Departures and Dreams
Dawn spilled pale light across the Royal Academy's ancient courtyards, gilding snow-dusted statues and frost-crusted cobbles. The bells tolled in slow, solemn rhythm, each chime marking not only the hour, but the quiet beginning of something neither crown nor curse could wholly contain.
Arthur stood by his chamber window, the cold seeping through thick glass and stone. Fenrix lay at his feet, a patient sentinel whose breath frosted the chill air. The events of the past nights still clung to Arthur's thoughts: an assassin's blade, a resistance's promise, and the bond that had kept him alive when silence might have cost him everything.
Yet even shadows must yield to dawn, and with dawn came duty.
Today marked his true beginning at the Academy—not as an exile or fugitive, but as a student. Lilith had warned him: the Academy offered both blades and quills, sometimes hidden in the same hand. And now he would walk among both, watched as closely by allies as by enemies.
Arthur tightened the clasp of his cloak, its silver thread catching the weak morning sun, and stepped into the corridor.
---
The Academy thrummed with quiet anticipation. Students streamed between halls of pale stone and shadowed archways, their cloaks fluttering like the wings of ravens against fresh-fallen snow. Conversations murmured around Arthur as he passed:
"Is that truly him? The Anti-Healer?"
"They say he turned aside the prince's blade and lived."
"They say his wolf is a demon bound by blood."
Arthur kept his gaze forward, footfalls measured and silent. Fenrix moved at his side, every step graceful despite the faint limp where steel had found fur days before. In his presence, the crowd parted without a word.
At the great staircase of the eastern tower, Arthur found Lilith waiting. The morning sun caught her hair, painting it with hints of bronze and gold, though shadows lingered around her eyes—a legacy of sleepless nights.
"You came early," she said, voice soft over the low hum of student voices.
"So did you," Arthur replied, allowing the faintest ghost of a smile.
They climbed together, stone steps worn smooth by generations of students: heirs, outcasts, heroes, traitors. Fenrix padded silently behind, each breath rising in soft clouds.
---
The Hall of Names stood near the Academy's heart—a chamber whose walls bore the etched records of every student who had passed its gates. Dust danced in tall shafts of light, and the air smelled of wax and age.
The Headmaster awaited them, crimson robes draped over narrow shoulders. His gaze swept Arthur from pale hair to worn boots, pausing only briefly on the Grimoire at his side.
"Arthur, son of Cecilia," the Headmaster intoned, voice dry as old parchment. "By blood and decree, you stand admitted. Do you accept the charge to learn, to serve, and to wield what you become for more than yourself?"
Arthur met his gaze. "I do."
The Headmaster inclined his head, staff tapping once against the floor. "Then step forward. Let your name be carved alongside all who came before."
Arthur approached the great slab of marble, its surface veined with age and magic alike. A scribe waited, chisel poised. As Arthur spoke his name aloud, the scribe struck: a clean line, then another, until fresh letters joined the endless litany of Caledonia's past.
Arthur stepped back, breath caught in his chest. There, between names faded by time, his mother's bloodline etched anew. For all who dared to see.
---
Classes began at midday, the great bells summoning students from every tower and hall. Arthur's schedule bore the careful mark of royal design: spells of healing and warding, military history, strategy and statecraft. Yet beside these sat two additions, written in an unfamiliar hand: *Political Theory: Modern Dissent*, and *Forbidden Magic: A Historical Review*.
Lilith traced the entries with her gloved fingertip. "Someone wants you to see both sides," she murmured.
"Or to trip over one," Arthur said.
Their first lesson led them into the Tower of Runes, where frost traced patterns on ancient glass. The magister, a stooped figure with a voice like falling ash, spoke of balance: healing and harm, creation and decay. Arthur listened, words pricking at memories half-buried beneath grief and exile.
When asked to demonstrate, Arthur hesitated only briefly before drawing runes in the air. Shadows curled around his fingers, Anti-Heal magic flickering like black flame. Gasps rippled through the room. Some students leaned closer, eyes bright with fascination. Others recoiled as if the air itself had soured.
Lilith watched, her gaze unreadable but unwavering.
The magister said nothing of curses or blasphemy. Instead, he nodded. "Balance. Even poison can be a remedy if wielded with care."
---
By evening, Arthur's mind felt bruised from old truths given new names. He walked the inner gardens beside Lilith, the snow now trodden into winding paths. Fenrix padded behind, silent save for the soft crunch of paw on ice.
"Do you regret coming?" Lilith asked quietly.
"No," Arthur answered after a breath. "But I wonder what will come of it."
She turned to him, snow clinging to the hem of her cloak. "The Academy can be more than prison or stage. It can be forge."
"And what am I to be forged into?" Arthur asked.
"That," she said, "depends on the hand that holds the hammer—and the will that withstands it."
---
That night, Arthur lay wakeful in his chamber, candle guttering low beside the Grimoire. Outside, the Academy slept—or pretended to. Whispers still roamed its halls: of resistance, of assassins, of crowns that feared the wrong heir.
Arthur traced his mother's words in the margins: *Truth over crowns, compassion over power.*
Sleep came slowly, dreams curling around memory and fear alike.
In his dream, Arthur walked a corridor lined with mirrors. Each reflected not him, but a different possibility: a crowned king, robes heavy with blood; a man in chains, eyes hollow with defeat; a boy lost in snow, calling for a mother who could not answer.
At the corridor's end stood Fenrix, fur streaked with silver light. Beyond the wolf lay a single door, carved with thorned roses.
Arthur reached for the handle—and woke, breath sharp in the darkness.
Fenrix watched him from the hearth, eyes calm and ancient.
Arthur whispered into the hush: "We're not finished yet."
The wolf thumped his tail once, a promise given without words.
---
Morning brought new classes, new faces: a duel instructor whose eyes measured Arthur's every movement; a scholar who spoke of rebel texts while guards watched from the corners; a strategist who asked what Arthur would sacrifice to win.
At each lesson, Arthur spoke less and watched more: noting who listened, who whispered, who seemed to weigh him as more than rumor.
Lilith walked beside him through each hall, their silences carrying words unspoken. They practiced together in the salle, steel ringing in cold air. Draven watched from afar, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade.
---
By week's end, Arthur stood again in the Hall of Names. Snow fell beyond tall windows, each flake a fleeting mark on stone older than memory.
He traced his name, newly carved among thousands. The stone felt cold under his touch, yet the letters felt alive: not as claim or threat, but as reminder.
Lilith joined him, cloak brushing marble. "You belong here," she said, voice quiet as drifting snow.
"For now," Arthur replied.
"And after?" she asked.
He looked past the hall, past spires and banners, to where a kingdom waited: fearful, wounded, and uncertain.
"After," he said, "I decide where I belong."
---
Night fell, wrapping the Academy in velvet dark. Arthur stood by his window, Fenrix at his side, the Grimoire open on the table, pages alive with ink and memory.
*Departures shape us,* his mother had once written. *But it is our dreams that carry us home.*
Arthur traced the words, heart steady despite the weight ahead.
In the snow-choked quiet, he whispered, "Not as heir, nor outcast—but as myself."
Fenrix's warm breath rumbled beside him, a living answer to the vow.
And beyond walls and winter, dawn waited, carrying with it tomorrow's promise—and tomorrow's cost.
**To be continued...**