The Academy dormitory complex rose like a cluster of stone ribs, each building connected by walkways suspended over training courts and meditation gardens. The air smelled faintly of metal and ozone—Aethersteel and sweat, the two things this place was built on.

  Joren followed Kaela up a set of stone steps carved smooth by years of students rushing to and from drills. Every doorway hummed with a different level of enchantment—some simple and warm, others sharp and watchful.

  “Don’t touch the red-rune doors,” Kaela said casually. “Unless you like alarms. And being tackled.”

  Joren kept his hands firmly to himself.

  At the top of the stairs, a wide common hall stretched out. Trainees lounged across long tables. Some cleaned weapons. Some shared food. Others sharpened focus stones or studied rune patterns etched into glowing slates.

  Conversation hushed the moment Joren stepped inside.

  Dozens of eyes tracked him.

  Kaela muttered under her breath, “Great. They started early.”

  Aelric’s voice came from behind them. “They were always going to stare.”

  Joren swallowed and kept walking, though the weight of those stares pressed harder than any demon’s gaze.

  A group of trainees parted as Marshal Draven appeared from the far archway.

  “Attention!” he barked.

  The hall snapped upright.

  Draven gestured toward Joren. “A new provisional trainee. Joren of Graythorn.”

  Whispers sparked immediately.

  “That’s the Shard host.”

  “The Revenant survivor.”

  “He’s the one from the border.”

  “He looks… normal.”

  Draven silenced them with a look sharp enough to cut.

  “He will train with you,” Draven said. “He will adhere to the Academy code. He will not be treated as a spectacle.”

  His eyes slid to Joren, hard but not unkind.

  “And he will not receive special treatment.”

  That part settled the room.

  Good.

  Then Draven stepped aside, allowing the inevitable.

  Three trainees approached.

  The first moved with controlled precision, his boots landing in silent, measured steps. His hair was sleek, dark, bound at the neck. His uniform bore an insignia of rank not granted by age, but skill.

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  Rian Valcor.

  He stopped an arm’s length from Joren, posture impeccable.

  “You’re the anomaly they’ve been whispering about,” Rian said. “I prefer knowing the threats in my class. So.” His gaze sharpened. “Are you one?”

  Joren held Rian’s stare. “I don’t know.”

  Rian’s mouth twitched in something like a smile—but not a friendly one. “Honest. That’s rare here.”

  He turned his back and walked away, already filing Joren under a category Joren didn’t understand.

  The next trainee stepped forward before the moment grew too heavy.

  She was a girl with short chestnut hair, freckles dusted across her nose, and a bow-shaped Aether-focus strapped across her back. Her eyes were warm, curious… but alert. Always alert.

  “Mira Thalen,” she said with an easy smile. “I heard you might be joining us soon. Glad the rumors were true.”

  Joren blinked. “You are?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “New people shake things up. And you…” She looked him over once, not unkindly. “…you’ll shake things more than most.”

  Kaela grinned. “Told you someone here wasn’t awful.”

  Before Joren could respond, a burly figure pushed past two smaller trainees like they were curtains, not people.

  Kerrik Dhal was thick as a doorframe, with arms like carved stone and a demeanor that suggested he’d fought houses and won. His shield hung from his back, etched with gouges from impacts that could’ve folded lesser men.

  He squinted at Joren.

  “So you’re the kid who killed a Revenant.”

  Joren stiffened. “I didn’t— I don’t know if—”

  Kerrik clapped a massive hand on Joren’s shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward.

  “Perfect,” Kerrik said, grinning. “We could use someone interesting. Everyone here’s too serious. Except me. I’m delightful.”

  Mira rolled her eyes. “He’s tolerable.”

  “Lies,” Kerrik said. “You adore me.”

  “You punched a practice construct so hard it exploded.”

  “Constructs don’t hit back enough,” Kerrik replied cheerfully.

  Joren couldn’t help it—he laughed under his breath.

  And for a moment, the stares didn’t feel so heavy.

  As introductions faded, the hall resumed its steady buzz of activity. But the air hummed with more than Aether—Joren could feel whispers trailing through the space, carried on breath and rumor:

  “Shard.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Cursed.”

  “Gate-child.”

  He sat on the edge of a bench, trying to focus on anything else. Mira joined him, leaning an elbow on the table.

  “They’ll get bored eventually,” she said.

  “Will they?” Joren asked.

  Mira shrugged. “Probably not. But you’ll get used to it.”

  Kaela stepped beside him. “First day’s the worst. After that, most of them forget you’re special.”

  “Except the ones who don’t,” Kerrik called from across the hall. “Those stare. All the time. It’s weird.”

  “Stop helping,” Mira said.

  Kerrik flexed one eyebrow. “I’m extremely helpful.”

  After a while, Aelric approached.

  “Joren,” he said quietly. “Your quarters are this way.”

  Joren stood, following him down a narrow hallway lit by soft blue crystal lamps. The dorms grew quieter here, the architecture sterner, the runes heavier.

  Not ordinary trainee quarters, then.

  Aelric stopped at a reinforced door marked by a silver inlay.

  “Because of the Shard,” Aelric said, “you’ll stay in a monitored wing. Not isolated. Just… observed.”

  Joren nodded slowly. “Because I’m dangerous.”

  Aelric didn’t answer immediately.

  “You’re unpredictable,” he said at last. “There’s a difference.”

  Joren stepped inside.

  The room was simple: a bed, a desk, a window overlooking the training grounds below. A lattice of faintly glowing runes traced the ceiling.

  Safeguards.

  He set his pack down and sat on the edge of the bed.

  The Academy hummed around him—voices, footsteps, sparring steel, crackles of Aether.

  Alive.

  Distant.

  And somehow lonelier than the road.

  Bran’s presence settled behind his ribs.

  Watch. Learn who they are.

  Lira’s whisper was sharper.

  Do not trust crowds. They turn fast.

  Sera brushed warmth across his thoughts.

  You’re doing well. Truly.

  Tyren snorted softly.

  Please, this place is incredible. Let’s not get thrown out in the first week.

  Joren breathed out slowly.

  Then he walked to the window.

  Below, trainees sparred under Aetherlight. Others practiced mage channels or barrier reinforcement. Instructors shouted corrections. Constructs burst and reformed in dazzling patterns.

  A world of strength.

  A world built to shape people like him…

  or break them.

  He rested his hand against the cold window frame and stared out into the lit courtyard.

  Surrounded by people, he had never felt more singular.

  But the path forward had begun.

  And he would walk it. Whether the Academy liked it or not.