At first everything was still.

  The stone bridge beneath my boots was cold, damp with mist, and seemed suspended over nothing but a vast chasm below. Which was filled with curling fog that moved as if it had a will of its own. The mountain loomed, jagged and ancient, with its peaks lost in shadow. The robed figure ahead made no sound as they walked and their presence as silent as the air itself.

  There was no birdsong nor breeze. Only the sound of my breathing and the soft tap of my footsteps.

  The bridge stretched farther than it should have and the gates ahead remained motionless; two towering slabs of ironwood veined with silver and carved in symbols that shifted faintly when I wasn’t looking at them directly. I felt the weight of them before I was close. Felt them watching.

  Then, there was light.

  The sun crested the mountain ridge like a curtain lifting on a stage. In an instant the cold shadows scattered, and the world changed.

  It wasn’t just a dawn but an awakening.

  The chasm below turned to a shimmering mist that caught the golden light and shined colors I never knew even existed. The bridge beneath me brightened, no longer dull stone but veined with threads of luminous blue. I could feel the air growing warmer, filled with the scent of blossoms and something rich and sweet, like the pages of an old book, sun-warmed pine, and burnt sugar.

  I looked up.

  The gates were no longer grim or foreboding but instead magnificent.

  Massive doors of ironwood, yes, but now the carvings danced in the morning light. Vines bloomed across their surface and the flowers opened as we approached, iridescent petals unfolding in slow, perfect spirals. A crest glowed faintly in their center: a tower rising from a ring of thorns, crowned by a serpent biting its own tail.

  The gates opened on their own. They didn’t groan or clatter, they just let out a soft breath, like the mountain exhaling.

  I stepped through.

  The courtyard was unlike anything I had ever imagined.

  Towers spiraled up around me, carved directly into the cliffs. Their rooftops glistened with frost that turned to dew as the sun touched them. Trees rose from stone planters with silver bark and their leaves translucent.

  Water danced from fountain to fountain and formed arches in the air before melting back into pools. Birds—no, not birds, something more delicate flew past in glittering flurries. Ivy covered every wall and flowered in colors I didn’t have names for. Marble paths curved between courtyards and all of it was alive with the hum of something vast and magical just beneath the surface.

  This wasn’t just a school but a realm.

  And I was in it.

  I stood still, my heart thudding, trying to take it all in.

  The figure who led me paused at the edge of the courtyard and turned.

  “The mountain welcomes you,” they said, their voice calm and low. “The Academy sees you.”

  Then they turned and vanished without a sound, without a trace.

  I stood alone for only a moment before I heard footsteps.

  A girl, not much older than me, turned the corner from one of the marble paths. She moved like she belonged here but she didn’t look it. She had dark curls tucked into a messy bun and boots caked in dry mud, as well as a long scarf trailing behind her like a banner. There was a satchel slung across her chest and a silver pin glinting at her collar in the shape of a spiral sun.

  She had a genuine smile when she saw me.

  “First time?” she asked with a bright voice, eyes curious.

  I nodded.

  “Good. That means you haven’t made any mistakes yet.” She gestured for me to follow. “Come on. You’re probably hungry and the last thing you want is to be late for your first breakfast.”

  I hesitated, glancing back toward the gates but they were already closed.

  She saw me look back and said quietly, “Yeah, they don’t open again until next season.”

  I caught up to her.

  “My name’s Elara, by the way. I’m your Watcher. Or Guide, I guess, if you prefer the less creepy term. It’s my job to make sure you don’t fall off a floating staircase or open a door that bites.”

  “You’re… a student?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Third year. But don’t worry, everyone gets a Watcher their first season. The Academy likes symmetry.” She looked sideways at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Thalia. Thalia Night.”

  Elara hesitated, then smiled again, like it hadn’t happened. “Pretty name.”

  We passed through an arch of trees, and the courtyard gave way to something broader—an open promenade lined with flowering hedges and stone benches. Beyond that, a high domed structure with windows that glowed amber from within.

  Other students were emerging too, some alone blinking against the light, and others in small groups. One boy stood perfectly still at the base of a tree, his hands behind his back, eyes closed as if listening to something far away. Another girl sketched furiously in a floating notebook, not even noticing when a vine curled playfully around her ankle.

  A group near the fountain turned to look at us as we passed. Two of them whispered. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I felt it.

  Elara saw it too. “Ignore them. First-day games. Some people like to guess who’s important. Or who’s cursed.” She gave me a lopsided smile. “You’ve got the look of someone interesting.”

  I didn’t know whether that was a compliment or a warning.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” she said. “The Academy tests us all in its own time.”

  She guided me up marble steps and into a vast, sunlit hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling covered in painted constellations. Students filtered in from every direction. The air smelled of honeyed tea and something spiced—like cinnamon bark and clove.

  Everything shimmered, just a little. As though the whole place was breathing.

  Elara pointed to a long table where other first-years were beginning to gather.

  “Breakfast first. Then you’ll be Called.”

  “Called?”

  “You’ll see,” she said, already backing away. “Eat, breathe, and don’t trust anything that smiles too wide.”

  Then she was gone, swallowed by the golden haze of morning and the shifting crowd.

  I turned toward the table.

  It was long enough to seat hundreds of people and was carved from pale wood that shimmered faintly with runes hidden in the grain. Plates appeared as I walked and rose from the surface with a soft chime. Some were ornate porcelain, or rough clay, there was even one that looked like etched crystal.

  I hesitated, and then chose a seat near the middle.

  The chair pulled itself in as I sat, and before I could reach for anything, a crystal plate before me filled with food.

  Not all at once, but slowly and deliberately. A slice of warm bread with golden crust. There were fruits I didn’t recognize, sliced and glowing faintly at the edges. Eggs, fluffy and flecked with something green. A cup of tea steamed beside my plate, dark and fragrant, and I caught hints of vanilla and citrus.

  I glanced around.

  Some students had lavish spreads—mountains of sweets or intricate folded pastries. Others had simpler fare: oats, berries, a hard-boiled egg. One girl across from me had nothing on her plate at all. She frowned, pressed her hand to the table, and the plate vanished. Then she stood and walked away without a word.

  I picked up my fork.

  The food was warm. Real. Not some illusion or trick. The moment I tasted it, warmth spread to my fingertips, as though my body only remembered hunger once it began to fade.

  Around me conversations had begun to stir in low, tentative voices.

  "Did your plate choose you, too?"

  "I swear mine blinked."

  "That boy over there? Said his chair growled when he tried to sit."

  I caught snippets. Names exchanged. A girl from the Southern Vale. A boy from the Border Marsh. One student said he’d been dropped in by sky-carriage, another had arrived by boat through an underground river.

  Everyone was from somewhere strange, yet, there was no one from where I was from.

  “First time?” a voice asked beside me.

  I turned. A boy had slipped into the seat on my left. He was quiet and lean, with shadows under his eyes and a half-smile that didn’t quite reach them.

  He was eating something that looked like spiced rice and dark greens. His plate looked handmade, rough, earthy, and chipped at the edges.

  “Yes,” I said. “You?”

  “I was here last season,” he said. “But not for long.”

  I waited, but he didn’t explain.

  Instead, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “They say breakfast is safe. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “The table gives what it thinks you need,” he said. “Not always what you want.”

  Then he stood, still holding his tea, and walked away without another word.

  I looked back at my plate.

  The bread was still warm. The tea was still fragrant. But suddenly, I wasn’t so sure of anything.

  A ringing came from the other side of the room and every plate on the table stilled.

  Across the room, a tall archway opened where there hadn’t been one before.

  It wasn’t that it had been hidden. It simply… hadn’t existed. One moment there was only a wall with ivy climbing it in lazy spirals. The next, the ivy parted like a curtain, and the stones rearranged themselves into an archway taller than any door had a right to be.

  Darkness waited beyond it—not just shadow, but a thick, tangible kind of dark that reminded me of the chasm beneath the bridge. It didn’t feel cold though; it felt expectant.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Someone rose from the table.

  Then another.

  And another.

  One by one all of the first-years stood, as if answering a silent pull. No one was called aloud. No list was read, but we all knew somehow that it was time.

  I rose with them.

  The moment I stepped away from the table, my plate vanished. So did the chair. The whole table began to retract and folded back into the stone floor like it had never been there.

  No one led us. There was no figure in robes that appeared this time. We were simply expected to go.

  Feet padded silently over the marble. No one spoke. It wasn’t fear that kept us quiet. It was reverence. A sense that whatever was on the other side of that archway would hear too much if we said even a word.

  I reached the threshold.

  The arch pulsed faintly as I stepped through it, once, like a heartbeat.

  Then the light dimmed.

  The hallway beyond was nothing like the courtyard.

  There were rough stone walls carved with symbols that breathed faint silver in the dark. The path curved slowly downward, and the air grew colder with every step. The scent of blossoms faded, replaced with something older. Dust and candlewax. Earth and iron.

  Someone near the front gasped.

  I craned my neck but couldn’t see past the curve ahead.

  The corridor widened. The ceiling rose until it disappeared into shadow, and suddenly we were standing in what could only be described as a chamber, round and cavernous, like the inside of a cathedral carved into the mountain itself.

  In the center stood a pedestal. And above it floated something that glowed like firelight trapped in glass.

  Then a voice, deep, genderless, and echoing from nowhere—spoke just four words:

  “Step forward, Thalia Night.”

  Every eye turned to me.

  The blood drained from my face. My mouth went dry.

  I didn’t move.

  The voice didn’t speak again. It didn’t have to.

  The chamber was silent, watching. Waiting.

  My feet moved before my mind caught up.

  I stepped toward the pedestal.

  Each step echoed louder than the last.

  When I reached it, the glowing object shifted and flared. A strange warmth pressed against my chest like invisible hands. Not a touch, exactly. More like a weighing.

  As if I were being measured. Judged.

  The light flared again, brighter now, almost too bright to look at.

  And then—

  It dimmed.

  Flickered.

  And settled.

  I stood, blinking in the sudden stillness, unsure what had just happened.

  Then the voice spoke again.

  “Accepted.”

  The chamber exhaled. Light flowed upward into the carvings in the walls. The cold began to lift.

  I stepped back, heart racing, and someone else was already moving past me.

  The Calling had begun.

  I stepped back, my legs stiff, heart hammering against my ribs. The chamber’s light had softened, but something in me still buzzed, like the echo of that strange force was stitched beneath my skin.

  Another name was called. A boy this time. He was tall, with silver rings in both ears. He stepped forward without hesitation, but his hands were clenched tight at his sides.

  The pedestal flared again. The weighing began.

  He didn’t move. Didn't flinch. Just stared into the light like he was daring it to blink first.

  Then:

  “Accepted.”

  A breath was released from the room. It hadn’t just been mine.

  Three more names followed, each called by that same voice—distant, old, unfeeling. The glow in the pedestal flickered differently for each person. Sometimes it pulsed gently, sometimes it burned hot and gold. One girl stepped up and the light turned blue and coiled around her like mist.

  Each time, the final word came.

  “Accepted.”

  “Accepted.”

  “Accepted.”

  Until it didn’t.

  The moment came quietly, without warning.

  A tall girl with braids wrapped around her head stepped forward. She looked calm, serene even. When the light rose to meet her, it flickered once, twice, then dimmed almost to nothing.

  She didn’t move.

  The silence stretched.

  And then came the word:

  “Withheld.”

  A hush fell over the chamber, heavy and confused.

  The girl stood frozen, lips parted like she meant to speak—but no sound came. She turned away, her face unreadable, and disappeared into a shadowed side passage that hadn’t been there before.

  No one stopped her. No one explained.

  The Calling continued.

  But now, there was tension in the air, unspoken and sharp. I felt it in the way people shifted, how eyes flicked toward the passage she had vanished through. No one wanted to be the next one to hear that word.

  Withheld.

  It echoed in my chest like a warning I didn’t understand.

  Name after name was called, and to everyone's surprise, most of the remaining students heard the word, “Withheld”.

  As each student stepped forward, the pedestal grew darker, until a Chosen came along and lit it up again. As if it saw something different in a few of us—something it recognized. Or didn’t.

  When the last student had been Called, the pedestal flared once more and then extinguished itself, shrinking into the stone floor like a final exhale.

  It was almost completely silent again, and then I looked around. Out of the few hundred that came, there were only thirteen of us left.

  And then the voice returned, quieter, but no less commanding.

  “You have been Seen. You have been Weighed. And you have been Chosen.”

  A soft light traced the lines of the chamber walls. Another doorway opened behind us, wide and glowing with amber light.

  No one told us what to do.

  So we followed it.

  As we passed beneath the arch, I glanced back. The Calling room was already dark again and the pedestal was gone. As if none of it had happened.

  But it had.

  I could still feel it in the marrow of my bones.

  The corridor beyond was brighter and warmer. Its amber glow wrapped around us like the light through honeyed glass. Still, no one spoke. The memory of the Calling lingered on our skin and in our blood. Even those who had smiled before now kept their expressions guarded.

  We emerged into another hall, this one far grander.

  Vaulted ceilings rose like wings above us and the stone traced with veins of gold and blue light that pulsed faintly as we passed. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and through them I saw the mountain unfurling; its cliffs blooming with hanging gardens, rope bridges spanning impossible heights, towers floating just slightly above the stone they should’ve been anchored to.

  It was beautiful, impossible and overwhelming.

  I looked to the others, searching for some shared understanding, but everyone was still wrapped in their own thoughts. Some of them were staring, while some walked with mechanical precision. Only one of them looked excited.

  I felt like my heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to soar or bolt for the nearest exit.

  “Welcome Chosens.”

  I turned.

  A woman stood at the top of a short set of stairs. She wasn’t dressed like the robed figure who met me at the train, nor like the silent Elara. Her tunic was fitted and her sleeves rolled. She wore a long cloak the color of ink at twilight and her eyes were sharp as cut glass.

  “I’m Lead Mentor Kaelen,” she said, voice clear and smooth. “This way.”

  She didn’t wait.

  We all followed her.

  Kaelen led us through a tall wooden door and into a passage that twisted like a spiral shell. As we walked, I noticed the air was warmer here, it was cozier. Lamps hung from the walls in brass cages, and woven tapestries whispered as we passed them, their embroidered threads shifting into new patterns when I wasn’t looking directly at them.

  We emerged into a high-ceilinged room.

  Windows flooded the space with golden morning light. There were four long tables set with fresh linens, bowls of glistening fruit, platters of steaming food, and delicate silverware. Above, the rafters were thick with greenery, ivy and tiny blue flowers that pulsed with light in time with our footsteps.

  “Boys dorms to the right, and girls to the left,” Kaelen said, stopping by a table near the far end. “You’ll be here for orientation. Names are already on the doors.”

  She paused and looked at us in turn, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

  “The first lesson is this: the Academy does not explain itself. Ask questions, but don’t expect answers until you’re ready to understand them.”

  Then she left.

  Silence stretched again.

  And then someone let out a breath, followed by a small, nervous laugh.

  That broke the tension, just a little. A ripple moved through the group, shuffling feet, loosened shoulders, the first murmurs of conversation.

  I realized I was starving.

  We filtered toward the tables. No one rushed, but there was something comforting in the presence of real food and soft light after the severity of the Calling. The fruit glistened with dew, and the bread still steamed when I broke it open.

  I sat at the girls’ table, toward the center, and watched the others drift into seats. Someone introduced herself, Nala, I remembered from earlier. She was wiry and confident, with eyes that missed nothing. She sat across from me with a plate piled high with leafy greens.

  Beside me, a pale girl with white-blonde hair tucked behind one ear was very still, her back perfectly straight. “I’m Gwen,” she said without looking directly at me. Her voice was quiet, but there was something precise in the way she used it.

  Another girl joined soon after, with dark skin and a mess of braids piled on her head. “I’m Rhea,” she said, flashing a smile as she slid into the seat beside Nala. “Anyone else still waiting to wake up from this fever dream?”

  Nala snorted. “If I’m dreaming, this bread is the best hallucination I’ve ever had.”

  There were nods and a few chuckles. I noticed the boys, on the far table, were forming their own rhythm too. Ash, the one with the scarred arm and easy confidence, was already making the others laugh. Elric, the copper-haired trader’s son leaned forward, with his elbows on the table, eyes flicking constantly between people as though he were memorizing them.

  I found myself eating slowly while savoring the strangeness. The food was unlike anything from Eldenmere. The fruit had a crispness like biting into starlight, and the water shimmered faintly with soft green hues. A part of me wondered if it was enchanted, but I drank anyway.

  After a while Rhea kicked her feet up on an empty chair. “So, Thalia, right?” she asked, turning to me.

  I blinked. “Yes.”

  “Where are you from? You have that quiet-forest-village look.”

  I hesitated. “Eldenmere. It’s… small.”

  “Sounds remote,” Nala said. “Figures. You’ve got the ‘don’t touch me or I’ll vanish into mist’ vibe.”

  Gwen gave a tiny, wry smile. “She’s not the only one.”

  That got a laugh from all of us.

  The boys were louder now, someone had conjured up a glowing marble and was making it float above their heads. Ash tossed a grape at it and missed by a mile. Elric caught it midair without looking. More laughter.

  It didn’t feel like home, not even close.

  But there was something here, some kind of thread binding us, something fragile and unspoken. A kind of shared bewilderment. No one knew why we’d been Chosen. No one knew what came next.

  Still, for the first time all day, I wasn’t afraid.

  We stayed like that for a long time. Eating and Talking. Watching each other with curiosity and cautious interest. Names were exchanged. Stories, half true and half jokes. It wasn’t quite friendship. Not yet.

  But it was a beginning.

  Eventually, the overhead light dimmed, just slightly, and a soft chime rang through the rafters.

  A voice, calm and unseen, spoke again:

  “Orientation concludes. Dormitories are open. Rest well, Chosen.”

  We all looked toward the tall doors that had silently opened at the edge of the room. Two halls stretched away: one lit in soft gold, the other in cool silver.

  “Guess that’s our cue,” Gwen murmured.

  Ash raised an imaginary glass from across the room. “To surviving Day One.”

  I stood with the others, heart fluttering again, not fear this time, just uncertainty.

  Nala caught my arm as we passed through the archway. “See you at breakfast, quiet forest girl.”

  “You will,” I said before I could second-guess it.

  The girls turned down the left-hand corridor. The air changed again—cooler, softer. Lamps along the walls glowed with pale violet light and the hallway curved gently until individual doors began to appear, each one carved with a name that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  THALIA NIGHT, mine read.

  The door opened when I reached for it.

  Inside, everything was still. There was no sound except the slow hush of my own breath.

  The bed was tucked beneath a high, arched window. I could see the sun setting behind the mountain. A writing desk was nestled in the far corner, where a single quill rested in a holder shaped like a crescent moon. Ivy was shimmering down one wall and it smelled of lavender and old books and something harder to place.

  My boots hit the floor and my cloak slid from my shoulders.

  And I stood there for a long time, staring out the window at a sky filled with stars I didn’t recognize.

  Thirteen of us had been Chosen. No one had said what for.

  But the Academy was watching.

  And in the silence of that room, I could feel it breathe.