The gates didn't creak.
They hummed—a low, ancient resonance that echoed through Karl's chest as he stepped beneath the silver arch.
Something shifted in the air. Like the world had exhaled.
Valdros Academy stretched before him like a dream made solid.
Floating bridges. Towering stone halls threaded with glowing veins of light. Gardens suspended midair, shaped by runic magic.
And people—so many of them.
But what caught Karl most wasn't their number.
It was their difference.
No two looked the same.
Some students wore sleek armored tunics with embedded runestones. Others wore lightweight mantles stitched with beast-scale patterns. One girl walked past with an obsidian shoulder pauldron glowing softly at the seams. Another wore no shirt at all—just swirling tattoos alive with mana.
It was nothing like Asterwall.
And everything his quiet world had hidden from him.
Karl tried not to let it show, but every step made his boots feel heavier. He kept his head forward, cloak pulled tight.
Stay calm. Don't stand out. Not yet.
But the air had already shifted around him.
People turned. Eyes tracked his movement. Whispers followed his footsteps like shadows.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Or maybe… recognition.
A group of instructors stood near the main courtyard, each dressed as uniquely as the students they trained.
One wore a half-coat of skysteel and bone, polished smooth. Another had fire-threaded cloth that shimmered as it moved. The last stood in a formal green tunic and gloves with shifting ink symbols crawling across the fabric like living spells.
The one in green stepped forward, eyes scanning Karl with quiet sharpness.
"Karl Valen?"
He nodded.
She gestured, and a glowing orb floated from her palm—pale at first, then sharpening into a deep violet glow.
"Place your hand near it."
He hesitated.
Then lifted his palm.
The orb pulsed once—then bloomed violently into dual color: a deep violet laced with icy blue fractures dancing across its surface.
Gasps followed.
Not loud. But real.
"Is that—?"
"Two affinities?"
"No, look again… that's not natural. That's…"
"Resonance."
The instructor said it flatly, but her eyes had narrowed.
"Not just magic. Not just a mark. Something deeper."
Karl was about to speak—when a voice cut through the courtyard.
"I request a comparison."
He turned.
The same boy from the entrance—tall, sharp-eyed, draped in a black high-collared vest with jagged white trim and fingerless gloves laced with iron thread.
Not a robe.
Not a uniform.
Battlewear. Customized. Personal.
He stepped forward with measured calm.
"Instructor Calen, allow me."
The woman in green raised a brow.
"This isn't a duel."
"It doesn't need to be."
Now he looked at Karl.
His voice was quiet, but it carried weight.
"I want to know what kind of shadow walks beside me."
Karl didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
Because deep in his chest, beneath skin and scar and silence—
Raiven stirred.