The procession doesn't go straight to the dormitories.
Not immediately.
There's a private receiving terrace carved into the Academy's upper ring with crystal flooring, a low circular fountain of circulating Aether-water, and an open view of Valoria far below. The space is quiet in the way expensive places are quiet: wards in the air that eat stray noise, runes that smooth the wind into a gentle breeze.
The Ten Heirs gather there the moment the last gate seals behind them.
No crowd. No ceremony.
Just them.
For a few breaths, nobody speaks, because in a room like this, the first words matter.
Cyril Valenhardt stands nearest the edge, hands clasped behind his back, cloak hanging perfectly still. He looks down at the city like he's evaluating its defences.
Taron Caelvarin, meanwhile, is already leaning over the fountain, poking the Aether-water with one finger like a child testing whether a flame is hot.
"Is it supposed to feel like this?" Taron asks, with delight on his face.
Marin Thornevale sighs. "Yes, it's supposed to feel like that. Now stop touching things that aren't yours."
"It's literally in a fountain," Taron says. "It's designed to be touched."
Selene Lysoria smiles faintly, the expression gentle enough to be innocent if her eyes weren't so sharp. "Relax, Marin. He touches things because he can't stand still."
Astrid Solvane doesn't look impressed. "Stillness is discipline."
"Stillness is boredom," Taron replies cheerfully, then straightens and grins at Astrid as if he's offering a truce. "But at least you're very good at it!"
Astrid's mouth twitches like it wants to become a smile and refuses on principle.
Rein Drakovar stands with his arms folded, watching the others with calm patience. Veyra Nythra stands slightly apart in a pocket of shadow that doesn't belong to the architecture. Lucielle Ardentis has chosen a place near the entrance, posture perfect, hands folded as if she might begin a sermon if someone says the wrong thing.
And Elya Veyrannis, quiet, almost still, stands near the fountain too, gaze drifting as if she's watching something layered over reality.
Cyril's voice cuts into the calm like a blade.
"Tch," he says, without turning, "so this is what the 'great' Aetherion Academy has become."
Taron tilts his head. "A school?"
Cyril finally looks back at them. His eyes are steady, his expression controlled. "A rural marketplace."
Darius Renora chuckles once, low. "Everything in Elyndra can be considered a marketplace."
Cyril's gaze flicks to him. "Do you truly believe that? Even talent?"
"Especially talent," Darius replies, smile thin. "Talent is just the rarest currency."
Lucielle's eyes sharpen. "Be careful with your language, Renora. Not everything is meant to be traded."
Darius shrugs, unbothered. "Tell that to the Academy."
Cyril turns away again, looking down at the lower terraces where candidates still gathered like ants. His jaw tightens.
"They're letting commoners enter in greater numbers," he says. "Again."
The word 'commoners' lands like ash.
Taron's brows rise. "What's wrong with that? You talk as if it's a disease."
"It's a risk," Cyril replies calmly. "An insult to the bloodlines that built this continent."
Marin's voice is softer, but there's an edge in it. "Bloodlines built it, yes. But common hands repaired it when it was broken."
Cyril doesn't acknowledge her. "Aetherion exists to refine power. To educate those who can carry responsibility."
"And you think responsibility is hereditary?" Selene asks lightly, as if she's genuinely curious.
Cyril's eyes narrow. "Responsibility requires discipline. Most commoners are taught survival, not discipline."
Taron leans back against the fountain rim, arms spread as if he's lounging in a tavern instead of standing among Elyndra's elite. "That's funny, actually," he says. "Because survival sounds like excellent training for building discipline."
Cyril looks at him then. He really looks, and something in his expression shifts. Not softening, exactly. More like he's forced to adjust his assessment because Taron refuses to fit into the category Cyril wants to place him in.
"You always twist words, Taron," Cyril says.
Taron beams. "I can twist wind, too, Cyril."
Astrid exhales through her nose. "Enough. This is not a debate club."
"It can be," Taron says instantly. "We're in a school. Why not create a debate club???"
"..."
For a moment, there's silence from everyone.
Lucielle steps forward, voice calm but firm. "The Academy's policy exists for a reason. The Council has deemed it necessary."
Cyril's gaze flicks toward her. "The Council is too political."
"And you are not?" Lucielle replies, serene.
Cyril's jaw tightens again, but he doesn't argue. He's too controlled to lash out. Too trained to show cracks.
Taron, unfortunately, has no such limitations.
He pushes off the fountain and strolls closer to Cyril, stopping just a pace away, close enough to be friendly, close enough to be insolent.
"You're upset because you're concerned that they might embarrass you," Taron says, voice low enough that it's almost private.
Cyril's eyes flare. "That is not—"
"It is," Taron says, still smiling. "Because if commoners can rise, it means nobles can fall... that they aren't special."
"And you hate that possibility, don't you?"
Cyril's expression becomes dangerously still. "Nobles are special."
Taron hums as if considering. "Hahaha, how about we meet in the middle and say that they aren't? In fact, I'll agree! That they're louder..."
Selene makes a small sound that could be a laugh if anyone asked; she'd call it a cough.
Marin folds her arms. "Taron…"
"What?" Taron says innocently. "He started it."
Cyril's voice is quiet. "You think this is amusing."
"I think it's exciting," Taron replies. "Imagine it. Someone with nothing, walking in here and becoming powerful enough that the Council has to listen."
Cyril's eyes harden. "Power without pedigree is unstable and dangerous."
"And pedigree without skill is pathetic," Taron shoots back, still somehow warm. "I'd rather fight someone hungry enough to change than someone entitled."
Rein's voice rumbles in, slow and even. "Be careful, Taron. Hungry people can bite."
Taron grins at him. "Exactly. That makes it even more interesting."
Cyril looks away, as if the conversation itself is beneath him. "Interesting isn't the same as valuable."
Taron steps with him, matching the movement like a shadow made of wind. "You know what I think, Cyril?"
Cyril doesn't answer.
Taron keeps talking anyway. "I think you're afraid the world is changing, and your father won't be the last great Valenhardt."
Cyril's shoulders go rigid.
For half a breath, the air warms around him.
Marin's eyes sharpen. Selene's smile fades. Astrid's posture stiffens.
Lucielle murmurs, "That's enough, Taron. Do not take it any further than this."
But Taron is still smiling, still so damn likeable that it feels impossible to hate him for pushing too far.
Cyril turns sharply. "Do not speak of my father."
Taron's grin softens.
"Okay," he says, and the sincerity in that single word disarms the tension like water poured onto embers. "You know what, that's fair. I went too far. I'm sorry about that, Cyril."
Cyril blinks, as if he hadn't expected an apology.
It's a small moment, barely visible, but the others felt it: Cyril's anger stalls, caught on the unexpected gentleness.
Taron's eyes are bright, open. There's no malice in him. No hunger for dominance. He's reckless, yes, but honest in a way that makes even a Valenhardt struggle to find a target.
Cyril exhales, controlled, as if forcing himself back into his own skin. "Your mouth will get you killed one day."
Taron's smile returns, massive this time. "Probably. But I don't plan on it any time soon."
Astrid mutters, "Idiot."
Taron points at her. "See? That's the spirit of friendship!"
Astrid looks away to avoid smiling again.
Elya finally speaks, her voice quiet but cutting through the noise like a blade of glass. "The policy is not what concerns me."
Cyril's eyes flick toward her in confusion. "Then what does?"
Elya's gaze drifts past them, downward toward the lower terraces, as if she can still see the candidates gathering far below.
"That anomaly," she says.
Darius tilts his head, interest sparking. "Anomaly?"
Elya's eyes narrow slightly, as if she's reading something that isn't written. "There was a presence among the candidates today."
Cyril's brow furrows. "You mean a commoner with a strong signature?"
Elya shakes her head slowly. "Not strong."
Selene leans in, curiosity sharpening. "Then what?"
Elya's voice becomes even quieter. "Incorrect."
That word lands heavier than it should.
Cyril's eyes narrow. "Explain."
Elya pauses, choosing how much to reveal. "It felt wrong. The rhythm of his Aether didn't match any local patterns I've seen or felt. It was… foreign."
Lucielle's expression tightens. "Foreign how? Vandros? Myrrhalis?"
Elya doesn't answer directly. Her gaze flicks to Taron, brief and assessing, then away. "It wasn't regional."
A silence forms.
Then Taron's grin returns, but this time it's smaller, more intrigued. "Wait," he says. "Are you talking about the silver-eyed boy?"
Elya's gaze snaps to him. "You saw him?"
Taron laughs lightly. "Hard not to. He was standing there like the world was a worksheet."
Cyril's eyes narrow. "You're interested in a commoner?"
"I'm interested in anything unusual," Taron replies easily. "And he looked… well, definitely unusual."
Selene's voice is soft. "How?"
Taron lifts a hand, fingers drawing shapes in the air as if describing something intangible. "Well, everyone else was watching us, 'the heirs', like they were watching gods."
He glances toward Cyril with a playful tilt of his mouth. "No offence."
Cyril doesn't respond.
Taron continues. "But that guy... he wasn't looking at us like gods. He was looking at us like he was… measuring, gauging."
Darius's smile widens. "Measuring what?"
"I don't know," Taron says, delighted. "But it certainly looked like he was trying to figure out what we're made of."
Rein grunts. "If that's true, then he's bold."
"If that's true, then he's stupid," Astrid adds.
"Or brave," Marin says quietly.
Cyril's eyes are fixed now, distant and sharp. "I noticed him as well," he admits, begrudgingly.
Everyone looks at him.
Cyril's jaw tightens, as if irritated that he's being made to confess interest. "His posture was wrong."
Taron blinks. "Wrong how?"
"He was too still," Cyril says. "Not fear-still. Control-still. Like he knew he was in the right place, with no fear of removal."
Elya's gaze remains distant. "He felt… familiar."
That draws a reaction even from Lucielle. "Familiar?"
Elya's voice softens, barely. "Like another foreign soul."
Cyril's gaze snaps to her. "You're speaking in riddles again."
Elya meets his eyes. "I speak in observations."
Selene tilts her head slightly, voice gentle. "So... you're saying he's unusual not because he's powerful, but because he doesn't fit in?"
Elya nods once.
Taron grins, pleased. "See? Now isn't that just exciting, guys?"
Cyril scoffs. "No. It's suspicious."
Darius's eyes gleam with something that is not quite amusement. "An 'anomaly' entering Aetherion at the same time as the 'Ten Heirs.' That feels… destined."
Lucielle's expression tightens further. "Careful, Darius."
Darius laughs. "Relax. I've always said that destiny is just probability with better branding."
Cyril's attention stays on the subject like a dog with a scent. "If he's a threat, we'll find out soon."
Taron tilts his head, then takes a step closer again, too close, casually invading Cyril's space like he doesn't understand personal boundaries. His smile is bright, eyes alive.
"You know," Taron says, "I think you'd like him."
Cyril's brows draw together. "And why would I like him?"
"Because he's not impressed by you," Taron replies, matter-of-fact.
Cyril's jaw tightens. "That is not a reason—"
"It is," Taron insists. "It's refreshing."
Cyril turns his head slightly, gaze angled down, and for a second the sunlight catches the hard line of his profile. His expression is controlled as ever, but there's a faint tension there, not just irritation.
Taron's grin softens again.
He has this infuriating ability to shift from teasing to warm sincerity without warning. Like the wind changing direction, except he's the one carrying the breeze.
"And even if he turns out to be dangerous," Taron adds, "well.. then that's even more fun!"
Marin groans. "Taron…"
"What?" Taron says, innocent again. "I'm just saying. The school would get boring if everyone followed the 'so-called' script."
Cyril's voice is quiet. "The 'script' exists for a reason."
Taron glances at him, eyes bright. "Come onnnn, you're telling me that you've never wanted to tear it?"
The question is playful, but it lands like a hook.
Cyril's gaze flickers, just briefly, as if something inside him shifts, some half-buried longing for freedom he would never admit.
Then he looks away again, voice clipped. "No."
But he doesn't sound entirely convincing.
Selene watches the exchange with a small smile, like she's listening to music beneath the words. Veyra Nythra's eyes linger on them too, unreadable, as if filing away weaknesses.
Astrid crosses her arms. "We're not here to gossip about candidates."
"Technically, we are," Taron replies. "We're first-years now. Gossip is our duty."
Taron jokingly salutes Astrid, which only irks her further.
Rein's mouth twitches faintly. "You know, Taron. You talk way too much."
Taron points at him. "And you talk too little. I'm just here bringing the balance."
Lucielle steps forward again, reclaiming control of the room through sheer presence. "Regardless of what we think," she says, "the Academy's process will reveal the truth. Theory. Practical. Ranking."
Cyril's eyes sharpen. "Ranking..."
Darius smiles. "Ah, yes. The good ol' board. Where egos go to be fed."
Marin sighs. "Or to be broken."
Taron claps his hands once, bright as sunrise. "Exactly!"
Everyone looks at him.
He grins widely. "I'm excited."
Cyril's gaze narrows. "About what?"
Taron's smile turns almost boyish in pure anticipation.
"The practical entrance exams," he says, eyes glittering. "I want to see what people do when they're forced to prove themselves."