Northvale's classrooms blend old architecture with modern design.
Most are housed in stone buildings with tall windows, arched ceilings, and wooden floors polished by decades of footsteps. Each desk carries quiet stories — carved initials, faded ink marks, the ghosts of generations before.
Sunlight often filters through the tall windows, casting soft light on rows of desks arranged in a semi-circle rather than straight lines — encouraging discussion instead of one-way lectures.
The walls are lined with shelves of worn books and framed quotes from past scholars.
Despite the age of the rooms, each has a projector and smart board, and most professors use both — mixing tradition with progress, just like Euria itself.
Our trio sat in the second column. The seats, though arranged in a semi-circle, were partitioned so that only three people could sit at each bench. The classroom felt different from anything back in my hometown — not just in structure, but in its whole atmosphere.
"This feels so exciting," Ryan said, his voice brimming with energy. "It's like we're not here for regular classes but for a seminar—a really serious one!"
Valen was quietly observing the surroundings as students began to file in one by one.
"Sol," Ryan whispered, leaning closer, "there seem to be quite a few beauties in our class."
He wasn't wrong. Northvale had another name among students — the place of beauties. Not only because of nature, but for reasons far more human.
I didn't respond. A few moments later, the door opened and the professor entered. The chatter in the room died instantly as everyone settled into their seats.
"Good morning, everyone," the man said with a calm, practiced voice. "I'm Hebart Augustin, and I'll be in charge of this class."
At Northvale, every class had a professor in charge — something like a homeroom teacher, but with far more authority.
Professor Augustin placed his notes on the podium and scanned the room for a moment, as if memorizing every face. He wasn't old — perhaps in his late thirties — but there was a calm weight in his expression, the kind that comes from years of listening more than speaking.
"I assume everyone here already knows the rules," he began, his voice smooth but carrying easily through the hall. "But at Northvale, rules are not the first thing I care about."
A murmur spread through the room. He smiled faintly.
"What I care about," he continued, "is how you think. This university has a tradition — we don't learn answers, we question them."
He took a piece of chalk, drew a small circle on the board, and wrote one word inside it: 'Change.'
"Tell me," he said, turning back to the class, "is change always progress?"
The room went quiet. Eyes shifted, some curious, some hesitant.
Ryan whispered, "Is this a trick question?"
Valen gave him a look. "He means we're supposed to think."
Professor Augustin's smile deepened slightly. "No one?"
A girl in the front raised her hand. She wore a soft gray turtleneck beneath a dark wool pinafore, a silver pendant resting just below her collarbone. Her skirt brushed the tops of polished black boots, and a charcoal cardigan hung loosely from her shoulders.
Her face was heart-shaped, framed by chestnut hair that fell in calm waves to her neck. Her skin had the faint tone of morning light, and her eyes — pale hazel with a hint of green — held the quiet sharpness of someone who listened more than she spoke. When she raised her hand, there was confidence in the gesture, but no arrogance — just composure, the kind that drew attention without trying.
"Change means moving forward, doesn't it? Improving?"
"Sometimes," he said, "but not always. The world changes every day. Governments rise and fall. Values evolve. Technology advances. Yet, tell me—does that mean people are happier than they were fifty years ago?"
Silence again. The sound of the clock ticking filled the space.
He looked around, then his gaze rested briefly on me. "Mr. Daren, was it? What do you think?"
I blinked. "Change isn't always progress," I said slowly. "Sometimes it's just movement. We call it progress because we need to believe it means something."
The professor studied me for a moment, then nodded. "A fair answer. Remember that thought—belief often moves faster than truth."
He placed the chalk down and smiled slightly. "Welcome to Northvale, everyone. This is what our classes will feel like. You'll speak more than you listen, and hopefully, you'll learn more than you expect."
He paused for a moment before speaking again.
"Since today is your first day," he said, his tone easing, "there will be no formal lessons. Take this time to get acquainted with one another—and with the campus itself."
With that, he gathered his notes, gave a brief nod, and slowly exited the classroom.
The room erupted almost instantly into chatter. Desks scraped, laughter echoed, and the low hum of conversation filled the air.
Students were already introducing themselves, eager to make friends and find familiarity in a new world.
Still, amid the noise, a few remained quiet—those who preferred the comfort of silence, or who, like me, weren't quite ready to let the day's thoughts go.
***
We stepped out of the classroom with the rest of the students, the hallway buzzing with voices and footsteps. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long, soft patterns on the stone floor as the crowd slowly spilled into the main courtyard.
Northvale's campus was larger than I had imagined.
Stone pathways branched out in every direction, threading between old buildings draped in ivy and newer glass structures that glimmered in the light. An ancient oak stood at the center of the courtyard—its branches wide, its trunk thick with age—surrounded by benches where students were already gathering in small groups.
To the east stood the Library of Dawn, its tall arched windows reflecting the sky. The building looked more like a cathedral than a library, with carved pillars and quiet gravitas that made people lower their voices instinctively when walking past.
To the west rose the Research Wing, sleek and modern, its mirrored panels capturing the movement of students like shifting water. Trams hummed along the tracks nearby, carrying students toward the dorm district and the lower campus.
Ahead of us, a fountain shaped like a spiraling helix sent thin streams of water upward. The sound was gentle, almost calming, mixing with the distant chatter around us.
Ryan let out a low whistle. "Man… this place looks like a movie set."
Valen adjusted his glasses as he scanned the grounds. "It's well-designed. Everything feels connected."
I silently agreed. There was something about Northvale—a quiet harmony in the way the old and new existed side by side. Every building looked like it had a story. Every path felt like it led somewhere important.
Groups of students wandered past us—some laughing loudly, some debating, others looking around with wide eyes just like ours. Posters of upcoming seminars and student movements were pinned to bulletin boards, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
We walked slowly, taking everything in. The campus was alive in a way that felt both welcoming and overwhelming. And for a moment, as the wind brushed past and the distant bell of the clocktower chimed, it felt like we had stepped into a place where anything could begin.
We were crossing the courtyard toward the fountain when I slowed down without meaning to. A faint tug—like memory brushing against the edge of thought—pulled my attention to the path on our right.
A girl was standing near the notice board, slightly turned to the side as she read a poster.
Her hair caught the sunlight first—soft, dark brown, falling just below her shoulders with a gentle wave that the wind lifted now and then.
When she shifted, I caught a glimpse of her profile.
Her eyes—though I saw them for only a heartbeat—held a familiar calm depth, a shade caught somewhere between dusk and morning light.
Something inside me tightened. A strange stillness settled in my chest.
I couldn't see her face fully. I didn't need to.
There was a way she held herself—quiet, composed, as if the world moved around her but never through her—that felt impossibly familiar.
Ryan was saying something beside me, but his voice felt distant.
The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, lifted a small notebook to her chest, and turned away from the board. For a brief moment, she stood as if deciding which direction to go.
Then she walked off, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library.
I blinked, the sound of the courtyard returning all at once.
"…Sol? You okay?" Ryan asked.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Just… thought I saw someone."