Lucan leaned forward, eyes widening at the sight of the city's heart. A single towering tree dominated the skyline, impossibly large, rising higher than any skyscraper he'd seen in his old world. Its trunk alone could have housed a dozen cottages, and its canopy stretched out like a continent of green above the rooftops. Great Oak City.
Lyra pressed her face eagerly to the window, beaming. "It's even more beautiful than the paintings."
Veyne, sitting across from them, gave a nostalgic chuckle. "You should see it in autumn. The leaves go gold like fire. I nearly missed my first exam staring at it."
Lucan turned to him. "You studied here?"
He glanced out the window, his tone softening. "Any man worth something came through this place."
Lucan was piecing things together he hadn't been wanting to ask before. "So... you're a noble then?"
"Of course," Veyne said proudly. "Small noble house, mind you. Nothing grand. But Great Oak takes all as long as you can survive it."
Lucan hadn't known Veyne was noble. The man had never flaunted it. It explained a few things, but still, it felt strange.
Veyne leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Remember your training. Threadcutter isn't like your old blade. It wants precision, not brute strength. Treat it like a scalpel, not a hammer."
Lucan nodded. The sword rested at his side, its thin blade tucked in an elegant scabbard. It had taken every night training to feel comfortable with it and still, he wasn't sure he was there.
The carriage slowed. The Great Oak Academy loomed ahead.
White elegant walls wrapped around its grounds, laced with emerald-green vines and rooftops of mossy tile. The architecture reminded Lucan of the elven fantasy games he'd once played. Graceful curves, artful design, and a touch of the ancient. Even the tiled paths glistened underfoot, pristine and lined with carved symbols of intricate designs.
The entrance buzzed with activity. Carriages came and went. Students already accepted for the year dragged trunks and crates toward dormitories, while hopefuls clustered by the gates, nervous energy palpable in the air.
Their carriage stopped at a split in the road, the left led deeper to the academy, right toward a gated courtyard that looked like an open-air sparring ground or training field.
Lyra grabbed her bag and opened the door. "I've got to check in on the student side. They won't let me through the exam entrance."
Veyne stepped out and nodded. "I don't go any further. I'll be staying at the Oaken Inn for a few days. In case you need me, my lady."
He turned to Lucan. The boy braced for another of his usual dry remarks but instead, Veyne gave a formal bow.
Lucan stiffened. "You don't need to bow, Veyne."
"You're the most intriguing boy I've met, Lucan," Veyne said, straightening. "People tell tales about Lance the Silverhand. Before him, Thorne the Rose of Death. Alenor Grace, Matias Metalsoul. And one day…" He stepped forward, tapping Lucan's forehead gently. "They'll tell tales about you. Not because of your strength, which still needs work, but because of this. You've a mind no blade can match."
Lucan blinked, surprised by the frank praise.
Veyne gave a final nod to both of them and stepped back into the carriage.
"Good luck," Lyra said. "Don't forget where the Oaken Inn is, if you fail." She grinned.
Lucan shook his head, smiling as he watched her walk away.
Then he turned, heart tight, and strode toward the exam entrance. Just treat it like a tournament. You've done this before. Thousands of times.
The exam courtyard was packed with young men around his age, now eighteen, all in well-made clothes, most far finer than his. Nobles, clearly. Confidence came off them like perfume.
A desk stood propped at the center, manned by officials in long white and green robes that shimmered in the light. Even the uniforms looked expensive.
As Lucan approached, a group of boys passed him. One brushed him with a shoulder and quickly muttered, "Sorry."
Another, clearly the leader, paused. His sharp blue eyes scanned Lucan. "Who're you?"
"Lucan," he said simply.
The boys exchanged glances, waiting.
"Of House…?" the leader prompted.
Lucan hesitated. "I… don't have a house."
Their expressions shifted with half shock and half disgust.
"What's a lowborn doing here?" one snorted. "You know this academy costs 60 gold crowns to attend?"
Lucan flushed. "I'm ward of Caedric Emberlily."
That gave them pause.
"Ah," the leader said with a smirk. "Lord Emberlily. Makes sense. First of his house, wasn't he? A peasant made noble. Must be a tradition."
They laughed.
Lucan's shame flared, but it wasn't for himself, it was for the insult to Emberlily. "What houses are you from, then?"
The leader smiled coldly. "Mance Valemire is my father."
Lucan's stomach turned, he'd read that name in a book. The king of Solmaris?
One of the others snickered. "You should bow."
"Maybe we'll invade Eirenfall one day and finally put some order in it."
They left laughing, throwing one last look over their shoulders.
Lucan exhaled hard and forced himself to the desk.
The official behind it looked up. "Name?"
"Lucan."
The man waited.
"House?" he asked like it was expected.
"I don't have one," he said shamefully.
The official frowned and began flipping pages. "Impossible. All applicants have to have a full name."
"I'm ward of Lord Emberlily," Lucan offered, growing more anxious.
The man stopped flipping. "Ah. There you are. Lucan Emberlily, you did have a house boy."
Lucan blinked. "Sorry, what?"
The man didn't look up. "That's what it says. Lucan Emberlily."
His mind raced. Did Lord Emberlily sign me up as that? Did he want me to take his name? He hadn't been ready to be Lucan of somewhere, but Emberlily had given him that. He smiled to himself.
He felt the shame those boys had cast melt off of him. He stood straighter.
The official stamped both his forearms with a green sigil bearing the number 137.
"Isn't both arms a little excessive?" Lucan asked jokingly, rubbing them.
"In case you lose one," the man replied, completely serious.
Lucan gave a nervous laugh.
He was in.