The gates of the Academy shut behind Ash with a resonant clang, and for the first time in his life, the world he entered seemed carved from dreams. Marble archways rose like pale ribs into the sky. Murals of great Archmages and Kings glared down from gilded frames, their stern faces alive in the flicker of spell-light that danced along enchanted sconces. The very air hummed with power; mana lingered here, woven into the stones, a constant reminder that this place was built by and for those who commanded the arcane.
Ash adjusted the simple, threadbare tunic Lord Varian had provided him. Already, his presence drew stares. Robes of silk embroidered with family crests floated past, the sons and daughters of noble lines chattering in clipped accents. Every step Ash took sounded louder than it should, every scuff of his boots a crime against the polished marble floors.
He forced his eyes forward, even as the Codex stirred in his mind.
Do not look down. To lower your gaze is to acknowledge their superiority. Hold your head high—like a soldier before an enemy line.
Ash obeyed. His heart thudded in his chest, but he raised his chin, forcing calm into his posture. If he betrayed weakness now, the carrion crows would circle.
---
The admission tests had been a battlefield of quills and parchment. Riddles in tactical deployment, questions of magical theory designed to unravel minds, trick questions about mana flow and spellcraft. He could still hear the scratching of quills as noble-born students hunched with confident smiles.
He had expected failure. But then the Codex had whispered.
Picture the battlefield, not the page. Each question is an enemy formation. Break their wings, and the center crumbles. Read not the words, but the pattern they form.
And suddenly, every impossible question had become… solvable. Not easy, never easy, but solvable.
When he laid his quill down, the silence that followed was heavier than applause. Eyes burned into his back. He was not supposed to have finished, much less correctly.
---
The memory bled into the day he'd been summoned to the Headmaster's sanctum.
Archmage Thalos Greyveil's office had been a cathedral of books and power, the air thick with a pressure that made Ash's lungs ache. The man himself had eyes like cold steel, and when he'd studied Ash, it had been as though he was stripping flesh from bone.
"Who are you, boy?" Thalos had asked.
Ash had opened his mouth, but Lord Varian had spoken first. "A foundling. Nothing more. But his mind… curious, isn't it? Even raw coal sometimes hides a spark."
Thalos's gaze had narrowed. He had not been convinced. "A slum-born who answers questions that stump trained squires of noble blood? Curious indeed. Perhaps too curious."
Ash remembered the silence that had followed, the oppressive weight of suspicion. Only when Thalos had finally waved them away had Ash breathed again.
He does not believe you, the Codex had whispered then. Good. To be underestimated is an advantage. To be suspected is a challenge. You must master both.
Those words lingered still, echoing with each day.
---
Now the Academy life swallowed him.
Dawn bells rang, and students filed to lecture halls where silver-haired professors droned about mana channels, incantation rhythm, or the histories of bloodlines that ruled kingdoms. Ash sat in the back, ink-stained fingers struggling to mimic the flowing calligraphy of noble script. His letters came jagged, crude, earning sneers from those beside him.
"Careful, don't cut yourself on those edges," one noble-born muttered loud enough for others to hear. Snickers rippled across the row.
Ash said nothing. He felt the burn of humiliation, but the Codex whispered.
Their laughter is the clash of steel against your shield. Endure it. Observe. Every insult is a piece of intelligence. Learn who mocks, who watches silently, who leads the chorus. These are the beginnings of factions.
So Ash watched. He catalogued faces, mannerisms, voices. When a girl with flaxen hair laughed too quickly, he marked her as desperate to belong. When a boy smirked without glancing at him, Ash saw arrogance bred so deep it was second nature.
Each class became a battlefield map. Each insult, a marker on the terrain.
---
Spellcraft lessons were worse. While noble-borns summoned controlled sparks of flame or crystalline shards of ice, Ash struggled. The Codex could tell him the principle—mana must flow like water through channels—but Ash's body was untrained, his mana shallow and clumsy. His sparks sputtered, his ice cracked before forming.
"Pathetic," one professor muttered under his breath, though loud enough for half the class to hear. "Perhaps Lord Varian wanted charity work done."
Ash's jaw clenched. Heat surged in his chest.
Do not answer anger with anger, the Codex counseled. Answer failure with calculation. Today you lose. Tomorrow you adapt. Every defeat now is a lesson bought cheaply compared to the field of war.
So Ash swallowed his rage. He left class with sweat on his brow and ash-stained fingers, but in his mind, he replayed every motion, every mistake, guided by the Codex's endless commentary.
---
Days passed like this. Loneliness gnawed at him. Meals in the grand hall were torment: nobles clustered at long tables, crests gleaming on their sleeves. Servants poured wine, laughter rose in waves, and Ash sat alone at the farthest edge, picking at bread as though he were invisible.
But he was not invisible.
"Look," one voice whispered behind him. "The rat found a seat."
"I wonder if the kitchens know where that bread was before his hands touched it," another sneered.
Ash felt the sting, but he did not move. He had learned. Every slight became another entry in his silent ledger. Every whisper was proof: they saw him. They feared, not his strength, but the audacity of his presence among them.
And when loneliness threatened to drown him, the Codex spoke.
Isolation is a crucible. The weak beg for companionship. The strong forge themselves in silence. Remember, boy—an army marches behind you only if you prove worthy to lead. For now, march alone.
---
One evening, after a brutal lecture in elemental balancing where he had nearly burned his desk to cinders, Ash lingered in the library. Tomes towered around him, leather spines cracked with age, runes glowing faintly on protective bindings. He traced words he barely understood, whispering syllables that tangled in his mouth.
Do not rush comprehension, the Codex murmured. Strategy is built upon knowledge. Read not to remember, but to understand. Even if you grasp one principle tonight, it is a victory.
Ash closed his eyes. He thought of fire not as a spell but as a soldier—unruly, dangerous, needing command. The metaphor clicked. His next spark did not sputter; it flared, controlled for a heartbeat before dying.
It was enough. He smiled faintly, alone among the dust and candlelight.
---
But whispers grew louder.
He began to notice the way groups of nobles leaned together as he passed, voices dropping. The way laughter cut off when he entered a room. The way one boy in particular—tall, dark-haired, with a crest shaped like a coiled serpent stitched in gold—followed him with eyes that promised more than mockery.
This one watches too closely, the Codex noted. A hunter marking prey. Soon he will act. Be ready.
Ash shivered. His nights grew restless, dreams filled with echoes of laughter and the oppressive gaze of Archmage Thalos Greyveil, ever suspicious.
---
The breaking point came in the courtyard. Students lounged beneath enchanted lanterns that glowed with captured starlight, chatter filling the air. Ash passed by, clutching books too large for his arms, when a voice cut sharp through the din.
"Slum rat!"
The words froze the courtyard. Slowly, Ash turned. The serpent-crest noble stood surrounded by his peers, arms folded, smile sharp as a blade.
"You've been quite the curiosity," the boy continued. "Answering questions you shouldn't know. Surviving classes you don't belong in. I think it's time we see what you're really worth."
Laughter followed, cruel and eager.
Ash's grip on his books tightened. His pulse thundered.
Here it is, the Codex whispered, voice cold and steady. The first true test. A battlefield not of ink or lecture, but of blooded pride. Endure this, and the path before you changes forever.
The serpent-crest noble's smile widened. "Tomorrow. The practice grounds. Unless, of course, you'd rather crawl back to the slums where you belong."
The crowd jeered. Ash met the boy's gaze. For the first time, he felt not just mockery, but hostility sharpened into a weapon.
And in his mind, the Codex whispered again, softer this time, almost approving.
At last, boy. At last, a real battlefield.