The carriage smelled like cedar and old wax.
It was too clean.
Too quiet.
Every bump in the road reminded me how long it had been since I'd ridden in something that wasn't swaying from a wound.
I didn't look out the window.
I watched my sword — laid across my knees in a black-wrapped sheath, the hilt bound in red cloth to mark neutrality during travel.
Neutrality.
As if color changed what it could do.
---
The road wound west, then north, then west again — through frost-heavy passes and sun-baked valley corridors. We crossed under the bronze bridge at Kaer Halden. Passed by ruined watchtowers, noble villas, and the withered bones of old siege engines left half-sunken in creek beds.
Three guards rode ahead.
Two behind.
Not for my protection.
For the *House crest* burned into the lacquered side of the carriage.
Westenra.
The Golden Tiger of the West.
The name earned the space.
But not always the silence.
---
Three days out, we stopped at a tradepost where other noble carriages had gathered — banners stitched in crimson, white, green.
Some were loud.
Some quiet.
One—deep blue, stitched with lightning and an eclipsed sun—parked nearest to mine.
The family crest of **House Sylvarne**.
I recognized the sigil.
Not the name.
A boy stood beneath it, speaking quietly to a servant. Tall, lean, dressed in a short dueling coat of frost-grey. Not the loud type.
I watched him from the shade.
He glanced at me once.
Nodded.
I didn't return it.
I turned back to the sword.
---
On the fifth morning, we crested the ridgeline that overlooked the western reaches of the capital.
And there it was.
*Aetherion.*
Not just a school.
A city built like a fortress and shaped like a throne.
Sprawling towers of white and gold stone arched up like drawn blades. A single spire cut through the clouds — the Heart Column, where the Headmaster lived, if he even existed. Magic shimmered faintly at the gates — not a wall, but a field of moving wind.
It hummed when the carriages passed through.
The hum tasted like iron and truth.
---
I stepped down alone.
Other nobles had entourages — cousins, retainers, personal mages, sword-bearers.
I had a sword.
And a name.
That would have to be enough.
---
The outer plaza was swarming.
Dozens of first-years stood near the white slate check-in tables. Robed figures moved among them — not teachers. Not guards.
They wore black-and-silver gloves.
**Enforcers.**
Men and women trained not to protect.
To prevent.
---
A woman with a sun sigil on her shoulder marked my name in her ledger.
"Track?"
"Sword."
"Rank?"
"Iron."
She paused.
Her eyes flicked to the crest stitched onto my collar.
Westenra.
Her quill moved slower.
But she didn't argue.
She handed me a scroll.
> *Dorm C, Noble Division, Wing 2.*
> *You will report to First Assembly at bell three. Orientation begins at dusk.*
I nodded.
No questions.
No welcome.
Just like home.
---
I found my way to the Noble Wing.
Dorms shaped like half-castles. Black and grey banners. Aura in the air like mist — coiled tightly around certain doorways.
No casual power here.
Everyone was watching.
Everyone knew whose last name meant *what*.
---
I found my room.
Empty. Plain.
A single bed. Desk. Wall rack for my sword. A small window.
And a slip of paper waiting on the pillow.
> *Westenra, huh?
> Thought your line was extinct.
> Try not to embarrass the rest of us.*
No signature.
Just the stink of fear hiding behind pride.
---
I didn't throw it away.
I folded it once.
Set it on the desk.
Let it sit.
Let it wait.
Like I was waiting.
---
Later that evening, the bell rang.
I followed the others through the inner gate.
To the courtyard.
Where the First Assembly was waiting.
---
Hundreds of students. Rows of instructors. Six banners hung from the great columns.
Sword.
Spell.
Artifice.
Beast.
Faith.
Shadow.
The Six Disciplines.
I stood beneath the Sword banner.
And looked up.
At the platform.
Where a woman stood with snow-colored hair and eyes like blue steel.
She scanned the crowd.
Spoke without raising her voice.
Still, every head turned.
---
"Welcome," she said, "to the only place left in this world where your name doesn't matter—unless you earn it."
A pause.
Then—
"If you came here to carry your father's title, leave.
If you came here to prove something, good luck.
If you came here to learn how not to die—
—watch closely."
---
She raised her hand.
A blade of gold-light shimmered into existence beside her.
She snapped her fingers.
It exploded.
Dust and flame spiraled upward into the evening air.
She didn't blink.
---
"That's what it looks like when *you fail to control your aura,*" she said.
"That's what it looks like when a sword disobeys you."
---
I didn't look at the others.
I didn't care if they watched me.
I only looked at the flame.
And thought of my own sword.
Still humming.
Still waiting.