Ilyra blinked.
For a moment, she was not in the classroom.
She was back on the road.
Stone beneath her boots, worn smooth by centuries of leaving and returning. A carriage ahead of her bearing the academy's sigil, its wheels turning steadily, endlessly.
The city behind her blurred into distance. Rooftops shrinking. Smoke thinning. The hospital's silhouette fading until it was just another shape swallowed by the horizon.
She felt the familiar pull in her chest.
The ache of absence.
The quiet fear that something would go wrong the moment she was no longer there to steady it.
Not panic.
Not urgency.
Just the certainty that the world was always closest to breaking when you were not looking directly at it.
That things held together out of habit more than strength.
"Ilyra."
Her head snapped up.
The classroom swam back into place. Tall windows admitting pale afternoon light. Stone walls etched with diagrams so old their meaning had softened into suggestion.
Rows of healer initiates sat in careful silence, shoulders straight, hands composed. Each of them trained already in the art of not being noticed.
Instructor Selene Vire stood at the front, hands folded, posture precise. Her gaze was sharp, but not unkind. The look of someone accustomed to seeing things fail quietly.
"Yes, Instructor," Ilyra said quickly.
Vire studied her for a heartbeat too long.
Not disapproval.
Calibration.
As if she were adjusting a lens rather than correcting a student.
Then she nodded once.
"Stay with us, please."
"Yes, ma'am."
The lesson resumed.
Ink scratched softly across parchment as Vire traced circulatory flows in the air. Lines of pressure. Points of collapse. The subtle distinctions between magical exhaustion and physical shock that could mean the difference between recovery and death.
She spoke without raising her voice, trusting precision to carry further than volume ever could.
Ilyra followed easily now, quill moving on instinct, her notes clean and spare. She wrote only what mattered, the way she always had. Anything unnecessary had a habit of getting in the way when time was short.
Still, her thoughts slipped again.
Not to the road.
To the ceremony.
She had stood among hundreds of other students.
First years filled the Grand Convocation Hall in neat, uneven rows. Robes too new. Shoulders too tense. Voices too quiet for the number of bodies present.
The hall rose far above them, columns etched with sigils that glowed faintly in response to the collective presence of magic.
The space felt less like a room and more like a scale, measuring them simply by holding them all at once.
Ilyra remembered how her hands had folded automatically at her waist.
A habit.
The same one she used beside hospital beds, where movement was permission and stillness was promise.
How still everyone became when Headmaster Valen Oris stepped forward.
He had not raised his voice.
He had not needed to.
"Welcome," he said, and the word carried. Not warm. Not cold. Absolute.
"You stand at the threshold of becoming."
Her breath had caught at that. Caught so sharply it had almost hurt.
Around her, students shifted, nerves humming. Some glanced sideways, searching for reassurance in familiar faces, in shared fear.
Ilyra had not looked.
She had not wanted to anchor herself to a promise she might not keep.
Valen Oris spoke of discipline.
Of responsibility.
Of paths chosen and paths refused.
He spoke as if the academy were not a place of learning, but of narrowing. A deliberate process of removing what did not belong until only what mattered remained.
As if excess were a liability.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle. A tightening. Like the moment before a storm decides whether it will break.
Ilyra remembered the exact instant her skin prickled, the strange sensation of being seen without being watched.
She reached for her neck on instinct.
The mark had appeared faintly at first. A delicate, intricate symbol etched at the base of her neck, just below the hairline.
The lines unfolded with quiet certainty. Remembered rather than made. As if her body had always known where they belonged.
Not burning.
Not cold.
Present.
Alive.
Around her, the world was bleak.
The academy in shambles.
The sky painted a bruised purple. Fire everywhere.
Most notably, there were hazy figures.
Ilyra remembered catching flashes of them during the vision.
Five.
She had not counted.
She had known. Like it was branded into her memory.
The certainty had settled into her bones like gravity. Unquestioned. Unarguable.
Valen Oris's voice cut through the chaos, calm as stone.
"Remain where you stand."
And somehow, they had.
"Ilyra."
Her quill stopped mid stroke.
Instructor Vire did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
The single word carried enough precision to cut cleanly through thought.
"Yes, Instructor," Ilyra said at once.
Vire's eyes remained on her.
Not assessing.
Measuring.
"Attention," she said, "is not optional in this discipline."
"I understand."
"Good," Vire replied.
"Because a healer who drifts heals the wrong wound."
"Or worse, none at all."
The words landed without cruelty.
Just fact.
Vire turned back to the diagram as if nothing unusual had occurred, chalk lines reforming at her gesture.
"We continue."
The class resumed.
Ilyra did not drift again.
Later, walking the academy corridors between lessons, the memory settled into her bones instead of pressing against them.
The stone beneath her feet here was different than the road she had imagined. Older. Steadier. Shaped by intention rather than necessity.
The halls carried sound differently too. Footsteps softened. Voices lowered automatically, as if the building itself demanded restraint from those who walked within it.
Light filtered in from high windows, fractured and pale, never lingering long enough to feel warm.
She passed other students who made room for her without realizing they had done it. Their steps adjusted unconsciously, paths bending just enough to give her space.
Healers drew space.
Not respect.
Space.
She touched the mark through the hood of her robes.
It still did nothing.
No warmth.
No pull.
No answer.
That frightened her more than if it had burned. More than if it had demanded anything of her at all.
She passed windows that looked out over training yards where physical mages clashed and reset, instructors correcting stances with sharp gestures and sharper words.
Beyond that, courtyards where strategists argued quietly over boards etched into stone, pieces moving in patterns too complex to follow at a glance.
Paths she had not yet walked.
Lives she had not yet touched.
Somewhere in this place were the others.
She did not know who they were.
Only that the world had, for a moment, held its breath around them.
And that breath had not yet been released.
Ilyra adjusted her grip on her satchel, squared her shoulders, and kept walking.
Because whatever was coming,
It would need steady hands.