The lanterns lining the walls flickered faintly in the soft evening breeze, casting shadows that danced along the polished stone. The feast hall was nearly empty now, with most of the students having filed into their respective dormitories. Only the group of new first-years remained, clustered at the tables, waiting for our house leaders.

  The warm chatter of the remaining students filled the quiet night, broken only by the occasional creak of a distant door or the faint rustle of leaves coming from windows. I leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, trying to will away the exhaustion settling in my legs. My jaw tightened against another yawn. Alina, not faring much better, sat nearby with her legs crossed, her head resting against her palm, eyes half-lidded as though sleep might take her at any moment. Rowan, in contrast, was still chattering away, though even he was starting to lose steam.

  We didn’t have to wait long. From the main doors, a wave of third-years emerged, their robes trimmed with their respective house colors. They moved like veterans, carrying themselves with casual authority, their voices calling out orders to the scattered groups of first-years.

  Among them, one figure stood out—a tall man, probably in his early twenties, his crimson tie marking him as a Drakenhall senior. His sharp features were illuminated briefly by the glow of the lanterns as he exchanged words with another senior before breaking away. He moved toward us, his crimson-trimmed robe billowing slightly behind him.

  “Drakens! Form up,” his voice rang out, deep and commanding. It cut through the chatter, and we instinctively stood and moved toward him.

  There were only five of us. I glanced around quickly: Rowan, Alina, myself, and two others—a boy with sandy hair and a nervous expression, and Aaranoc Leapis, the tall, tanned applicant who had gone first during the assessment. The last to be selected. He looked serious, his eyes flicking between the rest of us, but he didn’t say a word.

  The senior gave us a brief look-over before speaking. “My name is Matthias Drell, and I’m the house leader for Drakenhall this year. Is this everyone?”

  Rowan, ever eager, answered first. “Yes.”

  Matthias gave a short nod, his dark eyes scanning us for a moment longer before he turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

  The walk was quiet, our group moving in an almost military-like formation behind Matthias. The cobblestones beneath our feet clicked faintly with each step, and the cool air was heavier here, almost damp. The fountain in the main hall came and went, its soft splashing barely registering in the silence as we passed. Long hallways stretched out to either side, lined with oil paintings and ornate sconces, their flickering lights casting fleeting shadows along the marble floors.

  Matthias led us to the backyard, a quiet and almost eerie space compared to the lively front. It was smaller, the grass neatly trimmed but devoid of the life and chatter of the front yard. Beyond it, the college loomed tall and imposing, its northern wing connected by a bridge that stretched into the darkness.

  We moved left, taking a series of stone stairs that spiraled upward. The air grew cooler as we ascended, the faint sounds of the college below fading into nothing but the shuffle of our footsteps. When we finally stopped, we stood before a massive wooden door, its surface carved with intricate designs of flames and dragons. At its center was the sigil of Drakenhall, a phoenix rising from a swirl of fire, its wings spread wide.

  Matthias stepped forward, placing his hand on the door’s iron handle. Golden runes flared to life along its edges, their glow brightening briefly before fading again with a low hum. He glanced back at us.

  “These runes protect our dorms from unwanted visitors,” he explained. “Every house dorm has its own wards, some more elaborate than others. These will only respond to those who are keyed to them. Now, place your hand on the handle, one at a time. It’ll mark your magic signature and allow you to enter freely.”

  He flicked his wand in a small, precise motion, muttering something under his breath. Additional runes shimmered into view, forming faint patterns across the wood.

  Alina stepped forward first, placing her hand on the handle. The runes flared again, brighter this time, before fading once more. Rowan followed, his face set in uncharacteristic concentration as he touched the handle. Then came the sandy-haired boy, Aaranoc, and finally me. The handle felt smooth and cool beneath my palm, and for a brief moment, I thought I felt a faint pulse, like the heartbeat of something ancient. When I removed my hand, the runes flickered softly before disappearing completely.

  The door swung open with a low thud, revealing the Drakenhall common room.

  The first thing I noticed was the warmth. It was an almost immediate comfort, the kind that chased away the chill of the stone corridors. A large hearth dominated the far wall, its flames crackling softly and casting a flickering glow across the room. Around it, plush chairs and sofas were arranged in small clusters, most of them occupied by older Drakens. Some were engaged in quiet conversations, while others read or simply stared into the fire.

  To the right, a piano stood near a shelf filled with books and what looked like trophies. A chess table sat nearby, and along the left wall was a board labeled “News,” its surface pinned with notes and parchment, most of them detailing tasks, announcements, and job opportunities.

  In the center of the room, a dragon’s skull was mounted on a pedestal, its surface polished to a dull shine. Its hollow eyes seemed to follow us as we entered, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a real dragon.

  My gaze drifted further, landing on a pair of girls seated near the hearth—an elf with silver-white hair and a girl with black hair and amethyst eyes, both of whom I recognized from earlier in the exams. They were laughing softly, their conversation carrying an air of quiet confidence.

  “The common room,” Matthias began, his voice drawing our attention back to him, “is the heart of our house. You’ll spend plenty of time here, so get used to it. The board on the left is updated daily with announcements and tasks. Some of them will be mandatory. Others will give you opportunities to earn coins or house points. Keep an eye on it.”

  He gestured toward two doors on the far wall. “The door on the right leads to the house library. It’s small but has everything you’ll need for your courses, including your textbooks. Take a copy of the guidebook when you go in—it contains the rules of the college. The other door is off-limits. It belongs to our House Head, who will also be your mentor for the year. She’s not here at the moment, but you’ll meet her soon enough.”

  Matthias’s gaze swept across the room again, his tone becoming more serious. “The stairs leading down are the bathrooms. Left for boys, right for girls. Don’t get creative. Upstairs is the dormitory bridge. The left wing is for boys, and the right wing is for girls. First-years are on the first floor. Your belongings have already been moved to your rooms.”

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  He stepped back, crossing his arms. “Welcome to Drakenhall. Get some rest. The semester begins in a few days, till then, you will be selecting wands alongside your fellow first years.”

  With that, Matthias gave us a curt nod and disappeared up the stairs, leaving us to absorb the room’s warmth and the hushed activity of its residents.

  Rowan clapped me on the shoulder, his grin as wide as ever. “Well, we made it,” he said, glancing around. “What do you think? Not bad, huh?”

  I shrugged, though the tension in my shoulders was finally easing. “It’s… better than I expected.”

  Alina yawned behind her hand, her movements slow and languid. “I’m finding my room. If either of you comes looking for me, don’t.” She shot us a tired smirk before heading toward the elf and the black-haired girl by the hearth.

  Rowan gestured toward the stairs leading to the boys’ dorms. “Come on. Let’s find our room before they shove us into something small.”

  “Fine,” I muttered, already dreading the idea of climbing another set of stairs. The promise of a bed, however, was enough to keep me moving.

  The corridor leading to the boys' dorms was quiet, save for the muffled crackle of a distant hearth and the faint hum of conversation coming from rooms we passed. Oil lamps lined the polished stone walls, their flames casting a warm, flickering glow that softened the otherwise sharp edges of the architecture. The floor beneath us gleamed faintly, its surface reflecting the light like a mirror, but with faint scratches and wear—marks of a place lived in. The air carried the faint scent of old wood, polish, and a hint of smoke.

  Rowan and I moved silently, the creak of our boots the only sound between us. In the distance, near a large arched window, I saw our suitcases neatly stacked along the wall. Mine was unmistakable—the sword lay across it like a sentinel, its scabbard catching the warm light of the lamps. Rowan’s identical suitcase sat beside it, slightly ajar as if someone had peeked into it before leaving it there.

  Two of the other new students had already disappeared into their assigned rooms, greeted by cheerful voices that drifted faintly down the hall. But Rowan and I lingered for a moment in front of our door, our belongings in hand as though waiting for some unspoken signal.

  “Well,” Rowan said finally, shifting his suitcase to one side and pulling open the wooden door. The hinges groaned softly, and the light from within spilled out, revealing a space that was both modest and cramped, but homely in a way that made it immediately inviting.

  The room had four beds, arranged with an almost military precision. Two were positioned by the large window at the far end, separated by a small gap that housed a wooden chest and a pair of matching closets. The other two beds faced one another on either side of the room, each with its own closet and chest as well. The furniture was sturdy but worn, the kind that had endured years of restless students. A single lamp on the central chest provided most of the light, the warm glow bouncing off the dark wood-paneled walls.

  On the right-hand bed near the tall window, a man lay sprawled under a thick blanket, his face turned toward the wall. His deep, even breaths were the unmistakable rhythm of sleep. The other bed on that side was occupied by a boy around our age, his fiery ember-red hair catching the light as he sat propped against the wall with a book in his hands. His bare feet rested on the bed frame, and he wore a loose tunic and trousers that suggested he’d already settled in for the night. The moment he heard the door close behind us, his book dropped into his lap, and his deep blue eyes turned toward us.

  “You’ve finally arrived,” he said, his voice light and tinged with amusement as he swung his legs off the bed. “We’ve been waiting for hours, haven’t we, Theo?” He glanced at the sleeping man, who didn’t so much as stir.

  Rowan gave a short laugh, placing his suitcase by the bed on the left. “Doesn’t look like he’s been waiting for anyone,” he said, grinning.

  The red-haired boy smirked, pushing himself off the bed and crossing the room to offer Rowan a handshake. “Name’s Valen. The sleeper over there is Theo. We took the test yesterday.”

  “Rowan,” my companion replied, shaking Valen’s hand enthusiastically. He gestured toward me. “This is Einar. Don’t expect him to talk much unless you irritate him first.”

  Valen chuckled, his grip firm. “Good to know. Not much chance of irritation, though—I’m stuck with Theo, and he’s irritation enough for three people.”

  I didn’t bother responding, instead glancing toward the left-side bed nearest the door. It was unoccupied, and it would do. “This one,” I muttered, moving toward it and setting my suitcase down with a soft thud. I grabbed the sword that had rested atop it, inspecting the scabbard briefly before propping it against the bed frame.

  Valen’s eyes lit up the moment he noticed the sword. His steps faltered slightly, but then he closed the distance with deliberate ease. “That’s a sword?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. “May I?”

  I hesitated, my grip tightening instinctively, but his gaze was focused and serious—an appreciation rather than idle curiosity. Reluctantly, I unsheathed the blade a few inches to show him the craftsmanship before handing it over.

  He took it carefully, cradling it as though it were something fragile, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to something almost reverent. The blade itself remained sheathed, but his fingers traced the intricate dragon-headed hilt, the red jewel eyes glinting faintly in the low light.

  “This…” he began, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving. He gently tilted the hilt to study it closer. “This is the sword of the Knights of Emberfell. The dragon head…” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “Only appointed knights had the privilege of wielding this. It’s cold iron. Where did you get it?”

  I folded my arms, watching him carefully. “Forged from my father’s sword.”

  Valen’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he carefully lowered the sword’s tip to the floor, keeping the hilt upright. His fingers continued to trace the red jewel as though confirming something. “There were only two like this, with eyes of jewels. Twin blades. One was taken by enemies fifteen years ago. The other…” He glanced up, his blue eyes narrowing. “The other was stolen by a traitor.”

  Rowan, who had been unpacking, paused, looking between us. “Uh, is this going somewhere?” he asked, his usual lighthearted tone faltering slightly.

  Valen ignored him, his focus entirely on me. “Who are you, exactly?” he asked, his voice low and steady. “Enemy or traitor?”

  “Neither,” I replied coldly, holding his gaze. “Give it back.”

  “Your family name,” he demanded, his voice sharp.

  “Emberheart,” I answered flatly, not breaking eye contact.

  His lips twitched into a bitter smile. “And your parents?”

  “Valen,” Rowan interjected, stepping closer, his tone uneasy. “Maybe—”

  “My parents,” I said, cutting Rowan off, my voice as firm and unyielding as stone, “are dead.”

  Valen’s grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles whitening. “Names,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

  “Aeron Lambert. Lyra Leonhart.”

  For a moment, the room fell silent. Valen let out a strained laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a bastard.”

  I didn’t flinch. “Say what you want. It doesn’t change the truth.”

  His grip slackened, and he handed the sword back to me, though his expression remained guarded. “You will always be remembered as a bastard,” he muttered, turning back toward his bed.

  Rowan stepped closer to me, his brow furrowed. “What was that about?” he whispered.

  I didn’t say anything, sitting on the edge of my bed and resting the sword carefully against the frame. I’d seen the look in Valen’s eyes before. Suspicion. Pain. Betrayal.