Arrival

Cane had never seen a city so alive. Ships bobbed in every direction, sails snapping in the brisk wind, and a thousand voices called out over the din of the docks. He glanced down at the folded, salt-stained envelope in his hand—a letter from the Corsair captain, Rhiati. The name written across its front in precise ink carried far more weight than its battered condition suggested:

To Arch-Mage Telamon.

Cane frowned. What business did a pirate have with the most powerful fire user in the realm?

He didn't dwell on it. Not now.

Waiting near the port authority arch was a man in burnt-orange robes, arms folded across his chest. He stood beneath a sign inscribed with glowing runes—an official marker of the Magi Academy.

Cane didn't know the man, but the robes and the sign made it clear: Academy representative.

As passengers disembarked, the man's eyes settled on Cane. He approached with an air of mild annoyance, glancing at the worn satchel on Cane's shoulder, then at the letter in his hand.

"You there," the man said. "Let me guess—Academy-bound?"

Cane nodded, holding up the envelope.

The man gave it a bored glance. "And here I was expecting prodigies, not dockhands."

He turned and gestured to a red-haired youth stepping off the next ship—taller, well-dressed, and clearly used to attention. A large travel trunk thudded onto the dock behind him.

"Fergis," the man said, his tone warming. "Welcome to Ora. You'll be a fine addition."

Then, with a half-turn, he motioned to the trunk and nodded toward Cane. "Why don't you make yourself useful and carry that up to the carriage?"

Cane wrinkled his nose as the sharp scent of brimstone drifted off the man's robe. Great, he thought. A fire user.

"Do it yourself," Cane replied, voice even but not polite.

The man blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said do it yourself. You've got two hands."

For a moment, the three of them stood in silence—Arven stiff, Fergis watching curiously, and Cane already walking past them without waiting for a reply.

Arven led Fergis through the maze of cobbled walkways and into the outer courtyard of the Admissions Hall. A long, winding line of new cadets stretched from the double doors to the garden arch, each flanked by parents or Academy sponsors. Several wore house crests, and more than a few bore signs of recent spellwork—singed cloaks, damp sleeves, scorched fingertips.

Arven didn't slow.

He breezed past the line with Fergis in tow, ignoring the stares, murmurs, and grumbles of protest as he bypassed at least a dozen families. A few faculty members looked up but didn't intervene.

"Cadet intake is handled in order," someone muttered from the line.

"Tell that to the fire instructor," another said with a sneer.

They reached the steps. Fergis moved like he was meant to be there. Arven was already halfway up when a quiet voice stopped them.

"That's far enough."

The words were soft—barely more than a breath—but they carried the sort of weight that silences rooms.

An old man stood near the entrance, leaning lightly on a cane carved of ashwood. He wore plain gray robes without trim, the hem damp from the morning dew. Thin and wiry, he looked more like a gardener than a Grand Mage. His white hair was cropped short, and his jaw was clean-shaven—both details strange enough to mark him in a place like this.

But it was his eyes that gave him away.

They were the color of the sun—brilliant, burning gold. Calm. Observing.

"Arch-Mage Telamon," Arven said tightly, stopping on the fourth step.

Fergis froze, sensing the shift.

"Back of the line, Arven," Telamon said without heat.

"With respect," Arven replied, his voice growing sharper, "this is Fergis of Dorthen's Circle. His testing scores were beyond precedent. We were simply—"

"You were simply cutting the line," Telamon interrupted. "Which would be fair, if this were a war. But it's not. It's school."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Telamon's mouth curled into something that almost resembled a smile. "Though perhaps that distinction has always confused you."

A few snickers broke out further down the queue. Arven's ears flushed red.

Fergis gave a respectful nod and backed down the steps. Arven followed, silent now, his jaw clenched.

Telamon remained where he was, watching them descend. His gaze lingered a moment on Arven—then drifted across the courtyard as if searching for someone else.

Cane approached the base of the steps just as Arven and Fergis were retreating toward the end of the line. He didn't cut, just stepped off to the side, letter still in hand.

Among the polished boots, embroidered robes, and family crests, Cane looked wildly out of place. Worn leather boots, a travel-stained coat, and a simple satchel marked him as someone used to carrying tools instead of tomes.

Telamon noticed him at once.

Cane stopped at a respectful distance. "Morning, sir," he said.

A few heads turned at that—sir, not Arch-Mage—but Telamon didn't correct him. He simply held out a hand.

Cane passed him the envelope.

Telamon turned it over once before breaking the wax. His eyes scanned the contents quickly, mouth a neutral line.

Then he looked up. Those sun-colored eyes flicked over Cane's appearance, pausing briefly on the shell bracelet still looped around his wrist.

"Helped her out of a fix, did you?"

Cane shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to do."

Telamon gave a single nod, folded the letter again, and tucked it into his robe.

"Welcome to the Academy," he said. "I'll place you with the first-year advanced class."

More than one person nearby turned to stare.

Cane didn't respond immediately. "Is that... normal?"

"No," Telamon replied. "But then, according to this letter, neither are you."

He stepped aside and gestured toward the doors. "Straight ahead, down the left hall. Tell them I sent you."

Cane dipped his head in thanks and started forward, boots echoing softly against the marble.

Behind him, Arven watched in tight-lipped silence.

The Academy's interior was nothing like Cane expected. The stone halls were wide and polished, but understated—no floating torches or humming enchantments in the air. Just quiet order. Everything was built to last, not to impress.

He followed Telamon's directions down the left corridor and came to a brass-plated door marked Housing & Cadet Services. A single desk sat behind a counter carved of darkwood, piles of parchments and sigilled ledgers stacked neatly behind it.

A woman in her middle years stood behind the counter, scribbling something in a ledger without looking up.

Cane stepped forward. "Excuse me, Arch-Mage Telamon sent me—"

The woman held up a hand without looking at him. "One moment."

She turned slightly, facing no one at all, and spoke aloud as if someone invisible stood beside her.

"Yes, Arch-Mage. I'll handle this personally."

Cane blinked, instinctively glancing over his shoulder.

No one was there.

The woman finally looked up, offering a professional smile. Her eyes were pale gray, almost translucent.

"You must be the one from the docks," she said. "Welcome, Mr. Cane. We've been expecting you."

Cane hesitated. "You talk to yourself a lot?"

She chuckled. "Not exactly."

A glowing rune pulsed once near her collarbone—one he hadn't noticed before.

Psi user, Cane thought.

He filed it away.

He handed over the letter again, but she waved it off. "We've already received confirmation. Your placement has been approved. You'll be in Dormitory Tower Seven, third floor. Advanced Track."

She slid a brass key across the counter. "Room 312. You'll find a uniform and introductory packet waiting inside."

Cane nodded and took the key.

As he turned to leave, he glanced once more at the woman and asked, "The Arch-Mage… is he strictly a Fire user?"

She smiled faintly. "Telamon is many things. Best not to guess."

The woman stepped out from behind the counter, moving with smooth, silent efficiency. "I'll walk you up."

Cane didn't argue, following in thoughtful silence. The corridors beyond the housing office curved gently, forming a wide spiral that wound upward through the tower. The walls were stone, but the kind that had seen centuries—polished by feet and magic alike. Runes softly pulsed along the baseboards, casting just enough light to guide the way.

"Dormitory Tower Seven is reserved for special placements," she said as they climbed. "Advanced track, late admits, certain prodigies. We keep them separate."

"Separate from what?"

"Everyone else."

Cane wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The staircase opened into a circular hall lined with arched doors. She led him to the third floor and stopped in front of a thick oak door marked 312. The brass key fit smoothly into the lock.

Inside, the room was stone-floored and cool, but not unwelcoming. A large desk sat near a tall, arched window that overlooked the eastern ridge of the Academy grounds. Morning light spilled across a sturdy bed, a wardrobe, and a shelf of unmarked books. No shared bunks. No noise.

It was… quiet. Surprisingly spacious.

"You won't have a suitemate," the woman said, noting his glance. "It was a specific instruction."

"From Telamon?" Cane asked.

She didn't answer—just offered a polite smile.

Cane walked to the window and looked out. The courtyard far below bustled with new students being directed in groups—probably to orientation.

"Everyone else starts with a tour, right?" he asked.

"Correct. You've skipped ahead."

"Because of the letter."

She said nothing.

Cane nodded, unsure if that was a good or bad thing.

"I'll leave you to settle in," she said, turning to go. Then, pausing at the door, she added, "If you need anything, I'll hear it."

Cane looked over. "That's comforting and unsettling at the same time."

She actually laughed at that. "You'll get used to it."

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Cane explored without rush, guided by the folded map he found tucked inside the desk. The Academy grounds stretched out like a layered puzzle—curved walkways, tiered gardens, covered bridges linking towers of different disciplines. Most of the students were still gathered near the central plaza, roped off into cohorts, listening to Academy guides deliver instructions.

He let the flow carry him until a familiar scent reached him—wood smoke and fresh bread. Following it, he passed under a carved arch and into a quieter service court. A stack of firewood sat next to a stone wall, and the rhythmic sound of an axe striking wood echoed against the stone.

He turned the corner and saw her.

A young woman in a kitchen apron, sleeves rolled to the elbow, struggled to split a thick log with an axe clearly not up to the task. Her grip was good, but the blade was dull, and her frustration obvious.

"Need a hand?" Cane asked.

She looked up, surprised, then exhaled. "Only if you don't mind being mistaken for the help."

Cane smiled. "Wouldn't be the first time today."

She stepped back with a grateful sigh. "It's usually the stablehand's job, but he caught a hoof to the knee this morning."

Cane tested the axe, grimaced at the edge, and set a fresh log on the block. "This blade couldn't split butter."

"Tell me about it."

He made quick work of the pile, arms practiced and efficient. She stood nearby, brushing woodchips from her apron and watching with open curiosity.

"You're not one of the new cadets, are you?"

"I am, actually," Cane said. "Sort of… special placement. Skipped orientation."

"Figures. The others wouldn't know how to hold an axe without consulting a spell chart."

She picked up a bundle and nodded toward the open door. "Come on. Help me carry it in and I'll trade you a hot meal. You probably missed breakfast."

"More like missed everything."

The kitchen was warm and smelled like cinnamon, roasting vegetables, and something rich and herbal simmering on the back stove. She moved confidently between prep tables and baskets, clearly at home here. Cane followed her to a side table where she began packing a wrapped parcel and filling a small flask.

"This is a one-time favor," she said as she sealed the meal. "Next time, I'm charging interest."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She held out the bundle and flask. "Here. It's not much, but it'll hold you over until dinner."

Cane took it gratefully. "Thanks."

"I'm Sofie, by the way. If you ever need food that isn't boiled into paste, I'm usually back here."

"Cane."

She smiled. "Well, Cane, try not to get kicked by any horses. We're running out of help."

Cane walked the long path back to his dorm, the parcel still warm in his hands. His steps slowed as he took in the surroundings again—this time with sharper attention. Curved towers climbed toward the clouds. Runes glowed faintly underfoot. The wind carried the scent of distant chimneys and fresh earth from the garden terraces.

It was strange. Beautiful. Intimidating.

And he was here.

A wrecked passenger ship. A leap into dark water. A mermaid dying in a cage. A Corsair captain with a single letter that somehow opened one of the most well-guarded doors in the realm.

He climbed the dorm tower stairs in silence, key already in hand. The door creaked open, and the quiet greeted him like it had been waiting.

Cane set the meal down on the desk and looked out the tall window once more. The Academy stretched wide below him—ancient, powerful, and full of people who didn't know what to make of someone like him.

He didn't know what to make of it either.

But he was here.

And for now, that was enough.