woven delicately at her crown. Her trousers were black, simple yet elegant, a balance between grace and practicality. Sunlight slid through the clouds again, tracing her skin as she reached out to steady him on his feet.
The words slipped out before he could catch them.
"I think you're right… but not all royalty, I guess. She would still need another thousand years to reach you, princess."
The weight of what he'd just said crashed into him half a heartbeat later. His mind stumbled.
I… I just called her beautiful, didn't I? In the labyrinth it slipped without thought, but this — this was too genuine, too raw. There's no way I can dodge it this time. She must be furious… who am I to say something like that?
When he dared glance at Syl, she wasn't glaring. She wasn't speaking at all. Her gaze had dropped to the ground, her hair curtaining part of her face. But the tips of her ears — sharp and delicate — burned a vivid red.
Noah's chest tightened. He stepped closer, touching her shoulder gently.
"Sorry, Syl. I didn't mean to overstep. You probably hear things like that all the time. I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable. Are you… angry?"
But Syl barely heard him. His words replayed in her mind, drowning out everything else.
He thinks I'm prettier than her? Than the Headmistress? He said it without hesitation… no hidden agenda, no practiced court flattery. I've heard compliments all my life, each one hollow, dripping with schemes and politics. But his… it cuts straight through. If he keeps speaking like that… if he keeps looking at me like that… how much longer can I keep this mask on?
She said nothing, still staring downward, lost in her thoughts.
Noah mistook her silence for displeasure. He drew back, deciding not to press further, forcing his expression into calm neutrality. He tried to cover the moment with words that felt thinner, safer.
"She is really pretty, like you said…"
Then, almost in a rush, his tone shifted again, eyebrows lifting as if catching himself on steadier ground.
"Wait. But if she's an elf… how old is she? A thousand? How can she look like that?"
He squinted toward Syl, suspicion narrowing his gaze.
"Don't tell me you're over a hundred years old too—"
The jab of her elbow into his ribs cut him off mid-word. Pain shot through the bruises still healing beneath his skin, and Syl's eyes widened the moment she realized what she had done.
Idiot…
Her thoughts lashed at herself, sharper than the strike.
But why did I hit harder than usual? Was it really because of his question — or because of what he said before that?
Her jaw tightened.
Control yourself, Syl. You can't afford to slip now. If you want even the faintest chance of breaking free — of showing Mother you belong as a Summoner and not her heir — then you have to endure this. Hold steady, until the moment comes when you can finally choose…
Her head lifted almost on its own, and her gaze settled on Noah. He smirked faintly through his wince, trying to play off the pain.
Her hand flew up to his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Reflex. I forgot you're still hurt."
His voice low but edged with rueful honesty.
"No, no… I probably earned that one. First saying what I shouldn't, then asking your age on top of it. My Master always said some lessons hurt more when you ignore them twice."
The weight of his words lingered only a moment before easing, like a knot loosening in the air between them. The sharp tension thinned, replaced by something quieter — almost fragile.
Syl tried to school her expression into severity, but a small, traitorous smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "She's right. And for your information, I'm nineteen — the same as you. Technically, I'm younger."
He blinked, skeptical. "Younger? How do you know that? I don't remember ever telling you when my birthday is."
Syl's eyes darted away, her fingers twisting together. How am I supposed to tell him I asked the Headmistress? Without sounding... interested?
She cleared her throat, blurting it out quickly. "The Headmistress had our files this morning. I may have read them by accident. I hope you don't mind?"
Noah's smile softened. "It's fine. I haven't celebrated my birthday in years anyway. To be honest, sometimes I have to think really hard just to remember the day."
Something in his tone shifted her face. She stepped closer and, almost without thinking, cupped his cheeks between her hands, stretching them playfully until his face puffed like a balloon.
"This year," she declared firmly, "you are celebrating. That's not negotiable. Understood?"
His cheeks flushed beneath her fingers, his muffled reply somewhere between a groan and surrender.
"Y..s. Ma..m."
Syl let him go with a small laugh, and he rubbed his face exaggeratedly as she straightened. "Good. And another piece of information for you: once you form a contract with a Link, your lifespan lengthens, depending on your Link's power and species. Elves can naturally live centuries, but Summoners — human or elf — blur those lines. That's one of the roots of this whole Zoul and Noul nonsense. Some elf nobles claim longevity should remain their privilege."
Her gaze flicked toward the Headmistress, who was setting her hands against a strange, round device on the dais — metal, etched with tiny vents, crowned with a glowing green wind sigil at its peak.
"Immortality or wealth, it doesn't matter. Greed always finds its way."
Noah reached out and pinched her cheek gently, pulling her away from the seriousness.
She blinked, indignant. "What was that for—"
He was smiling. "Better?"
Her face softened, answering with quiet honesty. "Yes. Better. Thank you."
"Just returning the favor," he murmured. "You pulled me back from myself in the labyrinth. I'll do the same for you."
The weight between them eased, thinning like mist in sunlight. Syl tried to school her expression into severity, but a small, traitorous smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
She gave the smallest nod, and together they turned toward the front.
The Headmistress's steps echoed softly as she moved to the center of the platform. Her presence alone seemed to silence the low hum of voices across the garden, every student turning their eyes to her. Straight-backed, her robes flowing with subtle embroidery that caught the sunlight, she carried herself with the ease of someone who belonged above all others.
When the Headmistress began to speak, her voice carried as though the device drew her words into itself and spilled them outward, magnified and clear. Even from the edge of the crowd, Noah and Syl could hear her every syllable.
"First, allow me to welcome you all to the Academy. Each of you has endured much already, and that effort has not gone unnoticed. You stand here because you passed the labyrinth — not merely through strength, but through will." She let the pause stretch, her gaze sweeping across the gathered crowd.
"Now, I will remind you of something vital. Within these grounds, no form of prejudice or attack between students will be tolerated. Violence of any kind, in any corner of this campus, is strictly forbidden. The sigils woven into the walls, the stones, even the air you breathe, are here for that very reason. They will detect such actions. They will respond."
Her hands folded neatly at her back, the tilt of her chin sharp. "Remember this also: though you stand divided in pairs, at the end of all things, we are one. Not elf or human, not noble or common — one. Against the Nulls. Never forget that."
She shifted then, her tone lightening slightly, though her eyes remained keen. "I will now speak briefly on two matters of importance. The first: once you have completed your contract with your Link, you are not permitted to summon them freely within the campus. Summoning will be allowed only during lessons. Many Links carry distinct personalities, and without the proper training, their unchecked presence among hundreds of students could sow unnecessary confusion."
She let the weight of that sink in before continuing. "Second: here, we teach three paths of combat. The first are the EarthBond Summoners. These are students whose strength lies in elemental manipulation, supported by a Link of Fortification. Such Links may not manifest physically, but they lend power and stability to their summoner's channeling."
She extended one hand, almost as if conjuring the image into the minds of her audience. "The second path belongs to the Sync Summoners. These are those whose Link possesses sufficient rank to take physical form. It is advised that such summoners continue their elemental studies, though it is not required. Most choose instead to refine coordination with their Link and strengthen their Soul Heart."
Then her voice grew firmer, sharper, as though carving the words into stone. "The final path — the most difficult of all — belongs to the Bridges. They are those who master both of the previous callings and add yet another: direct combat. They wield blade or bow, steel or spear, not relying solely on their Link or their elemental power, but binding all three into one discipline. To be a Bridge is to sharpen every edge — elemental, bonded, and martial."
Her gaze swept once more across the sea of students, lingering just long enough to make many shift uneasily. "No one is forced to choose one of these paths. But if I am to speak as your Headmistress, then I will say this: I would see all of you become Bridges, and within two years, step into my lectures with the discipline such a calling demands. Still, I know each of you has strengths and weaknesses. That is why, before your true lessons begin, you must choose the path you wish to walk. Your schedule, your classes, your very curriculum, will be shaped by that choice."
A faint curve touched her lips, almost amused. "And now that I've filled your young heads with enough to keep you turning for days… let us move on. A demonstration will be held. At first, I intended for our second-years to—"
"Headmistress," a voice cut through, deep yet polite.
The students stirred as the boy in the bronze-etched uniform stepped forward. He bowed, low and deliberate.
"If I may… I wonder if we might alter today's plan. Would it not be both educational and crucial for the new students to witness firsthand the difference between those freshly arrived and those already tempered by this Academy? I propose—" his lips curved faintly, "—an Introduction Duel."
The Headmistress's gaze cooled, sharp behind the glint of her spectacles. "Mr. Kurtys. As you well know, such demonstrations have not been a part of this Academy for decades."
He dipped his head again, his voice silk over stone. "Of course. I would never force a peer into something unwanted. But surely a consensual duel between students is no violation? On the contrary, it might inspire these first-years more effectively than words ever could."
For a long moment she regarded him in silence, and it was clear to all she already regretted indulging him. Finally, she inclined her head the smallest fraction.
"Very well. If the first-year consents, there is no issue. But hear me, Kurtys: though you are a Sync Summoner, your Link is not to be called. You will fight only with manipulation of elemental essence. Is that understood?"
Kurtys bowed again, this time exaggerated, theatrical. "Perfectly, Headmistress. To use a Link against an unbonded would indeed be unjust. May I at least choose the challenger?"
Her silence was its own warning. But at last she gave the barest nod.
Kurtys turned, his eyes sweeping the gathered crowd until they locked upon one figure. He raised his hand, pointing with elegant finality.
"You. Human. What is your name?"
Noah did not flinch, his reply calm, almost bored. "Noah."
Kurtys's brows lifted, feigning mild surprise. "Noah… and of what house?"
"I don't have a surname."
A flicker of a smile touched the elf's lips, sharp and satisfied. "Very well then, Mr. Noah-without-a-house. You bear a sword, and the essence of light. Surely, you won't have a problem with a demonstration? For the good of the Academy, of course."
Noah's hand drifted to the hilt at his side. His tone was steady, devoid of bravado, but carrying the weight of acceptance.
"Not a problem at all."