The grand hallway stretches before them, its floors polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the warm glow of brass lanterns suspended from the arched ceiling. Pipes and intricate clockwork mechanisms line the walls, humming softly. Stained-glass windows filter the golden afternoon light, casting fractured mosaics across the ground.
Obinai walks slightly behind Morwenna, his fingers still curled around the edges of his cloak, gripping it tighter than he realizes.
Then, suddenly—a hand on his shoulder.
He stiffens, instinct prickling at the back of his mind, but Morwenna's touch is light.
"I understand you may not wish to do this," she says, her voice smooth. "But I recommend you walk without the cloak."
Obinai's grip tightens. A flicker of unease knots in his stomach.
"Why?" His voice comes out steadier than he feels.
Morwenna offers a small, knowing smile. Not unkind, but certainly not without purpose. "Because it would be better for the academy to see you now—to understand that you are here, present, and enrolled—rather than for them to discover you later. A sudden revelation would cause far more... unnecessary excitement."
Obinai hates that she's right. The logical part of him understands—better to control the narrative than to have it forced upon you—but the idea of peeling off this last layer of protection, this final barrier between himself and the world, unsettles him.
He hesitates. His fingers shift against the fabric, then slowly—reluctantly—he tugs at the clasp. The weight of the cloak slips from his shoulders, and the cool air of the hallway presses against his skin. He folds the cloth over his arm, the material unfamiliar without its usual place around him.
"Alright," he says, barely above a whisper.
Morwenna's smile lingers, as if she expected no less. "Good. Now—shall we continue?"
...
As they near an immense set of double doors, Morwenna gestures with a graceful hand. "To your left," she begins, "is the academy's library—one of the largest repositories of magical and scientific knowledge on this continent."
Obinai barely hears the rest of her words. His gaze is already drawn through the open archway.
Towering shelves of dark, polished wood stretch endlessly upward, their uppermost levels disappearing into shadowed alcoves. Rows upon rows of books, scrolls, and bound tomes fill every inch of space, their spines worn with age, some wrapped up, others humming faintly.
Soft orbs of light drift lazily through the air, illuminating darker sections of the library as they hover near students hunched over desks.
A chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Overlapping rings of brass and silver, filled with shifting gears that move in perfect synchrony. Each cog spins to an unseen rhythm, generating a soft, golden glow that pulses gently, almost as if alive.
At the far end of the hall, stained-glass murals stretch from floor to ceiling. One panel shows a scholar, quill in hand, weaving a spell into parchment. Another portrays a battle, mages and warriors locked in combat, their forms frozen in luminous reds, blues, and golds. As the sunlight filters through, the images seem to shift.
Obinai barely realizes he has stepped inside...
His feet carry him forward, past mechanical lecterns that adjust their height on their own, past tables where students whisper in hushed voices, their quills writing notes without their hands moving. Some are deep in discussion, diagrams of runes sketched across translucent parchment. Others are lost in books so thick their pages could double as shields.
He notices a restricted section near the back—cordoned off by a shimmering barrier. The air around it distorts slightly. A lone figure stands before it, an older scholar draped in blue robes threaded with silver wire. They reach out a hand toward the barrier, and for a brief moment, runes ignite in the air, spiraling outward before vanishing like embers on the wind.
Obinai exhales, suddenly aware that he has been holding his breath.
"Many students spend hours—days—within these walls," Morwenna says, watching him with quiet amusement. "It is a place of great learning and even greater discovery."
Obinai nods absentmindedly, still taking everything in.
"It's..." He struggles for the right word.
"Incredible," he finally breathes.
They continue...
The courtyard unfolds before them, tucked behind the central tower, out of sight from the academy's main entrance.
Lush greenery stretches across well-manicured lawns, interrupted by cobblestone paths. Flower beds, bursting with color, line the edges—deep purples, fiery oranges, vibrant blues—petals trembling as the breeze brushes past. Large oak trees stand tall, their branches offering sanctuary beneath their shade. Stone benches, placed with quiet intention, invite passersby to linger.
Obinai's boots crunch softly against the gravel path.
Morwenna's voice draws his attention. She gestures toward a building at the far end of the courtyard, made of dark stone and broken up by enormous windows, their panes fogged with condensation. Through them, silhouettes move—students hunched over tables, fumes curling from glass flasks, a faint glow flickering against the glass.
"Over there," she says, "are the alchemy labs. Students experiment with potions and other substances. It's a fascinating place, though it can get quite chaotic."
Obinai watches a small explosion flash behind one of the windows—a quick burst of green light, followed by a puff of smoke. The figure behind the glass jumps back, coughing, while another scribbles something hastily onto a notepad.
"I can only imagine," he mutters.
Morwenna chuckles. "Some leave with knowledge. Others… with missing eyebrows."
They continue on, leaving the courtyard behind, moving toward a more structured space—a massive open arena, encircled by a stone coliseum with rows of seating carved directly into the rock.
Raised platforms of varying heights dot the grounds. Students spar atop them, their magic clashing in bursts of light and sharp, crackling energy. Spells collide—blue fire against shimmering barriers, streaks of silver lightning arcing between duelists.
"This is the dueling arena," Morwenna explains as they pass. "Here, students train their combat skills in controlled, supervised matches. Tournaments are held regularly—it brings a lot of attention to the school. But…"she hesitates, "I hear change is coming."
Obinai glances at her. "Change?"
Morwenna exhales, looking ahead rather than at him. "Some think the academy is too focused on tradition. That the way we teach combat should evolve. Others believe there's no need to fix what isn't broken."
He watches a duel unfold before him—two students circling each other, sweat glistening on their brows. Their latest clash sends a shockwave through the platform, causing the stone beneath them to splinter slightly.
"Looks intense," Obinai remarks.
"It is," Morwenna agrees. "But it's also where students discover their strengths… and form bonds with their peers."
She trails off. Then—a subtle change. Her grip on his arm tightens. Not enough to hurt, but firm.
"Please keep walking," she says softly. "Pay them no mind."
Obinai doesn't ask—he listens. His posture remains steady, his steps even, but his eyes flick to the side.
Near the edge of the arena, a group of students linger.
He recognizes some of them from the courtyard. They aren't staring openly, but their conversations have hushed, their gazes shifting toward him in quick, stolen glances. Uncertainty. Nervous whispers. One mutters something to the others, and a few turn away—but not before their eyes pass over him again.
They walk in silence.
"Guess it started, huh?" Obinai mutters under his breath.
Morwenna exhales, her grip loosening slightly. "Yeah," she murmurs. "But let's get to your dormitory."
They step through another set of gates.
The residential area is tucked within the academy's grounds, lined with ivy-covered walls and towering archways. A winding stone path leads them through an enclave of ancient trees.
The air smells of fresh rain and old parchment. Lanterns, suspended from curved metal poles, flicker, illuminating the cobblestone walkway in soft, pulsing hues.
Morwenna gestures ahead. "This is the residential area. Your dorm is just up ahead."
As they approach, the building comes into view—a dark structure, its surface intertwined with deep green vines that shimmer faintly as they shift with the wind. The windows are tall, framed in iron, their glass tinted slightly blue.
They enter the common room. Sunlight spills through, catching the polished wooden floor in shifting bands of light and shadow.
Clusters of furniture are arranged in intimate circles—overstuffed armchairs with worn velvet cushions, low mahogany tables scattered with books, a few mechanical trinkets left forgotten by their owners. A fireplace dominates the far wall.
Obinai exhales through his nose, adjusting the weight of his belt. He wants to feel at ease. But there's an undercurrent beneath the warmth of the space—a tension that doesn't quite belong.
He notices them before they notice him.
Scattered students. Some lounging on couches, flipping through books, others talking in hushed voices. A few sit by the windows, gazes distant, lost in thought.
Then, a shift. A change in the air.
A murmur. A sharp intake of breath.
Someone stops mid-sentence. Another goes rigid, eyes widening slightly. One student—a gnome boy with wavy chestnut hair and a pair of circular glasses perched on his nose—stares outright, his lips parting as if forming a question he doesn't dare voice.
Obinai's gaze sweeps the room, tension crawling beneath his skin. Then, he sees her.
The auburn-haired elven girl from the gondola.
She sits near the fireplace, her posture composed, hands resting lightly on the open book in her lap. Unlike the others, she doesn't look at him. Not directly. But he knows she knows he's here. The way her fingers still for the briefest moment, the way her gaze flickers ever so slightly downward before returning to the pages before her.
She's ignoring him.
Obinai isn't sure if that's better or worse.
Morwenna breaks the silence, her voice measured but carrying an unmistakable note of ease. "This is the first-year common room," she says, glancing at him before turning to gesture at a large bulletin board near the entrance. "You'll find announcements here—study groups, events, anything important for academy life."
Obinai drags his gaze away from the others, focusing instead on the board. Dozens of parchment slips are pinned across it—some crisp and new, others curling at the edges. Notices scrawled in elegant script, some stamped with official seals, others hastily written in bold ink.
Morwenna continues walking, leading him toward the staircase. Obinai follows, feeling the weight of too many eyes pressing against his back...
The staircase creaks beneath their steps.
Morwenna glances at him as they ascend. "There are about thirty to fifty rooms in this dormitory," she explains. "Each houses three to four students, split into two smaller rooms."
Obinai nods, running a hand through his hair. Three to four people, he thinks. That's… a lot.
Morwenna offers a small smile. "You'll find your roommates become your closest friends and allies. You'll learn together, train together… get through this place together."
Obinai's fingers tighten slightly around his green tunic. "That sounds… really nice."
It comes out flat. Not quite sarcastic, but not exactly convinced either.
Morwenna's smile lingers, though there's something behind it—a flicker of unease. "You won't be alone. The sense of community here is strong. Everyone supports one another. There's always someone to study with, train with… share a meal with."
She hesitates, then adds, "I think."
Obinai doesn't miss that last part.
He's about to say something when they reach the hallway—long, carpeted, lined with doors, each marked with a polished brass number. The quiet hum of life exists beyond them—low voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the muffled clang of metal against metal, someone playing a soft, stringed instrument.
They stop at Room 42.
Morwenna turns to him, holding out a small key. "This is yours," she says. "Your room. You'll be sharing it with two other students. I think you'll get along well with them."
Obinai takes the key, his fingers brushing over the cool metal.
Everything about this moment feels heavier than it should.
Here we go.
"Thank you," he says finally, his voice quieter than before.
Morwenna hesitates for a beat. Then, her expression softens.
"All I can offer is my encouragement," she says gently. "Lyth and I are grateful you're here… but we can't ignore the tensions among the students. This is a crucial time, Obinai—a chance to make an impression, to change how later generations see integration."
No pressure or anything.
Obinai swallows back the thought, exhaling slowly.
Morwenna shifts, then—a flicker of something else. A shadow of a memory in her gaze.
"You remind me of him."
Obinai frowns. "Who?"
Morwenna blinks, then shakes her head quickly. "Nothing. No one." She steps back, hands slipping into the folds of her coat. "But… just remember, this is only the beginning. You have a lot to learn here. But I have no doubt you'll thrive."
Obinai studies her for a moment. There's something she isn't saying.
But he lets it go.
"Thank you, Morwenna."
She nods, offering one last small smile before turning away. Her footsteps echo softly as she retreats down the hallway, leaving him standing alone.
Obinai takes a breath. Steadies himself.
Then, he grips the key, turns it in the lock, and steps in...
The scent of oil-lantern smoke linger in the air. The space is modest but practical, furnished with a deep-red, tufted sofa that has clearly seen better days. A low brass-rimmed table sits in the center, its surface covered with a few loose papers, a half-finished cup of something dark, and what appears to be a broken pocket watch. Against one wall, a bookshelf leans ever so slightly to the left, crammed with rolled-up schematics, and odd trinkets—small mechanical insects frozen mid-motion, tiny vials of shimmering liquid, and a silver-plated mask missing an eye socket.
Luggage is scattered across the floor, some bags still strapped shut, others half-unpacked with clothes spilling onto the woven rug.
First impressions matter, don't they? Obinai thinks wryly, eyeing the mess. Well, at least I won't be the worst one here.
His gaze lands on the two doors at the far end of the room, brass plates marking them as 42A and 42B. With a small breath, he strides toward 42A and pushes open the door.
Inside, sunlight streams through a narrow window. A sleek desk sits against one wall, its surface meticulously arranged with books. The bed is already made—without a wrinkle in sight.
And at the center of it, standing tall, is an elf.
His long, golden hair is tied back at the nape of his neck. His features are sharp—angled cheekbones, a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes that seem to assess and dismiss everything in the room in the same breath. He wears a crisp, high-collared vest. His gloves—because of course, he wears gloves—are white, without a single sign of wear.
For a second, the elf doesn't notice him. He's in the middle of placing a glass orb onto a velvet-lined case. But the moment Obinai shifts his weight forward, the elf stills. His head tilts slightly, those sharp eyes flicking toward him. Then—
A look of sheer, undisguised disgust overtakes his features.
"Why must the gods curse me so?" the elf mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"First, I am shackled with these—" he gestures vaguely at a sealed box next to him, his lip curling in visible disgust, "—garments so utterly beneath my station. And now, as if the heavens themselves revel in my suffering, I am to be associated with... not even a Grounded, but yet another Filthy Forsaken. The lowest among lessers."
His voice drips with loathing, but beneath it—if only for a fraction of a second—there's something fragile about it...
Obinai barely has time to process the insult before the elf's expression twists further.
"Get. Out. Now."
For a beat, Obinai just stares. He'd braced for hostility, sure—he wasn't stupid—but this level of aristocratic melodrama?
He laughs.
It's quick, sharp, and entirely unplanned, slipping out before he can stop it.
The elf's eye twitches.
"You know," Obinai says, leaning against the doorframe, "I was gonna let this slide, but now I have to ask—who does your wardrobe? You look like you got rejected from a museum exhibit."
The elf visibly bristles. His hands twitch at his sides.
Obinai smirks, backing out of the room. "Nice hair, by the way. Real original."
The door shuts just as he catches the elf's mouth opening—likely to unleash some long-winded tirade about 'standards' and 'lesser beings' or whatever pompous speech he had loaded.
As soon as the door clicks, Obinai exhales, pressing his fingers to his temples. The amusement fades quickly, leaving a familiar exhaustion in its wake.
Great. Two minutes in, and I've already made another enemy. Should I apologize?
"I see you've met Erion," a voice chimes in.
Obinai turns to see another student stepping out of 42B—a guy about his height, maybe a couple of inches shorter, with warm orange skin and dark, shaggy hair that nearly covers the two small horns curving from his forehead. His outfit is more practical than stylish—an open vest over a loose, long-sleeved tunic and sturdy brown boots.
Unlike Erion, his expression isn't disgusted or wary. He looks amused.
"Don't mind him," the guy says, still grinning. His voice has a casual drawl to it, like he's used to laughing things off. "He acts like he's got a broomstick shoved so far up his ass he can taste wood shavings."
Obinai snorts. "That obvious?"
"Oh, man, you should see him when someone moves his books. It's like watching a guy actually fall apart." The guy extends a hand, his grin widening. "I'm Bram."
Obinai clasps it, but his eyes catch on something—scars, thin and crisscrossing over Bram's fingers, trailing up his wrists, half-hidden beneath the sleeves of his tunic. The sight makes him pause, but Bram just huffs a laugh and pulls his hand back like he's used to people noticing.
"Training's rough," Bram says, flexing his fingers. "Martial arts. We use ki—gets real messy sometimes."
Obinai raises a brow. "You fight?"
"Kinda." Bram cracks his knuckles, a lazy smirk on his face. "Some styles are more... smashy than others."
"Huh." Obinai considers that. "That's actually kinda cool."
"Hell yeah it is," Bram says, nodding like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Then, with a lopsided grin, "So, you wanna see the rest of the dorm? Or you need a minute to recover from the trauma of Erion's existence?"
Obinai glances at 42A, then smirks. "I'll live."
"Good. 'Cause the real fun ain't even started yet."
Bram spins on his heel and leads Obinai through the common area, waving his hands as he talks.
"Alright, so this here?" He gestures to a tall bookshelf jammed against the wall, stuffed with a messy assortment of books. "That's our little library. You can borrow stuff, just don't mess with Erion's books unless you want problems for weeks."
They move past a short wooden counter with a sink, a few cabinets, and a small stove covered in scorch marks. A single overhead pipe drips occasionally, hissing as it lands on something hot.
"Kitchen's here. We mostly just make midnight snacks," Bram says with a shrug, tapping a cabinet. "You need somethin' fancier, you gotta grab it from the main hall. Or, y'know, steal from Erion. But I ain't officially tellin' you that." He winks.
Obinai smirks. "Cozy."
"Damn right it is. Ain't much, but it's home." Bram stretches, then nudges Obinai. "C'mon, lemme help you unpack before His Royal Prickliness finds a reason to yell at us again."
Obinai kneels down, unfastening the straps on the bag on his waist. He's started to clip the buttons when,
"So, where you from?"
Obinai hesitates. "...Over the wall."
Bram's eyes widen. He leans. "Wait—are you... human?"
Obinai nods.
Bram throws his hands on top of his head. "No way! I thought you guys were—y'know, just a myth or somethin'!"
Obinai chuckles. "Well, here I am."
Bram just stares for a second, like he's still processing it, then lets out a wheezy laugh. "At first, I thought you were a midget dark elf or somethin'!"
Obinai shoots him a look. "Gee, thanks."
"Nah, nah, I mean it in a good way! Kinda. Maybe." Bram waves his hands around like that'll fix it. "But hey! That means I ain't stuck at the bottom alone no more!"
Obinai blinks. "Bottom?"
"Yeah! You see, I'd be in a lower dorm number if I was a full tiefling, but I ain't." Bram leans back against the bedpost, tapping one of his small, curved horns. "I'm a mix. Imp and tiefling. So, boom—here I am. Stuck in the 'leftover' dorms."
Obinai raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong with being mixed?"
Bram shrugs, but there's something tight in his expression now, like he's heard that question too many times before. "Eh. The nobility and royalty don't like it. They think we're... I dunno. Lesser. Too messy. Like we don't belong anywhere."
Obinai watches him for a second.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I get that."
Bram glances at him, then grins again, nudging Obinai's shoulder. "Eh, their loss, right? Besides, you're bunkin' with me now. Way better than roomin' with Erion. Trust me, if you had to stay with him, someone was gonna die, and it wouldn't be pretty."_
Obinai snorts. "Tempting."
Bram throws an arm around Obinai's shoulder, laughing. "See? You'll fit right in."
Obinai steps inside, and his gaze flicks between the halves of the dorm. One side is utterly lifeless—just a plain bed, an empty wardrobe, a desk waiting for something, anything, to make it feel occupied. The other side, however, is a controlled chaos of personality. Martial arts scrolls, some yellowed with age, hang from the walls. A training dummy, dented and wrapped in worn leather, leans against the corner near a set of stacked iron weights.
A low wooden table holds a small shrine, its incense sticks burned down to their last inch, leaving behind a faint, smoky aroma that mingles with the scent of old paper.
His eyes drift to the desk, cluttered with books on combat strategy and martial philosophy. Some lay open, others stacked haphazardly, with loose pages jutting out at odd angles, covered in scribbled notes. The bed is far from neat—blankets tangled, pillows pushed aside, and the sheets wrinkled like someone had rolled out of it in a hurry and never bothered to fix it.
"Well," he says, starting to drop his light baggage onto the untouched mattress. "Guess I know which side is yours."
A voice snickers behind him. "Yeah, no shit."
Obinai turns to see his new roommate grinning, arms crossed over his chest.
Bram claps Obinai on the back—hard enough to make him stumble. "Welcome to your new home. We'll get you settled, then I'll show you around—the fun way."
Obinai rolls his shoulders, eyeing Bram warily. "Define 'fun.'"
Bram grins wider, showing slightly sharpened canines. "Would ruin the surprise."
That doesn't sit right with Obinai, but he doesn't push it. Instead examines the storage packets and starts unpacking. As he starts to pull them out, Bram tilts his head.
"…That all you got?"
Obinai shrugs. "Didn't have much to bring."
Bram snorts. "Figures. Oh—hey, uh…" He scratches the back of his neck, his tail flicking slightly. "You got any money?"
Obinai's hands pause mid-motion. He looks up. "…No?"
Bram winces, dragging a hand down his face. "Ooooh, yeah, that's gonna suck. You gotta buy your own textbooks and uniform. Ain't cheap either."
Obinai's stomach sinks. "Great. That's exactly what I wanted to hear today."
Bram pats him on the shoulder in an almost sympathetic way. "Hey, don't stress—" He pauses, something flickering behind his eyes. His usual easygoing expression shifts, something unreadable settling into his face. Then, quieter, almost to himself—"Yeah, money's… everything. If you don't got it, you're screwed. Even—" He cuts himself off, shakes his head sharply, then grins again, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Anyway! We'll figure it out. Don't think about it too hard."
Obinai catches the slip, but before he can pry, Bram stretches his arms above his head and lets out a yawn. "Gimme a sec, gonna get ready to take you on the tour."
Obinai nods, still considering Bram's sudden shift in demeanor....
Just as Obinai starts to relax, something yank his collar.
"What the—"
His breath is knocked out of him as his feet leave the ground. He's dragged backward with ridiculous strength, barely catching a glimpse of Bram's wild grin before the world lurches.
"LET'S FUCKIN' GO!" Bram cackles.
And then—
Glass shatters.
Wind howls past Obinai's ears. His stomach flips, the weightlessness hitting all at once as he realizes—
Bram just jumped out the damn window.
Obinai's eyes snap wide. The world below rushes up to meet them.
"WHAT THE HELL, WHAT THE HELL—" He thrashes, instinctively reaching for something, anything, but Bram holds on tight, still laughing like a maniac.
The ground below isn't far, but at this speed—
"[FEATHER FALL]! [FEATHER FALL]!" Obinai shouts, panic lacing his voice.
Bram? Still grinning. "Nah, we're good."
No. No, we're not.
The ground approaches fast...