(Lysara POV)

  The Alchemy Wing smelled of bound mana, clean stone, and old metals.

  Glass panels lined the walls, etched with fine runes that glowed faintly as students passed. Tables were set in careful rows, each station identical. Nothing here had grown wild.

  Lysara slipped in with the others and chose a seat near the back, where shadows gathered and no one should feel compelled to look twice.

  Students filled the room with quiet competence. Some unpacked tools without instruction. Others compared notes in murmurs that suggested familiarity rather than excitement. This was not a place for wonder.

  One of her roommates sat several seats away. They exchanged a brief nod. Nothing more.

  Then the room stilled.

  The professor entered without announcement.

  They were neither old nor young, their robes plain, their presence unremarkable until it wasn’t. Their eyes moved across the class like a scale finding balance.

  “Alchemy,” they said, “is not discovery.”

  Silence followed.

  The words were measured. Final.

  Lysara folded her hands in her lap.

  She understood the logic. She respected the caution. Alchemy done poorly ruined bodies, warped results, poisoned more than it healed.

  Respect, however, did not change necessity.

  Her potion was gone. The dye would fade. Weeks of waiting for an assigned station was not an option she could afford.

  “Alchemy rewards patience,” they said. “Those without it will find nothing here but disappointment.”

  Lysara took notes. She copied instruction exactly. She did not look up again. Internally, she her own ideas. She had never once been accused of patience. Survival, yes. Waiting, no.

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  The lecture ended without ceremony.

  That afternoon, the Academy shifted from instruction to organization.

  First-years were gathered into groups of twenty and issued uniform packets before they could scatter—neatly folded fabric in muted Academy colors, standardized cuts meant to erase distinction rather than enhance it. The cloth was heavier than it looked, smooth but stiff beneath Lysara’s fingers, still carrying the faint, dry scent of storage. Sizes were estimated, not measured. Adjustments, they were told, could be done at their own discretion.

  Lysara accepted hers without comment.

  They were handed off to assigned guides, each marked by a simple band at the wrist. Mana pulsed faintly from the markings—low, steady, impersonal. Lysara drifted naturally toward the back of her group again, unnoticed and unremarkable.

  Their guide introduced himself with minimal enthusiasm.

  “Rasmus,” he said. “Second year. I’ll show you where you’re allowed to be.”

  A few students laughed. The sound bounced oddly off the stone, swallowed too quickly. He did not.

  They followed him through corridors that folded into one another with deliberate logic—wider halls narrowing into controlled access points, stairs curving away from central spaces, doors marked with symbols Lysara did not yet recognize. The air cooled as they moved deeper, carrying a faint mineral tang and the constant, low-pressure hum of mana threaded through the walls.

  “Green markings mean open access,” Rasmus said as they walked. “Blue means supervised only. Red means restricted. Don’t test it.”

  Someone asked what happened if they did.

  Rasmus shrugged. “Depends who catches you.”

  The group quieted.

  They passed lecture halls, practice yards, libraries stacked high with controlled knowledge. Pages whispered behind reinforced doors. Somewhere metal rang against metal—training, measured and precise. Everywhere, mana hummed softly through the stone—contained, regulated, obedient.

  Lysara listened, but her attention kept drifting.

  She noted where guards lingered and where they didn’t. Which corridors echoed and which absorbed sound entirely. Which doors bore signs of frequent use, their handles warmed by passing hands. Which locks looked ceremonial rather than reinforced.

  When they reached the outer edge of the Alchemy Wing, the air changed—sharper, tinged with solvents and something faintly metallic. Rasmus slowed.

  “Freshers won’t be assigned stations here for weeks,” he said. “Until then, you observe only. No exceptions.”

  Lysara’s gaze traced the layout beyond him—rows of sealed doors, ventilation shafts running high along the walls, a service corridor partially hidden behind a storage alcove. Mana here felt tighter, wound thin as wire, threaded through glass and stone alike.

  Rasmus kept talking.

  By the time the tour ended, the rest of the day folded into a blur—uniforms changed into, names repeated, expectations restated. Fabric scratched at her wrists. The Academy’s rhythm pressed in from every direction, orderly and unyielding.

  But Lysara’s thoughts kept returning to glass and stone.

  To locked rooms and quiet hours —

  to how much depended on when, not whether.