Calder Vesh stood beneath the soaring archway of the Imperial Magi-Tech Academy, its twin clockwork dragons coiled around glass towers that pulsed with ley-line energy. The air thrummed with anticipation: students in steam-powered exosuits practiced sparring on the lawn, their techno-swords humming with latent magic. Every footstep echoed on polished marble, every breath tasted of promise…and of peril.
He adjusted the straps of his leather pack, heart pounding. Eleven years old, yes—but reborn with a mind honed by tragedy and triumph. Today, he would enter the crucible where Veloriën's future leaders were forged. Around him, aristocratic heirs exchanged polite bows and whispered boasts. Calder kept his gaze forward, letting Arika—the clockwork raven—circle the ramparts overhead, scanning for threats.
At the registration hall, cadet clerks sorted students into guild colors. A gauntlet-shaped sigil marked Calder's entry: the Ember Core Guild, newly formed for innovators. Whispers followed him: "That's the Vesh boy." "He thinks he can rewrite fate." Heat flooded his cheeks. He drew a steady breath. Let them watch. I'll show them a new kind of power.
His first test was the Code-Rune Calibration: students inscribed magical circuits on crystal tablets while the clockwork chronometer clicked down. By his side, Lady Elinora's mirror-self from another timeline—an exchange prodigy—smiled wryly. "They don't expect you to finish first," she murmured.
Calder traced a series of Shattered-Ember glyphs, recalling Soren's corrections. Sparks glittered as the runes aligned, the tablet humming in resonance. He finished just as the timer's gong echoed—a full heartbeat before the nearest rival. Clerks gasped; instructors exchanged impressed nods. Calder bowed briefly, masking satisfaction with humility.
Next came the Magi-Suit Drill: cadets donned exosuits powered by mini-forge cores. Calder's suit, crafted in the Vesh forges, fit him like a second skin—sleek plates etched with ember-runic filigree. He activated the skeletal servos with a thought. Steel muscles flexed at his command. Around him, giants of privilege lumbered in cumbersome armor; he darted through the obstacle course with dancer's grace, leaping vaults and weaving between steam vents.
A cheer rose when he finished in record time. Yet as he exited, a sharp hiss told him an acid-vent had been left open. Before he could react, scalding vapor billowed toward his calf. Pain flared. Calder hissed, stumbling, eyes wide with shock. Peers scattered, alarmed. He staggered back, pressing a cooling glyph to his skin. The suit's sensors flagged a system error—someone had tampered with his jacket's pressure valves.
Blood pounded in his ears. Poison, sabotage, or simple cruelty? Rhain's reach again, he thought, anger and fear coiling in his gut. But he would not falter. He straightened, masking the welt on his skin beneath a cloak of calm. "No matter," he said, voice steady, "an ember may burn even when bruised."
Word of the incident spread through the quad like wildfire. Some cadets looked at him with new respect; others with envy-tinged suspicion. Calder's eyes locked on one figure slipping into the shadows of the archway: Viscount Varo, son of Marquess Rhain's chief lieutenant. The boy's lips curled in a silent smirk before he vanished through double doors.
Calder's jaw hardened. The Academy was not just a proving ground for magic and machinery—it was an arena of hidden blades and whispered plots. He turned to Arika, whose gears clicked in concern. Then let the game begin, he thought, and I will be its master.
As the sun dipped behind the clockwork towers, Calder Vesh walked deeper into the Academy's halls, each step forging his future—and edging him closer to the conspiracy that would test every ounce of his brilliance.