After what felt like hours, the first-years were finally released to explore the school grounds. Most lingered nearby, buzzing with excitement or anxiety, while others splintered off in groups to hunt for food or something to distract them as they passed the time before classes began in a few days.

  Caelum clapped Mortimer on the shoulder and offered a brief smile. “I’m going to see if I can find my sister. I’ll catch up later.”

  Mortimer nodded, and Caelum turned and disappeared into the shifting crowd.

  Almost immediately, Mortimer sensed the change.

  With Caelum gone, a few students cast lingering glances his way—cool, measuring, and not entirely friendly. One boy openly sneered, and another whispered something to a companion, both snickering as they passed. Mortimer dropped his gaze and shifted away from the heart of the group, trying not to look like he was fleeing.

  The noise and motion around him began to press in, and after a few more minutes, Mortimer decided to find his room. A quiet place. Anywhere to breathe.

  It took some time and more than one wrong turn, but he eventually found the third floor of the so-called Unclaimed Tower. The structure stood slightly apart from the main halls, just north of the Grand hall, its high windows looking out over the academy’s front gates.

  The room was simple, but not unpleasant—larger than his one back in Woldcroft. There were no personal touches, nothing warm or familiar, but the wide, arched window flooded the space with soft light, and the view was striking. Below, he could see the gates and beyond them the shimmering curve of the magical archway he’d arrived through. It had dulled in the evening light, its glow now faint and flickering.

  He set his satchel down at the foot of the bed and stepped toward the window. A desk sat beneath it, and just as he reached for the latch to let in some air, he froze.

  There was a letter on the desk, one that hadn’t been there before.

  The envelope was thick, parchment of fine quality, sealed with deep blue wax bearing a strange crest: a raven perched above a crescent moon.

  Frowning, Mortimer broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  Mortimer Cromwyn, Welcome to the Academy.

  I look forward to meeting you in person soon.

  Until then, trust yourself and take heart.

  You are exactly where you are meant to be.

  There was no name. Only the bird-and-moon insignia, inked in dark, steady strokes beneath the message.

  Mortimer stared at it, unease crawling up his spine.

  Cromwyn. How would they know?

  He hadn’t included his surname on his enrollment papers, most commoners didn’t even use them. He’d simply written Mortimer of Woldcroft.

  He opened the window, letting the breeze drift in. Outside, the sky had shifted to amber and rose, and students milled about far below, their laughter softened by distance. The beauty of it didn’t reach him. If anything, the quiet made it worse.

  The bare walls. The unfamiliar bed. The untouched hearth.

  It all felt like a painting he hadn’t yet stepped into.

  He sighed and knelt by his satchel, pulling out the few things he’d brought from home:

  A worn, leather-bound book of forest myths.

  And a small bundle of dried lavender tied with twine, tucked among his shirts when his mother thought he wasn’t looking.

  He placed both gently on the desk by the window. The lavender smelled of summer nights and woodsmoke in Woldcroft. For a moment, the room felt a little less strange.

  Then,

  A knock.

  He froze.

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  A second knock, softer this time, came with a voice: “Um… hello? Uh, Mortimer, was it?”

  He opened the door to find a girl standing there, maybe his age, with warm brown eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She wore the standard academy robes, unmarked by House colors, just like his own.

  She held a folded letter in one hand, looking mildly apologetic.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said. “I’m Nia. One of the professors asked me to bring this. Said it was really important you get it before tonight.”

  Mortimer took the parchment. The seal was different from the first, no raven or moon. This was stamped in silver: a willow tree rooted in an open book, with an owl flying overhead in a starry sky.

  The academy’s crest.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She smiled shyly. “This tower’s kind of creepy, huh?”.

  He gave a small nod.

  “Well… if you ever want company, I’m just down the hall. Or tea. I brought a kettle.” She patted her satchel with a grin, then gave a quick wave and disappeared down the corridor.

  Mortimer closed the door behind her and sat on the bed again, still processing.

  The letter in his hands felt oddly heavy.

  He broke the seal and unfolded it.

  Mortimer of Woldcroft,

  Please come to the Observatory at moonrise.

  You need only bring yourself.

  Again, no name.

  Mortimer stared at the words, tension tightening behind his ribs.

  Questions were rising, too many and much too fast. But beneath them all was a quiet certainty:

  Something was beginning.

  Outside, the sun sank behind the mountains, and the first stars emerged, one by one.

  Moonrise wasn’t far off.

  The Observatory crowned the easternmost spire of the academy, a towering dome of dark stone and enchanted glass that loomed like a sentinel above the grounds. By day, it was a quiet silhouette against the sky; by night, it gleamed faintly, alive with quiet magic.

  Mortimer had never seen anything like it.

  As he stepped through its arched doorway, the air shifted, cool and dry, charged with a buzz that made the hairs on his arms rise. The high, vaulted ceiling curved overhead in a dome of star-glass, clear and impossibly vast. Through it, the night sky stretched in every direction, unclouded and brilliant, the stars sharp and close, as if the heavens had drawn nearer to listen.

  The floor beneath him was a map of the cosmos, tiled in dark stone and inlaid with lines of silver and pearl. Constellations were carved into the surface in sweeping arcs, their names etched in old runes that pulsed faintly when he passed. Strange, arcane instruments lined the perimeter, gleaming brass orreries, timepieces that tracked planetary alignments, and massive telescopes mounted on enchanted gimbals that adjusted with soft clicks and hums, seemingly of their own accord.

  At the center of the room stood a wide dais, ringed by a circle of obsidian. In its center rose a tall plinth carved from lunar marble, its surface bare save for a single silver disc embedded in the stone, glowing softly like moonlight caught in water. It felt sacred.

  And Mortimer was alone.

  Finding a seat on the edge of the room, Mortimer continued to stare at the constellations etched in the floor. He’d spent many nights reading about them and pointing them out in the sky to his family and Jinx, when she was around. After a few minutes, Mortimer began to relax some. He sat back in his seat and just enjoyed the silence and atmosphere of the room. He’d almost dozed off when he heard a tap on a small window across the room.

  Perplexed, he made his way over to the window and peered out of it. He didn’t know what or who he was looking for and started to doubt whether it was a good idea to come here after all. What if a professor hadn’t sent that letter, but it had been a few of the students who had glared at him? Before his mind continued to spiral, he saw a familiar figure appear in the window. He pushed it open with a smile on his face.

  “Jinx?!” he smiled cheerfully.

  “Where’ve you been? You missed the orientation. It was scary but amazing all at the same time. I didn’t think someone’s presence could be physically heavy. And the Grand Hall was absolutely beautiful. You should’ve seen it.” Mortimer rambled on, telling the bird about his day as it had settled on his shoulder. Mortimer paused when he heard the door creak open. His back straightened, and his breath hitched.

  It was the Headmaster; He was followed by someone he didn’t know, a man with greying hair. In his hand was a walking stick, sleek, black wood with a white rock or crystal on top. As Mortimer stared at the man, he couldn’t help but think that there was something more about him, something he couldn’t see.

  Focusing back on the headmaster, he noticed he had a small smirk on his face, not one that was immediately noticeable but it was there.

  “Hello Mortimer,” he said simply.

  “H-hi Headmaster Noxmere.” Mortimer could swear that the air refused to enter his lungs after a simple exchange with the Headmaster. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that the headmaster had known his name. This being who was at least a century old, knew his name.

  Whilst he was still trying to remember how to breathe, the man from earlier spoke, “Oh, stars, you old man, must you always frighten the children?” he said. Then he gave the Headmaster a sharp rap on the back with his walking stick.

  The Headmaster didn’t flinch. “Old man,” he replied smoothly, “you look older than I do.”

  “Only because I go outside,” the man grumbled, “ instead of sitting in a dark office all day.” Then he turned to Mortimer and smiled. “It’s good to see you, Mortimer. You’ve grown since I last saw you, though I suppose you probably don’t remember that.”

  Mortimer stared at them, a little stupefied at what had just happened. When he’d finally spoken he apologized,” I’m sorry, may I ask who you are.”

  The man gave a flourished bow.” Edmund Blackthorn. The Grand Duke of the Solarian Kingdom. With a sharp glint in his eyes he added, “I’m also the one that sent you that first letter earlier this evening.

  “But why?,” Mortimer asked. Before the man could respond a chill had went down Mortimer’s spine. This man had not only sponsored him and allowed him to come here but he had somehow known his surname.

  Edmund smiled, softer this time. “Because I believe you are meant to be here. And because the world is changing, Mortimer. Quietly, but fast. I thought it best to be sure you were where you needed to be… before it was too late.”

  The two men exchanged a glance. Then Edmund nodded toward the center of the room.

  “Come. There’s something I need to show you.”