The Great Hall of Aethergard swallowed sound like the ocean.
Vaulted ceilings arched high above, ribbed with dark stone and tangled ivy. Chandeliers of crystal and brass dripped with candlelight, and a thousand glass shards caught the flames, breaking them into fractured rainbows that danced across the polished floor. The scent of old parchment and ozone hung in the air - sharp, electric, and faintly metallic, like the breath before a storm.
Precious Wolfë stood near the back of the room, trying to disappear into the crowd. Her new uniform - deep blue coat, silver trim - still felt too crisp, too deliberate, as though she were wearing someone else's skin.
Her heart beat hard beneath the Aethergard crest stitched over her chest.
She had dreamed of this moment since the letter arrived, embossed with the academy's seal. But the reality was bigger, colder, and infinitely more watchful.
Students murmured in clusters - accents from every corner of the world. French, Japanese, Arabic, Yoruba, Mandarin. Aethergard was said to gather the exceptional, and standing here, Precious could feel what that meant: the air hummed with ambition.
Beside her, Danielle Adaeze adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, eyes scanning the hall with amused confidence. Her braids glinted bronze beneath the candlelight, and gold studs sparkled against her dark skin.
"Feels like stepping into a myth," Danielle murmured.
"Or a trap," Precious said, trying to sound braver than she felt.
Danielle grinned. "Both can be survived with the right shoes."
A sharp, bell-like tone echoed through the hall. The whispers died instantly.
From the far end of the chamber, a figure stepped forward - tall, spectral, and ancient in bearing. His robes shimmered like liquid silver, his face pale as wax beneath the chandeliers. His eyes were a strange color - grey that almost seemed to move, like clouds caught in a glass globe.
"Headmaster Vale," Danielle whispered. "Rumor says he hasn't aged in fifty years."
He lifted one thin hand, and silence deepened.
"Welcome," he said, voice smooth as wind against marble. "To Aethergard Academy, where brilliance is currency - and ignorance, an unforgivable sin."
A shiver ran through the crowd.
"You will now be placed into your Houses," he continued. "Not by grades or lineage, but by the nature of your thought - by the pattern of your mind."
Behind him, six pedestals rose from the marble floor. Each bore an orb of glass, flickering with a different hue: scarlet for Strategy, gold for Rhetoric, emerald for Innovation, silver for Philosophy, azure for History, and violet for Science.
"The Orb of Reflection," Vale said. "Touch it, and it will read your intent. It will know what even you refuse to admit."
A ripple of unease passed through the students.
Names were called. One by one, they stepped forward, touched the glass, and watched it flare to life. Each flash was met with applause - or murmured judgment.
Strategy.
Rhetoric.
Science.
When Danielle's name was called, she gave Precious a wink. "Time to find out which kind of trouble I am."
She pressed her palm to the orb. The light exploded in a flare of silver so bright it painted the faces around her. The crowd gasped.
"Philosophy House," the Headmaster said. His gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. "Curious."
Danielle turned to Precious, triumphant. "Silver suits me."
Then it was Precious's turn.
Her name rang through the hall - soft at first, then gathering strength as it passed from voice to voice:
"Precious Wolfë."
The walk to the pedestal felt impossibly long. The hem of her coat brushed the marble, her footsteps echoing. She could feel hundreds of eyes tracking her - some curious, some envious, some dismissive.
She reached the orb. The glass was cool under her fingertips.
For a moment, nothing. Then - movement. The light beneath the surface shifted restlessly, pulsing gold, then blue, then red. The orb trembled.
The hall collectively inhaled.
Finally, it settled into a deep, silvery glow - not cold, but luminous, like moonlight on water. The light spilled over her hands, tracing delicate patterns up her wrist.
"Philosophy House," said the Headmaster. "Again."
A murmur rippled through the room. It was rare - almost unheard of - for two scholarship students to be sorted into the same House, and even rarer for Philosophy to choose anyone at all.
As Precious turned, she felt the weight of two gazes on her.
High above, on the upper balcony, Akira Kurosawa leaned against the iron railing, the silver insignia of Strategy House glinting at her throat. Her black hair was cut with ruthless precision, framing a face too composed to reveal thought. Her eyes, however, were sharp and dark as obsidian.
She did not speak. But her gaze followed Precious with the steady focus of someone assessing a threat - or perhaps, a challenge.
Across the hall, Arthur Valentin Conan was a study in contrast. Golden hair carelessly tousled, tie loose, his smile lazy and infuriatingly confident. His voice carried when he spoke, low and amused.
"Philosophy?" he murmured to Nathaniel Grey, who stood just behind him. "The girl debates the nature of truth, and the Orb gives her silver. How poetic."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Or dangerous."
Arthur tilted his head, still watching her. "That too."
Precious felt heat rise in her cheeks and quickly looked away.
When the ceremony ended, the students of each House were led through the castle's labyrinthine corridors - all twisting staircases and echoing halls lit by floating orbs.
Philosophy House sat at the academy's edge, a quiet wing overlooking the misty cliffs. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of old leather and ink. Shelves sagged beneath ancient tomes; dim lamps flickered beside worn armchairs.
Danielle whistled. "Rustic. Haunted. I love it."
Precious ran her fingers along the spines of the books. Titles gleamed in fading gold leaf - The Ethics of Power, The Mind as Mirror, The Philosopher's Duel. She shivered.
A low voice interrupted the silence.
"You will find that philosophy at Aethergard is not about comfort."
They turned.
A man stood by the tall arched window - white hair, skin pale as frost, eyes an impossible silver-grey. His age was indeterminate; he could have been forty or four hundred.
"I am Professor Elias Thornwell," he said. "Your mentor, for however long you last."
Danielle smirked. "Do students... not last long?"
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "Some forget that questioning power is the fastest way to earn its attention. And attention, here, is rarely merciful."
He looked directly at Precious. "Especially when one draws the attention of both Strategy and Rhetoric on her first day."
Precious froze.
"How did you-"
He lifted a finger, cutting her off. "Aethergard listens, Miss Wolfë. The walls remember. You would do well to speak carefully within them."
The wind outside rattled the glass.
Danielle glanced at Precious, her earlier confidence dimming. "Is it too late to transfer to Baking House?"
Elias's smile deepened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Ah. You'll do fine, Miss Adaeze. You both will - if you learn fast."
As he turned to leave, his shadow seemed to linger a beat too long on the floor.
Precious sank onto the nearest chair, pulse still racing. The echo of Akira's eyes, Arthur's grin, and the professor's warning pressed at her thoughts.
She looked toward the window. Through the mist, she could see two towers rising against the night - one draped in crimson light, the other in cold sapphire.
Strategy.
Rhetoric.
Both watching.
Both waiting.
Danielle nudged her shoulder gently. "Still think it's just a school?"
Precious smiled faintly, though her stomach twisted. "No," she whispered. "It's a war disguised as an education."
And in that quiet, moonlit hall, as the wind keened over the cliffs, she understood that her scholarship wasn't an invitation - it was a test.
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