After a few more trades—bartering jars of spiritsap for salted herbs, and duskroot bark for ink-stamped vouchers—things felt like they were settling into a rhythm.
That was, until a loud buzzing chime rang through the market. A low, warbling tone that pulsed three times in a row.
BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.
The crowd stilled. Vendors straightened their stalls. Children were pulled close by their parents.
"What's that sound?" I asked, the hair on my neck rising.
"Well, dear," Tharus said casually as he leaned on his cart, "it seems like a noble's gracing us with their presence."
"A noble?"
"Mm-hmm. They come down here from time to time. Not for roots or relics, though."
"Then… what are they after?"
Tharus's voice flattened, just a bit.
"A slave."
I blinked.
"Wait—what?"
"Lower districts are exempt from the Royal Ban. And the Pale March borderers?" He gave a tired sigh. "Too many mouths, too few coins. Some parents sell off their kids for food. Others get caught in debt. Once you're marked, you're owned. That's how it goes."
I looked around the market again—really looked this time.
In the far square, where a cloth canopy had just been drawn open, a narrow stage had been assembled. A line of people, young and old, stood beneath it. Their clothes were clean, faces blank. Too blank.
"This is legal?" I asked quietly.
Tharus didn't look at me.
"This is the capital."
The noble's retinue arrived—gold-hemmed cloaks, armored guards, and a house emblem that shimmered with active enchantments. One of the guards scanned the line of people with a crystal lens, checking… something.
"Don't stare," Tharus said under his breath. "You're not from here. You don't get to stare."
I looked away.
And in the silence that followed, I heard Serenya's voice.
"There were dark things in my time, but I see now… some never change. Even with walls that shine like silver."
My chest tightened.
So this is the cost of order…
The stage had cleared.
The slaves were gone, chosen or dismissed, and the crowd had begun to breathe again—just a little. The normal market noise crept back, vendors cautiously reopening their stalls, conversations restarting with uneasy laughter.
But I hadn't moved.
Not because I was stunned—though I was—but because someone was still watching me.
Across the square, standing beside the now-empty stage and flanked by two guards in gold-laced armor, was her.
She looked no older than me, maybe slightly more. Long silver-blonde hair was tied neatly behind her shoulders, her features porcelain-pale under the layered folds of noble attire—black and silver silk robes without a single crease.
But it was her eyes.
Cold. Distant. Unmoving.
They were fixed directly on me.
"Don't turn your head," Tharus muttered beside me, his voice suddenly sharpened. "Don't even blink weird. Just act like you didn't notice."
"She's looking at me."
"Then act dumber than you already look. Trust me."
"What do I—"
"Nothing. Say nothing. You don't talk to nobles unless they ask. And even if they do, say as little as you can get away with. Especially that one."
"Why?"
"Because that's Lady Varis Elowynn. Daughter of one of the central court's major houses. She doesn't smile. She doesn't frown. And she never looks unless she has a reason to."
"So why is she looking at me?"
"...That's what scares me."
I swallowed, careful not to flinch. Her gaze hadn't left me. She tilted her head slightly. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. Just a recognition of something.
Then—just like that—she turned.
A single snap of her gloved fingers and the guards flanked her again. They walked off in silence, her silken steps barely audible even on the stone.
"Okay," I exhaled. "What the hell was that?"
Tharus looked visibly paler. "You're either incredibly lucky, or you just landed on someone's checklist."
"Is that bad?"
"Ask me again in three days when you're not dead."
"By the way… the Obsidian Academy. That's a pretty respected school, right?" I asked.
Tharus nodded as he casually sorted a pouch of herbs.
"Oh, absolutely. Obsidian Academy is one of the top institutions on this side of the continent. Elite training, brutal curriculum, high mortality rate—y'know, the usual."
I raised a brow. "Sounds lovely."
"Well, they're technically second-best," he continued, holding up two fingers. "Their rival, Aetherfall Academy, usually takes the crown when it comes to academics, magical theory, and research. Aetherfall's where the philosophers and spellwrights go. Obsidian? That's where they build soldiers, war tacticians, and people who can kill you with their handwriting."
"So they're… different types of elite?"
"Exactly. Aetherfall for the mind. Obsidian for the battlefield. Both are prestigious as hell and almost impossible to enter without noble blood, a sponsor, or a divine miracle."
He gave me a once-over.
"And looking at you…"
"Don't say it."
"...Let's just say you don't exactly scream admissions material."
I sighed. "You're a real confidence booster, you know that?"
"Just setting expectations. Better than the world doing it the hard way."
I glanced toward the upper city, where towers of glassy stone shimmered in the afternoon sun—too distant, too tall, too unreal.
So that's the level I'd have to reach...
"Still," Tharus added, "sometimes the world makes exceptions. Just rarely in your tax bracket."
I didn't answer. But a part of me had already decided—I'd find a way through that gate. Or break it down if I had to.
I let the silence hang for a moment, still thinking about those towers, still tasting the bitterness of being reminded that I didn't belong anywhere near them.
That's when Serenya spoke. Her voice, as always, slipped through my thoughts like wind through a broken window—subtle, knowing.
"Aetherfall Academy… I remember when its name first echoed through the kingdoms."
I straightened a little. You've heard of it before?
"When I was newly bound to this realm, centuries ago, even the eldest spirits whispered of it. Aetherfall didn't just produce mages or tacticians—they raised monsters. Talents so refined, so terrifying, that entire battalions from rival lands crumbled before a single graduate could cast their second spell."
I blinked.
"It wasn't just a school. It was a forge for miracles… or weapons, depending on who held the hilt."
"You said was. What about now?" I muttered aloud, careful not to attract Tharus's attention.
Serenya paused, as if weighing the past against the present.
"Now, they answer to the Crown. The current king keeps their highest talents under direct command. His court mage, his bladeguard, his intelligence network—all have roots in Aetherfall."
"It is no longer just an academy. It's the heart of the throne's unseen power."
That was… a lot.
"So basically, if someone from Aetherfall Academy sneezes, the king probably hears it?" I said under my breath.
"If they sneeze loud enough, the whole continent might." Serenya answered.
I glanced again at the city skyline—this time not with awe, but with something closer to resolve.
If that place was a forge… then maybe it was the only place that could temper someone like me.
"Then… what about Obsidian Academy?" I asked, glancing toward the crowds, still thinking about the noble girl and the kind of monsters these schools might raise.
Serenya's tone shifted—not dismissive, but measured.
"Obsidian is a crucible."
"Meaning?"
"It creates those who survive, endure, and then lead. Their reputation doesn't burn as brightly as Aetherfall's—no stories of prodigies reshaping landscapes or walking through firestorms unburned—but they've forged the minds behind wars."
"So they're not as strong?"
"Not as flashy," she corrected. "But brilliant in a different way. Obsidian graduates are tacticians, warlords, generals. Most of this continent's armies follow doctrines developed by their alumni."
I paused. "That's funny, because you said Aetherfall creates the 'monsters'... but Obsidian sends the ones who know how to control them."
She didn't respond immediately.
"It's why the world still ranks them just under Aetherfall. Aetherfall stands on the seventh circle of academia. Obsidian—on the sixth. But don't let the numbers fool you."
"How come?"
"Because Obsidian's graduates aren't just in the capital. They command forces across the world. They've bled in every major war, and they've lived to write about it."
I folded my arms. "So what you're saying is… Aetherfall changes the world with ideas. Obsidian changes it with decisions."
"Precisely. One builds myths. The other wins wars."
Just then, the same alarm buzzed again.
BZZZ—BZZZ—BZZZ.
The air seemed to tighten.
Traders froze mid-barter. Guards straightened their stances. Even the breeze felt like it held its breath.
The slaves were aligned to the stage once more, barefoot on creaking planks, their chains rattling as handlers barked orders behind them.
And then, she returned.
Lady Elowynn.
No fanfare. No herald. Just the same cold presence, this time followed by two guards, a servant holding a stack of weathered books, and a second carrying a bundle of supplies wrapped in ceremonial cloth—silver-threaded, tightly sealed, and clearly magical.
Whatever she came for, it wasn't jewelry.
"Is this all the slaves you could offer?" Her voice was even-toned, barely loud enough to reach across the space. But it commanded.
The slave merchant—bald, sunburned, sweating—nodded hurriedly.
"W-What are you looking for, ma'am?" he stammered, trying not to show it.
Elowynn didn't answer immediately.
"You see, Lady Elowynn," the man continued, forcing a salesman's smile, "we have a wide assortment this cycle—beastkin, half-bloods, even a few old classic humans. The supply has been generous since the last sweep."
I felt my stomach twist.
She stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning the line. Her gaze held no malice, no interest. Just… calculation.
"I'm not here for species."
Her words chilled the air.
"I'm here for compatibility."
The merchant blinked. "Compatibility… with what, if I may ask?"
Elowynn turned slightly. One of her attendants stepped forward and carefully opened one of the books—pages yellowed, etched in ancient glyphs that shimmered faintly under the sun.
"This." she said.
From where I stood, I couldn't make out the symbols, but Serenya stirred in my thoughts.
"That book… it's not ordinary. Those glyphs belong to the Syntaric Codex. Forbidden in many lands. It searches for resonance."
Resonance? Like… a spirit contract?
"Or worse," she whispered. "A vessel."
Elowynn walked slowly past the line of slaves, letting her fingers hover just above one child's shoulder—then another's—without ever touching them. She paused by a half-beast girl with broken shackles still clinging to her wrists… then moved on.
She wasn't picking.
She was sensing.
And the books, the items, the cloth... they weren't for her.
They were preparation—for something else.
Tharus leaned in close to my ear. "Whatever she's doing, you don't want her looking at you again."
I nodded slowly. But part of me—the part still burning with questions—wanted to know what would happen if she did.