They step out of the mirror and into another corridor—this one carved from marble so polished it glows from within, like someone trapped moonlight in the walls and called it architecture. The floor shifts color with every footfall. Even the light behaves oddly, like it’s been given strict instructions not to act natural.

  “We’ll swing by Registration to pick your classes and schedule,” Lena says, already moving. She strides straight through the next mirror without looking back. “You’ll get your materials list and uniform there. After that, quick detour—I’ll show you the highest point in Galamad so you can get your bearings. Then markets, for everything you’ll need before classes start tomorrow.”

  She glances back. “Any questions so far?”

  “Oh, tons,” Aster says, trying not to trip as he jogs to keep up. “But I figure dumping all of them on you now would either break my brain or yours. Probably both. I’m still operating at, like, three percent comprehension. But…” He eyes her sidelong. “I trust you. You seem like you know what you’re doing, and that puts you miles ahead of me right now.”

  Lena beams, clearly pleased. “Well, if you don’t know anyone yet, you should stick with me and my friends. You’ll meet them at lunch after we hit the overlook. One of them’s Spirit Type too—uses artifacts to keep up with all the flashy Element typings. I’m hoping she can help tutor you in Artificing and Alchemy.”

  She ticks off her fingers as she talks. “I’ll cover Cultivation and Spellcraft. Musa will handle Combat and Scripture. Between the three of us, we’ll get you sorted.”

  Aster blinks. “Wow. Okay. That’s… an actual support team. Great. Just one question.”

  She tilts her head.

  “Do you recommend drafting a will, or is that more of a second-semester thing?”

  Lena, already learning to ignore his more apocalyptic jokes, keeps walking.

  “You need seven courses to complete Year One,” she says, switching gears. “First four are your core curriculum—Cultivation 101, Combat 101, Spellcraft 101, and History 101. You’ll hate at least one of them, but they give you a foundation. The other three are specialized for your typing.”

  Aster perks up. “Which ones?”

  “Artificing, Alchemy, and Scripture,” she says. “They all rely heavily on Will. And considering you’ve got a rare Type and a freakishly high Will stat, they’re basically your bread and butter.”

  Aster pauses mid-step. “Scripture?”

  Lena doesn’t slow. “You’ll see.”

  “Okay, but—scripture what?” he asks, picking up his pace again. “Like… religion? Do I need to bring incense? A moral compass? Sacrificial goat?”

  She waves a hand as if brushing off static. “It’s just a class. It’s important. You’ll understand eventually.”

  Aster frowns. Eventually is one of those words people use when they really mean not now and not by choice.

  They come around a corner and emerge into what looks like a vault turned train station built from the same moonlight-like marble. The walls stretch high and windowless, silver-lined and stamped with crests. Students cluster in lines beneath crystalline windows where clerks in gilded robes push papers like they’re handling toxic spells.

  “I’ll be right back,” Lena says. “I see Musa. I’ll see you after you’re done.”

  She veers off before he can respond, cutting toward a tall, broad-shouldered guy who stands like someone born in a better myth. As she approaches, Lena’s posture shifts—lighter, looser, the kind of casual that takes effort. She tucks her hair behind one ear, then lets it fall again, talking to him with just a bit more brightness than she seemed to reserve for Aster.

  Aster joins the registration queue, which moves like tectonic plates. At the front, students are processed by clerks behind arcane glass windows. Each one looks older than time and twice as disinterested.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  When he reaches the desk, a clerk with skin like old vellum and eyes glazed from too many cycles of paperwork glances at him.

  “Name?”

  “Aster Elchen,” he says.

  “Legacy?”

  “Elchen and Sikiwe.”

  “Proof?”

  Aster blinks. “I… don’t have any.”

  “Noted. Temporary status confirmed. Designation Elchen-Pending.”

  “Sounds like I’m waiting to be printed.”

  “You are,” the clerk replies, already processing the forms Lena had filled out for him. “Assigned core courses: Cultivation, Combat, Spellcraft, History. Recommended electives based on Spirit affinity: Artificing, Alchemy, Scripture.”

  There it is again.

  “Right, about that,” Aster says. “Scripture. No one’s told me what it is.”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “I’m just asking for context.”

  “And I’m just telling you: you’ll find out.”

  He stares, deadpan. “Did you minor in condescension or is this your calling?”

  The clerk offers a bureaucratic smile, which is just a frown turned upside down by institutional power. “Your uniform and schedule will be delivered by courier fish. You are finished here.”

  Before Aster can formulate a proper philosophical argument about the horrors of institutional apathy—or beg not to send another fish his way—he’s nudged aside by the next student and pushed back into the current of the line.

  Lena waves him over again. Still standing beside the guy she went to greet—and up close, he’s even more intimidating. Not in a hostile way. More like the air just listens to him better than it listens to everyone else.

  “Aster, this is Musa,” Lena says, a little too fast. “He’s the one I mentioned who’ll help you with Scripture and Combat.”

  Aster looks up—and up—at Musa.

  He’s built like a demigod carved out of old-school muscle and ritual discipline—tall, broad, composed. His skin is a rich umber tone, his hair cropped short. Easily over six feet and solid. A cheetah skin drapes over one shoulder of his pristine white uniform like a badge of earned ferocity. His aura isn’t threatening—it’s settled. Solid. Like a mountain that’s decided to tolerate you for now.

  Every alarm in Aster’s head starts flashing DO NOT FIGHT. DO NOT SASS. DO NOT EVEN ATTEMPT BANTER.

  Still, he sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Please don’t murder me.”

  Musa grins—warm, easy, terrifying. His handshake feels like clasping a steel rod wrapped in sun-warmed leather. “Not before we pick you a scripture and weapon,” he says, winking at Aster.

  “I’ll take you to the Weapon Depository after lunch,” he continues. “They’ve got more than just swords. Good scriptures too. Most of the Legacies skip it. Their families spoon-feed them the same five techniques and call it tradition. But if you’re building from scratch, it’s worth seeing what the school actually offers.”

  Aster nods but can’t help getting stuck on the same word. “I’ve now heard the word scripture three times and still have no idea what it means in this context. Is it praying with extra steps? Religious swordplay?”

  Musa actually smiles. “It’s… not that far off.”

  “So sermons and swords?”

  Lena cuts in before Aster can get another word out. “He’ll show you the Vault after lunch. That’s where you’ll choose your starting weapon and scripture—”

  And just like that, he’s out of the conversation. Lena and Musa drift into logistical murmurs—timetables, sparring rotations, tutoring schedules. The kind of administrative bonding that turns into background noise once you realize it no longer includes you.

  Aster stands there. Bored. Annoyed.

  Third time someone’s said scripture without explaining a single damn thing. At this point, it’s starting to feel deliberate. Like a prank. Or a cult initiation rite.

  His brain, ever helpful, fills in the blanks.

  The scene in his mind unspools instantly: a circular arena made of stained glass and gold, two robed figures locked in theological combat. One quotes the Book of Lamentations while hurling bolts of radiant despair; the other deflects them with Ezekiel’s Wheel and counters with a flaming angel wielding a trumpet like a warhammer. Doves explode. Choirs scream. Someone speaks Aramaic backwards and the sky splits open. Aster’s eyes glaze, mouth drifting half-open in awe.

  He sees angels descending in full combat harness, parchment wings flaring, canon-law armor rattling with verses. Enemies dissolve not from wounds, but from the unbearable weight of sacred grammar.

  It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying. It’s possibly illegal.

  Aster stares past them all, eyes unfocused, mouth slightly open like he’s buffering the apocalypse.

  Lena nudges him.

  Nothing.

  Musa leans slightly, brow creasing. “Is he… okay?”

  They wait. Aster continues buffering the apocalypse, half-grinning, eyes bright like a man seeing God through a bad Wi-Fi connection.

  Musa shrugs, adjusting his cloak. “I’ll leave him to you, then. Tell him to meet me at the Vault after lunch. I’ll help him get started.”

  And then he’s gone—folding into the Mirror-Portal like the building reclaiming him for recycling.

  Lena watches him go, her jaw tight. “You embarrassed me.”

  Aster finally stirs, blinking slowly like he’s waking from anesthesia. “What? What happened?”

  “You went slack-jawed for a full minute while I was introducing you.”

  “I was thinking!”

  “You were drooling.”

  “I was visualizing!”

  “You looked like you forgot how breathing work.”

  “I was running simulations!”

  “Of what?!”

  “Of what scripture might be, since no one here will tell me.”

  Lena grabs his ear and yanks.

  “Ow—what the hell! What did I do?!”

  “You ruined my moment,” she snaps, dragging him toward the stairs. “And now we’re going to Highview, and you’re going to pretend to be normal in public.”

  Around them, students turn to stare. Some chuckle. Others whisper. Someone takes a picture.

  Aster, hunched as Lena pulls him up the marble steps by his ear, mutters, “Just so we’re clear—this counts as spiritual abuse.”

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