The evening mist over Zenith Academy was thick with a bioluminescent glow. It clung to the marble pillars of the Academic District, smelling of ozone and the ancient dampness of mountain stone. High above, floating mana lamps drifted like ghost fires, casting long, flickering shadows across the thousands of students gathered in the central plaza. This was the night of the unveiling. The midterms were over, the ink was dry, and the hierarchy of the first year was about to be rewritten in light.
Vane stood at the edge of the square, leaning against a fluted stone pillar that felt cold against his shoulder. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers tracing the smooth handle of his star-steel spear tucked into his spatial ring. He could feel the stares of the passing students. The whispers followed him like a wake in dark water. He was the ghost of Oakhaven, the commoner who had dared to survive the ruins, and tonight his anonymity was about to be burned away.
