The week following Lecia’s return to the orphanage was tense, though not as dreadful as it might have been. News of Orin and his lackeys being captured by slavers shocked the other children at first, but the shelter soon slipped back into its familiar rhythm. The Matron had reached out to the Watch, yet as far as Lecia could tell, nothing had come of it.

  That outcome wasn’t surprising. The Watch rarely involved itself in the affairs of Darkreach, and the district’s thriving black market stood as proof of their neglect. Though reports of slavers were meant to prompt urgent investigations, such concern rarely extended to Darkreach, where disappearances were common. Melora only learned afterward that those vanishings had been increasing—especially among children.

  The Matron had heard the rumors, certainly, but had still risked Orin and the others to look for Lecia, believing the boy capable enough not to become a statistic. It had been a gamble—one that she hadn't fully registered she'd been taking until she lost. It still weighed on her, but she didn't let the weight drag her down. She couldn't afford such luxuries, both literally and figuratively.

  That was simply life in the Beggar’s Quarter, where survival meant accepting harsh truths early. Few of the children mourned Orin or his cronies, and before long the shelter returned to chores and routine under Matron Melora’s and Big Badi’s watchful eyes. The days settled into a wary quiet for the caretakers. The walls of the shelter seemed to listen more closely, their cracked stone and warped timbers holding echoes of things left unsaid.

  Meals were eaten with fewer arguments, laughter came softer and died quicker, and the younger children clung closer to familiar corners as if the building itself were a shield. No one spoke openly of slavers again, but the word lingered unvoiced, heavy in the pauses between conversations. Even so, most reactions were indifferent at best where the children were concerned.

  For Lecia, Orin’s absence brought relief—a release from the constant vigilance his presence demanded. A few orphans pressed her for details, knowing his group had vanished while searching for her, but her curt answers quickly dulled their curiosity. She didn’t mind being ignored; isolation suited her, and with Orin gone, focusing on her own interests became easier than ever.

  Each morning, Lecia handled her chores with quiet diligence—scrubbing floors, washing dishes, helping in the kitchen. The work left her thin limbs aching by day’s end, but once it was finished, she slipped away. In abandoned ruins, overgrown alleyways, and neglected courtyards, she found solitude, her thoughts, and her grimoire.

  The ancient tome fascinated and frustrated her in equal measure. Its pages were crowded with runes and dense sigaldric forms she could not yet read, each one hinting at meaning without yielding it. Lecia had memorized every page by rote, not through understanding but repetition. A few symbols stirred a sense of familiarity, but without proper grounding, they remained little more than shapes.

  Sometimes she wondered if the book was mocking her. The thought was irrational, but difficult to dismiss when the symbols seemed to resist memory in subtle ways—lines blurring when she grew impatient, patterns slipping just out of reach when she lingered too long.

  And it was all done in such a way that she couldn’t tell whether the changes came from the book itself or her own imagination. When she blinked, it all seemed to snap back into place as if nothing had changed at all. She learned to approach it with ritualistic care, cleaning her hands, steadying her breath, grounding herself before turning even a single page.

  There was comfort in that discipline. It reminded her of her mentor's lessons, of firm knocks to the knuckles and sharper words meant to instill caution rather than fear. Lecia treated the grimoire like a precious tool that could pave the way to her future, and if she was careful and thorough, she knew without a doubt that it would.

  She also knew better than to experiment blindly. One of the first rules her mentor had drilled into her was never to attempt to incant using runes she did not understand. Curiosity tempted her often, but she kept herself to the few workings she'd been taught properly. Mastery, her mentor had said, came from control, not ambition. This was especially true for incantations using only runic script, as one also had to factor in personal intent.

  The first spell Lecia had learned was the simple, humble yet ever-useful light orb incantation. In the dim chapel near the orphanage, she shaped it quietly to read by, drawing on ambient aether with practiced ease. She required no spoken words, only steady focus and clean intent. The glow answered her calmly, a steady radiance honed through constant practice.

  Remembering runes was easy; executing them cleanly was not. Some spells—not just incantation—demanded careful runework and steady flow, and even small mistakes could unravel the result. While the light came naturally now, the other two incantations still resisted her. They reminded her how far she remained from the basic competence of even a lowly Academy-bred Novitiate.

  One of the sigaldric incantations she practiced was a small wind-aspected defensive barrier meant to turn aside lethal force such as arrows and the like. When formed correctly, it could stop a single strike before dispersing. More often, Lecia misjudged it—feeding it too much and watching it collapse, or too little and seeing it fail outright. When it worked, the invisible barrier held on its own, gradually drawing just enough internal aether to remain stable.

  Her mentor had mentioned there was a more powerful variant of the spell that could draw on ambient aether to remain active and allow several attacks before dispersing, but for some reason she hadn't taught Lecia that version. Still, that balance of aether control fascinated her, even when she failed to achieve it.

  She practiced patiently, learning how little was truly needed to keep the sigil intact. Her mentor had warned her that rushed lines wasted power. Lecia took those lessons to heart, repeating each attempt until her motions felt smooth and efficient—or as much so as she could manage. If she'd learned that more powerful version, Lecia would have kept the spell active constantly.

  As things stood, unfortunately, the incantation she'd learned took too long to cast and was far too draining to keep maintained for more than a handful of minutes.

  The other incantation she knew was the minor healing incantation she'd used back in the cellar. She practiced mostly on herself, easing bruises and small cuts earned during chores or whenever Derik and his ilk decided to get violent. The warmth it produced was gentle and reassuring, even when the results were mostly shallow and imperfect, leaving her aching long after the spell had taken hold in the worst cases.

  Though she had grasped a handful of fundamentals, Lecia’s foundation was narrow. The old bat had taught her how to sense aether, feed it into her core, and shape a few basic incantations, but little beyond that before she'd up and vanished without a word, perhaps never to be seen again. Much of the language behind the runes was still opaque to Lecia. She knew just enough to realize how much she didn't know.

  That's what made reading the grimoire so frustrating.

  Yet, despite her struggles with runecraft, Lecia was not lacking where her senses were concerned. She very quickly became more aware of where magick came easily. Some places felt fuller than others, as if aether lingered there longer. Whenever she could, she practiced in those spaces, where her workings felt steadier and less taxing. Tracing the unreadable runes in her grimoire, she imagined what they might become once she could truly understand them.

  She let her mind wander a bit as she made her way back to the orphanage, but didn't let her woolgathering distract her from her ultimate goal. She knew she was barely scratching the surface of what the Runic Arts had to offer. She still had so much to learn, but that was what the Academy was for, and she'd get there some day.

  She'd become a true Novitiate and then, as her knowledge grew, she'd unlock every secret that tome had to offer. She would take that knowledge and those secrets and become a Mage worthy of the old legends. It was the least she could do for the strange old lady who'd gone out of her way to teach a street urchin who had nothing to give in return.

  ***

  As the sun dipped low, an amber glow filtered through the orphanage’s grimy windows, briefly softening the decay. The children scattered through the building, savoring the rare lull after a long day of chores. Laughter echoed down the corridors as some played in the courtyard while others clustered together, trading stories before nightfall reclaimed them.

  The calm did not last. The heavy front door creaked open, and the children nearest the entrance faltered mid-sentence. One by one, voices died away as attention turned toward the sound, a hush spreading through the orphanage like a held breath.

  A man stepped into the hall, his silhouette cut sharply against the fading dusk. His black-and-silver robes, tailored with meticulous precision, marked him as an obvious associate of the Academy of Runic Arts. Sharp eyes swept the room with thinly veiled disdain, lingering on frayed furniture, threadbare clothes, and the stale air, his nose curling as though the place itself offended him.

  His polished boots struck the warped floorboards in a measured cadence that claimed the room’s silence. Behind him loomed a taller, broader figure, cloaked and unmoving, leather armor whispering as he shifted. The hooded man—a Warrior by the build and scabbard at his waist—radiated quiet menace, and the children shrank together instinctively, drawn tight by the weight of his presence.

  “Bring me the Matron of this shelter,” the man demanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

  It carried the practiced authority of someone accustomed to obedience, stripped of courtesy and expectation alike. He did not raise it, yet the command cut cleanly through the room, addressing no one in particular.

  The children exchanged wary looks, uncertainty rippling through them. A few slipped away into the deeper halls without a word, moving quickly and keeping their heads down. Those who stayed behind hovered near one another, the silence growing taut as the strangers waited without impatience or movement.

  Moments later, a woman emerged from the rear corridor. Melora Levimiere advanced with deliberate calm, her posture straight and her expression carefully neutral. Her eyes moved first to the scholar’s robes, then to the bodyguard, and finally settled on the man himself, concern flickering briefly before discipline smoothed it away.

  “Bellatina’s blessing upon you, sir,” she said, inclining her head with formal restraint. “I am Melora Levimiere, Matron of this orphanage.” Her tone was courteous but guarded. “You asked to see me—may I know sir's name and the purpose of your visit?”

  The question was purely perfunctory. The Matron knew exactly why the man was here; she'd been dreading the visit for the last week. There'd been no getting around it, and all Melora could do was play her role. The man, for his part, regarded her for a moment, as though weighing how much effort she warranted.

  “Gadwyn Vaelor,” he replied, his voice flattening into professional detachment. “Representative of the Veilheim Academy of the Runic Arts. I am here on official Academy business, and I require your cooperation.”

  Academy business?

  Melora had noticed the Academy attire, but simply assumed... well, she wasn't quite sure what she had assumed. She had been expecting a Representative of the Noble Houses, but this... was this not the liaison she'd been told to expect?

  Melora’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, though her voice remained steady. “Official business from the Academy, you say? And what business might that be in Darkreach, let alone this orphanage, if you don’t mind my asking, Representative Vaelor?”

  Her question, delivered with a precision that spoke of experience in dealing with difficult visitors, was met with a faint flicker of annoyance in Vaelor’s eyes. He straightened slightly, his posture becoming even more rigid as he regarded her.

  Beneath her composed exterior, Melora assessed him quickly. The cut of Vaelor’s robes signaled rank, but the emptiness in his eyes told a truer story. This was a man who issued orders, not requests, and whose contempt extended well beyond the orphanage itself. He had not come to help or inquire—he had come to impose himself.

  She recognized the pattern immediately. His authority was quiet, methodical, and designed to leave no room for resistance before it could form. When her gaze flicked to the bodyguard behind him, the certainty settled in her chest, cold and heavy. Whatever their purpose, it wouldn't end well for those involved.

  The bodyguard was harder to read, but no less alarming. His stillness carried the unmistakable mark of a seasoned Warrior, controlled and deliberate, likely not trained within Veilheim’s rigid, Mage-centric structures. He did not need to threaten or move; the restraint itself was the warning. That level of discipline only came from long familiarity with violence.

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

  This was a man who had learned exactly when to act—and when not to. Together, the two of them embodied the same danger Melora navigated every day. Power that noticed the vulnerable only when it suited its aims. The memory of her most recent failure pressed at her, sharp and unwelcome, and she sealed it away behind practiced calm.

  Vaelor’s tone was as cutting as his gaze and as regal as any highborn. “On behalf of the Academy's esteemed Magister Felicio Threvin, I have come to reclaim His Grace's daughter, Belladnes Caela Threvin.”

  Melora’s brow furrowed in both confusion and recognition. It was as she'd first expected; this man was here for Belle, but why had the Magister sent an Academy Representative rather than a one from the Noble Houses? This wasn't how the reclamation procedure was supposed to work. Not unless—

  “Your confusion is plain as day, and understandable,” Vaelor said, interrupting the Matron's thoughts as he flashed a seal he'd pulled from his robes. “But all is in order, I assure you.”

  Melora blinked, her brows raising in surprise. The seal in question was none other than the official Seal of Noble Representatives. It classified the man as a true Representative of Noble Houses. As the Matron took in the information, he returned the seal to his robes, only to pull another out—this one a Seal of Academy Representatives.

  Melora hadn't even known it was possible to hold both titles at once. Then again, there were no laws against such a thing as far as she knew.

  "Ah," she finally replied, still a bit dumbstruck at the development, "well then... I suppose that settles the matter."

  "Indeed," Vaelor agreed, slipping the seal back into his robes. "Now, the young miss, if you please?"

  Melora’s eyes flicked briefly to the silent bodyguard before returning to the Representative. Now that it had come to this, she could no longer refuse. The Matron hadn't met Threvin personally, but she'd lived in Noblecrest back during her days as a Sister of the Church and she'd heard whispers of the man. Darker rumors told in wealthy circles, spoken from lips loosened by wine and poor sense.

  Rumors she prayed weren't true.

  “Very well, then. Please, follow me,” she said quietly, gesturing for them to follow. Behind her, the orphans murmured and muttered, their voices a faint hum of fear and curiosity. She ignored them, leading the Representative and his bulky shadow through the dim, narrow corridors of the orphanage.

  They stopped at a modest dormitory. Inside, a small, pale girl sat on the floor, clutching a worn, stuffed toy lamb—one black button eye missing from its dirty threadbare face. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell in soft waves past her thin shoulders, a curtain that partially hid her face as she played. Melora hesitated at the doorway, then called out softly, “Belle, come here, child.”

  The girl looked up, her wide, icy blue-gray eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as she approached the adults. Belle was one of the younger orphans in the shelter—a quiet girl who mostly kept to herself, much like another eerily inscrutable troublemaker. But unlike that particular child, Belle was the quintessential good girl. Obedient to a fault, she always did as she was told without the slightest complaint.

  The Matron loved that about her, yet, it also filled her with some concern. Belle’s unquestioning deference to authority was as troubling in its own way as Lecia’s eternally stolid demeanor. That level of submission made Melora worry for the girl’s future. All the more so now that her father had decided to reclaim her as his heir.

  Vaelor’s gaze moved over Belle with a cold, calculating precision. Melora watched him closely, a knot tightening in her stomach as she caught a fleeting expression in the man’s eyes. Was it surprise? Recognition? Uncertainty? Whatever it was, it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same dismissive neutrality that seemed to be his default.

  Before she could dwell on it, Vaelor stepped forward, toward the now slightly shivering girl, and lowered himself until they were eye-to-eye. The Matron's brows rose in mild surprise at the man's softening expression, the creases in his features smoothing slightly. When he next spoke, his tone was firm but gentle.

  “You needn’t be afraid, child—this place may cling to you like soot, but it does not define what you are, who you are, where you came from, nor where you’re going.”

  Melora watched the exchange with measured restraint, though her hands tightened slightly at her sides as the seconds stretched on. Belle—Belladnes—stood quietly beside her, clutching her toy lamb as though it were an anchor, the frayed fabric pressed hard against her chest.

  The child’s anxious and confused features were drawn downward, posture instinctively contrite, devoid of tears or protest. Whatever Vaelor’s manner, the Matron could see that the man’s focus was precise, deliberate, and utterly unwavering. This part, at least, followed expectation.

  Vaelor rose smoothly to his feet, robes settling into place with practiced ease as he turned away from the girl. The movement itself carried finality, as though the matter had already been closed in his mind.

  “Belladnes Caela Threvin,” he said, his tone flattening back into professional detachment. “You will prepare to depart within the hour. Arrangements have already been made, and delays will not be accommodated.”

  Belle blinked, hesitation briefly surfacing in her pale eyes before habit smoothed it away. She tightened her grip on the lamb for a heartbeat, then nodded once, small and precise.

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured, her high breathy voice, barely audible.

  Melora inclined her head in response, every trace of emotion carefully schooled from her expression. “As you wish, Representative,” she said evenly. “I will see to it personally and ensure the child is ready within the allotted time.” She hesitated, the pause subtle but deliberate, then added, “Is there anything further you require of us before your departure from the district?”

  Vaelor paused.

  For a long moment, he said nothing at all. His gaze drifted—not back to Belle, nor to Melora—but outward, as though reassessing the building itself and everything it represented. The cracked walls, the uneven floors, the stale air, the quiet weight of Darkreach pressing in from every corner all seemed to offend him anew. His expression hardened, faint irritation threading through his otherwise immaculate composure.

  “…Yes,” he said at last, the single word clipped and heavy. “There is.”

  Melora felt her stomach tighten, an old, familiar dread settling in her chest. She kept her expression stony as she waited for the man to continue.

  Vaelor turned back to her fully now, posture rigid, attention sharpened. “The Magister’s instructions were not limited to the reclamation of his daughter,” he said, voice cool and exacting. “There is another matter outstanding. One that, until recently, was obscured by incomplete records and deliberate misdirection.”

  Melora frowned, confusion knitting her brow despite her efforts to remain composed. “Another child?” she asked cautiously, already bracing herself for the answer.

  Vaelor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Another child,” he confirmed. “One whom we have reason to believe introduced herself under a false name—that of the Young Miss' name to be specific.”

  Silence stretched between them, thin and uneasy, as though the room itself were holding its breath. The distant sounds of the orphanage—soft footsteps, muffled voices—felt suddenly far away.

  Melora searched her memory, unease creeping slowly up her spine. Faces, names, conversations from the past weeks flickered through her thoughts, none aligning cleanly with his words.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Representative,” she said at last, carefully measured. “You're saying one of ours used Belle's—Belladnes' family name to... to garner some kind of favor with the Academy or the nobles or—”

  “Not the full name, no,” Vaelor replied coolly, cutting her off without a hint of impatience. “The child in question introduced herself as 'Belle' to one of our Academy's promising elites—a student by the name of Mari Clamburg.”

  Again, Melora wracked her brain. "Belladnes" was a formal given name, used almost exclusively by Veilheim nobles. Even then it wasn't all that common a name. You could, however, find at least one girl on nearly every street corner in Veilheim with the name "Belle". Almost as if reading her mind, the Representative spoke again.

  "The girl in question mentioned she resides at this, the one and only orphanage in Darkreach," he continued, giving the Matron a pointed look. "Perhaps she led our students astray, but if she was not, then a quick check of city records reveal only one 'Belle' tied to this facility and she is standing before me now."

  And that was when the realization hit Melora. There had only been one child she knew of who'd had a recent run-in with the Academy who was also a resident of the orphanage. She could've been wrong; it may have been another kid somewhere out in Darkreach. Bellatina knew there were countless children living on the streets, unaccounted for.

  The orphanage didn't have room for every youth in the Beggar's Quarter and neither did the Matron make a habit out of seeking them out. Still, if her guess was right, then only one child—one troublesome little girl—the Representative could be referring to.

  It was then that movement stirred at the edge of the room.

  Melora turned just as a small figure appeared in the doorway, as if she had simply materialized there between one breath and the next. Lecia stood half in shadow, white hair stark against the dim corridor, golden eyes fixed on the room with an unreadable intensity. She had not been summoned, nor announced herself—and that alone sent a ripple of unease through the air, cold and immediate.

  The bodyguard who, along with the Representative, had been standing facing away from the room's entrance, reacted instantly.

  Steel slid free from a hidden sheath as the massive Warrior shifted, cloak flaring as he whipped around and moved into a guarded stance. The sudden move startled the Matron, Vaelor, and Belle, who yelped in fear and stumbled back behind Melora. The Warrior paid them no mind. One hand hovered near the hilt of his long blade, the other held a broad, vicious-looking seax.

  His muscles coiled with restrained force as instinct overrode reason. His posture snapped tight, hard ocean-blue eyes snapping down to lock onto Lecia with the focus of a predator. He blinked in confusion a second later as he fully took the small girl in. For a heartbeat, the room balanced on the edge of violence.

  "'Ow in the bloody Abysses...” he muttered under his breath, disbelief roughening his voice as he took a half-step back, reassessing.

  Lecia's body went rigid, but her expression remained impassive. For a tense moment, the two eyed each other, no one daring to say a word. Then, with a snort, the man stood up straight and returned the silvery knife to the hidden sheath beneath his cloak. Without a word, he stepped back to stand once more by Vaelor's side, looking for all the world like nothing had happened.

  Seeing this, Lecia relaxed and gave the Warrior one last quick once-over before shifting her to Vaelor. There was no fear in her expression, no surprise, only a blank placidity that felt deeply unnatural for a child her age. Vaelor, having quickly recovered from Lecia's unexpected arrival, studied her openly now, intrigue flickering behind his otherwise austere expression like a blade catching light.

  “Dark skin, white hair, eyes like a cadaver on the mortician's table... all consistent with the report,” he said at last, almost thoughtfully, his lips curving faintly. “It seems our little plus one has some excellent timing.”

  Melora’s heart sank, heavy and immediate. It was exactly as she'd guessed. She should have known, from the moment Lecia had brought back news of her run-in with the Academy students. She should've realized the situation wouldn't end with just a serendipitous encounter. Now it was too late to do anything. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, the Academy had her in its sights.

  It was all in Bellatina's hands now.

  “Representative… this is Lecia,” she said with barely hidden resignation, her words almost coming out in an exhausted sigh. “And I assure you, whatever misunderstanding there is, she is no trouble to anyone here.”

  “There is no misunderstanding,” Vaelor replied, cutting her off without raising his voice. “The Young Miss is being reclaimed under Noble authority.” His eyes never left Lecia as he continued. “You, however, are of interest to the Academy.”

  Though muted somewhat, the shock that ripped through Lecia's impassive exterior was unmistakeable. Her hands trembled and flexed beneath her cloak, heartbeat picking up as she shifted every ounce of her focus on the man.

  Vaelor clasped his hands behind his back, his tone shifting into something more measured, more deliberate. “Upon investigation into an... unrelated matter, Magister Threvin was informed of a child encountered on the scene by his students, and one of those students brought the attention of Lecia and her magickal potential to His Grace."

  Melora stiffened. “Potential?” Her voice betrayed her before she could stop it, disbelief sharp in her tone. “That’s impossible. Lecia is—she obsesses over magick, yes, but she’s never shown any ability to actually use—”

  “—Never shown you,” Vaelor corrected smoothly, a faint edge of disdain creeping into his voice. “Which is not the same thing.”

  The muted shock and anticipation in Lecia's gaze drained away in an instant, slipping back into stolid unreadability. Her silence was suddenly heavy with implication. She said nothing, but the air around her felt charged, taut with something unsaid. Her fingers flexed again, but this time there was an anxiousness to the habitual motion.

  Questions, concerns, and suspicions raced through Lecia's mind, but she kept her mouth shut and her expression still. She cast a quick side glance toward the Matron before focusing back on the Representative. Rather than provide more information, it was best to just wait and see where the situation went.

  “The Academy maintains an apprenticeship initiative for anomalous talents,” Vaelor went on, pacing slowly as he spoke. “Children who cannot yet attend formally, but who pose too great a risk—or opportunity—to be ignored. Lecia has been recommended for inclusion, pending direct evaluation.”

  Melora stared at him, then switched her stare to Lecia, shock plain now. The words slipping past her restraint. “Lecia, girl, can you truly use magick?”

  Lecia didn't reply, merely returning the Matron's disbelieving wonder and confusion with stubborn, indifferent silence.

  Vaelor’s gaze flicked between the two, a hint of bitter amusement crossing his features. “If she can't, she will certainly learn.”

  The weight of that statement settled heavily over the room. Lecia felt it press against her chest, dread knotting with a sharp, unwilling anticipation in her gut. She had suspected that she'd be outed for her use of runecraft at some point, but to be singled out by the Academy itself? And what's more, to be scouted for an apprenticeship? A real apprenticeship?

  Lecia could never forget or ever fully repay that old woman for teaching her even the small amount that she dared. That slapdash mentorship was something she would cherish as long as she lived. But this was something else. Something more. Her dream was, for all intents and purposes, coming true, and yet... the concern lingered.

  Hearing the Academy—hearing this man—name it aloud, cold and official, made it real in a way Lecia wasn't prepared for. Not so soon, and not like this.

  Belle shifted uncertainly at Melora’s side, small fingers tightening around her threadbare toy until the seams strained. Only now did Vaelor finally glance down at her again, his expression softening by the barest degree, just enough to be noticeable.

  “There is no need to fret, Young Miss,” he said, his voice lower, steadier. “Your path is already decided, and you will not be subjected to unnecessary proximity to Darkreach any longer.”

  Then his attention returned to Lecia, heavy as stone once more.

  “And you,” he said, voice firm and unyielding, “will come with us under Academy authority. Whether you understand why or not is immaterial. Whether you agree or not makes no difference. His Grace, Lord Felicio Threvin, has decreed it under the auspices of his own Noble Name and the Academy. So shall it be.”

  The room held its breath.

  Lecia looked to Melora, searching her face for answers she already knew would not come. The Matron’s expression was tight, troubled, and painfully honest—she was as lost as Lecia was, and far more afraid of what this might mean. Yet beneath the fear and confusion, something else stirred in Lecia’s chest, small but fierce.

  Hope.

  The Academy had come for her.

  “…I’ll go,” Lecia said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm in her thoughts.

  The words cut clean through the tension, and for the first time since arriving in Darkreach, Vaelor smiled.

  "As I said, child, you have no say in the matter."