The boy leaned further toward the window, his breath fogging the enchanted glass as the scenery expanded.
Down below, carriages of goods trundled through levitation lifts—barrels of ore, crates lined with preservation runes, and canisters humming with volatile aether. They were being transported swiftly, efficiently, guided by gloved hands and flickering spell commands. All around, the pulse of magic was undeniable. But the ones directing it—these mages—were not robed in silk or gold-threaded uniforms. Their cloaks were utilitarian, their movents brisk. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, faces marked by soot and spellburn.
These were working mages.
He didn't have the words to articulate it, but he could feel it. Their magic was different—not refined and rehearsed like the ones he'd seen in noble duels, but raw, adaptive. Grit in the gears of civilization. Power not granted, but earned.
"…They're not nobles, are they?" he asked quietly.
His attendant offered a slow nod, lips thinning as his gaze followed the laboring casters below. "No, young master. They are… sothing new. And sothing controversial."
The boy turned to him.
"Commoners," the attendant clarified. "So of them are here for labor. But others... are candidates."
"For the Academy?" the boy's eyes widened again.
"Yes. This year, for the first ti in Imperial history, the Arcanis Council decreed the inclusion of select commoners into the Academy's ranks. Not as servants. Not as aides. As students."
The boy sat back, stunned. "But… how?"
At that, the attendant's expression sharpened, the barest flicker of distaste brushing his otherwise impassive features.
"Through a thod befitting nobility," he said, voice even. "A grand performance. One that walks the fine line between opportunity... and spectacle."
The carriage rounded a bend, revealing a vast construction site on the northern tier of the city. Floating scaffolds hovered in place, shifting platforms assembled by arcane force, forming a colossal stadium-like structure encased in crystallized shielding. Mages soared between scaffolding beams, etching runic wards midair. Entire teams of artificers worked in perfect synchronization, preparing a space not for warfare—but for display.
"That," the attendant gestured with a gloved hand, "is the arena. It will host the 'Candidacy Trials.' An event designed to evaluate commoner applicants from across the Empire—and even beyond its borders."
"...In front of everyone?" the boy asked.
"In front of everyone," the attendant confird, voice low. "The event will be stread through the aetheric arrays scattered across the city. Taverns, academies, noble salons—they will all be watching. Not just the results... but the struggle. Every test. Every failure. Every rise."
The boy's hands slowly curled into fists on his lap. "So they're not just being tested… they're being watched."
"Yes," the attendant replied. "For nobles, it's entertainnt. A curiosity. A bet on which peasant might claw their way high enough to sit at our tables. But for the ones competing?" He glanced out the window. "It's everything."
The boy turned his gaze back to the gathering tower. A group of younger candidates—so no older than him—were standing outside the scaffold gates. Their clothes were plain, their postures stiff. So bore weapons on their backs. Others, glowing spell-anchors etched into the skin. Their eyes burned with hunger. Not for food. But for place.
For recognition.
"How many will pass?" he asked softly.
"Hard to say," the attendant murmured. "Rumor says fewer than ten seats were allotted. Out of hundreds. Maybe thousands."
The boy's fingers loosened slightly, and he leaned back once more.
"It's cruel," he said, not looking at his attendant. "But… they'll still fight for it, won't they?"
The attendant didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The boy's words had already wrapped themselves in a quiet truth—one not easily dismissed. Outside, the crowd of hopefuls remained gathered, unaware of the eyes watching them from behind gilded glass.
"They won't back down," the boy continued, voice low, almost reverent. "Even with odds like that. Even when the world tells them they shouldn't even try." He smiled faintly. "That kind of resilience… it's admirable."
His gaze softened as he watched one of the candidates—a girl with a chipped blade on her back and a ribbon tying back her hair—help another to his feet after a stumble. They exchanged no words. But the bond was clear. Neither of them intended to be left behind.
"I want to speak with the ones who make it through," the boy said. "To learn from them. Be friends with them. They'll be like… like celebrities, right? Not just students—but living proof that status isn't everything."
The attendant arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I would suggest, young master, that you take care not to lose yourself in admiration. These trials are not gas. And you… do tend to step past your boundaries when enthusiasm takes hold."
The boy turned toward him with a glimr of amusent in his eyes. "What? You an like that ti with the owl rchant?"
The attendant exhaled through his nose. "Or the duel challenge you issued to that poor fourth-tier noble at the Harvest Ball. Yes."
"I didn't lose," the boy added defensively, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips.
"You weren't invited," the attendant muttered, under his breath.
The boy laughed quietly, his hands lifting as if in surrender. "I know my duties, I promise."
The attendant didn't respond imdiately, only exhaled in that long-suffering way he often did when the young master's charm triumphed over discipline. Still, there was no real anger in it—only concern, buried beneath years of loyalty.
Then the boy's smile softened, and his gaze dropped to the orb cradled gently in his hand.
It was small—barely the size of a plum—its smooth surface etched with faint runes that pulsed with soft, mana-blue light. He turned it slightly in his palm, watching the shimr stir like starlight in deep water.
"…I wonder if Selphine's already reached the gates," he murmured, the na slipping from his lips with the ease of old habit. A trace of fondness threaded through it—quiet, but unmistakable.
The orb in his hand flickered again, as if reacting to the sound of her na.
"Selphine?" the attendant asked, glancing toward him. "You an Lady Selphine Elowen?"
The boy nodded. "Mhm. From the Elowen territory. Their lands border ours, rember? Our families have been allies since my grandfather's ti."
"She's the sa girl who once threw a spell crystal into a pond because soone called her hair too shiny?"
"That was one ti," the boy said quickly. "And he deserved it."
The orb pulsed again—sharper now.
Then—
"Aurelian!"
Her voice burst from the orb, higher-pitched now with indignation.
"Where in the world are you? You said you'd arrive in the morning! I've already been waiting fifteen minutes by the north pronade and—wait, don't you dare tell you're still inside the city's upper tier traffic queue! You promised!"
Aurelian winced, then chuckled, lifting the orb a little higher in one hand. "Well," he said with a sheepish grin, "she has arrived."
"You are fortunate Lady Selphine doesn't duel like her father," the attendant muttered, deadpan. "Or she'd have demanded satisfaction by now."
"Mm, she only threatens to throw spellbooks. Much safer," Aurelian said, then lifted his voice toward the orb. "We're close, Selphine. I can see the pronade towers from here. Just a bit of traffic, I swear."
"You always say that." Her voice was softer now, the irritation fading. "Just don't make wait too long. I want to find the dorm assignnts together."
Aurelian's smile returned, steadier now. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The orb dimd, signaling the end of the ssage.
The young heir leaned back in his seat, letting out a long, contented breath as the tower gates of the Imperial Academy drew closer, glittering in the midday light like a promise carved into the skyline.
Selphine Elowen. His childhood friend. His occasional rival. And, whether she knew it or not, the calm in the storm of what was about to begin.
"I suppose that makes two reunions today," he said, smiling.
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