The fall

—Arman—

Warm.

Too warm.

Arman opened his eyes to find golden light spilling into the room through the airship's porthole—and Kyra, sprawled across his chest like a lazy sun-drunk cat. Her legs tangled with his, her head nestled under his chin, her breathing steady and soft.

He sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. "Time to wake up, little fox."

She only groaned in protest.

Eventually, with great effort and much tail flicking, she shifted—literally—into her fox form and curled up inside his coat. Just in time. The docking bell chimed outside.

They descended from the airship, and Arman took in the scene. The Academy's central plaza was a blend of elegance and otherworldliness—floating stone rings hovered in the air, rotating with soft pulses of arcane energy. Students were gathered in clusters, some awe-struck, others whispering to companions.

Then, a familiar presence shifted beside him.

Leon.

Arman didn't need to look to know who it was. The tension rolled off the blonde-haired noble like heat from a furnace. Leon's eyes locked onto Arman with quiet intensity.

"I'm going to get her back," Leon murmured without turning. "You don't deserve her"

Arman said nothing. Just stared ahead.

"And when I do, you'd better be ready to let go."

Still nothing.

Leon scoffed. Still glaring.

Then another presence—colder, sharper.

Selvaria.

She stood further down the row, arms crossed, platinum braid draped over one shoulder. Their eyes met for a heartbeat—long enough to acknowledge the weight of the past, and nothing more.

No words passed between them.

Then, the crowd hushed.

From above, a platform shimmered into view—and with it, the Headmaster.

She was taller than most women, her long hair a vivid violet that spilled down her back like ink in water. Her eyes, the same deep hue, shimmered faintly as if stars lived inside them. Her presence was commanding, the space around her bending slightly, like gravity itself leaned in to listen.

A space-time mage, Arman thought. One of the strongest alive. Top ten, easily.

The woman's voice rang out—not loud, but clear, echoing through the plaza like a bell.

""You stand here today because the world demands more than mediocrity. You are the best your nations, clans, bloodlines, and realms have to offer. This year—this generation—has already drawn the eyes of kings, prophets, and forgotten things that sleep beneath the veil of reality."

Her gaze swept across the crowd like a blade. It lingered, for just a second, on Arman.

He held still.

She knew. He didn't know what, or how, but she knew something.

"This year may be the greatest the Academy has ever seen. But greatness," she said, her eyes turning sharp, "requires fire. Trial. Loss."

A tremor ran through the platform. Magic hummed through the air—palpable, electric.

"You will face pain. Fear. And the kind of choices that brand you. Some of you will rise. Some of you will fall. None of you will leave unchanged."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then, in a tone colder than moonlight:

"Good luck."

The moment the last word left her lips, the floor beneath them split.

A pulse of pure mana raced across the stonework—and Arman felt it before he saw it. The sigils flared to life beneath his feet, lines of white and violet curling in patterns too complex to follow.

And just beside him—

"Kyra—!"

The fox in his coat shimmered—disappearing in a burst of petals.

"Kyra?!" He reached for her—but she was gone.

No cry. No struggle. Just gone.

"Wait—no, no—"

Then his platform vanished beneath his boots.

He had just enough time to curse.

"Oh, fu—"

And then there was nothing but air and magic and a pull like being yanked out of existence.