The Academy rose from the horizon like a fortress grown from the land itself, not built but birthed over centuries, shaped by the hands and ambitions of the great families. Its towers spiraled skyward, black stone etched with faint runes that pulsed with a faint inner light, almost imperceptible, as if whispering secrets to those attuned to the currents of the world. Bridges arched gracefully over shadowed courtyards, and statues of former students, founders, and unknown warriors lined the entry paths, their eyes seeming to follow each newcomer with quiet judgment.
Lucien dismounted from his horse, feeling the weight of the river beneath the Seravain estate thrum through his body like a heartbeat. Aethercurrent, the Seravain family artifact sword, rested against his hip, humming faintly in response. Every fiber of him was alive with anticipation. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. The flow of his training dictated his movements, subtle, precise, deliberate.
The massive gates of the Academy opened with a deep groan, revealing a courtyard that stretched farther than he had imagined. Students moved with precision, some clustered in small groups, others walking alone with measured steps, each bearing the invisible weight of expectation. Lucien's eyes swept over them, noting posture, subtle gestures, the tense coil of muscle, the faintest flicker of hesitation—each a current to be measured, each a potential ripple that could affect him.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Several figures detached from the main crowd almost immediately. A girl with hair as white as winter snow, streaked in black, moved toward him with deliberate poise. Her gaze locked on him immediately, unwavering, assessing, calculating. Lysander's heir. Even without a word, her presence pressed against him like a flowing current, testing, shaping, measuring.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Behind her, a boy with fire-red hair and a cocky smirk drifted closer, every motion coiled with energy, waiting to strike. Drayvane's heir. His presence was like heat rising off the stones in summer, a current of fire seeking friction.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Another figure emerged, a girl with armor-like attire, her dark eyes sharp and unyielding. Caelthorn's heir. Discipline radiated from her like the steel of her uniform; she moved with careful calculation, every step measured, every motion controlled.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien's senses expanded beyond their bodies. The river beneath the Academy hummed faintly, threading through the stone, through the air, into the very currents of his awareness. He felt it guide him, subtle, persistent, reminding him to move with precision, to adapt, to endure.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He noticed more students as he advanced. A tall boy with pale blond hair, eyes sharp as a hawk's, scanned everyone as if reading invisible currents of tension. A wiry boy with jet-black hair smirked mischievously, agile and unpredictable, ready to dart in for opportunity. A girl with hair like ash carried a bundle of scrolls, meticulous and quiet, observing and calculating every subtle detail. Another boy, calm and serene, wore a strange pendant that pulsed with faint blue light, a current of unknown energy.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien felt the pull of his own training resonate through the artifact sword. Aethercurrent was more than a weapon; it was a channel, a teacher, a silent partner in the flow. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. Every movement became a conversation between body, blade, and river.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
A faculty member emerged from the shadows of the central tower, robes brushing the stone floors, embroidered with shifting symbols that seemed alive. Their voice cut through the courtyard, sharp and measured:
"New students. The Hall of Initiation awaits. Step forward in order. Observation first. Execution second."
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien followed the path to the Hall, each movement deliberate, aware of the currents radiating from the other students. Lysander's heir tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk of evaluation. Drayvane's heir leaned lazily, but his eyes gleamed with challenge. Caelthorn's heir's gaze never left him, calculating, disciplined, unreadable. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
More students moved alongside him: a girl with golden braids, strong and confident, carrying a dagger tucked beneath her cloak; a boy with dark-green hair and intense brown eyes, alert and measuring, a subtle aura of hidden strength; a quiet boy with silver streaks in his black hair, shifting slightly as if listening to currents only he could hear.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The Hall of Initiation itself was vast, echoing with the weight of centuries. Polished stone floors reflected the vaulted ceilings, lined with mirrors that multiplied every movement into countless angles. The air was thick with the scent of old incense and the faint tang of magical energy. Lucien's pulse synchronized with the river beneath the stone, every breath and heartbeat guiding his footing, his focus, and his awareness.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
From the shadows, more students trickled in, each unique, each a current to be felt and measured. Whispers rose and fell, carrying subtle judgments. Some glanced at his sword, the artifact at his hip, and murmured quietly; others studied his posture, his movements, his silence.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien walked forward, fully aware of the tension tightening like coils in the courtyard. The Academy was alive. Not merely stone and shadow, but politics, observation, rivalry, and subtle tests at every glance. The heirs of the great families—Lysander, Drayvane, Caelthorn, and his own Seravain—were the central currents. But around them swirled smaller eddies of ambition, curiosity, and malice.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He paused briefly at the center of the Hall. The mirrors reflected not just himself, but the unseen currents in the air: students adjusting, shifting, waiting, preparing. Every motion was a test. Every glance a measurement. And above all, the river beneath him pulsed, alive, a constant reminder of flow, endurance, and adaptation.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The river moves. I move with it. And nothing else can bend me.