The tour wound deeper into the Academy’s labyrinthine wings—past soaring lecture halls carved with ancient runes, past skybridges of floating stone that shimmered with warded glyphs, and finally into a quiet corridor lined with thick oak doors etched in stylized script.

  “The West Wing,” Veska said crisply. “Reserved for research, history, and arcane records. You will not enter here without specific clearance—or escort.”

  Tazien, trailing just behind Ilyari, leaned sideways. “So… this is the wing where all the secrets are kept?”

  Lorn grunted. “No, boy. This is where the people who record the secrets work. The actual secrets are kept elsewhere.”

  Ilyari snorted softly. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

  Veska ignored them and pushed open a large arched door at the end of the corridor. Warm light spilled out, accompanied by the scent of old parchment, beeswax polish, and lavender ink.

  “The Academy Archive and Central Library,” she announced, stepping aside.

  Inside, the library was vast—vaulted ceilings lined with glowing orbs that floated above the central rotunda, casting soft golden light across thousands of leather-bound volumes. Balconies and catwalks spidered across three levels, each packed with books, scrolls, etched tablets, and more than a few hovering librarian drones shaped like floating feathers.

  Tazien gave a low whistle. “Okay… this I like.”

  Ilyari stepped forward, her gaze soaking in the atmosphere. “We could get lost in here for months.”

  “No,” Veska said dryly. “You will not get lost. You will check out your pre-approved material, follow proper etiquette, and refrain from disrupting academic spaces.”

  Just then, the sound of rushing footsteps echoed from the nearby shelves.

  A young woman came barreling around the corner—arms full of stacked tomes nearly as tall as her chest.

  Tazien instinctively stepped forward to help—just as the stack shifted.

  “Whoa—careful!” he said, grabbing the top two books just before they tumbled.

  The girl paused, startled. Her dark curls were half-tied back in a scholarly braid, and round glasses perched low on her nose. She looked to be no older than seventeen… and dressed plainly in scholar’s gray. Her robe sleeves were ink-stained, and her boots scuffed from pacing.

  Tazien blinked. “Uh—sorry kid. I didn’t mean to—just thought you were gonna lose these.”

  She blinked once, then twice—her eyes, an unusual stormy green, narrowing behind her lenses.

  “I had it under control,” she said coolly, adjusting the stack with practiced ease. “You shouldn’t be wandering in this section without clearance.”

  “Oh—sorry again,” Tazien said seeing her credentials sewn to her lapel and winced. “I thought you were a student. Didn’t expect the faculty to—uh—run like that.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “I am a professor. Assistant Archivist for Ancient Political Lineages and Symbolic Warfare.”

  Tazien stared. “You’re joking.”

  She scowled. “And you just earned yourself a point off.”

  Ilyari winced audibly.

  “I didn’t mean—sorry, I just—”

  “Name?” the girl asked briskly, already shifting the books into one arm while pulling out a small slate from a pouch at her hip.

  “Uh… Tazien Aierenbane.”

  “House?”

  “I’m not sorted yet. I’m—uh—technically still in induction.”

  Her eyes narrowed further. “Then I’ll file the offense under probationary evaluation. Expect formal reprimand after your sorting.”

  Tazien opened his mouth. Then closed it again. “...Why are you mad at me?”

  The professor didn’t answer. She simply turned with precision and vanished behind the nearest column, her footsteps fading into the quiet buzz of magical filing shelves.

  Lorn chuckled under his breath.

  Veska looked halfway pleased for the first time that morning.

  Tazien stared after the girl, still holding the book he'd tried to help with. “That was… intense.”

  Ilyari stepped beside him. “You just flirted with a professor and called her a student.”

  “I didn’t flirt!”

  “She’s definitely going to flunk you.”

  “I didn’t even do anything!” he hissed.

  Lorn gave a low grunt. “Next time, maybe don’t call the senior lineages professor ‘kiddo.’”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You almost did,” Ilyari said sweetly.

  Tazien sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “This school is insane.”

  Veska straightened her cuffs. “Welcome to the Academy.”

  The scent of roasted herbs and honeyed root vegetables wafted down the corridor, faint but unmistakable. It hit Tazien first, who sniffed the air like a bloodhound.

  “Wait. Are we… eating?”

  Veska didn’t turn around. “Lunch is part of the midday cycle. Formal dining is a core component of noble etiquette.”

  Tazien whispered sideways to Ilyari, “Core component of not starving.”

  But Ilyari didn’t laugh. She had gone still, her face paling as the corridor widened into a gleaming archway lined with hanging mana lanterns. Through it, the Grand Dining Hall stretched wide—long tables of polished stone, each adorned with crisp navy linens, crystal pitchers, and place settings that sparkled like an armory of cutlery.

  Students in uniform sat in orderly rows, speaking in murmurs and sips, every gesture controlled, every movement exact. The sound of laughter—quiet, practiced laughter—fluttered up from one of the farther tables, where a cluster of noble girls toyed with tiny teacakes like a flock of jeweled birds.

  Ilyari stopped walking.

  Tazien nearly bumped into her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t study dining etiquette,” she whispered, dread blooming in her chest. “I thought we’d be dismissed after the tour. I didn’t think we’d… be expected to eat.”

  Veska turned just slightly, her eyes gleaming like flint. “Oh? Miss Aierenbane, surely you reviewed Section Four of the Etiquette Primer?”

  Ilyari gave a slow, silent shake of her head.

  “Unfortunate,” Veska said, and that was all.

  Tazien exhaled. “I didn’t study it either, if we’re being honest.”

  Lorn chuckled. “Good. At least you’ll fail together.”

  The pair were led toward a small table near the east windows—more isolated than the center rows, but still in full view of half the hall. Servants in dove-gray uniforms swept in without a word, pulling out chairs and pouring water into crystal goblets.

  Ilyari sat stiffly, back ramrod straight.

  Tazien dropped into his chair like a man preparing for execution.

  The place setting in front of them was a battlefield of polished steel and gleaming confusion: three forks, two knives, a soup spoon, a smaller spoon, something curved, and a mysterious little pronged implement that looked more like a surgical tool than anything edible.

  Tazien leaned in. “Which one is for stabbing my pride?”

  Ilyari gave him a withering look.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Their first course arrived: a chilled cream soup, artfully swirled with something lavender and terrifying.

  To her credit, Ilyari reached for the outermost spoon first—the correct choice.

  Veska, seated at the head of their table, gave the faintest nod.

  Tazien followed suit. He did not look confident, but he mimicked her and avoided embarrassment.

  But as the second course arrived—stuffed squash petals with grain pearls and thin vinaigrette—panic began to bloom.

  Ilyari hesitated.

  Which fork?

  The outer one was used.

  The middle?

  Or the thin-tined one for greens?

  She chose the wrong one.

  A soft tsk echoed from Veska.

  Tazien chose the middle one.

  Lorn cleared his throat. “Dessert fork.”

  Tazien slowly put the fork down. “Of course it was.”

  Ilyari didn’t look up. Her ears were pink, her jaw tight. She picked at the petals and willed the room to swallow her whole.

  By the time the roasted fish arrived—garnished with floating violet mana pearls and a roasted root so delicate it quivered—Ilyari had chosen three wrong implements, dropped one spoon, and accidentally reached for the water goblet to her left.

  She didn’t dare glance at Veska.

  Tazien had managed only marginally better. His bread plate had acquired his fish knife, and he tried twice to slice the root with the dessert blade before Lorn quietly pushed the correct one closer.

  “You’re not trying to duel it,” the old man muttered. “Just eat.”

  As they finished the meal, Ilyari set down her final fork with trembling precision and sat very still.

  “Miss Aierenbane,” Veska said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “A noblewoman must learn to eat with elegance, not endurance.”

  “I understand,” Ilyari said softly.

  Tazien, without looking up, muttered, “I’m just glad I didn’t choke.”

  Lorn grunted. “It was close.”

  When the meal was cleared, Veska stood. “You’ll both be tested on this next week. Practice at home. If you don’t have proper silverware, draw it on parchment and memorize the placement. And read Section Four.”

  Ilyari rose, her expression composed but pale.

  Tazien followed, stuffing the last bit of bread roll in his mouth. “Worth it,” he mumbled.

  As they exited the hall, trailing their instructors once more, Ilyari didn’t say anything.

  But Tazien leaned close.

  “You picked the first spoon right,” he said. “That’s a win.”

  Ilyari’s mouth twitched.

  “A very small win.”

  “They all count.”

  As she passed by them, Veska’s voice rang out sharply. “You’ll be tested again tomorrow. Expect no warning.”

  And ahead, the next trial loomed—another hallway, another room, another set of rules waiting to be broken.

  As the heavy doors of the dining hall creaked shut behind them, Ilyari and Tazien followed Veska and Lorn into the main corridor lined with shadowed alcoves and glimmering mage-lanterns. The echoes of quiet footsteps and distant lessons buzzed faintly along the vaulted ceiling.

  Veska walked several paces ahead, her pace swift and posture rigid, but she stopped at the base of the main staircase and turned abruptly.

  “This concludes your Academy orientation for today,” she said crisply.

  Tazien blinked. “Wait, no post-lunch quiz? No mystery fork challenge?”

  Veska ignored him. “You will not be returning with us. The carriage that brought you has been redirected.”

  Ilyari stiffened slightly. “Then… how are we meant to get home?”

  “You’re to walk,” Veska said, as if it were obvious. “Like any low-ranking noble student without official status. You’re not entitled to escort travel. Consider it practice. You’ll be navigating these streets for the next several years.”

  Tazien let out a short breath. “And if we get lost?”

  “Then you’ll learn the city faster,” Veska replied. “And if you don’t? You were never meant to survive this place.”

  Lorn finally spoke, voice less sharp but no less final. “The route from here to Willowgrove is listed in your residential orientation booklet. Page fifteen.”

  “Memorize it,” Veska added. “You won’t be coddled. Not here.”

  “What if we have our own carriage? Would we be able to use it?” Tazien asked.

  Veska and Lorn laughed out loud.

  “You. Own a carriage! Oh my how much hope are in children. Ah, yes. If you are able to procure your own carriage, your footman and driver will obviously arrange your travel to and from the Academy.”

  They both turned, their robes sweeping behind them like banners of dismissal.

  Ilyari called out quickly before they could vanish into the crowd. “Master Veska—thank you. For the instruction.”

  Veska paused.

  Just briefly.

  Then nodded without turning around. “We’ll see if you remember it tomorrow.”

  Then she was gone.

  Tazien glanced sideways. “That was... kind of ominous.”

  Ilyari sighed and folded her arms. “Let’s just get home before someone else tries to teach us which spoon to cry into.”

  They turned toward the wide double doors of the Academy’s west exit, the sky beyond already softening into a pale lavender dusk. The road home would not be short.

  The walk home from the Academy was longer than Ilyari remembered.

  Not just in distance—but in weight.

  Their feet moved over stone streets polished by centuries, flanked by orderly storefronts gleaming beneath gold-trimmed signs. The city around the Academy wasn't made for wandering students or common coin.

  It was for nobles.

  And nobles did not loiter.

  They dined behind windows thick with etched glass and purchased goods from shops where prices were listed in runes, not numbers. Market stalls were nowhere in sight—replaced instead by perfumed boutiques, consultation parlors, and tailor flags embroidered with thread that probably cost more than Willowgrove’s entire pantry.

  “We don’t belong here,” Tazien muttered.

  Ilyari, straightening her shoulders, replied, “Yet here we are.”

  They were halfway through a corridor of shimmering storefronts when a deep voice called out.

  “Ah! The young royals.”

  They stopped.

  Lord Talvane stood across the street, speaking to a slightly older man dressed in merchant-cut robes—tall, with dark skin, greying temples, and a sharp gold-tipped cane. Talvane's cloak was pushed back over one shoulder, and he gestured to them casually as if beckoning old acquaintances.

  They crossed quickly, Ilyari dipping into a practiced bow. “Lord Talvane.”

  Tazien followed. “My lord. Thank you for acknowledging us.”

  Talvane blinked. “Royalty bowing to me? Now that’s something you don’t see every age.” He smiled without mockery. “I’m usually the one bowing.”

  His companion chuckled. “It’s refreshing. Most blooded heirs can’t be bothered to breathe the same air as us merchant nobles.”

  Ilyari tilted her head politely. “You’re… merchant class, my lord?”

  “Lord Ranthur Meir of House Tellast,” the man said, offering a respectful nod. “We deal in imports, fine glass, metalwork… and the occasional artisan commission for events.”

  Talvane gestured lightly. “My family’s simpler. We produce tobacco and coffee—high demand, steady supply. Not exactly palace fare, but the Emperor’s table sees us often enough.”

  Tazien’s eyes widened. “You’re farmers?”

  Talvane grinned. “With land holdings the size of a city district. Don’t underestimate soil, boy. It feeds more than mouths—it feeds coffers.”

  Meir leaned in. “And what of you two? Any occupation yet? Will you continue tailoring? Word around the East Wing says your clothes are raising eyebrows.”

  Ilyari exchanged a glance with Tazien. “We haven’t figured it out yet,” she admitted. “We’re still… learning what’s available to us.”

  “And we’re light on coin,” Tazien added bluntly. “There’s still mold in the bath. And most of the floorboards in our drawing room creak like tortured spirits.”

  “Ah, Willowgrove,” Meir said thoughtfully. “Mystery of the upper ring.”

  Talvane raised an eyebrow. “You live there?”

  “We do,” Ilyari said. “It was gifted… well, not gifted. Assigned.”

  Lord Meir scratched his chin. “That place hasn’t been touched in decades. Listen—there’s a solution. I’ve heard the Woodworking Guild has a new apprentice program. They’re always hunting for challenge projects. If you allow them to work in your home under supervision, you might be able to have renovations done for half or even a quarter the coin.”

  “Really?” Ilyari asked, surprised.

  “You’d still have to fine-tune the work,” Meir warned. “Apprentices are… variable. But if the guilds get curious about the rumors of Willowgrove, you could barter the exposure.”

  Ilyari considered this. “That might be worth asking.”

  “I’ll write to the guildmaster myself,” Meir offered. “And to the Makers Guild. At least they can evaluate your bath situation.”

  Tazien smiled. “We’d be grateful.”

  That was the moment Lady Talvane arrived.

  She approached with the poise of a polished blade—cloak immaculate, jewelry modest but unmistakably expensive. Her eyes fell on Ilyari and Tazien—and narrowed.

  “What are they doing here?” she demanded.

  Lord Talvane blinked. “Having a conversation.”

  “With you?” she said, incredulous. “In public?”

  “They greeted me properly,” he said coolly. “Better than most royals I’ve met.”

  “They’re children.”

  “They’re heirs with no guardians and no staff,” Talvane snapped. “How else are they supposed to get their residence fixed? Magic it?”

  Lady Talvane flushed. “This is not how nobles behave—trading gossip in the street like commoners.”

  “They weren’t gossiping,” Lord Meir said evenly. “They were asking questions.”

  She turned to Ilyari then—her smile sugar-laced and dangerous. “Then perhaps, Miss Aierenbane, you’ll be glad to join me for tea in three days. The ladies of court will be most curious to meet you.”

  Ilyari paled.

  “My wife,” Lord Talvane said, voice low, “that is too soon.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Talvane said brightly. “A young lady must always be ready. I’ll expect her at noon.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned, her heels clicking like distant thunder, and swept away.

  Lord Talvane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods help you.”

  Lord Meir tried not to laugh. “Brace yourself, young miss. You’ve been summoned.”

  As they parted ways and continued toward home, Ilyari walked in stunned silence.

  Tazien, hands behind his head, said cheerfully, “I’ll be working on WynData’s outer shell tomorrow. Maybe singing to Laileeih.”

  “Who is Laileeih?” Ilyari asked.

  “Ohhh, you remember that vine that tried to eat me and my gardening shears?”

  “The one I told you to cut at the base?”

  “Yeah so I tried cutting the vines so I could get to the base and it just grew back too fast, so in a panic, I may have re-coded it to be permanently bound to the wall. But she loves it so much now that she’s upright that she started growing flowers. Pretty glowy purple ones.” Tazien explained excitedly.

  “You… You let it live? I don’t know what is worse, the fact that we now have a half sentient plant stuck to our front gate wall or the fact that you’ll be sining to it,” Ilyari muttered. “She doesn’t deserve that.”

  Tazien grinned. “What, my voice is motivational.”

  “If she explodes in the night, I’ll know why.”

  And Willowgrove rose ahead of them—waiting, listening, and—if the wind was to be believed—laughing.

  really wants?

  ?? Will Ilyari survive this courtly tea trap?

  ?? And should Tazien’s pet vine, Laileeih, get her own chapter?