World around me snapped away as I woke with a sharp gasp, my chest heaving like I’d been submerged in water. My bare chest sweating, and my heart pounded hard enough to hurt. The fragments of her fragile voice still lingered in my ears, faint and cruel, like a phantom whisper.

  I close my eyes as I fought to steady my breathing. The weight of the dream clung to me, refusing to fade. My hand instinctively found the amulet around my neck, its cool surface grounding me in the present. I tightened my grip, willing its solidity to tether me to the here and now.

  The room came into focus slowly, the morning sun spilling through the tall dormitory window. The light painted golden streaks on the polished floor, but it offered little warmth against the cold air biting at my skin. I ran a hand through my damp hair, trying to shake off the vividness of it all; the throne room, the voices, the fury.

  A sharp argument broke through the fog in my mind, pulling me back fully. Rowan’s voice, loud and brash, cut across the room, clashing with a smoother, sneering tone I didn’t recognize. I turned my head toward the sound, my body still tense, the remnants of the dream’s anger refusing to release their grip.

  Near my bed, Rowan stood rigid, his fists balled at his sides, glaring at blonde hair guy, whose crisp appearance and perpetual sneer made him look like he’d walked straight out of some noble’s portrait. Valen stood between them, his hands raised in a gesture of placation, though the tension in his posture betrayed his unease. He must be the other roommate, Lucas.

  "Do we really have to share this room with peasants?" Lucas scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair. His green eyes narrowed on Rowan, who stood near his bed, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between amused and annoyed.

  "Peasants?" Rowan leaned back, letting out a sarcastic laugh. "Why don’t you ask the college to build you a personal castle, oh great prince? I’m sure the rest of us would happily donate our scraps to fund it."

  Lucas’s lip curled. “Say what you will, but you’re still standing in my presence unworthy. My house would never allow—”

  "Enough," Valen interrupted, stepping between them. His calm blue eyes darting between the two of them. "We’re all Drakens now. There are no peasants here, Lucas, and no princes either. Just students." He clapped both of them on the shoulder in an attempt to ease the tension, though Rowan accepted it with a grin while Lucas swatted his hand away in irritation.

  "Don’t touch me," Lucas snapped, grabbing a spotless towel from his neatly placed uniform over his bed. "Fine. But don’t expect me to be friendly. I’ll tolerate this... arrangement for now." He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, muttering something under his breath that might have been an insult if it wasn’t drowned out by the creak of the hinges.

  Rowan watched him leave with a sigh of relief, plopping back onto his bed. "Well, at least we won’t be bored. That guy’s wound tighter than the strings on a lute."

  Valen rubbed the back of his neck, his posture awkward. "Don’t take him too seriously. Lucas... has his ways."

  "And those ways involve constantly reminding us we’re beneath him," Rowan muttered. Then, noticing me sitting up in bed, he grinned. "Enjoyed the show, did you?"

  I stretched, tossing the blanket aside, my amulet catching the light as it dangled against my bare chest. "Little late to join, but it had its moments."

  "You should’ve joined our little show, then," Rowan teased, digging through his closet for a towel. "Then get used to it. Mornings with Lucas are going to be a regular thing, I can feel it."

  Valen leaned against the frame of his bed, arms crossed. "Get cleaned up. Don’t want to miss the wand selection ceremony. First impressions matter."

  Rowan perked up at that, looking at me with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Come on, Einar. Let’s go scrub up and look like proper scholars. Can’t let our noble friend outshine us too much, can we?"

  I grabbed a towel from the closet, slinging it over my shoulder, and followed Rowan to the door. Valen stayed behind, his silence notable. He hadn’t spoken directly to me all morning—not after last night’s exchange about the sword and family. The guilt between us was palpable, but neither of us seemed eager to address it.

  The male baths were down the stairs, a simple but well-kept space with rows of stalls toilets and baths, washbasins, and a large central pool of steaming water. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of soap and wet stone. Seniors lounged casually in the pool, their conversation blending into a low hum that echoed off the tiled walls.

  Lucas was already there, perched on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, his usual air of superiority intact even as he relaxed. He barely acknowledged us as we passed by.

  The water was a luxury. Warm, plentiful, and far removed from the cramped tubs and cold streams I was used to. It had been days since I’d felt clean, and for once, I allowed myself to enjoy it. Rowan, of course, made a spectacle of it, splashing around and muttering about how nobles probably bathed in gold.

  When we returned to the room, freshly scrubbed, Valen was gone. Lucas, on the other hand, was standing in front of the only mirror, adjusting his tie with a precision that bordered on obsessive. He’d already donned the college uniform, the crimson stripes of Drakens on the black robe catching the light. The tie was perfectly knotted, the white shirt pressed without a single wrinkle.

  "Say what you will about him," Rowan muttered as he pulled open the closet to retrieve his uniform, "but the bastard cleans up well."

  I followed suit, pulling out the neatly folded uniform waiting for me. Two sets of shirts, ties, trousers, and robes—one full-length with a hood and another shorter one—along with leather boots and an extra sweater for the colder months. The crimson accents on the black fabric were striking, and the phoenix sigil embroidered over the chest gave it an air of importance.

  The weight of the robe was a reminder of where we were. The thought lingered as I buttoned up the shirt, tied the crimson-striped tie, and slipped into the robe. My sword, carefully hidden in the closet, remained untouched for now. Weapons weren’t allowed in the college grounds, at least outside dorms.

  The common room was alive with activity when we descended the stairs. First years milled about, chatting in clusters or waiting nervously by the hearth. The warmth from the fire filled the space, and the faint sound of a piano being played somewhere in the background added a sense of calm to the otherwise chaotic energy.

  Rowan spotted Alina near a group of girls, her auburn hair unmistakable even in the crowd. She was laughing at something, her arms crossed as she leaned casually against the back of a sofa. Rowan waved, calling her name, and she motioned for us to join her.

  "Look at you two," she teased as we approached, eyeing our uniforms. "Finally looking like proper scholars. Almost makes me believe you belong here."

  "Almost?" Rowan scoffed, feigning offence. "Says the girl who dressed like a rogue whose ready to storm the woods."

  The elf girl standing beside her chuckled softly. I remember her from yesterday. Her silver-white hair caught the firelight, and her pale blue eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement. "He’s not wrong. You did look like a hunter."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The black haired girl beside her rolled her amethyst eyes. "Alina. Are these two the ones you mentioned?"

  "Yes," Alina said, smirking. "Einar and Rowan. Don’t let Rowan’s jokes fool you. He’s more bark than bite. And Einar..." She glanced at me. "Well, he’s still warming up to socializing."

  “Lyssa, remember him from yesterday? The one who failed to cast a flame spell.” The elf girl said, poking the black hair girl beside her, Lyssa.”

  Lyssa said, dropping her poking hand. “Half of the applicants failed in casting the spell. How can anyone remember each one of them?”

  “Yes, true. But he was the only one who failed with confidence. Even the headmaster praised him for his confidence, remember? Just look at those crimson eyes, you will remember.”

  “Sera. You shouldn’t say these things.” Lyssa said, with a strict tone.

  “Ahem.” Alina coughed, breaking their conversation. “Well, this is Lyssa and Seraphine. They are cousins and sisters. And we share the same room.”

  Rowan grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. "And you two are cousins." He paused, tilting his head. "You’re an elf," he said, pointing at Sera, then turned to Lyssa. "But you... look human."

  Alina’s elbow jabbed into his ribs before Lyssa’s smile could fade completely. "I take after my father," she said quietly. "He was… human."

  The word ‘was’ hung in the air like a weight, but before the mood could turn, Valen stepped in with his usual easy charm. "You wouldn’t believe this, but they’re our roommates," he said, jerking a thumb toward Rowan and me. "And Lucas even greeted them this morning. Right, Lucas?"

  Lucas, who had been staring absently at the far wall, snapped his attention back to the group with a scowl. "If you call enduring their presence a greeting, then sure."

  Sera raised an eyebrow. "Him? Greeting someone first? That is hard to believe."

  Valen laughed awkwardly, trying to smooth over the tension as Lucas stalked toward the stairs. "He grows on you. Eventually."

  "Like mold," Rowan muttered under his breath, earning a stifled laugh from Alina.

  Lucas started moving to the stairs leaving the dormitory, looking from his shoulders. “If your ‘greetings’ are finished, let's move to the feast hall. There will be a small ceremony before wand selection.”

  And with that, we made our way to the main building for breakfast and whatever the ceremony was about.

  The feast hall was alive with noise—clattering plates, muffled laughter, and the hum of countless whispered conversations. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread mingled with the faint tang of burning candles from the chandeliers above, which bathed the room in a soft golden glow. The five long tables, arranged neatly in rows, were packed with first-year students, all wearing the crisp uniforms of their respective houses.

  At the Drakenhall table, the crimson stripes on our robes marked us unmistakably, and though there were about forty of us first years, it already felt like a small, unruly family. Rowan sat across from me, a chicken leg in one hand, a mug of what smelled like cider in the other. Valen was seated further down, deep in conversation with a few other students, his usual calm demeanor cutting through the chaos.

  I tore a piece of bread, dipping it into the warm gravy pooled on my plate. The meal was hearty and rich—better than anything I’d had in months. But my attention wasn’t fully on the food. My eyes drifted toward the professor's table, elevated from the rest of the hall.

  The headmaster sat in the center, his ancient features still sharp and wise under the flickering candlelight. He was speaking quietly to Professor Bloodrose, the latter’s stern face unchanging as he listened. All the chairs at the table were filled save one. That empty seat must’ve belonged to Professor Eris, the newly appointed head of Drakenhall. Rumour had already begun to swirl about her—the youngest professor in the college, known for her talent, calm demeanour, and near-legendary lectures among the older students.

  Before I could dwell on it further, a loud slap of a hand on the professor's table echoed across the hall, cutting through the chatter like a blade. The room fell silent, save for the faint clink of someone’s fork dropping onto their plate. Rowan froze mid-bite, the chicken leg hovering near his mouth.

  The headmaster rose, his deep, commanding voice filling the hall. “Good morning, students. I trust you have begun settling into your new homes.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the room. For us first-years, the dorms were still fresh and unfamiliar, the newness both exciting and disorienting.

  The headmaster continued, his tone calm yet firm. “Today marks an important tradition of this institution—your wand selection. The wands you will wield have been crafted by the elves of Lorien, using centuries of wisdom and craftsmanship of wood. These are not mere tools but extensions of your will and essence. And as is custom, the wand will choose its wielder. It has always been so, and it will remain so.”

  The hall buzzed with whispers, and I caught snippets of conversations from nearby.

  “Thousands of wands…” one boy muttered.

  “My father said that they also have wands used by many sorcerers in history,” said another girl, wide-eyed.

  I glanced at Rowan, who leaned forward, grinning. “Bet mine’s gonna be something grand. Like one of those dark-wood wands with a powerful core.” He nudged me. “What about you, Einar?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t care, as long as it works.”

  Rowan rolled his eyes. “Of course you’d say that. The one in the test doesn’t work for you and it was even a testing wand.”

  The headmaster raised a hand, silencing the whispers. “Before we begin, I must remind you all of the rules of this college, for they exist to ensure your safety. Mister Mosswell, our Keeper of Laws, will elaborate some important ones.”

  From the far left of the professor’s table, a tall, gaunt man in a dark robe stood. His presence was severe, with a voice as sharp as a whip. “Thank you, Headmaster. Students, there are rules here, and breaking them will not end well for you.” His gaze swept over the room like a hawk scanning for prey.

  “The first rule: Curfew. No student is permitted to wander the grounds after eight in the evening. By ten, you must be in your dorms. No exceptions.”

  I heard Rowan mutter, “What happens at night? Do the professors turn into wolves or something?”

  I smirked, “Don’t know about professors, but there could be wolves in the forest on the north side.”

  Mosswell continued. “Second: You are not to draw your wands on fellow students unless supervised by a professor or within the designated duel grounds. Third: You may only leave the college grounds on weekends and must return by Sunday evening. Permission from your house head or myself is required for longer absences.”

  His voice dropped, becoming almost ominous. “Lastly, there are restricted areas within this college. Rooms, wings, floors and sections of the library that are forbidden to students without proper authorization. Should you be found in these places…” He let the sentence hang, leaving the punishment to our imaginations.

  The room was still as he finished, the weight of his words lingering.

  The headmaster stood once more, his expression less severe. “With those reminders in place, we shall now proceed to the day’s event. After your meal, you will follow your respective house guides to the Wand Hall. Drakens, as Professor Eris is unavailable, your guide will be Miss Caelyn, a third-year and assistant to your house head.”

  At the mention of Professor Eris, whispers broke out again.

  Valen leaned across the table, his voice low but excited. “Professor Eris. She’s the youngest professor in the college’s history. Only twenty-five.”

  Lucas, seated beside him, nodded in agreement, his emerald eyes lighting up. “Her lectures are famous. Not just for the content, mind you. Her beauty is… remarkable.”

  Sera, sitting nearby, giggled softly, exchanging a glance with Lyssa. “She is remarkable. But perhaps you should focus on her lessons rather than her looks.”

  Lucas smirked. “Why not both?”

  Rowan snorted. “I’m more curious if she’s as good a teacher as everyone claims. Or if it’s all just… rumors.”

  “Rumors?” Valen raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. She’s been called one of the most talented sorcerers of her generation. And she’s a Draken and graduated as one.”

  Rowan shrugged, unbothered. “We’ll see.”