The bronze doors of the Academy Registration Hall yawned wide, and Adrian stepped through into controlled chaos.
The marble chamber stretched vast as a parade ground, its vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles and crowned kings. Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching the dust that swirled above hundreds of gathered hopefuls. Lines snaked toward registration desks where scribes worked with mechanical efficiency, quills scratching endlessly across parchment.
But it was the people that drew Adrian's attention.
Dozens of young nobles clustered in groups, their crests gleaming, their armor polished to mirror-shine. They laughed too loudly, gestured too broadly, already competing even though the Trials hadn't begun. Farm boys stood apart, shoulders hunched, gripping worn blades with white-knuckled determination. Merchants' sons and daughters tried to project confidence they clearly didn't feel.
Adrian's gray eyes swept across them all, cataloging. Arrogant. Afraid. Desperate. Entitled. Every emotion laid bare in posture and expression.
"Gods, look at them," Edric muttered beside him. "Half are already measuring each other for coffins."
Adrian's gaze lingered on a cluster of nobles near the center of the hall. At their head stood a tall youth with pale hair and a hawk emblazoned across his chest. Ryn Veynar. Even from a distance, his posture screamed superiority, his voice carrying as he held court among lesser heirs.
"That one," Adrian said quietly. "Who is he?"
Edric followed his gaze and grimaced. "Ryn Veynar. Northern marches, warrior bloodline. His family's produced knights for three generations." He lowered his voice. "And he knows it. Word is he's already been scouted by Silverkeep."
As if sensing their attention, Ryn's pale eyes swept across the hall and landed on them. His gaze lingered on Edric's stag crest, then shifted to Adrian's emerald thorn. Something flickered in his expression—dismissal mixed with faint curiosity—before he turned back to his admirers.
"Charming," Adrian said flatly.
"That's one word for it." Edric nodded toward another group. "See the girl with the silver braid? Lady Mira Elbrecht. Old money, older name. Rumor says her family's produced more Knight-Commanders than any other house in Arathor."
The girl in question stood with perfect posture, her expression serene yet watchful. Unlike the preening nobles around her, she seemed to observe rather than perform. When her eyes swept the room, they moved with the precision of someone trained to assess threats.
Adrian filed the information away. Another one to watch.
They joined the nearest queue, shuffling forward as applicants gave their names and houses. The boy ahead of them—barely fifteen, armor too large, sword dragging—stammered through his introduction. The scribe didn't even look up as he recorded the information.
"Next."
Edric stepped forward. "Edric Halborne, heir to House Halborne of the eastern provinces."
The scribe's quill paused. His eyes flicked up briefly, taking in the silver stag. "Halborne. Noted." Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Preferred specialization?"
"Stormwatch or Silverkeep," Edric said, then added with a grin, "though I'm open to persuasion."
The scribe's expression didn't change. "Step aside. Next."
Adrian moved forward, aware of eyes turning toward him. The Blackthorn crest seemed to catch every stray beam of light.
"Name and house."
"Adrian Blackthorn. Northwatch, northern border."
This time the scribe's quill stopped entirely. His head lifted, eyes sharp. "Blackthorn? From the border?"
"Yes."
Whispers rippled outward from their position. Border lords... demon fighters... Blackthorn steel...
The scribe recovered his composure quickly. "Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Preferred specialization?"
Adrian paused. In truth, he had no preference—every academy held knowledge he could exploit. But admitting that would raise questions. "Ashbourne," he said finally. "Or Stonewall."
The scribe made a note. "Unusual pairing. Most choose one style." His tone carried faint curiosity rather than judgment. "Registration complete. You'll receive your dormitory assignment and training schedule within the hour. Next."
As they stepped aside, Adrian caught fragments of conversation from nearby applicants.
"Did he say Blackthorn?"
"I heard they held back an entire demon horde with just fifty men."
"My father says the baron's half-demon himself. How else could they survive out there?"
Edric snorted quietly. "Well, you're popular already."
"Infamy isn't popularity," Adrian replied, but his eyes tracked the whispers, noting who spoke and how they looked at him. Fear could be useful. So could curiosity.
A commotion near the entrance drew their attention. The crowd parted as another figure entered—broad-shouldered, confident, wearing Ironfang's crimson with casual authority. Scars marked his knuckles and a wicked grin split his freckled face.
"That's Gareth Stone," Edric whispered. "Common-born, but he's been training at Ironfang's preparatory camp for two years already. They say he can break granite with his bare hands."
Gareth's eyes swept the hall, clearly assessing his competition. When his gaze landed on Adrian, something shifted in his expression—recognition, perhaps, or challenge. He gave a slight nod before moving toward registration.
Adrian returned the gesture. Another name for his ledger.
"This is going to be interesting," Edric said. "Nobles, commoners, border lords, and everything between. All trying to prove they deserve a colored blade."
Adrian's hand brushed his sword hilt. "They'll prove it or they won't. Words mean nothing here."
"Spoken like a true Blackthorn." Edric clapped his shoulder. "Come on. Let's find our dormitory before someone decides to test your famous border hospitality."
As they moved toward the exit, Adrian cast one final glance across the hall. Hundreds of hopefuls, each carrying their own dreams and desperation. Within a year, most would fail. Only the strongest, the smartest, the most ruthless would remain.
His lips curved faintly. Let them compete. Let them scheme and posture. He had lived through wars they couldn't imagine, carried secrets they would never know.
When the true tests came, only then would the wheat be separated from the chaff.
And Adrian intended to be counted among the harvesters, not the harvested.