The city felt alive in a way no book, no game, no movie from my old world had ever managed to capture.
Voyeur was blooming with people, not just humans, but a collision of races and lives moving together through the same streets. Beastkin with furred ears and swaying tails wove through the crowd, their movements light and precise, some with feline grace, others more lupine, their senses always half-turned toward the sounds around them.
Dwarves with thick beards and broad shoulders hauled crates, argued loudly over prices, or laughed with mugs in hand outside open tavern doors, their deep voices rising above the din. Demi-humans with subtle animal traits, a streak of scales along the jawline, slit pupils that flashed in the light, feathered strands mixed into their hair, passed by like walking reminders that this world did not care about my old rules for what people should look like.
Even the humans here did not feel ordinary. Some wore robes etched with faint glowing threads, patterns that pulsed softly with contained magic. Others had weapons hanging openly at their sides, sigils stitched into their cloaks, rings that flickered briefly when they gestured.
Every direction I looked, something new crowded my vision, some detail that proved this place existed far beyond anything I had imagined sitting on a bus, half-asleep with music in my ears.
Even in that crowd, everyone stepped aside for the dragger to move.
The ground wyvern's presence carved a path through the chaos. People looked up as we approached, conversations pausing for a breath as they noticed the scaled creature harnessed at the front. Some moved away quickly, out of respect, or habit, or quiet fear. Others watched with thinly veiled curiosity, eyes following the motion of the wyvern's heavy steps and the sleek lines of the reinforced vehicle it pulled.
Children stopped in the middle of their games, wooden toys dangling from their hands, mouths open in awe as the dragger rolled past. One small beastkin boy, with rounded bear ears poking through his hair, tugged at his mother's sleeve and pointed with both hands, eyes huge.
"Look, look," I heard him say faintly through the glass.
I caught my own reflection in the dragger's window and realized I was staring just like they were, wonder written clearly across my face. I might have been riding inside it, but part of me was still just a kid seeing a wyvern-drawn vehicle up close for the first time.
For a few moments, it did not matter that I was supposed to be Theodore Valtair Roosevelt, heir to a noble house and future academy student. I was just someone seeing proof that this world was real, solid, undeniable.
The dragger eventually slowed as we pulled away from the densest arteries of the city and turned down a quieter, more controlled road. The buildings here rose taller but closer together, three and four stories high, their walls of brick and pale stone touched by careful hands rather than desperate ones. Signs hung over doorways with painted symbols and scripted names, swinging gently in the breeze. Windows were clean, some with flowers set on the sills, others with enchanted lanterns glowing faintly within.
We came to a stop in front of a large inn.
Its exterior was sturdy rather than flashy, built from heavy timber and stone, the kind of place that valued reliability over spectacle. The wooden sign hanging from iron brackets bore the inn's name in curling script, flanked by a simple emblem of a lantern. Warm light spilled from the wide double doors, carrying with it the faint sounds of clinking dishes and quiet conversation.
At the entrance, standing beneath the sign as though he had been there long enough to become another architectural element, was Gol Banner.
He looked exactly as I remembered. Posture straight, uniform immaculate, gloves spotless, not a single button out of place. His expression was composed, professional, but his eyes, just for a moment, reflected a subtle loosening of tension when he saw the dragger arrive intact. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, swallowed back into the calm facade of a butler who did not allow his emotions to spill into his work.
Beside him stood another man.
At first, I only saw the outline. Average height, neither imposing nor forgettable. Dark hair combed back with deliberate care. Clothes that were too refined to belong to a simple traveler, but not ostentatious enough to scream "noble peacock" the way some of the people in the city did. He stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, weight balanced evenly, as if he was used to standing still for long periods without fidgeting.
As I stepped down from the dragger, the others moving around me to begin unloading luggage and tending to the wyvern, the man beside Gol took a step forward. He approached me with a smile, one so easy and steady it almost felt familiar. There was something about it, the shape of it, the way it reached his eyes without quite softening them fully, that tugged at the edge of my memory.
I had seen a smile like that before somewhere.
Maybe on a teacher in my old world. Maybe on a doctor trying to look reassuring. Maybe on someone who needed people to trust them quickly.
"Theodore Valtair Roosevelt," he said, stopping at a respectful distance. His voice was warm and clear, the kind that carried easily without needing to be raised. There was no trace of arrogance in it, but also no hesitancy. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person."
He placed a hand lightly over his chest and inclined his head.
"I am the headmaster of the academy."
My spine straightened on instinct. Behind me, I felt, more than saw, Sirius and Nirumel stiffen slightly, their own posture adjusting to accommodate the presence of someone important.
'Headmaster.'
In my old world, the title would have belonged to someone who managed a school, organized teachers, handled complaints from parents. Here, in a kingdom where magic and power determined status, it meant something heavier. This was someone who ruled over the place that trained future nobles, mages, knights. Someone who watched generations pass through the academy's gates and decided, in subtle and blunt ways, what kind of people they would become.
His name followed, and it settled into my ears with the ease of something designed to be remembered.
"Volneir Basalin," he said. "I hope the journey was not too harsh on you."
A remarkable name. It sounded like it had history behind it, like it should appear in the footnotes of dusty tomes or in academy records stretching back decades. Volneir Basalin. It rolled neatly off the tongue, the kind of name people repeated in corridors with a mix of respect and caution.
"I… I'm honored to meet you," I replied, trying to keep my voice even. Every part of me wanted to sound more composed than I felt. "The journey was fine. Long, but… educational."
The corner of his mouth twitched in faint amusement, as if he appreciated the careful choice of words.
"That is good to hear," he said. "Travel, if done right, teaches as much as any classroom."
His gaze moved past me then, sweeping over the others with a quick but attentive glance. Sirius, who bowed neatly. Hynus, who dipped her head. Nirumel, who placed a fist over his chest in a brief knight's salute. Figusus, who gave a smaller, respectful nod. Julius, who stood a step back, hands clasped.
Volneir acknowledged each of them with a slight incline of his head, a gesture that managed to be both polite and instinctively authoritative.
"Thank you all for bringing young master Theodore safely to the capital," he said. "Your work is appreciated."
Then his attention returned to me, like a lens narrowing focus.
"If you would," he continued, gesturing toward the open doors of the inn, "come inside. It has been a long road. Before anything else, we should sit, share something warm to drink, and speak properly. There are things you should know about the academy, and things I should hear from you."
Gol stepped slightly to the side to clear the way, his expression settling back into smooth neutrality. For a moment, his eyes met mine. There was no overt message there, but I felt a quiet reassurance, as if to say, 'You are not walking into this alone.'
The inn's entrance swallowed us in warm light and the mixed scents of cooked food, polished wood, and faint smoke from the hearth. Inside, the main hall was spacious but not extravagant. Wooden beams crossed overhead, darkened by age and care. Round tables filled the floor, some occupied by travelers hunched over bowls and mugs, their conversations low and steady. Lanterns hung on the walls, their flames steady behind glass, casting soft, amber light.
Volneir guided us toward a table set a bit apart from the others, near a window where the last scraps of daylight painted the street outside in fading color. As we sat, I became acutely aware of my own posture, of how I placed my hands, of trying not to look like someone who had not grown up with this kind of attention.
He did not sit at the head of the table or take up extra space. He simply chose a seat, folded his hands loosely on the surface, and smiled in that calm, slightly amused way again.
If I had met him in my old world, I might have assumed he was a professor. Or an administrator who actually liked students instead of just tolerating them.
"Voyeur can be overwhelming on the first day," he said. "You handled it better than most."
"I was mostly staring," I admitted before I could stop myself.
"That is still better than shutting your eyes," he replied. "Some people arrive at the capital and spend the entire first week pretending it is not bigger than they are ready for."
He spoke lightly, but there was something heavy under the words. Experience, maybe. Memory.
I found my gaze drawn to the small details as he talked. The way his fingers moved when he gestured, precise and economical. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. The way his attention, when focused on me, made it feel like the rest of the room had dimmed by comparison.
This was someone used to reading people. Measuring them. Deciding what to do with what he saw.
Somewhere inside, the old Leon, the one used to being invisible in hallways and classrooms, tensed.
But another part of me, the part that had endured Velanica's pressure on the training ground and felt the divine symbol respond in my chest, straightened instead.
This was the headmaster of the academy.
This was the capital.
This was the next step.
As Volneir Basalin welcomed us to the inn with that steady, knowing smile, and began to speak of the academy that awaited me beyond these walls, one quiet realization settled in my mind.
Whatever this place turned me into,
it would not let me stay the same.