The air above Vale was crisp with altitude and engine hum, a mechanical purr resonating beneath the flying transport as it cut across the sky. Below, the city blurred into patches of green and steel, distant mountains cradling the horizon.
Inside the craft, students stood shoulder to shoulder—some giddy with anticipation, others stoic and silent—each clutching their weapon like an anchor in the unknown.
Amid them stood a woman who didn't quite match the buzzing, youthful energy of the crowd.
She wore casual clothes and carried an overstuffed piece of luggage that looked heavy enough to crack a weaker student's spine. Slung across her back was a folded lance—sleek, gunmetal gray, trimmed with gold inlays. Its segmented design hinted at far more than just piercing: a gun, maybe a cannon. Something louder. Something precise.
Her boots thudded as she shifted her stance, tall in worn brown leather. Her pants hugged her legs with a form-fitting confidence, unbothered by the scrutiny of others.
Loose orange waves framed her face, catching bits of light whenever she moved. She said nothing. Her brown eyes swept the cabin—calm, detached, quietly observant.
Then the airship doors opened, revealing the gleaming spires of Beacon Academy. Wind surged in like a breath held too long. Around her, the crowd began to stir—some pushing forward, others shrinking back in awe or nerves.
She stepped out with the rest, her bag hitting her hip with a muted thud.
"So this is Beacon..." she murmured, voice low and steady. No wonder. No awe. Just observation.
The world opened before her—polished walkways, sculpted greenery, students already forming cliques or fumbling through awkward introductions. Her eyes lingered on the distant tower spearing the sky... then dropped to the blooming chaos ahead.
The platform was a shifting tide of suitcases, uniforms, and nerves. Students wandered in all directions—some awestruck by the castle-like architecture of Beacon Academy, others already grouping into easy conversations or silent observation.
Among them, the tall girl with the orange hair had just stepped away from the airship. The weight of her overstuffed luggage pulled slightly at her shoulder, but she didn't seem to mind. Her heavy boots struck the marble walkway with purpose, her body moving through the crowd like a tower parting the tide.
Then—hm?
She paused mid-step.
Her shoulders tensed just slightly, chin tilting up, brows narrowing. There it was again—a noise. Something sharp and tumbling. She turned her head toward the source, eyes focusing on a trio up ahead where the flow of students had hesitated, parted.
Two girls stood locked in confrontation—one with hair like fresh snow, stern and polished in posture. The other, blonde and graceful, seemed to reach out lightly, trying to de-escalate the tension.
And at their feet, awkwardly picking herself off the ground, was a girl the orange-haired woman recognized.
That redhead... the one from the flight. The one with the curious eyes and the jittery energy. She'd noticed her seated a few rows away, almost bouncing with restless wonder. Now here she was, on her hands, clearly in trouble.
(ps: i should have called ruby red hooded girl or something)
The white-haired girl's voice rang out across the courtyard like a judge's gavel.
"What are you doing?!"
The redhead blinked up at her. "Uh, sorry!"
"Sorry?! Do you have any idea of the damage you could've caused?"
"Uuhhh..." the redhead mumbled, looking guiltily down at the case in her hands.
"Give me that!" The white-haired girl snatched the luggage with an almost practiced elegance, flipping the lid open. A twinkling sound escaped—a chorus of crystalline chimes.
"This is Dust! Mined and purified from the Schnee quarry!"
"Uuuuuhhh..." the redhead repeated, shrinking slightly as if the suitcase might eat her whole.
Before the storm could escalate, the blonde beside them stepped in, her voice light and composed, one hand reaching gently for the white-haired girl's shoulder. "Weiss, dear friend," she said, the tone warm and layered with social poise. "Perhaps it's time we could move on?"
But Weiss shrugged her off. "No! I won't let this slide!" She turned back on the poor girl like a blade unsheathed. "What are you, brain-dead?" She held up a slender vial of crimson Dust and shut the case with a snap. "Dust! Fire, water, lightning, energy!"
"I... I know..." the redhead stammered, now beginning to cough as a swirl of Dust particles filled the air.
The blonde, lips flattening into a knowing line, took a single graceful step backward. "Weiss," she said, voice low, eyes scanning the glittering cloud of particulate. "Maybe a touch of distance would—"
"Are you even listening to me?" Weiss snapped. "Is any of this sinking in? What do you have to say for yourself?!"
The redhead's face scrunched, eyes wide as more Dust swirled into her nose and mouth. She raised a hand, opened her mouth—
And sneezed.
What came out was not just air.
A brilliant explosion of flame, snowflakes, and electricity detonated in a multicolored storm. Sparks cracked against the pavement. Frost spun in midair. Static hissed across skin.
Weiss stood frozen, now covered in a layer of soot.
A few feet away, a dark-haired girl sitting cross-legged beneath a tree blinked and calmly flipped the page of her book. A small vial clinked onto the ground near her. She picked it up, turned it over, and examined the Schnee Dust Company logo on the glass, then glanced up.
Weiss, face blackened but expression unbowed, let out a sharp breath.
"Unbelievable. This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about!"
"I'm really, really sorry!" the redhead sputtered, her voice cracking with embarrassment as she frantically patted out lingering Dust particles clinging to her sleeves.
The white-haired girl narrowed her eyes, planting her hands on her hips like an angry duchess. "Ugh, you complete dolt! What are you even doing here? Aren't you a little young to be attending Beacon?"
"I-I..." the redhead stammered, her fingers fidgeting with the latch on her now-closed case. Her ears burned crimson.
"This isn't your ordinary combat school," Weiss continued, gesturing sharply at the surroundings like she was giving a tour to someone wholly unqualified to be there. "It's not just sparring and practice, you know! We're here to fight monste—"
"Ahem." A new voice, refined and melodic, cut through like a silk-draped knife.
The blonde girl had returned, gliding back into the scene as if she'd never left. "Alright, I think it's my turn to pull you now," she said, looping a dainty arm around Weiss with theatrical lightness. Then she called out with affected flair: "Butlers~"
"Hey! Let me go!" Weiss snapped as two sharply dressed attendants—previously blending into the crowd like elegant statues—stepped forward and gently but firmly pried her away.
The blonde lingered a moment longer, facing the redhead with a smooth pivot. Her smile was professionally warm, practiced but not insincere. "My apologies for my friend. She is very... excited to be at Beacon."
The redhead looked ready to combust again, this time not from Dust. "Some friend. How do you even keep up with someone like that?"
"Well," the blonde said, fluttering her fingers dramatically with the kind of flourish that suggested she'd done this dozens of times before, "it all comes down to—get used to it."
From behind them, a muffled: "Mhhhhph!!" echoed through the courtyard as Weiss struggled against the iron-clad decorum of her own staff.
The redhead blinked. "Like what? Is she a princess or something?"
A new voice entered the conversation—quiet, poised, yet impossible to ignore.
"It's heiress, actually."
The redhead and blonde turned to see a girl with sleek black hair approaching, a thick book tucked in one hand and a small vial in the other. She stopped beside them, holding out the bottle with a subtle arch of her brow.
"Weiss Schnee," she continued calmly, "heiress to the Schnee Dust Company. One of the largest producers of energy propellant in the world."
From a few feet away, still wriggling in the arms of her butlers, Weiss managed a smug smile. "Finally! Some recognition!"
The black-haired girl didn't even blink. "The same company infamous for its controversial labor forces and questionable business partners."
"Oooh..." the blonde muttered quietly, flinching as if she'd just heard a violin string snap.
Weiss's smile faltered. "Wha—How dare—The nerve of—Ugh!! Let me go! I have something to sa—!"
The blonde placed a hand over her own heart and gave a practiced bow toward the redhead. "Well, I believe it's time for us to move on. Catch you later." She gracefully reached out and took the vial from the black-haired girl. "Thank you... and bye bye."
As she turned to leave, her well-trained entourage moved in perfect unison, gathering both her and Weiss's luggage, seamlessly gliding after their lady with the efficiency of a palace guard.
"I promise I'll make this up to you!" the redhead called after the retreating figure of Weiss, who was still being bodily carted away like a furious porcelain doll. Then her shoulders sagged. "I guess I'm not the only one having a rough first day..."
She turned back toward the black-haired girl, opening her mouth to speak—but she was already walking away, book in hand, coat fluttering faintly behind her.
The redhead groaned, dropped backward onto the stone ground, and stared at the sky.
"...Welcome to Beacon."
A few steps away, the tall orange-haired woman had watched the entire chaotic scene unfold from a distance, her expression unreadable. The way her eyes narrowed slightly, the way her jaw tightened—she hadn't moved, just... observed.
All of it.
Explosions, shouting, social drama.
For a moment, she looked like she might say nothing.
Then her lips parted just barely, and she muttered under her breath, "The fuck?"
She shook her head, scoffing quietly. "Weirdos..." With that, she adjusted her grip on her heavy luggage and turned to walk off, blending into the bustling courtyard of Beacon Academy.
She didn't really have a destination yet. Just eyes to scan, ground to walk, and the silent hope that whatever came next... didn't look like that.
The path curved gently to the left, the pale stones of the walkway glinting softly under the midday sun. Birds chirped somewhere far above, and the sound of shuffling footsteps echoed between the school's towering buildings.
She rounded the bend, steady, composed, her footsteps crisp against the stone—until a sound stopped her mid-step.
A retch.
Violent. Wet. Unforgiving.
Her brows creased, just slightly, and her eyes turned to the source.
A blonde boy was hunched over a trash bin nearby, practically half-swallowed by the thing, groaning between each pitiful heave. His whole frame trembled with the effort, one arm bracing against the rim, the other dangling at his side like he was ready to give up entirely.
"Ugh... I'm never flying again," he muttered, followed by another harsh cough. His voice was soaked with nausea and regret.
A few nearby students gave him a wide berth—some casting sideways glances of sympathy, others snickering behind cupped hands. It was a sad, awkward little scene. Like a fish tossed into the desert.
She stared at him, expression unreadable.
He was tall-ish. Not scrawny, but not exactly built either. Armor plates clung to him in uneven layers, like he'd bought pieces from a garage sale and didn't have time to check the sizes. He wore his sword like someone who really wanted to be a hero... and hadn't quite figured out how.
He looked like the kind of person who misread a challenge and signed up anyway. Still, she didn't judge. Just... observed.
Then the boy looked up.
"Oh—oh hey!" he stammered, his face flushed and sweaty. "You're the, uh... you were the one who pointed out the restrooms during the flight, right? Thanks for that, seriously, I would've..." His eyes widened, and he quickly covered his mouth, muffling another groan. "Ugh..."
She gave a quiet nod, barely moving her head. "You're welcome."
He blinked at her, then scratched the back of his head, eyes slowly trailing up as he took in her towering frame. "You know, you're kinda... tall," he said, with a sheepish chuckle. "And, uh... y-you look like the type who could probably bench press a—"
He trailed off as he noticed she was already walking away, her back to him, unbothered and silent.
"...O-oh. Umm... catch you later?"
And that was it. No fuss, no conversation. She turned away and kept walking, her heavy boots pressing firmly against the ground with each step.
"Maybe I should check the school's map," she muttered to herself. Her tone was practical, level, though her gaze lifted toward the towering campus that unfolded before her like a small city.
She wasn't wrong. Beacon was massive.
A forest of stone, glass, and sprawling courtyards, built like a castle that had been dragged into the future. It was easy to feel small here. Easy to get lost.
She made her way toward a large board mounted near the entrance plaza. Sure enough, a map. Of course there'd be one. No school this size would function without it.
Her eyes scanned the layout carefully, committing it to memory piece by piece. The dormitories, the training arenas, the classrooms. Admin buildings. Cafeteria. Library. Sparring zones. There was logic here, clean structure under all the grandeur.
Her study was interrupted by the smooth chime of speakers crackling to life overhead.
[This is Glynda Goodwitch,] came the stern, clear voice. [All first-year students, please proceed to the Grand Hall for Headmaster Ozpin's welcoming address.]
The orange-haired woman—tall, steady, solid like a walking tower—tilted her head slightly. "Hm... alright." Her eyes turned toward the marked hall on the map. Seems like it's time.
As she stepped away, something caught her attention. Voices.
Familiar ones.
"Hmm..." came a curious, almost absent-sounding tone.
"Hey, where are we going?" asked the same high-pitched voice—the red-haired girl from earlier.
"Oh, I don't know!" came a panicked reply. "I was following you!"
She looked out across the courtyard, toward a pair of distant figures bumbling their way across the open stone expanse. The blonde boy, still pale, and the redhead—clearly both lost in equal measure.
"You think there might be a directory?" the boy asked desperately. "Maybe a food court? Some sort of recognizable landmark? Is, uh... is that a 'no'?"
The girl laughed. "That's a no."
The orange-haired woman exhaled softly through her nose. Not quite a sigh, but close. Then she shook her head—slow, patient, weary already.
And without a word, she adjusted her grip on her bag and started walking toward them.
The late afternoon sun settled over Beacon Academy in shades of soft gold, gilding the tall spires and casting long shadows across the courtyard. The influx of new students had finally slowed, and conversations filled the air—excited, nervous, occasionally awkward. Some had already begun to claim spots on the grass or beneath trees, forming the beginnings of friendships they didn't yet know would be tested by fire.
The woman with orange hair stood apart, just at the edge of the crowd. Her travel bag rested at her feet, untouched, and her heavy lance remained strapped to her back—its hilt catching the golden light above her shoulder. Leaning slightly against a cool stone wall, she watched. Unmoving. Silent. Her expression was calm, neutral... unreadable. Not cold. Just still.
The courtyard's chatter dimmed as a soft tone chimed from the speakers. The students looked around, eyes turning toward the grand hall where a stage stood waiting.
Inside, the air shifted.
The gathered crowd fell to murmurs. Then, as footsteps echoed across the stage, even those died out.
Professor Ozpin stepped forward.
He adjusted the microphone with a slow, practiced motion. His coat brushed lightly against the stand. Beside him, Glynda Goodwitch stood with hands clasped and posture stiff, a sentinel of poise and control.
Ozpin cleared his throat.
His voice was calm. Measured. Yet each word felt deliberate, carved from something deeper.
"I'll..." A pause. A breath. "...keep this brief."
His gaze swept the room. Not rushed—slow and deliberate, like a man reading a book he already knew by heart.
"You have traveled here today..." Another pause, subtle but intentional. "...in search of knowledge. To hone your craft... and acquire new skills."
Each word struck with an even rhythm.
"And when you have finished..." He glanced toward the far rows, eyes neither warm nor cold. "You plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people."
The hall held its breath.
Dozens—hundreds—of students stared, the weight of that purpose landing all at once.
"But I look amongst you..." He inhaled softly, shoulders motionless. "...and all I see is wasted energy."
A faint stir among the students.
Ozpin continued, quiet... but sharper now.
"In need of purpose. Direction." Each syllable felt like stone dropped in still water.
A quiet ripple passed through the room. Some students shifted uncomfortably. Others furrowed brows, unsure whether they'd just been insulted—or warned.
"You assume knowledge will free you of this."
He let the words hang.
"But..." Another long pause. "...your time at this school will prove that knowledge..." Pause again. "...can only carry you so far."
He looked out at the crowd—not above them, but through them.
"It is up to you..." Quiet. "...to take the first step."
Silence.
Long and heavy, like a stone pressed to the chest.
Then Ozpin stepped back, turned, and walked away—his coat whispering in his wake. No farewell. No final flourish. Just silence.
The students remained frozen. Confused. Some stunned. Some unsettled.
Then, heels clacked sharply on the stage.
Glynda stepped forward.
No hesitation.
No ambiguity.
"You will gather in the ballroom tonight."
Her eyes scanned the crowd—sharp and clear, cutting through the fog Ozpin had left behind.
"Tomorrow, your initiation begins. Be ready."
She gave them a final look, as if to imprint the command into memory. Then, she turned and exited with firm steps.
"You are dismissed."
The hall erupted in quiet chatter as everyone slowly stood, making their way out of the auditorium. Some were lost in thought, others anxious about the challenges ahead. All were now left to wonder what the first step truly meant—what lay ahead in the trials of initiation, and whether they were ready for it at all.
That was it. No pomp, no ceremony. Just... direct. To the point.
Around her, murmurs swelled. Voices rose and fell—panic, speculation, wild guesses flying back and forth.
"What kind of initiation?" someone whispered nearby.
"Did you hear what he said? They're not even telling us what it is!"
"Do we fight something? Are we getting teams already?"
She didn't join in. Her eyes flicked past the crowd instead, scanning the shifting figures.
Near the back stood a red-haired girl. Tall. Poised. Polished. Her golden armor gleamed in the afternoon light, and her green eyes swept the crowd with the steady focus of someone who knew how to observe... and how to be observed.
Another known name, if not a known face. Of course she'd heard of her—anyone remotely aware of the tournament scene had. Pyrrha Nikos. Champion. Even without the headlines or the posters, her presence was unmistakable. The kind of person who didn't need to try to stand out—she just did.
The orange-haired woman's gaze moved again.
That same blonde boy from earlier—the one who'd nearly coughed up his lungs—stood nearby, trying to steady himself. He wore a nervous, crooked grin, fiddling with the strap of his sword like it might somehow make him look more competent. It didn't.
And there was the red girl too. Fidgeting, her red cape fluttering slightly in the breeze. There was something odd about her—an energy that didn't quite fit. Young. Overeager. Like she hadn't yet realized she was in over her head. Her wide silver eyes darted across the crowd, still half in disbelief that she'd made it here at all.
Next to her stood a taller blonde. Older. Broader. Arms crossed under her chest, relaxed and sure of herself. Her golden hair shimmered in the light, and something Ruby said clearly amused her. Maybe her sister—same silver in the eyes, same untamed edge in the hair.
The orange-haired woman watched them all without expression. They were an odd group. Even for a place like this.
Odd... and maybe a little ominous.
The blonde boy who could barely keep his lunch down.
The red-haired girl who'd sneezed herself into a literal explosion.
The champion who smiled like she wasn't.
And the girl with the golden hair and the too-easy swagger.
Something about them didn't sit right. Or maybe it was just the way fate worked—throw everyone into the same crucible and see what melted... and what survived.
She exhaled through her nose. A short sound. Dismissive.
"Whatever," she muttered, slinging her bag over her shoulder once more.
Initiation was tomorrow. Whatever came next, she'd be ready.
And if she wasn't?
Well, someone else was going to find out what happened when they underestimated her.
She turned and walked away without another glance.
***
Night had settled over Beacon, a quiet hum replacing the chaotic murmur of the day. With the sun down, the academy cast longer shadows across its marble floors and polished stone pillars, soft moonlight pouring in from tall, arched windows. The once-bustling atrium now resembled something closer to a campsite, just without the tents or crackling fires.
Dozens of students lay scattered across the floor, tucked into sleeping bags or under blankets, bags used as makeshift pillows. The air carried the subtle mix of polished stone and travel-worn gear—steel, leather, oil, and the faintest hint of anxiety masked under forced small talk and idle chatter.
The woman with orange hair moved without urgency, her bag slung over one shoulder, lance still clipped to her back like a silent warning. She kept to the edges, away from clusters, eyes sweeping the floor for an open patch of solitude. One corner, maybe—somewhere no one would try to strike up a conversation.
Her gaze brushed over a few familiar faces. The red girl again—hard to miss with that crimson cloak—now sat upright in her sleeping bag, whispering animatedly with the older blonde next to her. The two were practically glowing under the moonlight, their shared energy a sharp contrast to the dim room.
"It's like a big slumber party," the blonde said, stretching her arms behind her head with a lazy grin.
The younger one didn't even look up. "I don't think Dad would approve of all the boys, though."
The blonde snorted, following her gaze toward a group of shirtless guys across the room. Her grin widened. "I know I do."
She purred playfully, wiggling her fingers in a faux wave as her eyes scanned over abs and biceps with exaggerated flair. One boy among them—skinny, pale, and absolutely not shirtless—was waving enthusiastically back in a pair of footie pajamas patterned with cartoon ducks. The blonde's smirk faltered.
"Oh, no. Nope," she muttered as she turned back around, dragging her sleeping bag higher over her legs like it might shield her from whatever just happened. "That ruined it."
The red girl blinked and glanced up. "Ruin What?"
The older one pointed lazily. "The... never mind. What's that?" she asked, nodding toward the notebook clutched in the other's hands.
"Oh. Just a letter to the gang back at Signal." The girl's voice lowered a little, sheepish. "I promised I'd tell them all about Beacon. How things are going. That kind of stuff."
"Awww, that's so cuuuute!"
A sudden thwump cut off the sentiment as a pillow smacked directly into the older girl's face. She flailed back with a muffled noise, arms flapping as she wrestled the traitorous cushion.
"Hey! You little—!"
The red girl's smile was innocent, but her hand was suspiciously tucked under the blanket, right where the pillow had come from.
They were loud. Not just them—plenty of others had chosen noise over rest—but those two in particular seemed genetically incapable of understanding what quiet meant after curfew...
The orange-haired woman finally located a spot tucked away in one of the darker corners of the vast atrium, far from the clusters of noisy students and restless chatter. The stone beneath her boots was cool, shadowed by the tall pillar beside her. With a subtle exhale through her nose, she lowered her bag to the ground and unrolled a basic sleeping mat with practiced ease. The familiar rhythm of movement took over—she knelt, shifted her weight, and began to tug off her boots with the firm, silent precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
Across the room, somewhere among the shifting quilts and disheveled bags, a high, bubbly voice suddenly cut through the low murmur like a firecracker in a temple.
"Ren! Ren! Do you think they'll drop us out of an airship?" the girl practically sang, each word bouncing with excitement. "Like, with no warning?! Just, boom! Surprise, you're falling!"
Her volume was unreasonably loud for the time of night, but the boy beside her didn't even flinch. He sat cross-legged beside his own bedding, pen moving silently across the pages of a small notebook, as though he'd already accepted his fate long ago.
"They might," he replied in his soft, even cadence, not once looking up from the paper.
The girl gasped, clutching her own cheeks like someone had just confirmed the best conspiracy theory in the world. "I knew it!"
The orange-haired woman didn't glance their way. She just pulled off the second boot and placed it neatly beside the first, jaw twitching slightly.
More voices soon joined the rising noise.
A new one stormed onto the scene with clipped heels and sharper words. "What in the world is going on over here?!" the pale girl snapped, appearing in silk-blue pajamas like an angry cloud descending on the chaos. Her hair was pristine. Her posture, impeccable—even when furious. "Don't you realize some of us are trying to sleep?"
As if summoned by the rising noise, the two girls already on the floor shot upright.
"You again?!" barked both the sharp-featured white-haired girl and the confident blonde in perfect unison.
"Shh!" the red-caped girl raised both hands, palms out, as if trying to corral a pair of wild animals. "Guys, she's right! People are trying to sleep!"
"Oh, now you're on my side?" the white-haired one huffed, crossing her arms with practiced poise.
"I was always on your side!" the younger one replied, visibly offended.
The older blonde scoffed, shifting where she sat to fold her legs beneath her. "Yeah? Then what's your problem with my sister? She's just trying to be nice."
"She's a hazard to my health!" the pale girl fired back, finger outstretched like a sword pointing at her supposed assailant.
A sigh cut through the standoff.
"Come on, just calm down. You're getting worked up again," said a new voice—smooth, measured, and distinctly composed.
The attention turned briefly toward the blonde woman approaching from the edge of the room. Her pristine features were framed by flowing golden hair, and she moved with a graceful patience even now, dressed in sleeping attire that somehow still looked tailored. Not overly elegant, but composed in a way that made her presence seem inevitable. She looked like someone used to fixing other people's problems simply by showing up.
"I am calm," the white-haired girl snapped back, her tone defensive more than aggressive.
"Yeah... I think you're not," the golden-haired woman replied lightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She sighed, then gestured gently toward a quieter part of the room. "Come on. If you're that annoyed, come sit with me in the corner. Less shouting over there."
"Hmph." The white-haired girl threw a glare at the red-caped girl and her sister. "Well, they started it! These two dolts won't stop talking with—hey! Let go!"
"There, there." The elegant blonde had already slipped an arm around her friend's shoulder, gently but firmly steering her away. "Let's go. Over there. Somewhere... civilized."
As they walked off, she turned briefly to the group with a polite nod. "Sorry. Pardon us."
"Seriously," the red-caped girl muttered, watching them go, "how is she friends with her?"
"Maybe she's into fixer-uppers," the blonde beside her replied with a grin.
Behind them, a dark-haired girl with a bow atop her head turned a page in the book she'd been quietly reading—clearly for the fourth or fifth time, judging by her slow exhale.
"Do you mind?" she said, tone flat as a sheet of ice.
"Sorry!" The red one winced.
"We'll be quiet now," the blonde added, though she sounded more amused than apologetic.
Blake didn't respond. She simply lifted her book slightly higher, using it as both barrier and escape.
"See?" red one whispered. "Totally quiet."
A pillow hit her square in the face. From the corner, blonde snorted.
From her quiet corner, the orange-haired woman had heard enough. Her brows twitched.
"Too loud," she muttered, rubbing the heel of her palm into one ear.
"I know, right?" A soft voice drifted in response, dry and sympathetic.
The orange-haired woman turned her head slightly, just enough to see the source. A brown-haired woman lay not far off, reclining sideways on a traditional mat that looked almost ceremonial in its precision. Her posture was relaxed, arms folded beneath her head as she stared at the ceiling. Her clothing was modest and functional, with a distinct Mistrali style—crisp lines, natural tones, and the kind of detail that spoke more to discipline than fashion.
The taller woman squinted slightly, suspicious.
The brown-haired one let out a short, airy yawn. "Oh, don't worry," she murmured, her voice slow and low, like falling leaves. "Didn't mean to start a conversation. Just wanted to agree, you know?"
There was a pause. A beat of silence between them.
Then, the orange-haired woman blinked, considering her. The other girl hadn't even turned her head fully to speak. She just watched the ceiling as though it had answers.
"...Mhm," the orange-haired woman finally hummed, nodding once, more to herself than anyone else. She's not wrong, she thought.
The brown-haired one exhaled in relief. "Okaaaay," she said, turning her face fully upward now, eyes half-lidded. "So we... slee—"
"Yes," the orange-haired woman cut in firmly.
"Oh, okay," the other girl replied, nestling deeper into her mat. "So guess we sleeping then..."
The orange-haired woman finally laid herself down, letting her body ease onto the thin mat she had unrolled earlier. One arm folded behind her head, the other resting across her torso, fingers absently brushing the edge of her belt. Her eyes drifted upward, tracking the long shadowed beams that stretched across the ceiling high above. Somewhere distant, the low murmur of other students began to fade—some lost to sleep, others murmuring in hushed, stubborn defiance of it.
Her own eyelids were starting to fall when—
Clang.
A soft sound. Subtle. Metal against metal. Not part of the usual hum.
She blinked once. Then turned her head slowly to the side, gaze climbing upward—deliberate, cautious.
There, in the ceiling vents.
A pair of eyes stared back.
Round, glowing gold. Not wide in shock or fear. Just... watching. Their gleam caught the moonlight filtering in from the windows, giving them the sharp, glassy shimmer of polished gems. The pupils—thin, vertical slits—confirmed what the ears already implied.
Furred. Triangular. Catlike. Twitching.
There was someone—something—in the vents.
The orange-haired woman said nothing for a beat. Her breath held in her chest. Then, softly, like a reflex escaping under her breath, she whispered, "...what the actual fuck..."
The eyes narrowed slightly, and the hint of a grin curled just out of sight behind the vent's dark grate.
"Don't mind me, nya," came a voice from above. Feminine, musical, with a sing-song cadence that danced just on the edge of mockery. "Just enjoying the night view~ Nyaa. Night~"
And just like that, the eyes were gone.
Not blinked out. Withdrawn. As if the owner simply melted back into the shadows, limbs never needing to touch the light.
For several long seconds, the orange-haired woman remained still. Her eyes stayed on the grate. Watching. Waiting. But there was nothing. Just dull steel and silence.
A rustle beside her broke the tension.
"So..." came a hushed whisper from the brown-haired woman nearby. She had shifted on her mat, now peering up with one eye open and confusion etched plainly across her face. "Was that a..."
"Yes," the orange-haired woman replied, voice clipped.
The other girl let out a small, breathy sound of realization. "Ooh..."
From across the dim room, a sleepy voice muttered through a yawn.
"...Did anyone else just see that?"
It was the blonde boy again—the tall, lanky one with the nervous energy. He was sitting up now, tousled hair and sleepy eyes tilted skyward like he wasn't sure if the moment had been real.
"I did," came another voice, calm and clear despite the hour. The red-haired girl in bronze, Pyrrha again, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, nodded once. Her tone was level, but there was a glint of something curious in her eyes. "It was strange... but I don't think it was dangerous."
Another voice joined them—quieter, grounded.
"Yeah. That wasn't just us, right?" the boy with the black, and pink streak hair asked, his gaze locked firmly on the same ceiling vent. Unlike the others, his tone held no doubt—only attentiveness.
A figure sprawled beside him, her limbs tangled lazily in the blankets, her energy undeterred by the hour. She clapped her hands once, the sound cutting through the silence. "Ooooh, was that a ghost cat?! I love ghost cats!"
"Not a ghost," the orange-haired woman muttered from her mat, her voice low. "Just weird."
The brown-haired woman beside her gave a small, thoughtful hum. "Very weird... cat faunus."
The orange-haired woman side-glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. The brown-haired woman offered a half-apologetic shrug, her tone softening.
"Right, right. Not talking. Not the conversation type," she muttered, rolling onto her side and closing her eyes.
No panic followed. No sudden rush of feet or startled exclamations. Beacon's students simply... absorbed it, as they had with so many oddities before. Perhaps the long day had dulled their senses, or maybe they'd all grown used to the strange, unpredictable things that seemed to fill their world.
Whatever it was, it wasn't attacking them. That was enough.
The orange-haired woman rolled back to her original position, the movement slow, deliberate. She closed her eyes once more, and the hum of quiet returned, like the faint pulse of a distant storm.
One by one, the room settled again. Breaths deepened, slowed. Blankets shifted, the rustling sound now soft, muted. Scrolls flickered and dimmed, their glowing screens tucked away as sleep took hold.
But not everyone slept.
A few—just a few—remained awake, their eyes still locked on that one square vent above, unsure whether they'd imagined it, or if the night had truly been touched by something... other.
No one spoke further.
But they noticed.
And for tonight, noticing was enough.