Lysara was summoned after dusk.

  A runner found her in the corridor outside the dorms, expression carefully neutral.

  “Miss Lysara,” they said. “You are requested.”

  Not required. Requested.

  That alone set her nerves more on edge.

  She followed them through parts of the Academy she hadn’t yet been assigned to—older corridors, less trafficked, the stone worn smooth by centuries of quiet authority. The door they stopped before bore no plaque.

  Inside, voices paused.

  The room was circular, smaller than she expected, its walls lined with shelves rather than sigils. Lamps burned low, casting long shadows across a central table where several figures sat—or stood, or paced.

  The runner stepped aside.

  “Enter.”

  Lysara did.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The door closed behind her.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then a woman with iron-grey hair pulled back in a severe knot regarded her over steepled fingers.

  “Sit,” she said. Not unkindly. Not gently.

  Lysara obeyed.

  “You passed,” the woman continued. “All relevant evaluations.”

  Lysara nodded once.

  She gestured to the table. “You now have options.”

  “Apothecary,” said the first professor. “Formal track. Full access.”

  “Advanced Alchemy,” said the second. “With constraints.”

  “Ranger-adjacent training,” the third added. “Scouting, assessment, environmental logic. No combat emphasis.”

  They all looked at her.

  Lysara’s thoughts raced—not with ambition, but urgency.

  “If I choose both a primary and a secondary,” she said, “what access does that provide?”

  Silence followed.

  Then the arcanist let out a small, surprised laugh.

  “That,” they said, eyes catching the lamplight, “is not a question most first-years think to ask.”

  The iron-haired woman did not look away from Lysara. “Why?”

  Lysara met her gaze evenly. “Because choosing both would limit my focus.”

  “As a primary,” the arcanist said, “your access would be complete—but slow. As a secondary, carefully filtered.”

  The woman didn’t argue. “Commit to us, and the door opens sooner. Not all the way. Enough.”

  “We don’t open doors,” the scout said. “We go around them.” They mused. “Primary would give you full access by the 3rd term, and as Secondary second level access only.”

  “We don’t have archives,” the scout said. “We have early access. Repeated access. And fewer rules about where you’re allowed to look.”

  Lysara left the room with her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of her choices.

  Behind her, the door closed.