The Circle's roar was gone, replaced by the shuffle of robes and the echo of our footsteps as the stewards guided us away.
Torches lined the stone corridor, their flames flaring unevenly in the draft. Robes brushed against one another as we filed in two lines, the sound of footsteps echoing against vaulted ceilings. Yet, even as we moved on, I felt eyes clinging to Rosalind. Curious, measuring, wary, as though the fire she had summoned still lingered in the air around her.
"Chosen apprentices," one of the stewards said, his voice carrying easily in the narrow passage. The steward was tall, his robes a muted gray trimmed with the Academy's crest. His face was narrow, weathered with deep lines, the kind of features that looked as though they had been worn down by centuries of repetition.
"You now belong to the Academy, and here, all are bound by the same rules. Birth and station matter less than conduct and strength. The Circle has chosen you. It will be your actions that keep you here."
He said it like a promise, but the words carried the weight of centuries.
His eyes scanned us without warmth, weighing and sorting, as though he'd done this a hundred times and never once cared who we were. I felt it pressing on me, the way the stone itself seemed older than my fears.
The Academy of Veyloria had stood since before the Sundering, when the four kingdoms were still bound under one crown. Back then, the Circle had been more than ritual. It was a covenant, binding bloodlines to the elements in exchange for power that kept the realm whole.
But after the Sundering, when the kingdoms broke apart. The nobles clawing for thrones, temples seizing dominion, old families cutting treaties like wounds. The Academy remained. Neutral ground, a scar that no king dared reopen. Untouched, protected by both oath and necessity.
Even kings sent their heirs here. For to strike at Veyloria was to risk shattering the balance, and no king, priest, or noble could afford that.
I pulled the sleeves down over my hands, rubbing the fabric between my fingers, trying to believe this place really was untouchable. Those were battles far above me, but battles always found us anyway.
What if the Academy wasn't different?
What if even this place broke?
That was the history burned into these stone walls, older than any crown or temple. But history didn't erase prejudice.
I saw the way some nobles glanced our way, judging, dismissive. Their smiles said: rules were for commoners, not for them. It reminded me of older children at the market who knew how to make you feel smaller without touching you. Just a look, just a curl of the mouth, and suddenly you were nothing.
Looking at me, at Rosalind, I knew exactly who they thought the rules were meant for.
Instinctively, I edged closer to Rosalind, close enough that our sleeves brushed as we walked. Her presence grounded me, but I could see there was a restlessness in her gaze, a look she wore when her thoughts had already leapt far ahead of the present.
The Academy was supposed to be untouchable, but watching those noble smiles, I wondered how long neutrality could really last.
"The Academy belongs to no crown," the steward continued, his tone measured and heavy. "Here, the Circle's choice is law. No quarrels carried from outside will be tolerated. No noble titles. No debts of the common-born. Within these halls, your conduct alone will mark you."
We passed beneath an archway carved with runes, their faint glow threading across the stones with residual magic. Doors branched off into other halls, each marked with a crest that seemed to watch us pass.
"Royal-born apprentices will stay in the west wing," the steward announced. His tone was even, though the words stirred an immediate reaction through the gathered apprentices. "That wing is restricted. No noble or common-born may enter. For security and privacy."
A murmur spread at once, like wind through dry grass.
"They say the crown prince himself is here."
"Do you think we'll see him?"
"He's only a few halls away—"
Some of the noble girls pressed closer to one another, eyes bright with excitement, their whispers edged with giddy disbelief. Even a few commoners leaned forward as though catching every word might make it true.
The thought made my heart stumble. The crown prince. Actual royalty, walking the same corridors as us, sleeping only buildings away. It made the Academy feel unreal, like stepping into the pages of some story we were never meant to read. This place was different... larger than us.
What did it mean, to share air with royalty?
But then I glanced at Rosalind. The fire in her eyes, the way her presence drew me back to myself. What did it matter if a prince was here?
She was the only person who had ever truly been by my side. With her beside me, even the Academy's walls felt smaller.
"Temple initiates, to the south. Nobles and merchant-born, to the east halls."
The nobles broke away, silk hems sweeping against stone. Their laughter carried too easily in the hush of the corridor, like they wanted to remind the rest of us who they were.
The steward cast his eyes toward the rest of us, lingering as if to take our measure before roping again. The words seemed to weigh on his tongue, hesitant, almost reluctant.
"Common-born apprentices…" he said at last, voice dipping. "You will be housed in the north dormitories."
The pause before those words was subtle, but it was there. Like the air caught in his throat before being forced out. A stir ran through the crowd: some apprentices exhaled in relief, others stiffened with disappointment. A few lips curved into poorly hidden smirks.
A shaky breath slipped out before I could stop it. No nobles meant no sneers, no battles just to exist. For a moment I almost believed the north wing might mean peace. Almost.
Rosalind only straightened her shoulders, her face was calm, almost indifferent.
I wanted to believe she didn't care what they thought. I wanted to borrow that calm the way children clutch blankets, pulling it over myself so I could feel safe too. But blankets never stopped the cold from seeping through, and I knew it couldn't stop the stares either.
Then again, why should she care? After everything, this place was already better than what we'd left behind. She didn't seem waste her strength on their cruelties.
I both admired and envied that.
We followed the others into a narrower passage. The grandeur fell away behind us. No gilded doors, no embroidered banners. Only simple stone walls, beams darkened with age, the faint scent of ash lingering in the rafters. Apprentices whispered around us, their voices dropping quickly whenever a steward's eyes glanced their way.
At the end of the corridor, a long oak table waited. Behind it, another steward unrolled a thick parchment, names curling neatly in dark ink. One by one, apprentices stepped forward to receive small slips of parchment. Each was marked with their dormitory number, the ink fresh enough to smudge if touched too soon.
Some clutched the slips as though they were tokens of honor; others held them carelessly, already comparing who would share halls with whom.
When Rosalind's name was called, heads turned again. Too many of them. I shifted closer, my fingers finding hers before I could think better of it, an anchor in the mist of their stares. She squeezed back, a quiet strength in the gesture, and when she glanced at me, she gave that soft it's okay smile. The space between us vanished, as if my nearness could shield her, or perhaps as if she was shielding me.
She stepped forward, took the slip of parchment, and only let go of my hand long enough to accept it. My eyes caught the ink:
North Wing, Dormitory 17.
Rosalind gazed at it once before folding the parchment neatly, slipping it into her sleeve as though it were nothing at all.
Whispers rose immediately, darting through the line like sparks.
"That's her… the one who nearly burned the Circle down."
"A commoner with that kind of fire? Impossible."
Some voices carried awe, others edged with fear, but all of them clung to her name.
Rosalind's expression didn't change; she let the words wash over her, though I could feel the tension in her hand when she slipped back beside me.
Then my name was called.
My stomach tightened, the sound of it too loud over the whispers of the other apprentices. The parchment table looked impossibly far away, and every step toward it dragged like I was moving through water, heavier beneath the weight of watching eyes. My thoughts tangled into a single plea.
Please, please, let it be the same.
We had never been separated before. Even in the worst of it, we had found each other. The idea of being placed apart now, in this place full of strangers and stares, made my chest ache.
The steward glanced down at the parchment, his quill hovering briefly before scratching my name. The slip he handed me was warm from his fingers, the ink still gleaming dark against the page. My hands shook as I took it, clumsy and small, like a child afraid of crumpling a letter that was too valuable.
North Wing, Dormitory 17.
Relief washed through me so suddenly I almost laughed. My fingers trembled as I clutched the parchment, turning at once to Rosalind. She was already looking at me, the corner of her mouth curving in a smile that seemed to say she couldn't help it. That even in the midst of all this, at least we still had each other.
Around us, I caught the gazes of other faces, apprentices craning their necks, eyes narrowing to catch the number on my slip. Some looked curious, a few disappointed, as though they had been hoping for the chance to be paired with her instead. Their attention prickled against my skin, but I ignored it, stepping back into Rosalind's side where I belonged.
Rosalind walked beside me, her face thoughtful, but her hands was warm... Too warm, like the heat lingered in her skin. Her fingers twitched against my palm every so often, betraying the calm she wore on her face. I could sense it, though part of me wondered if the heat was hers… or the fire refusing to let her go.
She had always been the composed one. However, I wasn't sure she could hold it the way she used to.
When the last names had been called, the steward clapped his hands. The sound cracked like thunder through the chamber, sharp enough to jolt me. All heads turned, the hush snapping back to the steward as if the air itself obeyed him. "Your dormitories are arranged. Training begins at dawn. Be rested and prepared."
Behind me, someone whispered, awed and hushed. "Did you see that? He used air magic… made it louder." Another voice answered, "I wish I could do that." Their wonder spread through the apprentices, small enough to break the tension but not the weight pressing on us.
For a moment, I felt it too. The same curious spark children have when they see something they don't yet understand. I found myself glancing at Rosalind, wondering if she'd heard it, if she'd noticed the trick the way I had. But her face was set ahead, as though she already knew and didn't need to look twice. Maybe that was the difference between us. She was always two steps ahead, while I was still lingered behind, caught in wonder at every glimmer of magic. And somehow, being beside her made those differences feel like they fit, like she balanced the pieces of me I couldn't hold on my own.
We climbed the last steps and reached our room. I pushed open the door, the hinges creaking faintly. The space was new to us, yet the soft light spilling across the stone walls made it feel almost like waiting, as though it had been holding its breath for our arrival. Plain beds, a single table, a narrow wardrobe. The room smelled faintly of old smoke and chalk dust, like a hundred secrets pressed into the stone before us. The air felt heavier than the corridor, as if the walls themselves were waiting to see what we would become.
Rosalind moved first, setting her bag down and beginning to unpack with steady motions. She folded her cloak and laid it across the foot of the bed, slipped her spare tunic onto a shelf, and placed the small wooden comb she always carried carefully atop the wardrobe as though arranging something precious. Yet every so often her gaze drifted to the window, where the pale wash of moonlight spilled across the sill. I caught her fingers pause mid-fold, tracing the fabric as her eyes lingered on the view outside. The rooftops of the Academy stretching into the night, torchlight shifting in the courtyards below, the dark line of the forest pressing close at the horizon.
There were so many things I wanted to say to Rosalind. I wanted to ask her what she saw there. If she was thinking about the fire. If it had frightened her, if she could feel how untamed it was. To tell her about the earth, how it had felt beneath me, patient and warm, like something I wanted to hold on to forever. But her face was closed, as though every door in her had been shut for the night.
So instead I reached for something familiar, something we had both been thinking but neither of us had said aloud. The one truth that felt safe between us.
"We're really free now," I whispered softly as I sank onto my bed. "The Academy… the money we'll get as mages… we don't have to go back anymore. It feels like a dream..."
Rosalind stilled, a tunic hanging loose in her hands, before setting it aside. She crossed the room slowly, resting her hands on the window frame as the torchlight from the hall bled thinly into the chamber, leaving the corners in shadow. The moonlight washed her profile pale, her arms folding tight across her chest. She didn't answer at first. She looked lost in thought, as though my words had stirred something she couldn't bring herself to voice.
"Yeah," she said finally, smiling slightly. Her tone was even and distant, though she were reminding herself this wasn't a dream. "We'll save. We'll make sure we don't need anyone. Not them, not anyone." But there was a strain in her voice that made me uneasy.
I hesitated. "Maybe… maybe we could send some money back. Just a little."
Her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers slid along the windowsill, tracing the worn wood as if to ground herself from my words. She didn't turn to face me, but the corners of her smile twitched.
"We need to take care of ourselves first." The words came firmly, but not unkind. Like she was setting a boundary more for herself than for me.
"I-I know that… I was just thinking…"
"Don't be foolish, Flora. If they couldn't take care of us then—" The warmth drained from her voice, her jaw tightening. She paused, as though the words scorched her throat. When she forced the rest out, it came sharper, harsher, each syllable cutting against her own restraint. The smile slipped away entirely. She turned her head to look at me then. "What makes you think they deserve it now?" The sharpness in her voice seemed to startle even her, and she quickly turned away.
For a heartbeat, I thought I saw the faintest flare of flame curl across her palm, but it disappeared before I could be sure.
The weight of it made my stomach knot. She was right. I knew she was right. Hope had never put food on our table, never stopped the fists or the hunger.
But what if it could be different now?... What if sending a little back could mend what was broken, even just enough to prove we weren't like them?
I lay back on my bed, hugging my worn plushie tight. I pressed my face into its threadbare fabric, muffling the ache that rose in my chest. "I just thought... maybe it could help them. Help us." The words slipped out small, half a prayer, half a plea, already fading under the weight of her silence.
Rosalind turned away again, gathering the tunic she had left behind. She smoothed it flat with both hands, folding it once, twice. She placed it atop the others with careful finality, silent for a long time before speaking again, her tone quieter but harder at the edges.
"Dreams won't protect us. Only looking out for ourselves will."
The words landed harsh, but I knew her. She wasn't saying it to hurt me. She was saying it because if she let herself hope, if she let herself believe it could be different, then losing that dream would break her. Especially now, when all of this already felt like something fragile and borrowed, like something the world could take back at any moment.
Her shoulders dipped, the tension easing just enough to feel like a sigh. "I'm sorry," she murmured, glancing toward me. "I don't mean to cut at you. I just… we should think about ourselves first, Flora. We barely know what awaits us. We need to settle before we can think about anything else."
Her voice quivered at the edges, just enough for me to hear how much she carried. She was always trying to hold everything together, to brace for the worst before it came. The apology wasn't gentle, but it was hers. Half shield, half truth. A brittle kind of honesty, steadier than her hope but thinner than her silence.
I watched her fingers still on the folded tunic, lingering as though the fabric itself might keep her from unraveling.
She had always seemed so certain, but now I could feel it: the fire inside her wasn't calm. It was restless and too large to hide, pressing against the cracks of her composure. While the earth within me was quiet, as though uncertain it should answer. Unlike her fire, it didn't rise to defend me. It felt stagnant, waiting. As if even the earth itself wasn't sure my voice was worth hearing.
The thought made my chest ache. What if even the earth saw what I had always feared?
"I just want this to be real," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I didn't even know who I was trying to convince Rosalind, the gods, or myself. All I knew was the bruise of hope still throbbed inside me, stubborn and small, refusing to fade.