Chapter Five: Roommates

  The door to the headmaster's office closes behind us with a sound that feels heavier than it should. Nothing dramatic, but a final, careful click, like someone making sure a lock has settled all the way into place. The corridor beyond it is wider, brighter, louder than the muffled quiet of the office we've just left. Footsteps echo against stone walls that rise high overhead, their surfaces carved with runes I don't recognize. Voices overlap in a constant murmur of conversation, punctuated by the occasional laugh or shout. I understand them now. Not because I should, but because the relic stuck to my arm decided I should.

  Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly and gets shushed by what sounds like an irritated instructor. The meeting has left me hollowed out in a way I don't know how to name, full of too many things at once, fear and exhaustion and the sharp, bitter taste of having no good choices. Student. Prisoner. The words orbit each other in my skull, taking turns trying to become true. Neither fits. Both stick. My backpack hangs heavy on my shoulder, strap biting in, returned to me like a favor, my phone inside like proof I used to be real. I shift it, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the weight stays constant, a reminder of Earth that I'm not sure I want right now.

  Mira doesn't look back. She sets off immediately, boots striking the stone floor in a clipped, irritated rhythm, shoulders tight like she's already late for something she hasn't planned on missing. I have the fleeting, unhelpful thought that she walks like a person who expects obstacles and resents them in advance.

  I take a moment to look over Mira, Lyra, and Kaela. Now that everything seems to have calmed down, I could finally get a good look at them.

  Mira's pale skin catches the mana filtering down from the high windows, almost luminous against her uniform. The small horns that curve back from her head are some kind of dark color, polished smooth, and they gleam faintly as she moves. Her tail swishes behind her with each step, the movement sharp and precise, like everything else about her. She looks like someone who's been carved from stone and then taught to be efficient about it.

  Lyra stays close to me as we walk, not quite at my side and not quite behind me either. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the air, close enough that if I stumble she can grab me. Or stop me. Or get a front row seat to watch it happen. It's hard to tell which she's more prepared for.

  Her pale skin has a warmer undertone than Mira's, and the horns that rise from her head are shorter, thicker. They curve forward slightly, framing her face in a way that makes her look perpetually skeptical. Her tail is thicker than Mira's and it moves with a lazy, deliberate quality, swaying slightly as she walks. Her eyes are sharp, watchful, taking in everything around us with the kind of attention that suggests she's cataloging threats and exits simultaneously. She wears her uniform with less precision than Mira, the collar slightly askew, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, but somehow it makes her look more dangerous, not less.

  We turn a corner, causing me to almost walk into Kaela, who narrowly avoids me at the last moment.

  "Sorry!" Kaela says . . . smiling as she sidesteps me. "You must still be recovering from Mira."

  Mira glared at me with the same expression she's been giving me all day, like I'm a problem she's been forced to carry. I'm sure she thought she would be rid of me once they escorted me to the Headmaster.

  Kaela, on the other hand, practically bounces. Her pale skin is the lightest of the three, almost translucent in places, with a faint dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks that makes her look younger than she probably is. Her horns are small, delicate things that spiral upward like tiny towers, and they catch the mana in a way that makes them seem to glow. Her tail is long and thin, and it moves constantly, swishing, curling, expressing every emotion she doesn't bother to hide. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and her eyes are bright with an enthusiasm that seems entirely at odds with the situation. She moves like someone who's never met a problem she couldn't talk her way through, all energy and optimism and barely-contained excitement.

  "So," Kaela says brightly, clasping her hands together like this is a celebration instead of the administrative aftermath of whatever that meeting has been, "congratulations. You're officially a student!" Her tail does a little loop in the air, punctuating her words.

  I glance at her, then forward at Mira's back. "Does that mean I can get some clothes?"

  Kaela's expression brightens immediately, her whole face lighting up in a way that makes her freckles stand out more. "Oh! Yes. Absolutely. That's part of enrollment anyway."

  Lyra makes a soft noncommittal sound, "After administrative."

  "Obviously after administrative," Kaela says, rolling her eyes in a way that makes her horns catch the mana. "But yes. Clothes. You'll get clothes."

  "Good," I say, trying to keep up as we descend the spiraling stairs again. I'm acutely aware that I'm the only person in this corridor without horns, without a tail, without that pale, almost ethereal skin that everyone else seems to have. My own skin, darker, warmer, entirely human, feels like a beacon announcing that I don't belong here.

  Mira doesn't turn around, but her shoulders shift slightly, like she's heard and filed the information away.

  The walk to the administrative desk is mercifully short. My bare feet ache against the cold stone, and the burns on my arms and hands throb with each step, healing, but still tender enough to remind me they're there. I catch myself glancing down at the pink, mottled skin on my forearms, the edges still raw in places. The news has spread amongst the academy after they witnessed me being escorted by Nurse Runa and the others. I still get a few glances every so often when we pass a group of students, but not nearly the horrified stares I experienced earlier.

  They all look at me like I'm something that wandered in from outside and hasn't figured out it's not supposed to be here. Two boys with matching black horns lean close to each other, whispering, their tails twining together in what looks like an unconscious gesture of solidarity. The normalcy of it feels wrong somehow, like I've expected something more obviously dangerous and gotten another school instead. It makes the whole situation feel more surreal, not less.

  We reach a desk set into an alcove off the main corridor, and the space opens up into something that feels almost cozy despite its obvious bureaucratic function. The alcove is carved directly into the stone wall, deep enough to create a small room but open enough that anyone passing by can see in. Shelves line the walls, packed with files and ledgers and stacks of parchment that look like they've been accumulating for decades. A few potted plants sit on the higher shelves, their leaves a deep green that I'm starting to recognize, and they droop slightly like they're as tired of being here as the person behind the desk. The desk itself is massive, dark wood scarred with years of use, and it's covered in more papers, more files, more evidence of endless administrative tedium. A small lamp sits in one corner, warm and steady, casting shadows that make the whole alcove feel like a cave where paperwork goes to die.

  The administrator behind the desk looks older, maybe ageless in the way some people get when they stop caring about appearances. Her hair is pulled back in a severe knot, streaked with gray that looks deliberate rather than accidental, and she wears robes in a muted color that suggests function over fashion. Wire-rimmed spectacles sit low on her nose, and they peer over them with the kind of bored precision that comes from processing hundreds of students and finding none of them particularly interesting. Her pale skin has a grayish tint to it, and her horns scrape against the low ceiling of the alcove when she leans forward. She barely glances up as Mira stops in front of the desk.

  "Enrollment," Mira says curtly.

  The administrator sighs, long, practiced, the kind of sigh that suggests she has been doing this job for decades and has found exactly zero joy in it. She reaches for a blank form from a towering stack, dips a pen in ink with mechanical precision, and finally deigns to look up. Her eyes go wide. The pen freezes midair. Ink blobs drip onto the desk in thick accusing drops, soaking into the wood like it's trying to stain me by association. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes, then opens again. "You..." she says, slowly, raising the pen to point it at me like it might ward off whatever I am. "What is this?"

  Kaela bounces forward, entirely too enthusiastic given the administrator's expression of dawning horror. Her tail does a happy little wiggle. "She's a new student! This is Fey." She gestures at me with both hands like she's presenting a prize at a festival.

  The administrator's gaze doesn't leave me. She pushes her spectacles higher on her nose with one finger, and her eyes travel over me, taking in my appearance, my skin that's entirely a different color. A color I've never had a name for, because until now I didn't have names for anything visual.

  "And what... exactly... is Fey?" Her tone suggests she is not expecting a good answer.

  Lyra crosses her arms, turning to look at me with an expression that might be amusement.

  "You know, we never actually asked, did we? We've just been calling you 'creature' this whole time."

  "Beast," Kaela adds helpfully, "Sometimes beast."

  "Creature," the administrator mutters, already writing it down with sharp, angry strokes.

  "I'm not a creature!" The words burst out of me before I can stop them.

  The administrator groans, crumples the form with more force than necessary, and snatches another from the pile. "Then what is it?" She directs the question at Lyra, as if I'm not standing right here.

  I feel my jaw tighten, looking at the administrator with a frustration that's been building since we left the headmaster's office. "Stop asking them what I am," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Ask me."

  The word lands in the space between us like a stone dropped in still water. The administrator stares. Kaela tilts her head, her tail going still for the first time since we entered the alcove. Lyra's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind her eyes.

  The administrator turns her gaze, her eyes widening and looking at me with an expression that showed her surprise. "Alright then . . . and what are you?" She says, pushing her glasses upwards on her nose.

  "Human." I say, plainly.

  "Human" the administrator repeats slowly, as if testing the word for structural integrity.

  "Yes." I say.

  "And where is this... Human... from?" Still addressing Lyra despite my attempt to get her to talk to me. Still refusing to acknowledge that I can speak for myself.

  "This Human is from Earth," I say, letting increased annoyance sharpen my voice. "And before you ask where that is, it's clearly a different dimension, or planet, or whatever you want to call it. So don't even try to write it down."

  The administrator looks directly at me. Her expression suggests she is reconsidering her life choices. After a long moment, she writes something in the species field I couldn't understand, and moves on with the air of someone who's decided this is a problem for future them. "Fine," she mutters. "Next question," she says . . . finally addressing me directly. She scans the form, pen hovering. "What color and type?"

  I blink. "What?"

  "Your pupils," she repeats, impatient now. "What color and type of flower? Rose? Lily? Tulip? Just, look at me and I'll identify it myself."

  I stare at her. She stares back, waiting.

  "My eyes don't have petals," I say.

  Kaela makes a small, strangled sound. "Oh,"

  "Oh?" I repeat.

  Lyra goes still beside me. "Wait," she says slowly. "None at all?"

  "We weren't..." Kaela starts, then stops. Her tail curls around her own leg like she's trying to comfort herself. "I mean, we didn't actually look. Not closely. You were moving, and we were more focused on..."

  "On what she was," Lyra finishes quietly.

  The administrator sets down her pen carefully, removes her spectacles, cleans them on her robes, and puts them back on. As if maybe they've just seen wrong. She leans forward, her horns scraping against the ceiling again, and squints at my eyes. "No petals?" she confirms, voice flat.

  "That's what I said."

  "You must be hated by mana," Mira says from behind us.

  I turn.

  "Hated by mana?" I repeat. "What does that mean?"

  Lyra steps closer, her earlier suspicion shifting into something more analytical. "Petals mean a type of mana has an affinity for you," she explains, her tone taking on the quality of someone delivering bad news. "Ignis mana shows as red petals. Aqua as green. Terra as brown, and so on."

  "Aqua as green?" I say, confused at the comparison.

  Lyra and the administrator stare at me like it's obvious. "Aqua is water magic? Water is green?" Lyra says.

  Then I realize, in a world covered by giant green leaves . . . the water would be green with a green sky.

  "Okay," I say slowly. "And?"

  "And it makes using that type of mana easier," Lyra continues. "Much easier."

  "Having none means mana hates you," Mira finishes bluntly, her tail finally moving, a sharp, dismissive flick. "It means you're going to struggle with even basic runes. It means you're..." She stops herself, but the word hangs in the air anyway.

  Weak. The word lands like my cane hitting a curb I didn't hear coming.

  My stomach drops. Here I was in a fantasy world, and I was still the weak one.

  "Well," the administrator says briskly, clearly ready to move on from this disaster of an enrollment, "that's... inconvenient," the administrator says, like she's talking about a missing signature.

  The administrator has been writing throughout this entire exchange, her pen scratching across the form with renewed vigor. She pauses, looks up at me one more time, then writes something in large letters and underlines it twice.

  "I'll file this under 'Problems for the Professors.'" She says, opening a drawer and placing the paper into it with all the care one would expect from a tired employee who has seen stranger things than they had hoped to see today.

  She pulls out a slip of paper, writes something down with the kind of aggressive efficiency that suggests she is done having feelings about any of this, and slides it across the desk. The movement has finality to it, the conversational equivalent of a door closing. "Uniform assignment is down the hall," she says. "Your dormitory number is on this sheet." She taps the paper once with one finger. "Try not to lose it. We don't issue replacements, and I don't have the energy to care if you do."

  For a moment, we all freeze. The administrator has already reached for the next file, spectacles glinting as she bends over her work. Like the fact that mana itself apparently hates me is just another line item to be processed and forgotten.

  The anger drains out of me all at once, leaving something hollow in its place. I'm not a person to her. Not even a problem worth the effort of caring about. Just a file to be stamped and shelved and forgotten. The realization settles over me like cold water, numb and suffocating.

  Kaela breaks the silence first. She snatches the sheet from the administrator's desk before I have a chance to take it. Not like I could read it anyway, one glance told me that written language clearly was not included in whatever magic the translation relic had. Lyra leans over Kaela's shoulder, squinting at the paper. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and her tail goes very still. "Huh…" she says.

  Kaela tilts her head, reading more carefully. Then her mouth twitches. Just barely. Like she's trying very hard not to smile. Her tail starts to wag slightly.

  Lyra makes a sound that's definitely a suppressed laugh.

  Mira, who's been standing slightly apart with her arms crossed, frowns. "What is it?"

  "Fey's dorm assignment," Kaela says, holding up the paper but angling it away before Mira can see. Her tail is practically vibrating now. "It's very... interesting."

  Mira's frown deepens, sharp and irritated. She reaches for the paper, but Kaela pulls it back playfully. "Kaela." She says.

  "I'm just saying," Kaela continues, grin breaking through now, her tail doing happy loops, "this is going to be..."

  A bell chimes somewhere in the distance. Not loud, but clear enough to cut through the ambient noise of the hall. It echoes once, twice, then fades. Mira goes still, her head turns sharply toward the sound, and I watch her expression shift, irritation giving way to something closer to alarm.

  "What bell is it?" she asks, voice tight.

  Lyra seems to think to herself, tapping on her arm a few times. "Third bell."

  "Her Grace," Mira says, and the word comes out flat and final. "I'm late." She's already turning, scanning the corridor like she's calculating the fastest route. "I was supposed to be at the training hall one bell ago"

  "We can handle this," Lyra says immediately.

  Kaela nods enthusiastically. "Go. We've got this."

  But Mira hesitates, just for a second. Her gaze flicks to me, then to the paper still in Kaela's hand, then back to me. Something complicated crosses her face. Like she's weighing whether leaving me with them is worse than whatever punishment she's about to face.

  Mira turns to me. For a moment, we just look at each other, her tired and irritated, me uncertain and out of place. Then she says, "If you do anything... I will find you, and I will do something worse than just tackle you."

  "Promise?" I say.

  Mira stares at me, her mouth opening slightly before Kaela spoke. "Now relax. . . I'm sure nothing will happen before the next bell. You can trust us Mira. What are friends for?"

  Mira looked skeptical, still looking at the paper Kaela clutched to her chest like it was worth its weight in gold.

  "Fine." She glances at Lyra and Kaela. "Uniform first. Then dorms. Don't let her try and escape again."

  "Not planning on it…" Lyra says.

  "I think I got all the escaping out of my system to be honest?" I say, looking at Mira as she stares at me with an expression that could only be annoyance and frustration at my continued antics.

  Kaela gives a mock salute. "She'll be perfectly safe with us."

  Mira's expression suggests she has doubts about that, but she doesn't voice them. Instead, she just nods once, and then she's moving, boots already striking the stone floor in that same clipped rhythm I've come to recognize. She doesn't look back.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  We watch her go, her figure disappearing around a corner, the sound of her footsteps fading into the general noise of the academy. Kaela looks down at the paper in her hand, and her grin returns, smaller but still present. "Well. At least she doesn't know yet."

  "Know what?" I ask.

  "Oh you will see," Kaela says, pushing on my back as she presses me into the administrative area behind the administrator. Her tail brushes against my leg, soft and warm. "Come on. Let's get you clothed. All this stalling is making me think your species are nudists." Kaela says, giggling.

  "No!" I say, before thinking. "Well some, but not me."

  "Whatever you say, Fey" Lyra says.

  I give them a frustrated glare as we move on.

  We leave the alcove and its tired administrator behind, moving deeper into the academy's warren of corridors. The transition is gradual, the administrative area slowly giving way to something that feels more functional, more lived-in. The stone walls here are darker, the carvings less ornate, and the air smells different, less like old paper and more like fabric and dye and something herbal I can't quite place. Students pass us more frequently now, all of them glancing at me with varying degrees of curiosity. A boy does a double-take. A girl whispers something to her friend, and they both stare.

  "Uniform hall is this way," Lyra says, steering us down a side corridor that smells faintly like old paper and something herbal. The air is cooler here, less touched by the warmth of ignis that seems to permeate the rest of the academy, and the sound changes too, less echo, more muffled, like the walls have learned how to keep secrets. The corridor narrows slightly, the ceiling lowering until I can almost imagine reaching up and touching it. Tapestries hang from the ceiling, suspended on thin cords I can barely see, and they move with the air currents in ways that seem almost deliberate, like they're breathing. The patterns are intricate, swirling symbols that remind me of the runes I've seen.

  I stare up at them as we walk, taking in the colors I still have no names for. Kaela notices. She goes quiet for half a second, then her eyes widen, and her tail does a little excited wiggle. "Wait. You said you were blind. On Earth."

  "Yes?" I say, defensive immediately.

  "So you're seeing colors for the first time." Her voice shifts, wonder creeping in. "Right now. This is your first green."

  Lyra's gaze sharpens, watching me differently now, thoughtfully.

  "It's just colors," I mutter.

  "It's not," Kaela says, but she doesn't push. She just points, "Green. Like spring leaves." She gestures to a patch of ignis filtering down from somewhere above. "Yellow. Warm. Rude."

  "Rude?" I repeat.

  "It wants attention," she says, seriously.

  Lyra shakes her head. "That's not how colors work."

  "It is exactly how they work," Kaela insists. She points to another banner. "Blue. Cold, Distant, like its far away."

  I look at the blue fabric, watching how it moves in the air. "That one feels... cold."

  Kaela grins. "See? You get it."

  Lyra starts walking again. "Uniform hall," she says, clearly done with the lesson.

  Kaela follows, still talking. "Red is danger. And embarrassment."

  "Embarrassment isn't a color," Lyra calls back.

  "It is if your face turns it," Kaela says, her tail wagging triumphantly.

  I surprise myself by laughing, quiet and sharp. Kaela looks pleased.

  "Silver," she adds, pointing to my hospital gown as we walk.

  Lyra glances back at us, expression unreadable, then keeps walking.

  The uniform hall is, depressingly, exactly what it sounds like. A long room with rows of shelves and racks stretching from floor to ceiling, all of them packed with folded fabric in various shades of colors. Identical belts hang from hooks on the walls. Boots are lined up in strict pairs along the floor, organized by size in a way that suggests someone takes this very seriously. The air smells like dye and starch and something faintly medicinal, and the mana filtering down from high windows catches on dust motes that drift lazily through the space. Students move in and out like it's a market stall, grabbing what they need without ceremony, except they're not moving quite as casually as they should be. Eyes flick toward me, then away. Like looking too long might make me contagious. A girl near the belts, her pale skin almost luminous in the mana, pauses mid-reach, staring for half a second before pretending to examine a buckle. Two students by the boots, lean close to each other, whispering, their gazes sliding over me like they're trying to memorize something they can talk about later.

  A woman stands behind a counter near the back of the room, and she looks older than most of the instructors I've seen so far. Her hair is pinned up in a loose knot that's coming undone in places, streaked with gray and white in a way that suggests she's stopped caring about appearances years ago. Her pale skin has a papery quality to it, thin and delicate, and her horns are chipped in places like they've seen decades of use.

  She's writing in a ledger, her expression vaguely unimpressed by the existence of youth in general and these students in particular. She doesn't look up when we approach, just keeps writing with the kind of mechanical precision that suggests she's done this ten thousand times and will do it ten thousand more.

  Lyra pulls the enrollment paper from her pocket and slides it across the counter. "Uniform for Fey," she says, businesslike.

  The woman glances at the paper, then looks up at me. Her eyes sweep over me like she's measuring without a tape, taking in the hospital gown, the bare feet, the fact that I'm clearly not from here. Her gaze lingers on my appearance. Behind us, I hear the whispers get quieter. More students pretending to browse while watching. The woman's tail finally moves, just a slight twitch, like she's registering something unexpected.

  "Hm," the woman says. Her voice is rough, like she doesn't use it much.

  I wait.

  She reaches behind her without looking and pulls down a folded bundle of cloth from one of the high shelves. Sets it on the counter with a soft thump. Then adds a belt and boots, both black, sturdy. Her movements are efficient, practiced, entirely unbothered by my strangeness.

  The black catches my eye first. Not because it's interesting, but because I know it. Really know it. It's the color of my old world, endless, familiar, and suddenly not mine anymore. The inky nothing was my entire existence before I could see. Before colors had names or shapes or meaning. My throat tightens unexpectedly.

  "Try it," the woman says, oblivious.

  I pick up the bundle, unfolding it carefully. A shirt, dark green, like the spring leaves Kaela showed me in the hallway. A sweater in a color I don't have a name for yet, cooler and deeper than the green. And a skirt in the same unknown color, heavy fabric with careful stitching along the hem. As I hold up the shirt, something catches the mana on the chest, a small embroidered crest, silver thread against the dark green. Two wings, delicate and detailed, curved upward like they're mid-flight. Angel wings, I think, though I'm not sure why that word comes to mind. The stitching is beautiful, intricate, each feather carefully rendered. It sits just over where my heart would be.

  "Brown," Kaela says quietly beside me, pointing at the sweater and skirt. "That's brown. Like tree bark. Or dirt. Or. . ."

  "We get it," Lyra says.

  I hold up the skirt, and something about it looks wrong. There's a gap in the back seam, a deliberate opening reinforced with extra stitching. I stare at it, confused, then realize.

  "There's a hole," I say.

  Kaela leans in, her tail curling around her own leg. "Oh! That's for tails."

  I look at her. "Tails." Of course it is. Of course the world is built around bodies like theirs. I'm the alien here after all.

  "Yes," she says, and her voice goes softer, more careful. Her tail uncurls and sways gently. "You know. Tails. The uniforms are one size fit all..."

  "Right," I say slowly. "Of course."

  Kaela's expression shifts, something like sympathy crossing her features. "The uniform is made for everyone," she says gently. "So it has an opening. You can sew it shut if you want, but..." She trails off, like she's not sure how to finish that sentence without making it worse.

  Lyra makes a sound that might be discomfort.

  "Where do I change?" I ask, cutting off whatever Kaela is about to say.

  Kaela points to a curtained alcove at the side of the room.

  "I'll guard the curtain," Kaela announces grandly, as if this is a sacred duty. Her tail wags enthusiastically.

  Lyra rolls her eyes. "No one cares."

  "I care," Kaela says. "It's about principle."

  I don't argue. I take the uniform and slip into the alcove, drawing the curtain shut behind me. The fabric is heavier than I expected. Not unpleasant.

  I pull off the hospital gown and reach for the green shirt first. The fabric is rougher than Earth cotton, sturdier, and when I pull it over my head, it swallows me whole. The collar hangs off one shoulder. The sleeves dangle past my fingertips by at least four inches, fabric pooling around my wrists like I'm a child playing dress-up. The angel wing crest sits somewhere near my collarbone instead of over my heart.

  I stare down at myself.

  The sweater is worse. Brown and warm, yes, but it drowns me. The hem hits mid-thigh. The sleeves cover my hands entirely, turning them into shapeless fabric lumps. Then the skirt. I step into it carefully, and the waistband sits somewhere around my ribcage instead of my waist. The hem drags on the ground. When I try to walk, I nearly trip over the excess fabric.

  "Um," I call out. "Is this the right size?"

  Silence from outside the curtain.

  Then Kaela's voice, bright with barely suppressed amusement. "Did you put it on?"

  "Yes."

  "All of it?"

  "Yes."

  "And it doesn't fit?"

  "Not even remotely."

  I hear whispering. Then Kaela says, "Oh! Right. The runes. You have to activate the runes."

  "The what?"

  The curtain parts and Kaela slips through, and the moment she sees me, her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes go wide. Her tail goes completely still for half a second, then starts wagging so hard it's practically a blur. She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a cough.

  "Don't," I say flatly.

  "I'm not..." She loses the battle immediately, dissolving into giggles. Her tail wags even harder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just, you look like you're wearing a tent."

  "At least it's a fashionable tent?" I say, looking down at the angel wing crest that's currently somewhere near my collarbone. "Do all the new students get the deluxe tent model, or is this a special welcome gift for creatures from other dimensions?"

  Kaela's giggles intensify.

  "No, no. It's supposed to do this." She's still grinning as she crouches down, examining the hem of the skirt. "See? The runes haven't been activated yet. They're keyed to adjust to your measurements, but someone has to trigger them first."

  I look down at where she's pointing. Along the hem, barely visible, are tiny symbols stitched in thread so fine it's almost invisible. The stitching glows faintly when Kaela traces her finger over it.

  "Those are runes?" I lean closer. The symbols are intricate, each one perfect, woven directly into the fabric itself. "How is that even possible?"

  "Textile mana," Kaela says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Her tail does a little loop of excitement. "It's a whole discipline. Some people spend years learning how to weave runes into fabric without disrupting the material." She places her palm flat against the skirt, right over a cluster of the symbols. "Okay. Hold still."

  "What are you..."

  The runes ignite. Mana floods through the fabric, racing along every seam, every edge, every hidden corner of the uniform. It moves like it's alive, like it's searching, like it's taking inventory. I feel it more than see it, a gentle warmth spreading across my skin, a soft pressure that reminds me of invisible hands adjusting, measuring, perfecting. The fabric moves. Not violently. Nothing tears or shifts dramatically. It's subtle, the way cloth settles when it finds its proper shape. The sleeves draw back up my arms, stopping precisely at my wrists. The hem rises to a sensible length just below my knee. The waistband shifts down to my actual waist, snug but not tight. The sweater pulls closer, still warm but no longer drowning me. The angel wing crest settles over my heart, exactly where it's supposed to be.

  When the mana fades, I'm wearing a uniform that fits like it was made for me. Because, apparently, it was.

  I stare down at myself. The crest catches the mana, silver thread gleaming. "What the hell."

  Kaela grins like she's personally responsible for inventing magic. "Good, right? The runes sense your body's dimensions and adjust the fabric accordingly. Completely seamless." She pauses. "Well, actually very seamed, but you know what I mean."

  "Why didn't anyone mention this before I put it on?"

  "You were already overwhelmed," Kaela says reasonably. "Also, I forgot. It's automatic for most of us." She stands, brushing off her hands. "How does it feel now?"

  I shift my shoulders, testing the fit. The fabric moves with me, no longer fighting against my body. The crest sits perfectly centered, the angel wings seeming to catch every bit of mana. "Better. Much better."

  "Good!" Kaela backs toward the curtain. "Finish getting dressed. I'll wait out here."

  She slips back out, and I reach for the boots. Black leather, stiff and unyielding, with laces that seem unnecessarily long. I sit down on the small bench and start threading them through the eyelets. My hands shake slightly. From exhaustion, probably. Or stress. Or the fact that I'm sitting in a curtained alcove in a monster academy, putting on a magically-adjusting uniform.

  I manage one boot, barely, the laces tangled and uneven. The second one defeats me entirely. The laces slip through my fingers twice before I give up.

  "Kaela?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I need help with the boots."

  She's back through the curtain immediately, crouching down beside me. "Oh, these are the worst when they're new. Here." She takes over, fingers quick and practiced, lacing the boot efficiently and tying it with a neat bow. "There. See? Not so bad."

  I stand slowly, testing the weight of the uniform. It doesn't pinch or bind. It sits on me with a kind of neutrality, like it isn't meant to be comfortable or uncomfortable. Just functional. The crest catches my eye every time I look down.

  "It feels like I'm borrowing someone else's body," I say quietly.

  We step back out of the alcove together. The older woman behind the counter glances at me, then nods once in approval. She returns to her ledger without another word.

  Lyra is waiting by the door, arms crossed. Her gaze sweeps over me, assessing. "So that's what you look like with clothes on?" she says.

  I consider telling her to fuck off for a moment before I settle on an annoyed laugh.

  "The runes," I say. "Nobody thought to mention those were in the clothes too?"

  Lyra shoots Kaela a look. "I thought you explained runes?"

  "I explained some runes," Kaela says defensively, her tail curling around her leg. "There are a lot of runes. I was working my way up to it."

  "There are more runes in the uniform?" I pull at my sleeve, looking for more of those fine stitched symbols.

  Lyra settles into what I'm learning is her 'information delivery' voice, her tail swaying in a steady, measured rhythm. "Textile manipulation runes are threaded into all academy uniforms. There are measurement runes, like the ones you just activated, which automatically adjust the fit. There are durability runes so the fabric doesn't tear easily during training. Temperature regulation runes so you don't freeze in winter or overheat in summer." She pauses, "And tracking runes."

  "Tracking runes."

  "They let the academy monitor where students are at any given time."

  "You're tracking me?" I say, and the words come out colder than I intended, because suddenly I can feel the walls again.

  "The academy is tracking all of us," Kaela corrects, pulling her own sleeve back to show similar stitching. "It's a safety measure. Mostly. So they know if someone's gotten hurt, or if someone's wandering into restricted areas."

  "It's not as invasive as it sounds," Kaela offers, reading my expression. "They can't hear what you're doing. Just where you are. And honestly, after a while you forget about it."

  I don't respond. I'm not sure I want to forget about being tracked.

  Lyra's voice comes from near the door, impatient. "Are you done? We don't have all day."

  Kaela grins and calls back, "Yes, Mother Lyra."

  "Don't call me that."

  "Then stop acting like it."

  Lyra makes an irritated noise that I can't see but can vividly imagine.

  "Coming!" Kaela shouts back. She looks at me one more time, that stubborn warmth still in her eye. "You look like you belong now. That's something."

  "Thank you," I whisper back. "Very reassuring."

  "I'm a very reassuring person," she says solemnly, her tail doing a little proud wiggle.

  Lyra takes the enrollment paper and folds it, "Come on. Dorms."

  I follow them out of the uniform hall, boots stiff and unfamiliar on my feet, the fabric of the uniform brushing my skin with every step. It isn't uncomfortable. It's just... new.

  The corridors are getting crowded as we leave the uniform hall, the shift change between classes, maybe, or just the natural flow of students moving between lessons. Bodies press closer, and Lyra's jaw tightens slightly as she navigates through the press of people, her tail flicking with barely-contained irritation. She picks up her pace, and Kaela and I have to hurry to keep up.

  The uniform changes how people look at me. Not dramatically. No one stops short or stares outright. But the glances shift, linger half a second longer, slide away more thoughtfully.

  Lyra walks a little slower now, no longer carving a path through the corridors. Kaela drifts ahead and behind us in loose loops, greeting people she knows, stopping to whisper something that makes them laugh before catching up again.

  The corridors we walk through now are different from the administrative areas. The stone here is warmer, darker, carved with patterns that seem to tell stories I don't know how to read. Arched doorways lead to rooms I can only glimpse, a library with shelves that reach impossibly high, a practice room where students are drawing runes, a common area where people sit on cushions and talk in low voices. The mana changes too, less harsh, more golden, filtering down from windows set high in the walls. It catches on the horns of passing students, making them gleam in the variety of colors I don't have names for yet.

  "This is the east stair," Kaela says at one point, pointing with her chin at a narrow staircase that spirals upward into darkness. "No one uses it because it creaks, but that's a lie. It only creaks if you're nervous."

  Lyra shoots her a look, her tail swishing in skepticism. "Stairs don't know when you're nervous."

  "They absolutely do," Kaela says. "They sense weakness."

  I glance at the stair in question. It looks like stone. Solid. Entirely uninterested in my emotional state.

  "I'm choosing to believe you," I say.

  Kaela beams. "Good. That's the correct choice."

  We reach a wider section of corridor where the stone walls give way to tall windows that look out over what might be gardens or courtyards, I can't quite tell from this angle. Mana streams through, warm and golden, and it catches on the dust motes drifting through the air. There's a bench carved into an alcove, worn smooth by years of students sitting and waiting and probably avoiding whatever they're supposed to be doing. The stone is polished to a soft sheen, and someone has carved initials into one corner, small and careful.

  I catch Kaela glancing at Lyra, then at the paper still folded in Lyra's pocket. Kaela's mouth twitches. Lyra's expression stays carefully neutral, but there's something in her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or anticipation. Her tail sways in a way that suggests she's enjoying a private joke.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Nothing," Kaela says, too quickly.

  "You keep saying that."

  "Because it keeps being true," she says, grinning now.

  Lyra just walks faster, and I have to hurry to keep up, boots still stiff and unforgiving on my feet. Whatever they know, they're not telling me yet. And somehow, that makes me more nervous than anything else today.

  The corridor gradually shifts again, the architecture changing in subtle ways. The stone becomes smoother, more polished, and the carvings give way to simpler patterns. The air smells different here, less like the general academy smell of stone and plants, more like soap and clean fabric and the faint mustiness of lived-in spaces. We turn down a narrower passage, and the change becomes more obvious. Doors line the walls here, each marked with what I assume are names written in a language I still can't read. Some doors are open, revealing glimpses of small rooms with beds and desks and personal belongings scattered about. I catch sight of a girl sitting on her bed, reading. A boy is hanging something on his wall.

  We reach the bathing hall next, and the transition is marked by a sudden wall of warm, humid air that hits me like a physical thing. The space opens up into a wide area filled with steam and low voices, the ceiling high and vaulted, the walls lined with what look like individual stalls. The air is thick with moisture, clinging to my skin, my hair, the fabric of my new uniform. Students move in and out carrying towels, their hair damp, their faces flushed from heat. Their horns gleam with moisture. Their tails drip water, leaving little trails on the stone floor. Some glance at me as they pass, but most are too focused on their own routines to care.

  Kaela gestures vaguely toward the entrance. "This is where you'll hate everyone."

  "For how long?" I ask.

  She shrugs. "Depends how long you stay. Some people are very thorough."

  We keep walking, leaving the humid warmth of the bathing hall behind. The corridor continues, narrower now, more intimate. The doors are closer together here, and I can hear sounds from behind some of them, voices, laughter, the scratch of quills on parchment. We pass an open door where two students are arguing about something in low, intense voices. They're both gesturing at a diagram spread between them on a desk.

  "Study hall," Kaela says, unnecessarily. Then she glances at Lyra. Then back at me. Then at Lyra again.

  Lyra's shoulders are shaking slightly. Her tail is quivering.

  "Okay, seriously," I say, stopping in the middle of the corridor. "What is going on?"

  "Nothing!" Kaela says, too brightly, too quickly. Her tail wags so hard it's almost a blur. Kaela loops her arm through mine, tugging me forward. "Come on. Dorms are just ahead. You'll see."

  "See what?"

  "Your room!" She says.

  We stop in front of a door about halfway down the hall. It looks exactly like all the others. dark wood, handle, but it has two names carved into a small plaque that I still can't read. Lyra stands in front of it, hand on the handle. She looks at Kaela. Kaela looks back. They're both trying not to laugh now, their tails doing little excited movements.

  Lyra turns the handle. The door swings open, revealing a small room beyond. And there, standing in the middle of the room with a stack of folded clothes in her arms, is Mira.

  She freezes. I freeze. The entire world seems to freeze for one long, impossible moment. Mira's pale skin seems even paler in the mana from the window. Her horns gleam. Her tail, which had been swishing slightly as she organized her things, goes completely rigid.

  Mira's eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then wide again. Her tail lashes once, hard.

  "No. . ." she says.

  Behind me, Kaela dissolves into laughter. Full, gasping, doubled-over laughter. Her tail wags so hard she almost loses her balance. Lyra leans against the doorframe, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her tail is doing little happy swishes.

  "No!" Mira says again, louder this time. Her tail lashes again, hitting the side of her bed with a thump.

  "You've got to be kidding me," I say.

  Kaela is wheezing now, actually wheezing, bent forward with her hands on her knees. Her tail is wagging so hard it's just a blur. "I knew. . ." she gasps, "I knew when I saw . . . the assignment. . ."

  Lyra wipes at her eyes, her tail doing little amused swishes. "This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect."

  "This is a nightmare," Mira corrects.

  "For both of us," I add.

  We stare at each other. Her tired and irritated and clearly wishing she was anywhere else. Me exhausted and confused and slowly realizing the full scope of what's happening.

  "Roommates," Kaela manages between giggles. "You're roommates."

  "I can see that," Mira says through gritted teeth. "I was escorting my own future roommate," she continues, and something in her voice suggests she's reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.

  "I knew escort duty felt personal," Kaela says, still laughing.

  Lyra shakes her head, smiling despite herself. Her tail sways in amusement. "This is going to be a disaster."

  "It already is," Mira mutters, though it still twitches with irritation.

  "Well," I say, setting my bag down carefully on the unclaimed bed, "at least we'll save time on introductions."