The scent of oil paints hangs in the air, blending with the faint traces of candle wax from the sconces along the walls. My brush hovers over the canvas, its bristles stained with deep cobalt, but I hesitate before making the next stroke. The model before me, an alabaster bust of some long-forgotten aristocrat, remains indifferent to my gaze.

  "Enya," Master Calloway’s voice breaks the silence, smooth yet expectant.

  "You’re overthinking again."

  I exhale, forcing my shoulders to relax. He’s right. I always hesitate, always second-guess. But here, in the vaulted halls of the “Vermilion School of the Arts and Sciences”, surrounded by gilded frames and students who have never known hunger, I can’t afford mistakes. A wrong step, a poor impression - everything is scrutinized, weighed.

  My hand steadies. With a single stroke, I deepen the shadows beneath the statue’s chin, shaping the hollow of its throat. The paint glides on effortlessly, the movement calming, familiar. Across the room, other students murmur to each other, laughing softly, carefree. Their last names carry weight in the upper district - patronage, legacy, influence. Mine is an empty space on parchment, a family name that never was. Cragstone Court had seen to that. A sharp snap - Master Calloway claps his hands.

  "That’s enough for today. Clean your brushes and leave your canvases to dry."

  I place my brush down and flex my fingers, wiping the stray flecks of paint onto my apron. As I glance toward the windows, the golden light of the late afternoon spills into the chamber, tinting everything with a fleeting warmth. For a moment, it almost makes this place feel less hollow. Almost.

  As I leave the art studio, I smooth down the front of my uniform - deep navy wool, crisp pleats, silver embroidery at the cuffs. Functional, elegant, but still unmistakably distinct from the softer pastels and fine silks worn by some of my peers. They wear their heritage in every stitch, every imported fabric, while mine is simply... issued. The halls are quiet at this hour, the afternoon lessons winding down. Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting long, golden streaks across the polished stone floor. My footsteps echo softly as I make my way toward the east tower. The library there is one of the oldest in the academy, its collection carefully curated for the intellectual elite.

  I take the winding staircase two steps at a time, fingers grazing the cool iron railing. At the top, I pause just long enough to steady my breath before scanning the library. I find Selene sitting on the gallery’s guardrail, legs dangling over the edge.

  "If Master Calloway catches you again, you know he’ll bar you from next week’s lecture, right?"

  She only notices me now, tilting her head in a lazy shrug before slipping off the rail.

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  "And if so? Any time spent away from him is a blessing." Her voice carries through the towering shelves, bouncing off the slate walls and polished stone floor. I’ve always liked the sound of it - how it shifts to match my mood more than her own.

  For reasons I’ve never quite grasped, she always puts me first. She brushes off her own duties, sometimes at a cost, just to help me. And though I don’t know why, I’ve come to respect her for it. Because unlike the others, she never treats me as an outsider. Never like one of… them.

  "Alright." She appears in front of me, a stack of books balanced in her arms. Her bright yellow - almost golden - eyes seem to stare straight into the depths of one’s soul. I’ve long since grown immune to that gaze, but every time she turns it on someone, I wonder if I should look away. There’s an intimacy to it, something she doesn’t share with just anyone – maybe not even her own parents.

  "Don't tell me you expect me to read all of this by tomorrow again. I’m not staying up past midnight." My voice stays calm as I lift the weight from her arms. Glancing down, I notice the books are far older than anything the professors typically assign. Selene just shakes her head and gestures toward a nearby table - where she must have spent the entire afternoon, judging by the scattered papers and crumbs littering the floor. I set the books down on a chair and turn back to her, waiting.

  I frown as Selene flips through the pages, her movements sharper than usual. Whatever she’s looking for, it’s unsettling her more than she lets on.

  “I saw something this morning. In the church.” Her voice is quiet but edged with urgency. I sigh.

  “If this is about Master Calloway again, I -”

  “No. Listen.” She looks up, her eyes catching the dim library light. “One of the banners - when the wind caught it, I saw something on the back. It wasn’t the church’s emblem. Just for a second, but I know what I saw.” I hesitate, watching her.

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  She leans in, resting a hand on one of the open books.

  “A symbol. I don’t know what it means yet, but I’ve seen it before. Here.” Her fingers trace the ink of a brittle page, the old text dense and curling at the edges.

  “It was used in a war - an ancient war, before the world was even made. A war between heaven and hell.” I exhale through my nose.

  “Is this going to turn into some end-of-days prophecy?”

  “Not prophecy,” she mutters.

  “History.” I glance at the book, at the faded depictions of figures locked in battle. The contrast is stark - one side bathed in radiant light, the other in shadow. But what strikes me most is the imbalance.

  “So, what?”

  “Hell was forbidden the use of magic” Selene says.

  “It was steel against divine power.” I furrow my brow.

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why fight a war when one side has already lost?” Selene just shakes her head.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Something about this unsettles me, though I can’t quite place why. I drum my fingers against the tabletop, trying to shake the faint tug at the edge of my thoughts. Then, a flicker - images slipping through my mind like half-remembered dreams. A bird. Banners shifting in the wind. But in my dreams, the banners were always empty. I rub at my temple.

  “You think the church is hiding it?”

  “If they weren’t, the symbol wouldn’t have been concealed,” she says simply.

  Before I can respond, the deep chime of the church bell echoes through the library, the sound filling every corner. I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head.

  “Fitting.” Selene doesn’t smile. She crosses her arms, eyes dark with thought.

  “Too fitting.”