Entrance speech

Three hundred people. Lyra had faced down monsters, council tribunals, and the cold scrutiny of Celestian nobles, but she hadn't expected that a sea of human faces could feel just as daunting.

The lobby of the English department buzzed with voices and movement, the air alive with the friction of new beginnings.

Everywhere she looked, there were students—leaning against walls, clumped in nervous circles, exchanging excited whispers or worried glances.

Noise ricocheted from marble floors and brick walls, rising and falling in unpredictable tides. Lyra tried not to let it bother her, but the sheer press of bodies, the whirl of sound and color, made her want to retreat to find some quiet corner where she could think.

At least Alayah was nowhere in sight. That alone was a comfort: no need to feel her rival's eyes, no subtle provocations or word games, no threat of being overshadowed by black-fire charisma.

This was her space, for now a place where she could be anonymous, or at least as anonymous as one could be with silver hair and an aura that made mortals stare.

Zoe, undaunted by the crowd, bounced on her heels beside her. "This is great, right? It's like a festival, except with more existential dread and worse snacks."

Lyra gave her a look. "Does it always feel like this?"

Zoe nodded with mock gravity. "Every year, first day. But the nerves die down by week two—then everyone just panics about deadlines."

Lyra barely had time to respond before the atmosphere shifted. The doors at the far end of the lobby opened and, like iron filings pulled by a magnet, all eyes turned.

A woman strode in—tall, soft-featured, with neat chestnut hair swept into a bun and a warm, clever smile.

She wore a long navy cardigan and round glasses perched at the end of her nose. Something in her presence calm, approachable, quietly authoritative—snapped the room to attention.

She climbed onto a small podium and took up a microphone, which gave a feedback squeak before settling.

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the Department of English Studies at Saint-Emilien. I'm Professor Delaroche, your first-year coordinator. Please, find a seat—on the floor, if you must—so we can get started."

A shuffle of bodies, backpacks sliding and sneakers squeaking. Lyra and Zoe found a spot near the front, sitting cross-legged among the growing crowd.

The noise faded, replaced by an electric anticipation.

Professor Delaroche beamed at them. "You made it. The hard part's over, right?" A ripple of nervous laughter.

She looked around the room, eyes warm but sharp.

"I'll say what all university professors say on the first day: this will be challenging, but it will be worth it. You'll read books that change you, write things you didn't think you could, and argue about topics you never knew existed. But I won't lie to you—this is not an easy department."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep over them. "Look to your right. Now look to your left. One out of three of you will make it to next year. The rest—well, some will find other passions, some will change majors, some will simply discover that reading Middle English is a fate worse than death."

Nervous laughter rippled again, more strained this time. Lyra glanced right and left; Zoe pulled a face and whispered, "Guess we better stick together, huh?"

Professor Delaroche's smile softened. "But you're here because you love language. You're here because you believe that words matter—that stories can change the world. That's the only real secret. Persevere, and you'll find your place."

Lyra felt some of the tension ease. She liked this woman's tone direct, yet kind. It reminded her of the best Celestian mentors, the ones who taught because they believed in growth, not just victory.

Then Professor Delaroche brightened, glancing at her clipboard.

"And now, as is our tradition, I'd like to introduce you to the person who ranked first in the entrance exam. They've set a new record for the department this year—remarkable, considering our cohort is so strong. Please, Lyra Elaris, would you stand and say a few words?"

The room fell utterly silent. Lyra froze, a flicker of genuine shock running through her. Entrance exam?

She didn't remember taking one—certainly no tests since arriving. A plan by the Celestians, no doubt. Something arranged without her knowledge. Typical.

Zoe looked at her with wide, delighted eyes. "You didn't tell me you were a genius!"

Lyra winced. "I… didn't know."

But she stood, slow and steady, feeling three hundred pairs of eyes fix on her as if she were some exotic exhibit.

Her heart thudded—not with fear, but with a wild kind of challenge. If this was what the Celestian council wanted, so be it.

She smoothed her skirt, took a breath, and stepped up beside the professor. The microphone felt heavy, foreign in her hand.

She glanced at the sea of expectant faces: some wary, some already whispering, many with phones half-raised, recording.

She searched for words—her own, not someone else's script.

"Thank you, Professor," she began, her voice clear and ringing in the sudden hush.

"And thank you to everyone here. I'm… new to this place, as many of you are. I come from somewhere very different. But I do know this—every time I've faced something unknown, every time I thought I might fail, I learned something."

A murmur of interest rippled through the crowd.

She went on, warming to her theme.

"I love language because it's alive. It changes us. It helps us make sense of the chaos around us—even if only for a moment. Let's help each other, and learn from each other. And if any of you feel lost… well, you're not alone. Trust me."

The silence lasted a heartbeat. Then someone clapped—one, then a handful, then, suddenly, the whole room. Lyra handed the microphone back, cheeks faintly flushed.

As she stepped down, she felt something subtle shift in the air. Not just admiration or curiosity but the faint shimmer of magic.

All around her, in the bright, humming crowd, she could see tiny, ephemeral crystals beginning to form: some sparked from nervous crushes, others from respect or a sudden surge of awe.

Nothing as potent as lust or love, but bright and new and quietly beautiful.

It was happening already her mere presence, her words, stirring hearts and minds, weaving the first threads of the contest without her even trying.

She glanced at Zoe, who gave her a two-thumbs-up and mouthed, "Iconic."