The academy
The gates of the Imperial Academy opened at dawn.
Not with ceremony — just routine.
As if power itself had no need to announce its return.
Carriages began to arrive.
Polished wood. Gold trim.
Family crests pressed into silk banners fluttering above polished wheels.
Heirs stepped out in pressed uniforms and practiced confidence.
Sons of dukes. Daughters of counts.
Voices too loud. Laughter too sharp.
No one looked toward the east path.
The side road. Gravel instead of stone.
That was where Eliza walked. Alone.
Her uniform was regulation — just barely.
The collar a bit too stiff. The cuffs recently re-hemmed.
She carried no luggage. No crest. No servants trailing behind.
Her steps were steady. Eyes forward.
Not hurried, not slow.
A ghost passing between stone pillars no one cared to haunt.
No one whispered about her.
Not yet.
She was just an adopted daughter of a bankrupt marquis.
Tolerated, not welcomed.
And the Academy was not a place where tolerance meant safety.
...
Past the iron gates, the campus opened like a stage.
To the left: the Dueling Grounds.
Already alive with the clang of morning practice — blades meeting blades, feet grinding against sand.
Uniforms dusted in gold and sweat. Boys shouting instructions like they already commanded battalions.
To the right: the Hall of Tactics.
Its tall glass windows reflected the morning sun like polished shields turned toward heaven.
Inside, it was said, they memorized old wars and built new ones on paper.
Further off, set back and shining too cleanly to be kind: the Etiquette Wing.
All marble and mirrors, where posture mattered more than intent, and words were sharpened before they left the tongue.
No sound came from there yet. Just perfume, drifting faintly through the air.
And at the center of it all stood the main building — oldest, tallest, and barest.
No banners. No color. Just high-arched stone, untouched by ornament.
It held the general halls. The lecture rooms. The foundation of everything students were expected to become.
In front of it, a courtyard fountain murmured over a lion carved in weather-worn stone.
Water spilled from its mouth like a warning that never stopped.
Eliza paused there.
Not to admire it.
Just to memorize the layout.
This was not a school.
It was a battlefield in disguise.
And every battlefield began with silence.
...
The lecture hall had already filled.
Tiered benches. Velvet cushions. A stone lectern at the base.
Candles hovered overhead in clear glass orbs, flickering like trapped stars.
Eliza slipped in through the side door just before the second bell.
Not late. But not early enough to be remembered.
She took a seat in the back. No one turned.
Her hair was tied back. Her sleeves slightly too long.
She wore no crest. No jewelry. No name worth knowing.
And in a place like this, being forgettable was a kind of safety.
A temporary one.
...
A man entered — gray robes, sharp steps, no wasted motion.
He didn't introduce himself.
"This is not a class," he said. "It's an obligation. You will attend it. You will pass it. You will forget it."
He let the pause stretch.
"The Empire won't."
"You will study its structure. Its laws. Its design. If you are to serve it, you must understand why you are allowed to exist inside it."
He unrolled a scroll.
"When I call your name, state your House."
The list began.
"Valenor. House Daemar."
"Lisette. House Roanne."
"Rheor. House Ferem."
The names rang like bells — polished and proud.
No one missed a syllable.
Then:
"Eliza."
A flicker.
Someone looked up.
She answered, calm and clear:
"Eliza. Adopted daughter of House Caerwyn."
That got her half a glance. No more.
Adopted. Poor House. Not worth a pause.
One girl in the third row turned. Pearl pin in her hair. Eyes sharp.
Eliza met her gaze — held it.
Just for a second.
Then looked away.
The professor marked her name without comment.
The lesson moved on.
But something small had shifted.
Not much. Just enough for her to feel it.
She didn't move.
Still unnoticed.
But no longer invisible.