The chair hums under me, metal cool against my palms, and I can feel all their eyes on the back of my head.
Kids in tailored uniforms and designer boots. Hero logos stitched into their jackets like family crests. Somewhere behind me, someone shifts and a cape clasp clicks softly against armor.
In my head, I see flashes that don't belong to me: a billboard with an S-class heroine selling sneakers; a glossy holo of some A-class golden boy mid-flight; the kind of names my parents only ever saw on cleaning schedules and delivery receipts.
And then there's me.
Daughter of F-class supers. Scholarship kid from the wrong side of the freeway. Sitting in the same chair they did, like that makes any kind of sense.
The halo of glassy shards glides down around my head. Light skims over my skin, cool as breath. My fingers curl around the armrests.
The voice comes with the first pass of the halo, velvet over static, threading straight into my thoughts.
"Marisol Vega," it murmurs. "We will begin."
Ten questions. It warned us about those in the orientation vids, but the vids didn't say it would feel like the Academy itself crawling into your skull to see what makes you flinch.
Raw elements, sharp thoughts, the things I want and the things I'm afraid I want.
Given a choice, do I build, break, or lead?
My mouth says, "All of the above," even as my throat goes dry.
Do I fear my fists failing, or my plans failing?
"Plans," I whisper. "If plans fail, fists don't matter."
Would I rather stand at the front or the center?
"Both," I say, before I can stop myself. "Front, if I have to. Center, if someone smarter needs the front more."
By the time I choke out the last answer, the air tastes like ozone and copper, like the seconds before a power surge. The orbit tightens. Light jumps from shard to shard, stuttering between red, blue, green, white, gold—too fast to track.
Someone behind me sucks in a breath. Then another. Nobody else's Assessment looked like this.
"Interesting," the Academy says in my skull, and this time it sounds… pleased. "You reach toward everything. Muscle, storm, mind, machine. You refuse to settle into a single current."
My stomach flips.
"So… is that bad?" I manage. My voice barely makes it past my teeth.
"Bad?" The chamber laughs, a warm ripple through my bones. "No, Marisol Vega. Just rare."
The light slams inward—not burning, but sinking. A ring of warmth settles over my chest like an invisible brand.
For a heartbeat, I see flashes that are not mine: fire leaping from someone's hands; a shield blooming around a stranger; wings of light; a shadow blade; lightning crawling over skin. Echoes flicker through me and vanish, leaving only afterimages.
"Echo-Blooded," the Academy declares, and the word seems to vibrate in stone and bone alike. "You do not have one element. You resonate with others. You copy, amplify, reflect, and—oh yes—you keep them. Archive subtype."
The murmur that ripples through the room is almost physical. Archive. Even I know that one—from rumor threads, half-banned forums, conspiracy vids late at night on the family phone.
Above us, banners flare to life, sigils hanging in the air like stained glass made of code. Radiant's blazing crest. Veil's shadowed mask. Hearth's warm shield.
And Forge.
Deep, clever blue edged in gold: a gear wrapped around an eye.
The light humming over my heart shifts to match, a faint pressure under my sternum.
"You think in plans and contingencies," the voice goes on, satisfied. "You hoard possibilities like books. You belong where minds are sharpened and futures are engineered. Archive Echo of House Forge. First of your family to stand in my halls."
My hands are shaking, but for once it isn't just fear. Something hot and bright and impossible roars up from my chest, crowding the panic.
"…Okay," I breathe, as the chair unlocks with a soft click. "So when do I wake up from this dream?"
"A dream?" the chamber echoes, gentler now. "Oh, Marisol Vega. This is far more real than any dream. This is your beginning."
The halo retracts into the ceiling with a whisper of hidden machinery. The hum in my bones fades. My legs remember how to work, more or less, and I push myself upright.
The circular Assessment chamber is suddenly just a room again—metal and stone and recessed lights, not the inside of God's head. A door hisses open in the wall.
"Vega."
The voice is human this time: crisp, professional, with the faint rasp of too much coffee and too many years of wrangling powered teenagers.
I turn.
A woman in a lab coat stands in the doorway, Forge sigil stitched neatly on her sleeve, tablet tucked under one arm. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun that's already losing the fight, wisps escaping around a face that would be pretty if it wasn't so tired.
"I'm Professor Kaur," she says, giving me a long, assessing look. "House Forge advisor. Well done. Echo-Blooded, Archive subtype, and Forge placement all in one go." Her mouth twists wryly. "You've just made my day significantly more complicated. Follow me, please. Orientation waits for no one—not even living libraries."
I swallow, nod, and follow her out.
---
The door sighs open on a breath of cool air, and Aeternum hits me all at once.
Glass and steel and light. Students in crisp jackets moving in color-coded streams—Radiant gold, Veil black, Hearth warm tones, Forge's deep blues. Banners hang from the vaulted ceiling like flags in a futuristic cathedral.
Over my right shoulder, a faint pulse of light keeps pace with me: a tiny holo-tag quietly hovering.
VEGA, MARISOL – ARCHIVE ECHO – HOUSE FORGE
I feel weirdly naked, like someone projected my grades onto my forehead without warning.
"Eyes front, Vega," Kaur says, already striding down a side corridor. "You'll have plenty of time to gawk later. For now, we need to confirm your classification and get you a pair of peer mentors before someone decides to 'stress test' the new Archive."
I am not entirely sure that was a joke.
The main river of students falls away behind us. The air cools as the halls narrow, glass giving way to more metal, more screens. Behind transparent panels, people hunch over machinery, floating holo-models, whiteboards crammed with equations.
"This is the Forge wing," Kaur says. "Your House. Systems, scaffolds, and asking 'why' three times in a row until people regret speaking to you. You'll get the full tour later."
She palms a door panel. It hisses open into what has to be the House Forge common room: two-story ceiling, couches and tables, whiteboards everywhere, a balcony lined with desks. Half-built gadgets litter every flat surface like booby traps for OSHA inspectors.
In the center of the room, a holo-display hovers over a projector pad, listing names and glowing tags.
Two older students stand near it, mid-conversation: a girl in a perfectly tailored Forge jacket and a boy in Radiant colors, all easy posture and sunshine.
They both look up when we enter.
I definitely clock how pretty they are. I do not clock who they are.
Kaur strides straight to the holo, fingers flicking through the air. My name blooms in midair, expanding into a full file.
"Let's see…" she murmurs. "Vega, Marisol—"
She stops.
The display zooms in. I catch a glimpse of the text before it shrinks again:
POWER TIER PROJECTION: S-CLASS POTENTIAL
DESIGNATION: ECHO-BLOODED (ARCHIVE)
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Kaur says very quietly—more tired aunt than prestigious professor. "We haven't had an S-class projection since the twins. And before that it was, what, thirty-something years ago?"
My brain chooses exactly one word to latch onto.
"S-class?" I echo, because my mouth apparently hates me. "Is that… bad?"
The blond boy makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. The girl's shoulders go still, her posture sharpening.
Kaur sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose like she regrets every life choice that led her here.
"Context," she says. "Aeternum has produced exactly three confirmed S-class heroes in the last four decades. Director Aranda—current head of the Global League, incidentally—and her delightful offspring." She tips her head vaguely toward the two upperclassmen instead of naming them.
I glance over, mind still buffering on current head of the League.
"You, Vega," Kaur continues, "have just been flagged as projected S-class potential. Echo-Blooded, Archive subtype, House Forge. Which means my job just got significantly more complicated."
I manage a small, intelligent sound like, "Uh."
Kaur swipes to another screen: PEER MENTOR ASSIGNMENTS. Rows of names scroll past until mine locks into place.
"Ordinarily," she says, "I'd assign you a single third-year mentor from your House. However, given your classification—Echo, Archive, S-class projection, high-risk for catastrophic incidents, et cetera—and the fact that we haven't had anyone like you since…" She waves a hand as if the missing word should be obvious. "Well. I'd like you within arm's reach of someone who can think three steps ahead, and someone Radiant enough to drag you out of whatever you fall into."
Her gaze flicks between the girl and the boy.
The girl straightens, chin tilting up. The boy's grin widens like he's been waiting for this.
Kaur flicks two files off the holo toward them. My name glows on both.
"Vega, meet your peer mentors," she says, tone very dry. "Lía Aranda, House Forge, will be your primary. Leo Aranda, House Radiant, will be your secondary. Try not to Echo their worst habits."
There's a faint ringing in my ears.
Aranda.
Same name as the League Director she just mentioned.
Same name as the twins.
I connect exactly one and a half dots and my brain gives up.
The girl—Lía—steps forward and offers me a small, precise nod. Up close, she's almost unfairly sharp: pale skin, ash-blond hair pinned back in a half-up twist, blue eyes that look like they've already memorized my file.
"Marisol Vega," she says. "Welcome to House Forge. As your primary mentor, I will ensure you survive your first term without turning the campus into an uncontrolled resonance experiment."
I have no idea if that's supposed to be reassuring.
The boy saunters up beside her, hands in his pockets, green eyes bright with amusement. His hair really is sunshine—golden, slightly messy, like he just stepped out of a recruitment holo.
"And as your secondary mentor," he adds, "I will ensure you have at least a little fun while also not turning the campus into an uncontrolled resonance experiment. Leo Aranda. Nice to meet you, Sol—may I call you Sol?"
I manage a weak nod.
"Great," he says, like I've just agreed to something much bigger. "Then we're officially in this together."
"Good," Kaur cuts in briskly. "File accepted. Mentors assigned. Vega, sit for orientation, then let these two show you the dorms. Arandas, if your mother asks, please assure her that House Forge is taking every reasonable precaution."
"Of course," Lía says smoothly.
"No promises about 'reasonable,'" Leo mutters, still smiling.
I lower myself onto a couch because my knees might not hold me otherwise.
S-class.
Archive.
House Forge.
Aranda twins.
Head of the League.
I don't understand even half of what just happened.
I do understand one thing, though, as Lía pulls up a schedule and Leo drops into the chair next to me like we've been friends for years:
Whatever this beginning is? It's a lot bigger than I thought when I walked into that chamber.
---
I sink deeper into the couch. The holo-tag over my shoulder is still pulsing softly, like it's mocking me.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my knuckles creak, and whisper under my breath, "What is happening, what is happening, what is happening—"
"Vega," Lía says quietly, just to my left. "Breathe."
I look up.
She's sitting perfectly straight, knees together, tablet balanced on one leg like she's about to brief a board meeting. Up close, her eyes are even sharper—ice blue, intent. I have the distinct feeling she could recite my file backwards.
"Okay," I manage. "So. S-class. Archive Echo. House Forge. Aranda-whatever. What does that actually mean for me besides spontaneous cardiac events?"
Lía inhales and settles into explanation mode.
"Being a projected S-class hero," she says, crisp and calm, "means Aeternum considers your ceiling extremely high. In practice, that translates to tailored programs in addition to your standard first-year curriculum. You'll still take the usual hero basics—combat, tactics, ethics, power management—but you'll also have extra labs, one-on-one sessions with faculty, and periodic evaluations by the League's liaison office."
My brain tries to crawl out of my skull.
"The… League… watches my grades?" I croak.
"In a manner of speaking," she says. "They watch your progress, your stability, your field potential. It's not meant to be punitive—"
"It's meant to make sure the new shiny doesn't explode," Leo cuts in, slouched sideways like this is a gossip session, not my impending breakdown. "Boring part covered: more classes, more check-ins, more 'how are you feeling, Vega, any intrusive thoughts about collapsing reality today?'" He flaps a hand. "Now the juicy part. S-class projections also get their own suite."
I blink. "Their own… what?"
"Suite," he repeats, delighted. "Not a bunk in a quad with three snorers and someone's illegal pet gremlin. Actual door. Actual sitting area. Private bathroom. Forge tower, top floors. Concierge demons, probably. I've never been invited up."
"That is not how the housing brochure describes it," Lía says, but she doesn't deny any of it. "However, he's not wrong. The Academy prefers to isolate high-risk, high-value students for security and logistical reasons."
"'Isolate,'" I echo. "Love that word choice."
"It's also quieter," she adds, a fraction softer. "Easier to think. And safer for roommates who might not appreciate waking up fused to a wall because you rolled over in your sleep and Echoed someone's phase shift."
…Okay, that's fair.
"Too bad you aren't in my House," Leo says. "Radiant S-class gets the really dramatic suites. Balconies. Heroic skylines. Perfect lighting for training montages. I'd have crashed your place constantly."
"Leo," Lía says, scandalized. "You are not supposed to harass mentees for their hypothetical balcony privileges."
"I'm not harassing," he protests. "I'm bonding. Besides, it's tragic. Radiant could have had front-row tickets to Archive Chaos, but noooo, Forge snatched her up." He turns back to me, grin crooked. "Anyway. Point is: tailored programs, extra oversight, fancy housing, and two very competent, very attractive mentors." He gestures between himself and Lía. "You, Sol Vega, just rolled the rare drop. Congratulations."
I stare at both of them and let out a tiny, slightly hysterical laugh.
"Cool," I say. "Great. Love that for me. Totally fine. Not freaking out at all."
Lía's mouth softens at the edges. "You're allowed to be overwhelmed," she says. "Just don't let it make you small." Her gaze meets mine, steady and intent. "You earned your place here, S-class projection or not. Remember that. The programs, the suite, the attention—they're responses to your potential, not charity."
For a second the world narrows to that sentence, to the way she says earned like it's a fact, not a question.
Leo nudges my ankle lightly with his foot.
"And if anyone forgets that," he adds, "you tell us. I've been waiting for an excuse to blind some smug upperclassmen."
I snort, the knot in my chest loosening a little. "Okay. Deal. I'll… try not to accidentally Echo your worst habits while I'm at it."
"Good luck with that," Professor Kaur calls dryly from the front of the room. "Orientation starts in two minutes, Vega. Plenty of time to regret all of your life choices."
"I'm already ahead of you," I mutter.
But as I sit there between an ice-queen genius and a golden disaster, the chamber's words echo in my head—this is your beginning—and for the first time the panic has to make room for something else.
---
Professor Kaur doesn't bother with a podium. She just steps into the loose circle of couches and chairs, folds her arms, and gives us a look that says I have seen things and I do not scare easily; don't try me.
"House Forge," she says. "Congratulations. You chose—or were chosen for—the House that asks the most questions and sleeps the least. You're the ones who design the plans, build the tools, break the rules and write better ones. If Radiant charges, Veil sneaks, and Hearth shields, then Forge makes sure any of that is possible in the first place."
A couple of kids straighten, preening.
I try to look like someone who belongs here, and not like someone who still mentally double-checks the price of tortillas every time she opens a fridge.
Kaur's gaze sweeps the room and lands on me for half a beat longer than anyone else. It's subtle, but everyone tracks it. I feel the moment they connect my face to the pulsing tag over my shoulder.
VEGA, MARISOL – ARCHIVE ECHO – HOUSE FORGE – S-CLASS POTENTIAL (PROVISIONAL)
A murmur ripples through the cluster of first-years. A tiny girl across from me—big glasses, ink stains on her fingers—breathes, "Whoa."
Someone else whispers, "That's the Archive," like it's a title.
My shoulders inch toward my ears.
On either side of me, I feel Leo and Lía shift.
"Yeah," Leo murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, pitched so only I can hear. "That? That never really stops."
"It's tiresome," Lía adds, equally quiet, eyes still on Kaur. "The staring. The expectations. The way people think they know you because they've seen your stats. You'll get used to it, eventually. Or at least learn to ignore it."
"Excellent, love that for me," I whisper back. "Can't wait to develop a chronic case of Being Perceived."
Kaur clears her throat.
"Ground rules," she says. "One: safety. Anyone in this House can blow a hole through a wall in at least three different ways. You will not do so without clearance. Two: ethics. We do not experiment on sentient beings, including yourselves, without proper protocols. 'It seemed cool at the time' is not an acceptable justification in any disciplinary hearing."
A few kids chuckle nervously. Leo raises his hand like he's about to object. Lía elbows him before he can.
"Three," Kaur continues, "Echo-Blooded protocols."
That pulls the air a little tighter. She looks directly at me.
"Vega's presence means we are activating the dormant Echo guidelines," she says. "For everyone's benefit: Echo-Blooded interact with other powers in unpredictable ways. Archives in particular can store and recall imprints. To prevent accidents, the following rules are non-negotiable this term: Vega does not carry more than one imprint at a time. Vega does not attempt to Echo faculty without written consent. Vega reports any involuntary resonance immediately. Anyone found pressuring her to copy or test something for them will answer to me."
Several heads swivel my way again, but this time there's a different flavor in it—still curiosity, yeah, but also a hint of oh shit, do not mess with the Archive.
I swallow and nod once.
"Yes, Professor," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Good." She claps her hands lightly. "Schedules have been uploaded to your accounts. You'll have shared hero curriculum with the other Houses in the mornings, House Forge electives in the afternoons. S-class projections—" her eyes flick to me, then to the twins "—will have additional one-on-one sessions slotted in. You'll get notifications. Try not to cry when you see the workload. Any questions?"
Someone asks about lab access. Another about internships. A third about whether Forge still gets priority on the nicer coffee machines in the faculty lounge.
"Yes, if you don't blow anything up," Kaur says. "Yes, if you survive second year. And absolutely yes, but don't tell Hearth."
The tension slowly eases into buzzing excitement. Around me, the other newbies keep sneaking glances, whispering.
I catch fragments: "Archive Echo…?" "S-class, like the Arandas? That's insane." "She doesn't even look—"
My jaw tightens.
Lía notices. Of course she does.
"Remember what I said," she murmurs, barely moving her lips. "You earned this."
"And if anyone forgets that," Leo adds quietly, "Rafe and I are very good at making examples."
Somehow, that mental image is… oddly comforting.
Kaur wraps up with an admonition about sleep and hydration, then dismisses us with a flick of her hand.
"Arandas, keep Vega from getting lost on the way to Housing," she says. "Vega, check your inbox tonight; you'll be getting extra documents from the League liaison office. Do not ignore them. The last S-class who did that ended up on three different recruitment lists and an unfortunate cereal box."
My head spins again. "Cereal—"
"Go," she says, almost kindly. "Before I remember the additional forms I'm supposed to give you."
We drift toward a quieter corner of the common room. The other first-years watch me go like I've just been drafted into some secret program—and, okay, maybe I have.
I exhale. "So that was… a lot."
"That was the official version," Leo says, hopping up to sit on the back of a couch, arms draped over his knees. "You're about to get the unofficial one."
"Here's how this works, Sol," he says. "S-class projection means extra classes, extra supervision, extra paperwork. Boring. It also means the school—and the League—invest in you. Hard. Expect to get your assistant assignment within the week."
"Assistant?" I repeat.
Lía nods, already pulling something up on her tablet. "Administrative support. Someone to manage your schedule, filter requests, coordinate with faculty. In your case, you'll also be assigned a PR representative."
My brain bluescreens. "I… what?"
"PR rep," Leo echoes, grinning. "The works. Brand image consult, media training, social presence, the whole circus. Once word gets out that there's a new Archive with S-class potential, half the hero agencies and sponsorship firms will start circling. They love a good narrative."
He leans in conspiratorially.
"Brand deals, Sol. Endorsements. 'Vega-approved tech.' 'Archive Echo Signature Series gear.' All that nonsense."
"I—no one's going to want me selling anything," I protest. "I'm literally from a laundromat over the freeway."
"Exactly," he says. "That's your angle. 'From nothing to S-class.' People eat that up."
"You are getting ahead of yourself, Leo," Lía says. "She hasn't even taken her first combat evaluation."
"Details," he says. "Point is, Mother is very big on leveraging visibility for 'girl power' and 'representation' and 'next generation leadership,' et cetera, et cetera. You're the first S-class projection here since us, you're an Echo, and you're a girl. Of course she's going to take an interest."
"Mother has made a career out of being the face of women in hero leadership," Lía adds, more measured. "It would be… character-consistent for her to personally sponsor your development. Funding. Mentorship. Perhaps even putting you on her teams once you're certified."
My heart does that stuttering thing again. The idea of Director Aranda—literal global task-force commander—looking at me on purpose is not something I have coping mechanisms for.
Leo squints at my holo-tag, then back at me.
"By the way, Vega?" he says. "Never heard that name in the hero files. Kinda weird, considering."
I blink. "Considering what?"
"Well, S-class projections don't pop up out of nowhere," he says. "Usually you see strong powers clustering in certain bloodlines—the big families, old hero dynasties. If you'd been in the League databases, I'd recognize the surname. So I'm guessing your parents are big on secret identities, yeah? Must be at least B-class. Probably A."
He sounds so confident it takes a second for the meaning to land. When it does, something in my chest twists.
Lía nods, thoughtful. "It would explain the lack of public trail. High-ranking pros often keep their children off the radar until they're ready to debut."
They're both looking at me like I'm a puzzle they've already half-solved.
Heat crawls up my neck, but it's not embarrassment this time. It's something rawer.
"My parents aren't… pros," I say slowly. "My mom cleans rooms at a hotel. My dad cooks on a line. They're F-class. Their powers are only good for getting through twelve-hour shifts without collapsing."
Silence drops between us like a weight.
"I'm the first Vega anyone's invited to a place like this," I add, because now that I've started I can't seem to stop. "There's no secret dynasty. No hidden legacy. Just a lot of overtime and a guidance counselor who thought I should aim lower."
For a heartbeat, no one says anything.
Then Leo blows out a slow breath.
"…Okay," he says, softer than anything I've heard from him. "That is a way better origin story than anything I was imagining."
Lía's gaze shifts—less assessment, more… respect.
"Power does not require pedigree," she says quietly. "Aeternum chose you for a reason. Do not let anyone make you feel smaller for lacking a famous surname."
Her eyes flick, almost imperceptibly, toward the Aranda name on her own tag.
"And," Leo adds, some of his usual brightness curling back in, "just so you know? The assistants, PR reps, all of that—we can help you handle it. You won't have to figure out the circus alone."
"Speak for yourself," Lía says dryly. "I refuse to participate in brand deal negotiations."
"Think of the matching merch," Leo pleads.
She gives him such a withering look that I can't help snorting, tension leaking out of me in a shaky laugh.
Maybe the other students are going to stare. Maybe the League is already drafting contingency plans. Maybe some PR person is out there designing a logo with my name on it.
But right now, I've got an ice-queen genius and a ridiculous golden prince sitting in my House common room, looking at me like I'm not a mistake.
Maybe… I can work with that.
---
"Thanks," I exhale. "Both of you."
For about three seconds, I just sit there breathing.
Then the next panic claws its way in.
"Okay, um, so… next question." I rub the back of my neck. "I don't have a phone or tablet or laptop, so how am I supposed to get my schedule and stuff?"
Both twins just… stare.
Leo's eyebrows climb his forehead like they're trying to escape. Lía freezes mid-scroll, finger hovering above her tablet.
"You… don't have… any device?" Leo says, slowly, like I've just told him I don't believe in electricity.
"Not, like, a personal one," I say, defensive. "We had a family phone back home, but it's a fossil and it's staying with my parents. And I used school computers for everything else. I'm not exactly showing up here with a gaming rig in my backpack."
Lía blinks once. Twice. Then visibly recalibrates.
"Right," she says, voice smoothing. "That's… easily addressed."
Leo swings his legs off the back of the couch and leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me like a new species.
"Okay, first of all: wild," he says. "Second: you are about to be forcibly yeeted into the digital age."
"Leo," Lía sighs.
"What? She asked." He turns back to me. "Aeternum doesn't run on 'if you remembered to check the bulletin board,'" he explains. "Schedules, messages, alerts, power logs, everything is digital. All students are issued at least one personal interface—"
"—as part of their enrollment package," Lía finishes, back in full brief mode. "You should have been assigned standard equipment on arrival. Did anyone from intake hand you a device kit?"
I think back. "Uh. No? I got a folder, a badge, and a very fast walk down a hallway."
"Of course they skipped steps for the Archive," she mutters. "Why bother with protocol when you can be dramatic."
Her eyes narrow, then refocus.
"The holo-tag over your shoulder can display basic information," she adds, more gently. "If you tap it, it will pull up a floating interface with your schedule. Limited, but functional."
"It can… what?" I ask.
"Tap it," Leo urges, grinning. "Trust the floating words."
I reach up and poke the little pulse of light above my shoulder.
It flares, then spills outward into a translucent panel in the air:
MONDAY
08:00–09:30 HERO FOUNDATIONS I (ALL HOUSES)
09:45–11:15 POWER MANAGEMENT: RESONANCE & RISK
13:00–14:30 FORGE LAB ORIENTATION
15:00–16:00 ECHO STABILIZATION SESSION – PRIVATE
"Oh," I breathe. "Okay. That's… actually kind of cool."
"Limited functionality," Lía repeats primly. "The comm band will give you full access—internal messaging, calls, remote file sync, emergency alerts. You'll also be assigned cloud storage and a personal workspace node."
"Translation," Leo says, bumping my shoulder. "School-issued smart bracelet that does everything except your homework. And since you're S-class, they'll probably throw in a tablet too. Standard 'please don't die, you're an investment' package."
"So I won't have to, like… buy my own laptop?" I ask.
"For now, no," Lía says. "Your scholarship covers baseline equipment. If you require specialized hardware later, we'll cross that bridge when we're designing it."
"Designing it," I echo. "Right. Casual."
She gives me a small, sharp smile. "You're Forge now. We don't just use tech. We improve it."
"That was almost inspirational," Leo says. "Careful, your inner motivational speaker is showing."
She pointedly ignores him.
"After orientation, we'll take you to Student Services," she continues. "You'll sign receipts, they'll link your devices to your ID, and I'll make sure they don't 'accidentally' run out of the good models."
"Plus," Leo adds, "once your PR rep gets their claws on you, they'll probably insist on extra hardware for 'content management' and 'brand security.'"
I groan. "You keep saying 'PR rep' like that's a real thing and not a nightmare."
"Oh, it's very real," he says cheerfully. "You'll hate it at first. Then you'll love having someone else answer all your annoying emails. Circle of life."
"At least you won't be trying to manage League correspondence from a library terminal," Lía says. "That would be… inefficient."
"You say 'inefficient.' I say 'deeply on brand for my life so far,'" I mutter.
Leo's expression softens.
"Not anymore," he says. "Look, Sol—joking aside? The gap between what you grew up with and what everyone here takes for granted is going to feel brutal sometimes. Devices, money, connections. You're going to notice it. People are going to show it without meaning to."
"Some will mean to," Lía adds, eyes cool. "Ignore them."
Leo nods. "Point is, the school owes you the tools to keep up. You're not a charity case. You're a high-value student they're desperate not to lose. So when we go get your gear, don't apologize. Don't act like you're stealing. You're just… picking up what they already promised you."
Something in my chest loosens.
"Okay," I say quietly. "No apologizing. Just… picking up my stuff."
"Exactly," Leo says. "And if they give you any trouble, we deploy Lía's terrifying 'disappointed prefect' aura. Works every time."
"It is not terrifying," Lía objects.
"It is absolutely terrifying," Leo and I say at the same time.
We pause, then both snort. Lía presses her lips together, but her eyes are amused.
Across the room, Professor Kaur starts gathering her notes.
"Arandas, Vega," she calls. "You're free to go. Try not to break anything vital on the way to Housing or Student Services."
Leo pops up and offers me a hand. "Come on, Sol. Let's get you your first piece of Aeternum tech and officially welcome you to the future."
I take it and let him haul me to my feet.
Lía stands as well, smoothing her jacket, already back in perfect-student mode.
"We'll handle the paperwork," she says. "You just sign where I tell you and try not to look like you expect to be thrown out."
I swallow and nod.
"Right. No panicking. No apologizing. Just… new beginning, world's shiniest bracelet, and two absurd mentors."
"Now you're getting it," Leo says.
We step out of the common room into the bright Forge corridor. My heart still races, my head still spins—but for the first time, the panic is riding alongside a small, stubborn spark of something else.
Maybe I can learn how to live in a world where the schedule lives in the air, the League sends me emails, and "Vega, Archive Echo, House Forge" is a name people actually know.
---
The three of us fall into step, my new mentors bracketing me like very pretty, very dangerous parentheses.
The Forge wing spills back into the main artery of the school—wide glass corridor, colored lines on the floor, students flowing past in little House-colored currents. I keep flicking my holo-schedule in and out of existence like a fidget toy.
"I can't wait to see what the rest of my schedule is," I blurt. "I mean, I saw Monday, but I wanna know if I'm doomed every day or just, like, alternate ones."
"You'll be busy," Lía says, matching my pace on the left. "Between hero cores, Forge labs, Echo stabilizations, and tailored S-class modules, your calendar will resemble a controlled experiment in burnout."
"Translation: yes," Leo says on my right, bumping my shoulder lightly. "But there's one more very important thing on that schedule you should know about."
I eye him, wary. "That sounded ominous."
"Teams," Lía says. "You're going to be on one."
"We expect it will be ours," she adds, like that's the most logical thing in the world.
I almost trip. "Wait—what?"
"Aeternum structures practical training around standing squads," she explains. "Each student is placed on a team—ideally a balanced mix of Houses, power types, and grades. You train together, run simulations together, compete together. Most teams form by the end of first term."
"We only accept A- or B-minimum hero grades here," she continues. "So even the weakest official teams are… competent."
"That's one word for it," Leo mutters.
"There are internal rankings," Lía goes on. "Top teams go on to compete in our inter-House tournaments, and the best of those—"
"—get to Worlds," Leo interrupts. "Think field day, but with more explosions and international streaming rights."
My eyes widen. "That's… huge."
"Yes," Lía says simply. "Which is why team composition is taken seriously. On paper, you'd be placed on a fresh first-year squad and allowed to grow with them. In practice, given your classification, I expect… pressure will be applied to assign you to ours."
"Ours?" I echo.
"Team Solstice," Leo says, grinning. "Very modest working title."
"We are technically registered as Team Solstice," Lía corrects. "House Forge captain, House Radiant co-lead. We've held a top-three internal ranking since our first year."
"Currently," Leo says, spreading his hands, "Team Solstice consists of—drumroll—me and Lía. With you, we'd finally have three members, which means we can actually compete in the Trials this year. Minimum team size to qualify is three."
"If teams are supposed to be balanced mixes and you can recruit from all over the school," I say slowly, "why is it just you two?"
Lía's jaw flexes, just a little.
"Multi-year high-intensity squads among adolescent supers present… social and psychological challenges," she says. "Existing teams are often wary of destabilizing their dynamics by adding us. And forming a new team around us would require volunteers willing to endure the scrutiny, pressure, and strategic demands associated with—"
"Because they're scared of us," Leo says bluntly.
I look at him. "Scared of you?"
He lifts a shoulder. "Some people don't want to spend three years living in the shadow of 'the Aranda twins, probable future S-class heroes, offspring of the League Director, resident chaos magnets.' Shocking, I know."
"Others," Lía adds, "do not relish the idea of a squad in which your mistakes are broadcast to the entire hero community via gossip, leaked footage, and Mother's inevitable PR spin."
"Plus," Leo says, kicking at the glowing line on the floor just to watch it ripple, "Lía's intense, I'm insufferable, Rafe hovers like a thundercloud, and our training sessions have a statistically significant chance of ending with a crater. Not ideal for the average conflict-avoidant overachiever."
"So instead of you two joining someone else's already-good team," I say, "everyone just… smiles politely and pretends they're full."
"More or less," Lía says. "We've operated as a tactical duo for two years. Effective, but ineligible for international competition. Until now."
She looks at me, and for once there's nothing clinical in it. Just intent.
"With you, we could add an Echo anchor to our formation," she says. "Forge strategy, Radiant assault, Archive adaptability. It's… elegant."
"More importantly," Leo says, eyes bright, "with you, we can finally stop watching other people make a mess of the Trials and go make our own mess on a global stage."
"I feel like my consent should be solicited before you start designing international havoc around me," I say weakly.
"Oh, of course," Leo says breezily. "Totally. We will absolutely give you at least ten minutes of informed-consent briefing before the first live-fire scrimmage."
"Leo."
"Kidding," he amends. Mostly. "Look, you're going to be on some team. You might as well be on the one where your mentors already know how you think, can protect you when you screw up, and have experience telling the League to calm down."
"There will be pressure from administration, from the League liaison, from Mother," Lía says. "You are free to refuse. But you won't be left alone regardless. At least with us, you know where the pressure is coming from."
We turn a corner into a quieter administrative hallway. A discreet sign reads: STUDENT SERVICES – EQUIPMENT & HOUSING.
I slow a little, looking between them.
"So," I say. "If I say yes… that means training with you. Competing with you. Being on the team everyone's watching and everyone's afraid to join."
"And winning with us," Leo says. "You forgot that part."
"It will also mean long hours, bruises, strategic briefings, and being held to a standard most first-years never touch," Lía adds.
The door to Student Services slides open as we approach, cool air spilling over my face. Inside, I can see neat counters, glowing terminals, rows of boxed equipment waiting to be claimed.
My heart thuds. New tech. New schedule. New suite. Maybe a new team.
"One thing at a time," I whisper, mostly to myself. "First, bracelet. Then… maybe I'll think about world-stage hero tournaments."
"Excellent prioritization," Lía says approvingly.
"See?" Leo grins. "She's already Forge material."
We step through the doorway together, and for the second time today, I feel that sense of a line being crossed—not just into Student Services, but deeper into whatever ridiculous future I've somehow been invited to.
---
We're a few steps from the counter when my feet just… stop.
The admin rep behind it is hunched over her tablet, stylus tapping, not even glancing up.
"I'm sorry, by the way," I blurt.
Both twins pause.
"For what?" Lía asks, brow creasing.
"For people isolating you just because of who you are," I say, words tumbling out faster now that I've started. "I know how that feels. Different reasons, same result. I know you were assigned to me and everything, but I think I can see you as friends. I've never had any of those growing up, so I might be stumbling around in the dark, but you two look capable enough to catch me."
I tack on a crooked little smile at the end, like that makes it less horrifying.
For a heartbeat, there's silence.
Then Leo lets out a soft, disbelieving huff and actually looks away for a second, jaw working. When he looks back, the usual theatrical sparkle is dimmer, but his eyes are warmer.
"Careful, Sol," he says quietly. "You say things like that and we might get attached."
Lía's ears go a little pink, which is honestly worth all the terror.
"That was… extremely presumptuous," she says, but there's no real bite in it. She clears her throat. "However. I suppose it would be… inefficient to correct you, given that I had already decided to treat you as such."
"As such… what?" I prod.
"As a friend," she says, a little too fast, then lifts her chin like she's daring me to make it weird.
I grin. "Okay. Friends, then."
Leo bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. "We'll catch you," he says. "We're very good at that. We have years of practice with each other's disasters."
"And now yours," Lía adds dryly, though the corner of her mouth curves.
The moment hangs there, fragile and real, until the world remembers we're standing in a bureaucratic office.
We turn to the counter.
The admin rep is still looking down at her tablet.
"What do you want?" she sighs, not bothering to look up.
"Excuse me," Lía says, every syllable razor-edged polite.
"Hey," Leo adds, all breezy sunshine.
The woman finally glances up—and freezes like someone hit pause. Her gaze flicks from Leo's Radiant crest to Lía's Forge insignia, then up to the names floating over their shoulders.
Her face drains of color.
"Oh my God," she blurts. "I'm so sorry, your Highnesses, I didn't—I mean, I didn't realize—"
Then her eyes land on me, standing between them, and something mean and practiced slides into place behind her smile.
"Hey, newbie, move aside a bit, yeah?" she says, making a shooing motion with her stylus. "Give them some space. This is hero royalty you're crowding."
The words hit harder than they should. Instinct makes me start to step back, apology already halfway up my throat.
I don't get the chance.
Lía's hand closes around my wrist—not tight, just firm enough to stop me.
Her expression goes from polite to glacial in a blink.
"Absolutely not," she says, voice sliced clean of warmth. "Miss…?"
The rep swallows. "S-Santos. Administrative liaison Santos."
"Miss Santos," Lía continues, "Marisol Vega is our mentee, a member of House Forge, and a projected S-class hero. You will address her with the same courtesy you extend to us, or you will not address her at all."
Leo leans on the counter, smile sharp.
"Also," he says lightly, "if you're going to call anyone 'hero royalty,' at least get your hierarchy right. Right now you're speaking to three people Mother would personally yell at you for disrespecting."
Santos's eyes flick to my tag, finally reading all the way down. I watch the exact moment she registers ARCHIVE ECHO and S-CLASS POTENTIAL.
Her grip on the tablet tightens.
"I—I apologize," she stammers. "Ms. Vega. I didn't realize—"
"That much is obvious," Lía says calmly. "We're here to collect her standard device kit. The set issued to S-class projections, not the underfunded 'we hope you don't notice' version."
"And maybe," Leo adds, almost pitying, "next time you could start with 'welcome to Aeternum' instead of 'what do you want.' The newbies remember that kind of thing."
Santos nods rapidly, cheeks flushing. "Of course. I'll… I'll get your equipment right away, Ms. Vega. Mr. Aranda. Ms. Aranda. One moment."
She scurries into the back.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"You didn't have to do that," I murmur.
"We did," Lía says, still watching the doorway. "Because it was correct."
"Welcome to having friends in high places, Sol," Leo says. "Perk number one: no more getting shooed away like you're tracking dirt on the floor."
I smile, small but real. "Perk number two?"
"We're about to bully Student Services into giving you the good color options for your comm band," he says.
Lía sighs, but there's a tiny huff of amusement under it. "I suppose if we're already here…"
---
"I don't even know what to expect," I admit. "I've never even had a phone."
Leo presses a hand to his chest like I've stabbed him. "We are absolutely fixing that today."
Before he can dramatize further, the door behind the counter opens again.
It isn't Santos this time.
A different woman steps out: tall, polished, perfectly composed, with tan skin and clear blue eyes that miss absolutely nothing. Her black hair is pulled back in a smooth twist that somehow survives the humidity, and she carries a very large, very luxurious-looking bag like it weighs nothing.
"Miss Vega," she says, voice warm and professional all at once. "A pleasure. Mister and Miss Aranda, your mother sends her regards."
My brain does a double-take.
"Alice?!" I blurt. "You're here. Already?"
Her mouth curves. "Indeed."
I'd only met her once—on a video call where she'd explained the scholarship packet and not once made me feel stupid for asking what half the terms meant—but I'd filed her under intimidating adult who knows everything. Seeing her here, in person, makes this all feel ten times more real.
I glance at the twins. They both look startled, but pleased.
"This is Alice Navarro," Lía tells me, tone shifting into formal introduction. "Mother's chief of staff. Telepathic strategist. And our mom."
Alice, who has been the picture of unflappable professionalism, actually blinks at that. Some of the polish cracks; her eyes go wide and shiny.
"You called me 'Mom,'" she says faintly, looking at Lía like she's seeing a miracle. "In front of people."
Leo groans. "Ugh, Mom. She's not just 'people.' She's family."
My heart does a weird warm flip.
Alice presses her lips together, inhales, visibly pulls herself back together. By the time she looks at me again, the professional sheen is back—but there's something softer underneath.
"Quite right," she says, a little thickly, setting the bag gently on the counter. "Now. Miss Vega. Let's get you properly equipped. Director Aranda sent… a few upgrades, given your classification."
"This is the part where you pretend you're used to nice things," Leo stage-whispers.
Lía elbows him in the ribs, but even she's smiling.
"Wait," Leo says suddenly, squinting between me and Alice. "How do you know our mom?"
"She was like… my counselor?" I say it like a question, because hearing it out loud sounds insane. "On the scholarship call. She said she worked with Aeternum placements sometimes, walked me through the forms, answered my questions—"
"What the fuck," Leo blurts.
"Language," Alice and Lía say in perfect, automatic unison.
He throws his hands up. "No, sorry, I think an f-bomb is warranted here. Mother does not just hop on calls and play academic counselor for random applicants."
"Mother is not actually a counselor," Lía says, voice going very calm in that way that means something serious just clicked. "If she handled your intake personally, that means…"
Her eyes widen by a fractional, terrifying degree.
"…that means she's had her eye on you from the very start."
My stomach does a slow, dizzy flip.
"From the… start?" I echo. "Like from—"
"From before the Assessment," Alice says gently. "From before your application was fully processed. Director Aranda doesn't involve herself in routine admissions. She flagged your file the moment your preliminary power reports crossed her desk."
Leo lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Sol. You weren't just a random dice roll. Mother literally pre-ordered you."
"Leo," Lía hisses.
Alice actually smiles at that, faint but fond.
"My wife recognized something in your records she's only seen a handful of times," she says to me. "Potential. The kind that doesn't fit neatly into existing boxes. She wanted to be sure you had every chance to reach Aeternum's doors. The rest"—she nods toward my hovering tag—"you did yourself."
My face is hot and my thoughts are static.
"So she… what, interviewed me?" I manage. "Incognito?"
"She did not lie," Alice says. "She does consult on scholarship placements when she deems it important. She simply… omitted the part where she also runs the League."
"Classic Mother move," Leo mutters.
"She chose you," Lía says quietly. "But you chose us. That matters."
I swallow, nodding a little too fast. "Cool," I say weakly. "Just casually processing that the most powerful woman on the planet did guidance counselor cosplay for me. Totally normal. Nothing overwhelming about that at all."
Leo snorts.
"Overwhelmed is allowed," Alice says. "We'll work on everything else."
She taps the luxurious bag, refocusing.
"Now. Miss Vega. Shall we see what your 'counselor' has arranged for you?"
---
Alice flips open the bag. The leather whispers.
Nestled inside, on velvet, is a whole tech ecosystem in deep navy and gold.
A sleek comm band with a dark-blue strap and a thin gold inlay that will sit right over the pulse point on my wrist. A tablet, edges brushed in gold, back panel matte midnight blue with the Aeternum crest etched just shallow enough to catch the light. Over-ear headphones in the same palette. A slim hard case that looks like it belongs in a movie, not in front of me.
"Full tech suite," Alice says, almost apologetic. "Director Aranda insisted the standard set would be inadequate."
My fingers hover over the comm band before I pick it up. It's cool and smooth and somehow… mine.
"Dark blues and golds," I murmur. "How'd you know my favorite colors?"
"You mentioned it, actually," Alice says, smile tugging wider. "On the initial call. You were filling out the housing form and apologized for not knowing any 'aesthetic terms.' Then you said, and I quote, 'I dunno, I just like dark blue and gold, is that too basic?'"
Heat floods my cheeks. "You… remembered that?"
"Of course," she says simply. "We try to pay attention."
She closes the bag again with a soft click.
"This is just what you'll carry," she says. "When you arrive at your suite, you'll find the rest."
"The… rest?" I repeat, wary.
"Clothes," Alice says, ticking items off on her fingers. "Uniform sets tailored to your measurements. Casual wear within the guidelines you indicated. Shoes in your size. Backpacks. School supplies. A desktop system synced to your tablet. Everything you need for coursework."
My brain is already struggling, but she's not done.
"The kitchen is fully stocked," she continues calmly. "It will be refreshed daily according to your dietary preferences. The suite will be cleaned every day—laundry, surfaces, trash. If you need anything else, your assistant will add it to the provisioning list."
I just stare at her.
"Clean?" I echo. "Stocked? Suite?"
The words feel fake in my mouth, like I've borrowed someone else's life.
Without thinking, I start pinching the inside of my arm.
Ow.
"Sol?" Leo asks. "What are you doing?"
"Checking for dream physics," I mutter. "Sorry, this is usually where the alarm clock goes off and I have to go catch the bus."
"This is real," Lía says. "Excessive, perhaps, but real."
"Standard S-class suite support," Leo adds. "Plus the 'our Mother is very extra' multiplier. She probably threatened to personally reorganize Procurement if they gave you anything less."
Alice hums, noncommittal, which means that's exactly what happened.
"The apartment back home doesn't even have a dishwasher," I say. "You're telling me I'm getting a magic self-replenishing fridge and people whose job is to clean my mess and a whole desktop and—and—"
"And a door that locks," Leo says gently. "And a bed that no one else has ever slept in. And a kitchen where you don't have to listen for someone yelling in the next room."
That hits way too close. I swallow hard.
"You have worked very hard to get here, Miss Vega," Alice says. "Think of this as the Academy finally meeting you halfway."
The urge to pinch myself again fades. My fingers curl around the comm band instead.
"Okay," I say softly. "Okay. I'll… try to get used to this."
"Good," Lía says, satisfied. "Because we're going to be very put out if you refuse to use the very nice desktop Mother bullied Logistics into procuring."
"And I fully intend to abuse your fully stocked kitchen for midnight snack raids," Leo adds. "It'd be a shame if you woke up and moved back to Earth mid-semester."
I laugh, a little wet around the edges but real.
"Deal," I say. "You keep catching me when I trip over all this, and I'll try not to unplug anything important."
"Welcome to Aeternum, Sol," Alice says, sliding the bag toward me. "Let's go see your new life."
---
Alice lifts the comm band from my hand for a moment, turning it over with practiced fingers.
"Your key card is embedded in this," she explains. "Once we link it to your ID, your comm band will open your suite, authorize purchases on campus, and interface with most secured systems you're cleared for."
"Like a really fancy bracelet student ID," I say.
"Precisely." She slips it back to me. "It's also tailored to your biology—heart rhythm, bioelectric signature, resonance frequency. Nobody else can use it. If someone tries, it locks and pings Security."
"Neat," Leo says. "Living wrist armor."
Alice reaches out absentmindedly and wipes a tiny smudge off his cheek with her thumb.
"Hey," he protests weakly, but doesn't pull away.
Then she turns to Lía, smoothing down a flyaway strand that had the audacity to escape the perfect half-up.
"You both look presentable," she says. "Try to remain so for at least the first hour of term."
"Alice—" Lía starts, embarrassed.
"Mom," Leo mutters under his breath.
Alice's mouth twitches, but she lets it pass and looks back at me.
"Your suite," she says, "is connected to Lía's. Think of it as a shared tower wing—two separate rooms with a small foyer between them and a lockable interior door. You'll each have your own space and entrance, but you can open the connecting door if you wish."
My brain sparks.
"So… like… roommate-adjacent," I say.
"Exactly," Lía says. "You will not be isolated at the top of the tower. You will be isolated with me."
Somehow, that's… comforting.
"And," Alice continues, "your assistant assignment has already been processed. I took the liberty of making a recommendation. If it works for you, your administrative assistant will be my niece, Diana."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Your… niece?"
"She's just started her support-track practicum," Alice says. "Veil House. Organized, discreet, very good with overwhelmed geniuses. She'll handle your scheduling, basic PR filtering, and any requests you have for supplies or accommodations." She softens it with a smile. "Of course, only if that works for you. You're entitled to request a reassignment if you're uncomfortable."
"No," I say quickly. "I mean—yes. That works. If she's willing to deal with me panicking over my calendar every ten minutes."
"Diana's unflappable," Leo says. "She's like Alice but with more memes."
"That is not how I would describe her," Alice says, but she doesn't argue. "I'll introduce you properly once you're settled."
I look down at the comm band again, thumb tracing the gold inlay.
"So this thing opens my door, tracks my classes, tattles if someone steals it, and gets me snacks?" I ask.
"And pings me if you vanish from campus without authorization," Lía says.
"And lets me spam you with extremely important cat videos at three in the morning," Leo adds.
"Absolutely not," Lía says.
"We'll negotiate," Leo replies.
I laugh and slip the band around my wrist.
It warms almost immediately, tightening just enough to fit snugly. A faint glow chases the gold for a moment as it syncs.
Connected suite. Personal assistant. Bio-locked comm band.
It's… a lot.
But when I glance up, Alice looks proud, Lía looks determined, and Leo looks like he's already planning our first midnight kitchen raid.
"Also," I say, my voice coming out softer than I mean it to, "thank you. All of you. This is… more than I ever dreamed of."
No one jumps in with a joke right away.
"You're very welcome, Marisol," Alice says. "You've earned every bit of it. Let us worry about whether it feels like 'too much.' Your job is to use it well."
Lía looks like she wants to look away and can't quite manage it. Her fingers tighten around the handle of my bag.
"Do not… diminish what you've achieved," she says, a little stiff, like the words are new. "You worked for this. We're simply… adjusting the environment to match your potential."
Leo bumps my shoulder again, gentler this time.
"Yeah," he says. "You did the impossible part. We're just the tour guides and snack thieves. Besides"—his grin turns lopsided—"you're making our lives more interesting. Definitely a fair trade."
The knot in my chest loosens another notch.
"Okay," I breathe. "I'll try to believe you."
"Good," Alice says briskly, reclaiming the bag like we haven't all just gotten a little emotional. "Because the suite is not going to admire itself. Come along, Miss Vega. Arandas. Let's get you home base, and then the twins can give you the rest of the 'welcome to surviving Aeternum' speech."
Leo throws an arm out in a faux-heroic gesture toward the door.
"To the tower, Sol. To your very first ridiculously overqualified dorm room."
Lía rolls her eyes, but she falls into step on my other side.
With my new comm band warm on my wrist, my bag in Alice's hand, and two absurdly powerful siblings flanking me, I follow them out of Student Services—heart still racing, but finally, fully believing:
This is mine.
---
Walking back through the main halls feels completely different this time.
Before, I was just another lost newbie in a borrowed blazer.
Now it's me, two Arandas, and Alice Navarro with a Very Expensive Bag, moving through the corridor like a small parade.
Conversations stutter, then drop. Students elbow each other, whisper, try to stare without obviously staring and fail miserably.
I catch fragments as we pass:
"The twins and Alice—"
"—that's gotta be the Archive girl—"
"—S-class projection, right? Look at her band—"
My shoulders twitch up on reflex.
"Chin up, Vega," Lía murmurs, just for me. "If they're going to stare, let them see someone who knows she belongs here."
So I force my spine straight and lift my head. My comm band hums softly against my skin, synced to a door I've never seen and a future I never thought I'd be allowed to want.
We cut back into the Forge wing, the air cooling slightly as glass gives way to metal and stone. Eventually the corridor spills into a wide circular atrium, ringed with elevator doors and tall windows that look out over the campus.
I step into the open space and just… stop.
High above, the towers of Aeternum rise into the light, and one of them—deep blue and gold, Forge crest gleaming—waits for me.
My tower.
My House.
My beginning.