Alice in a strangeland

We break the night ridge at first light, hooves muffled on damp earth. Ahead, Orion City rises out of the valley—silver domes and sky-bridges glowing like the inside of a pearl. Bells drift up the slope, slow and even, as if the city breathes through bronze lungs.

Sorin spurs ahead, waving Lord Darius's parchment at the Eastern Gate. The guards read the seal, snap smart salutes, and swing the iron doors wide. Warm smells roll out to meet us—fig bread fresh from brick ovens, lamp oil, river mist. Children wrapped in morning shawls point at our sky-blue cloaks as we pass. 

Just inside the wall, a small black carriage waits, the crown's crescent-ring painted on its door. Sorin climbs to the driver's bench; Priya, Raphael, and I settle on narrow leather seats. Cobblestones blur under the wheels, then change to white flagstone that almost hums beneath us. Through the curtained window, I catch flashes of fountains, bright market tents, and priests in rose-red robes singing the sun higher.

The Divine Academy claims its hill like a calm flame—arches of white marble edged in gold, and glass observatories that scatter sunlight in shards of color. Low runes pulse along the path, flicking on, one by one, as if greeting us by name.

On the front steps stands Scholar-Registrar Fang, cuffs ink-splashed, smile both kind and sharp. She touches a slim wand to a copper seal in her palm. "Scholars under Provincial Lord Darius, present yourselves." We step forward, and one by one she hands us a pin—slender, weighty, etched with the sigil of the Academy. We affix them to our collars, the metal cool and steady against the fabric. No ceremony beyond this, but the meaning is unmistakable: we are now scholars.

Inside Atria Hall, the air smells of parchment and pine soap. Rows of novices in plain linen stare, whispering—First-Light bearers, the road rumor says. Miriel raises two fingers, and hush falls like settling dust.

"By the light you carry and the craft you will learn, you join the Divine Academy this day," she intones. "Serve knowledge, serve Sera, and walk steadily." Short words, nothing fancy, yet I feel my chest steady at each one.

Rooms come next. Priya and I share a narrow tower cell above the star garden, beds tucked under slanted rafters. A single window frames rooftops and the distant river. Raphael is shown to an outer wing of stone quarters for guardians, scribes, and visiting arms. He shrugs at the plain walls. "Close enough," he says, clapping the lintel as if testing its strength.

Fang walks us through our new world in a soft spiral—up the Library of Floating Tomes where books drift on shimmering air, across the alchemy court where water climbs glass stairs, onto the stargazer terrace where brass rings spin, marking hours older than kings. She leaves us at the Great Hall with a promise of supper when the seventh bell rings.

Afternoon fades. We unpack in quiet: Priya lays her sketchbook by the window, I stack my journal and Kaliki's small prayer stone on the table, and our cloaks hang side by side like twin slices of dawn.

At the seventh bell, we gather beneath the Star Dome, a glass vault supported by ribs of silver steel. Novices in loose robes circle the floor; a hidden choir hums a single note that climbs with the night. One by one, names are spoken. As Priya gives hers, the crescent-ring constellation overhead flashes bright, dusting her face in pale flame. When I speak, the same starling answers, not louder but deeper, as if marking a place on some unseen map.

Outside the Dome, Raphael waits in the torchlight, hand on the worn leather of his sword. The glow touches his features amber-gold. "You shine well," he says, half grin, half relief. Then, softer: "Mana or not, I keep watch."

The eighth bell echoes through the cloisters and gardens. Torches along the walkways bloom like orange flowers, and Orion's silver domes turn to restless shadows. From our tower window, Priya and I watch lanterns float skyward—paper boats of light bound for the stars that guide them.

"We made it," she whispers.

"We did," I answer, though my voice trembles with all that still lies hidden behind those shining walls.

Wind presses against the glass, smelling of river and new beginnings. I touch the copper seal at my throat, warm even now, and feel the First Light stir like a promise kept. Tomorrow, the true lessons start. Tonight Orion splits the darkness with a hundred lamps, and somewhere, far below, the city bells keep gentle time for every hope left awake.

Moonlight spills across the star-garden, painting the domes below in soft silver. I rest my elbows on the parapet, letting Orion's chill bite the pride from my thoughts—just enough to sharpen it.

Footsteps whisper. Raphael emerges from the archway, cloak trailing like dusk. He stops beside me, silent until the quiet itself demands a voice.

"Still awake?" he asks, more observation than question.

"Sleep feels like surrender," I answer. "And dawn will judge me soon enough."

He studies the constellations for a long moment. "The Academy keeps many measures. Steel among them."

"And I intend to tip every scale," I say, lifting my chin. "The First Light chose me. I'll see its reason written in full."

A faint curve touches his mouth—no true smile, only the echo of one. "Confidence becomes you."

"What of your path?" I tilt my head. "You walk these halls with neither rune nor spark. Where do you place your wager?"

"Between the lines others skip," he replies. "I watch, I listen, and—should silence break—I answer with iron."

Wind threads our cloaks together before slipping past. I press the warm copper pendant at my throat; its steady thrum answers my pulse.

"Then let it stand thus," I say. "I'll carve light into shape, and you'll guard the edges it casts."

Raphael taps two fingers against his breastplate—acknowledgment enough. "Agreed."

We lean into the hush, letting the bell tower breathe its slow tenor over the gardens. No more words find us; none are needed. When I finally turn, he matches my step. Side by side we move toward the lamplit corridor, carrying pride and shadow in equal measure—ready to meet whatever dawn dares to bring.