The iron gates of Gravemont Academy loomed ahead, their blackened bars etched with curling sigils that shimmered faintly in the morning sun. They stood wide open, yet carried the weight of a warning—an unspoken promise that they were meant to keep the unworthy out rather than invite anyone in.
Damien's gaze lingered on the shifting glow of the runes. Protective wards, perhaps, though far too intricate for him to decipher. He had only just finished introducing himself, and from the way the nobles exchanged faint glances before turning away, he suspected his single name had already earned him a place in their private ledgers—somewhere between curiosity and dismissal.
He kept the same polite smile as before, as if entirely oblivious to the subtle shift in the air.
The last of the students stepped through, and with a languid wave of his hand, Professor Dreadmore pulled the gates shut. The bars groaned softly, the runes flaring briefly before settling into a dim, steady pulse.
"From now on," the professor's voice rolled over the crowd, calm but edged with command, "do not wander off anywhere on your own. Just keep following me."
No one argued. The air seemed to still for a heartbeat before the man turned and began walking down the broad stone path.
The road leading deeper into the academy was flanked by towering oaks whose golden leaves caught the sun like droplets of fire. Between the trees, carved statues of warriors and robed mystics watched silently, their stone eyes worn but proud. A pair of wide streams ran alongside the path, their crystal waters fed by miniature waterfalls that tumbled down from higher terraces.
Gasps rose from the crowd, whispers following like ripples.
"Is that… an actual Saint's statue?" a boy near Damien asked his friend, pointing to a robed figure with a serene smile holding a book.
"I think that's Headmaster Eryndor when he was young," his companion whispered back.
"No, no, that's someone from the founding era. Look at the style of the robes," another chimed in.
Damien kept walking, listening without looking like he was listening. From beside him, Selene Cross's voice floated forward.
"House Cross contributed to those gardens," she was saying to a boy who sounded far too eager to impress her. "The landscaping hasn't changed in decades. It's… quaint."
Taron Williams, on Damien's left, was doing his best not to trip while staring at the academy's rooftops rising in the distance. "I swear the place looks like it was built for giants," he muttered to Bran Smith, who only grinned.
A sudden gust carried the scent of parchment, candlewax, and something faintly metallic—energy crystal dust, if Damien wasn't mistaken. Ahead, the path opened into a vast courtyard paved with grey stone, its centerpiece a circular fountain in which a dozen arcs of water intertwined in impossible patterns. The sprays glittered faintly with blue light, and now the awe was open, unrestrained.
Even the nobles forgot themselves for a moment.
"By the Path…" someone breathed.
Beyond the courtyard rose the Great Hall—a monumental structure of black-and-white stone, its tall windows catching the last light of day. Two banners hung from the arched doorway, each bearing the academy's crest: a silver raven clutching a black spear.
Professor Dreadmore led them inside.
The vaulted ceiling soared above them, beams carved with constellations that shimmered faintly as though the stars themselves had been caught and set into the wood. Long tables stretched across the floor, each already set with polished silverware and waiting platters. At the far end stood a raised dais where a single grand chair sat empty.
The murmurs faded as a figure stepped forward.
The Headmaster was an old man with hair as white as snow and eyes that burned with calm blue light. His robes were simple yet carried an unmistakable weight; the air around him seemed subtly drawn in, as though bowing to his presence. Even without a single word spoken, Damien could feel it—this was a Saint of the Energy Path.
"Thank you for bringing the new students here, Professor Dreadmore," the Headmaster said. "Please, take your seat among your colleagues."
Professor Dreadmore inclined his head and moved to where the other professors sat beneath the dais.
"Welcome," the old man said, his voice warm. "Welcome to Gravemont Academy. I imagine many of you are tired, and perhaps more than a few of you are hungry."
Right on cue, a low rumble passed through the crowd as stomachs betrayed their owners. The Headmaster chuckled softly.
"Rest assured, I won't keep you long. My name is Eryndor Harington, and I have had the honor of serving as Headmaster of this academy for more years than I care to count. Gravemont will be your home for the years to come. Here, you will not only train your bodies and minds, but forge bonds—bonds of friendship, loyalty, perhaps even love."
He let the words linger, his gaze sweeping over the gathered students.
"Tonight, you will share your first meal with not only each other, but with the seniors who came before you. It is rare that so many choose to attend the nightly feast, so make the most of it. Remember—every student you see here once stood where you are now."
A warm smile touched his face. "Alright then—chop chop, find yourselves a seat before the food gets cold."
It was only then that Damien and the other new students realized the hall was already filled. Hundreds—no, thousands—of older students sat at the long tables, all watching them with varying degrees of curiosity, interest, and thinly veiled judgment.
As the applause swelled and servants began carrying in steaming platters, the first-years hesitated, uncertain where to go.
"Come on, don't just stand there," Bran muttered, nudging Taron forward.
Selene, of course, moved with the easy confidence of someone who already knew she'd be welcome anywhere she chose to sit.
Damien simply walked at an unhurried pace, his eyes sweeping over the room, noting who avoided eye contact and who held it just a fraction too long. Now, dozens of auras brushed against his senses—some were curious, some hostile, and a few… weighing him.
His years of solitude had taught him to read every flicker of movement, every whisper of intent. And now, the constant brush of curious, appraising, or outright hostile gazes was beginning to grate.
The hall was spacious, and most students kept their belongings close, wary of strangers. Damien ignored the clusters forming and drifted toward a distant table, one that sat empty at the far edge of the room. It wasn't shyness—it was choice. If anyone wanted to speak to him, they'd have to cross the space on their own.
By the time he settled in, the crowd's curiosity had already begun to cool. Conversations swelled, laughter rose, and the novelty of the lone black-haired first-year faded into the background. Only Professor Dreadmore's quiet, unreadable gaze lingered for a moment longer before shifting elsewhere.
Servants soon arrived with steaming platters, setting his meal before him. The aroma was rich—herbs, roasted meats, freshly baked bread. Damien didn't waste time. He began eating, not hurriedly, but with measured precision, every motion deliberate, almost elegant. There was a refinement in his movements that outshone even the most fastidious nobles at their tables.
With each bite, the knot of irritation in his chest loosened. Hunger ebbed, replaced by a faint, quiet satisfaction. For the first time that day, his mind stilled, and the weight of the stares no longer mattered.