Chapter 7 - Echoes of Stone and Shadow

When I woke from my nap, the sun was already high in the sky. According to Angel's log, I had slept for six hours. Just enough to regain some energy, though my body still felt heavy, as if pain and exhaustion had become a second skin.

With my stomach growling and my throat parched, I got up and checked the saddlebags. I found some dry grain and a few strips of jerky. It wasn't a feast, but in my current state, it tasted like heaven. As I chewed slowly, the salty, rough flavor grounded me back in reality. I was still alive. For now.

After partially quelling my hunger, I removed the bloodstained tunic and stepped into the small river that crossed the clearing. The water was freezing, but it felt purifying—like every drop was washing away the memories of the past days. I thought about trying to catch a fish, but the river seemed dead. Not a single ripple, no hint of life beneath the surface. The silence didn't feel natural. As always, Angel detected no anomalies, but the unease lingered.

I gave up and carefully washed the tunic before storing it in one of the horse's bags. Then I dressed in the spare clothes from the scout rider: plain linen, unadorned—perfect attire for a nobody. It hid all trace of the opulence and magical emblems that had once decorated my original outfit. Now, I was just another boy on the road. A ghost among thousands.

I paused for a moment by the river. For the first time since my arrival, I saw my reflection clearly. I knew I was in good shape thanks to Angel's scans, but the face staring back caught me off guard. My features were harmonious—even beautiful. A mix of youth and intensity. Light brown hair, honey-colored eyes that hovered between tenderness and storm. No matter how simple my clothes were, something about me stood out. A haunting beauty, almost unnatural.

I shook my head and filled the waterskin. No time for vanity.

Throughout my stay in that clearing, a persistent feeling clung to me—the sense of being watched. Not by a beast or hunter, but by something deeper, older. A sightless gaze. Even Angel, with her high-precision detection systems, couldn't pinpoint the source. Only a nameless whisper between the trees.

I left before that presence chose to reveal itself.

The journey continued without major incidents. We rode all day and part of the night, stopping only long enough to rest the horse and prevent my muscles from collapsing. The road was long, but my destination was clear. I couldn't afford doubts. Not now.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I spotted in the distance a stone castle rising imposingly from the landscape. But it wasn't just a castle—it was a walled city, a living fortress. Watchtowers jutted out like claws, and heavy banners flapped in the wind. At its gates, a desperate crowd swelled, all clamoring to get inside.

According to Angel, over five thousand people were gathered in line outside the gates. Peasants filled with Hope and Fear.

As I drew closer, the tension in the air was tangible. Shouts, shoves, crying children, and stifled prayers. Suddenly, as if a spark had ignited the powder, the crowd surged out of control. The response was swift: hundreds of armed guards poured from the city and crushed the revolt with surgical brutality. Broken noses, fractured bones, and for the boldest—death, swift and merciless. Chaos froze. Fear took over.

Not wanting to draw attention, I joined the line silently, just another face among the desperate. The line moved slowly, and Angel listened in on the surrounding whispers and conversations. Everyone was talking about the same thing: the entrance exam for the Stone Academy.

That name stirred echoes in my memories.

The Stone Academy. No one knows who founded it, or when. It's been here since before the Roseharts arrived in these lands. My grandfather had warned me sternly: "Never provoke that institution. If you wish to live, stay far from its shadow." I used to ask him if it was a mage organization like ours. He would always avoid the question, as if speaking of it might summon a curse.

What I do know for certain is its reputation is beyond question. Nobles from every corner of the continent send their children to study there. Its graduates are known for becoming powerful figures—royal advisors, generals… or something darker. Its influence runs deep. Silent. Irrefutable.

This period, the "grace time," was the only moment peasants could apply for the entrance exam. Every five years, the call was opened. The only requirement: to be under sixteen years old. A rare opportunity that very few ever managed to seize.

The Roseharts had never dealt with this force. For five hundred years, we avoided any contact. During a drunken night, my father had confessed the reason: our ancestors feared that any exposure might reveal us to whatever still hunted in the shadows. They ordered concealment for five thousand years. They never imagined we'd be wiped out in one due to the lack of mana.

The line moved slowly but steadily. It took about three hours to reach the gate checkpoint. Before me stood a long table where more than twenty elder scholars were registering candidates. Their gazes were cold, mechanical.

"Name," one of them barked without looking up.

"William," I replied without hesitation.

"Origin."

"Commoner."

"Here's your token. Don't lose it. Proceed directly to the academy for the exam."

I took the wooden token, its surface inscribed with a glowing rune. It was a symbol of access. A promise… or a sentence.

While waiting in line, I had reflected on my options. I could try entering as a fallen noble and open a small trade, but with no contacts or backing, I'd be an easy target. Besides, using my surname would only increase the risk. Here, commoners have no right to a surname. Any attempt to use one would raise suspicion. Better to remain invisible. A ghost without lineage.

I had chosen to register as a simple applicant. If I could get in, I might find a sponsor, maybe gain access to knowledge or power—enough to prepare for what lay ahead.

I advanced toward the academy's entrance. The crowd had dispersed. Only candidates were allowed through. Entire families waited outside, watching with eyes full of hope or resignation.

I stopped before the gates. They were massive—black wood reinforced with iron. A chill ran down my spine.

"Angel," I whispered, "what are my chances of surviving if I enter?"

"Estimated risk of premature death: 64%. Probability of success: insufficient data."

"Perfect," I murmured with a bitter smile. "Just how I like it."

And I took the first step.