(Chapter Eight: The New Path)
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The guard's hand never left the hilt of his short sword. "Inside," he said, flat and sure, as if the word itself were a door he could push people through. He did not give a name. He did not give a reason.
John stepped past him into the main hall of the academy.
The north hall swallowed him at once. The stone felt cool and old. Light fell through tall windows in long, pale sheets. The floor was gray and honest, scarred by a thousand boots that had learned to walk carefully here. Banners hung between the windows—simple hearts stitched in darker cloth, not the rich crests of great houses. The air smelled like chalk, ink, and the faint sweetness of old paper.
