Waking from my nap, the sun was already high. According to Angel's log, I had slept six hours. Enough to regain some energy, though my body still felt heavy, as if pain and fatigue were a second skin.
With my stomach rumbling and throat dry, I got up to check the horse's saddlebags. There I found some dry grain and strips of jerky. It was no feast, but in my situation, it tasted like heaven. As I chewed slowly, I could feel the salty, rough taste of the meat anchoring me back to reality. I was still alive. For now.
After partially satisfying my hunger, I took off my bloodstained tunic and entered the small river that crossed the clearing. The water was icy, but it felt purifying, as if every drop washed away the memories of the past few days. I thought about trying to catch some fish, but the river seemed dead. Not a single movement beneath the surface, not a ripple betraying life. It was a silence that did not seem natural. Angel, as always, detected no anomaly, but the unease remained.
I gave up and carefully washed my tunic before putting it in one of the horse's bags. Then, I dressed in the scout rider's spare clothes: simple linen, unadorned, the perfect attire for an unimportant peasant. It completely concealed the opulence and magical emblems that adorned my original outfit. Now I was just another boy on the road. A ghost among thousands.
I paused for a moment in front of the river. For the first time since my arrival, I saw my reflection clearly. I knew I was in good shape thanks to Angel's scan, but the face that stared back at me took me by surprise. My features were harmonious, even beautiful. A mix of youth and intensity. Light brown hair, honey colored eyes with a gaze that wavered between tenderness and storm. No matter how simple my clothes were, there was something about me that stood out. An unsettling, almost unnatural beauty.
I shook my head and refilled my water skin. There was no time for vanity.
During all the time I remained in that clearing, a persistent feeling accompanied me: that of being watched. Not by a beast or a hunter, but by something deeper, older. A gaze without eyes. Even Angel, with her high precision detection system, could not identify the source. Just a nameless whisper among the trees.
I decided to leave before that presence decided to reveal itself.
The journey continued without major setbacks. We galloped all day and part of the night, stopping just long enough for the horse to rest and for my muscles not to collapse. The route was long, but my destination was clear. I could not allow myself doubts. Not now.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I spotted a stone castle in the distance, rising imposingly in the middle of the landscape. It was not just a castle; it was a walled city, a living fortress. The watchtowers protruded like claws, and flags waved heavily in the wind. At its feet, a crowd huddled, desperate to enter.
According to Angel, more than five thousand people waited in line in front of the gates. Commoners with hope and fear.
As I approached, the tension in the air was palpable. Shouts, shoves, children's cries, and muffled prayers. Suddenly, as if a spark ignited gunpowder, the crowd began to get out of control. The response was immediate: hundreds of armed guards emerged from the city and crushed the revolt with surgical brutality. Broken noses, fractured bones, and for the most daring, death without trial or compassion. Chaos froze. Fear prevailed.
Without wishing to attract attention, I silently joined the queue, just one more among the desperate. The line moved slowly, and Angel dedicated herself to listening to the whispers and conversations around us. Everyone spoke of the same thing: the Stone Academy admission exam.
That name echoed in my memories.
The Stone Academy. No one knows who founded it or when. It has been here even before we Roseharts arrived in these lands. My grandfather sternly warned me: "Never provoke that institution. If you wish to live, stay away from its shadow." I used to ask him if it was an organization of mages like us. He always dodged the question, as if merely speaking of the subject could attract a curse.
What I know for certain is that its fame is unquestionable. Nobles from all corners of the continent send their children to study there. Its graduates are known for becoming figures of power, royal advisors, generals... or something darker. Its influence is profound. Silent. Irrefutable.
This period, the "grace period," was the only time commoners could take the entrance exam. The call was opened every five years. The only condition was to be under sixteen. An opportunity very few managed to seize.
The Roseharts never interacted with this force. For five hundred years, we avoided all contact. During a drunken night, my father confessed why: our ancestors feared that any exposure would betray us to that which still pursued us in the shadows. They ordered us to hide for five thousand years. They did not imagine that we would die in less than one from lack of mana.
The line moved slowly, but without pauses. It took about three hours to reach the entrance control. In front of me, a long table where more than twenty elders in scholar robes registered the applicants. Their gaze was cold, mechanical.
"Name," one of them shouted without even looking up.
"William," I replied, without hesitation.
"Origin."
"Commoner."
"Here is a tablet. Do not lose it. Proceed directly to the academy for the exam."
I took the wooden tablet with a runic inscription on its surface. It was a symbol of access. A promise... or a sentence.
While in line, I reflected on my options. I could enter as a fallen noble and try to establish some business, but without contacts or backing, I would be an easy target. Moreover, using my surname would only increase the risk. Here, commoners have no right to a surname. Any attempt to use one would be suspicious. It was better to remain invisible. A ghost without lineage.
I chose to register as a simple applicant. If I managed to get in, I might gain a sponsor, perhaps access to knowledge or power. Enough to prepare myself for what came next.
I advanced towards the academy entrance. The crowd had dissipated. Only candidates could pass. Entire families waited outside, watching with eyes full of hope or resignation.
I stopped in front of the gates. They were enormous, made of black wood reinforced with iron. A shiver ran down my spine.
"Angel," I whispered, "what are my chances of surviving if I enter here?"
"Probability of premature death: 64%. Chance of success: insufficient information."
"Perfect," I murmured with a bitter smile. "Just how I like it."
And I took the first step.