Invitation

"If this is what 'settling in' looks like, I think I need a personal assistant," Alex muttered, surveying the overly luxurious room that had been assigned to him in the Courtyard's main residence hall.

Velvet drapes. Floating candles. An automated harp in the corner that plucked itself to a soothing melody Alex found mildly unsettling. But hey, at least the bath was warm. And the food—some magical fusion of roast, glowing root vegetables, and an actual talking dessert—wasn't trying to poison him. So far, so good.

Just as he considered a nap, a knock echoed gently from the door. A polite voice followed, "Prince Alex? This is Jeremy. May I come in?"

Alex opened the door to find Jeremy—the senior member who had welcomed him earlier—carrying a small scroll. His expression was calm, but friendly, like someone who had dealt with one too many magical freshmen and still hadn't lost faith in humanity.

"There's a banquet being held this evening in your honor, among others. It would mean a great deal to many if you made an appearance. Nothing formal or terrifying, I promise," Jeremy added with a grin. "Just a chance to mingle. And yes, the food will be confusingly excellent."

Alex chuckled. "I'll be there. Provided I don't get lost between here and the dining hall."

"We've placed glowing markers. Follow the food smell or the glitter trail," Jeremy said, already walking away. "You'll be fine."

After a short nap and a solid five minutes of mentally debating whether he should dress like a modest junior or accidentally overdressed prodigy, Alex finally stepped into the grand banquet hall. The chandeliers looked like someone had bribed stars to stay indoors for the evening. Long tables overflowed with food and drinks, each more suspiciously elegant than the last.

The moment Alex walked in, conversations dipped just slightly—enough for him to notice. The whisper-to-politeness transition? Classic move. Everyone sizing up the new player. 'I'm flattered. Really. The paranoia is practically a welcome hug around here.'

A senior student approached—tall, graceful, and radiating that particular smugness reserved for people who genuinely believed they invented charisma. "Prince Alex, I presume. Welcome to the Courtyard. I'm Caelus Drennor, fourth-year, specializing in Comparative Magic Systems and Political Subterfuge—officially called 'Diplomacy.'"

"Impressive," Alex replied smoothly. "I've only just mastered 'Not Tripping Over Fancy Robes.'"

Caelus laughed. "A skill more vital than you'd think. Tonight is mostly about introductions, but... consider it an unspoken first test. You'll meet House representatives, instructors, and more than a few future competitors. Everyone wants to see who the Empire sent."

"And I'm here just trying to figure out if the floating shrimp is edible," Alex deadpanned, eyeing the suspiciously levitating seafood platter.

As the evening progressed, the hall buzzed with carefully curated conversations. One by one, individuals swirled around him like planets orbiting a particularly interesting comet.

A stern professor with translucent glasses and a beard that moved independently of his mouth introduced himself as Professor Vernhast. He specialized in Interdisciplinary Energetics, which apparently meant combining elemental theory with enough pomp to stun an auditorium.

"In this Academy," Vernhast declared dramatically, "power flows not only through mana... but through knowledge, alliances, and timing. Beware the students who seem aimless—they are often the most dangerous."

'So... basically beware everyone. Excellent. That'll make friendships very relaxing.'

Soon after, Alex found himself cornered by two senior students—one elven, one dwarven—midway through an intense, whispered argument about species favoritism in the Advanced Summoning trials.

"It's always humans in those final slots," the dwarf grumbled, shoving a tiny chicken leg into his mouth.

"Not always," the elf countered with the practiced neutrality of someone who had definitely said this many times. "But usually."

Alex nodded politely while mentally noting this: 'So even magical academia hasn't escaped interspecies bureaucracy. Great.'

Then came Lady Serapha Von Calderis, a noblewoman whose dress looked like it had been stitched together from glitter and passive aggression. She gave Alex a once-over and offered a tight smile.

"Ah, the Prince. I had expected someone taller."

"Don't worry," Alex replied sweetly. "I grow with ambition."

A flicker of amusement crossed her expression. Barely. "You'll find the Academy is no place for modest goals. Influence matters. Heritage more so. The Courtyard, lovely though it is, often hosts those not yet invited to the inner circles."

'Welcome to the B-tier dorms, peasant prince. Noted.'

She drifted off to charm someone richer, leaving behind a scent of roses and casual elitism.

Mid-banquet, one of the instructors took the stage—Instructor Myrien, known (apparently) for her ruthless fairness and ability to silence an entire lecture hall with just a raised brow.

"Students of the Academy," she began, her voice crisp and unforgiving as a frost spell. "Remember this: brilliance here is expected. But brilliance without restraint leads to collapse. Many before you have fallen not from incompetence, but arrogance. Be smart. Be observant. And above all—do not get eaten by your own ambition."

The hall laughed politely. Alex did too. 'Totally not ominous. Not at all.'

By the end of the evening, Alex had accumulated:

Three cryptic warnings about "choosing the right House."

Two veiled threats disguised as advice.

One enthusiastic offer to join the underground fencing society.

A lemon tart that growled when he tried to eat it.

Walking back toward his quarters, Alex reflected on the sheer volume of information he'd absorbed.

Yes, the Academy was a sanctuary of learning—but also a pressure cooker of politics, ancient bloodlines, unspoken tensions, and razor-sharp ambition. The commoner-noble divide was still very much a thing, often whispered behind closed doors or casually referenced like weather. "A storm of reform might come," one senior had muttered, "but until then, umbrellas of privilege will keep the nobles dry."

Alex had smiled then, but inside, he'd added it to his list. 'If I'm going to reshape this city, I'd better learn who holds the damn umbrellas—and how to set them on fire.'

He reached his quarters, the door sliding open with a gentle chime. Warm lights flickered on automatically. The harp was still playing itself. Of course.

Waiting for him on the bedside table was a small envelope, sealed with an elegant, twisting crest—one Alex didn't immediately recognize. He opened it cautiously, unfolding a crisp letter penned in meticulous handwriting:

To Prince Alex,

You will report to me at dawn tomorrow. Do not be late.

17 Gardenia, Arkwell Street. There is a side entrance. Use it.

From,

Aiden Sybil Edith

Honorary Professor, Arcana Celestalis Sanctum

Alex blinked at the signature. The name tickled something deep in his memory. 'Aiden Sybil Edith... Why does that sound—'

And then it clicked. The whispered references, the guarded silences, the veiled warnings surrounding the name 'He' from before. This wasn't just some distant scholar. This was 'He.'

'He' had personally orchestrated his admission.

A thousand questions itched at the edge of his thoughts, but one thing was clear—whatever came next, he wasn't just another junior student stumbling in the dark.

As he collapsed onto his bed, one final thought passed through his mind:

'Soon, I will rise. But tonight… I file away every face, every whisper, every smirk. Let them think I'm the junior most. I plan to graduate as the most dangerous.'