The sky over **Caer-Etherin** looked nothing like home.
There was no mountain wind here. No heavy clouds to swallow the sunrise. The air didn't sting the way the west did—it hung light and quiet above the floating city, like it had nothing left to say.
Atlas stepped off the barge with one hand resting on the leather strap of his travel pack, the other close to the hilt of his blade—not because he feared anyone. Because it was habit.
**Stellanox Academy** stood on the upper cliff-ring of the city, surrounded by skybridges and cold iron towers that reached over the river like the fingers of a dying god. The academy's main gate was blackstone, edged in gold. Carved above it in old sigil-script:
> *FROM THE EDGE OF EARTH TO THE SPINE OF STARS—WIELD WELL.*
It was pretentious.
But he felt something underneath the words that wasn't.
Something… heavy.
---
No servants met him at the gate. No carriage waited. Just a brass wall bell, which he rang once, then stepped back from. A moment later, the gate opened—not fully. Just enough for a student in formal blacks to step through.
"You're late," the boy said, adjusting his gloves.
"I wasn't told I'd be early," Atlas replied.
The boy raised one brow, then turned without a word.
"Follow, please."
They moved through the outer training grounds in silence.
The grass was cut too perfectly. The dueling pits were over-cleaned. The building walls gleamed like they'd never seen war—just nobles and dry lessons.
Atlas didn't look impressed. But he was watching everything.
Every wall. Every spacing between tower placements. Every possible spot to trap a student during a duel.
The boy in black led him into the east dorm wing. "You're in the Skythorn block. Room 17A. This floor is shared with the western region delegates. Meals at first bell. Combat assessments at third. No banners, no personal sigils allowed outside private quarters. That's the rule."
"Any unspoken ones?" Atlas asked.
The boy hesitated.
Then said, "Don't look like you're better than someone unless you *are*."
Then he walked away.
---
The dorm room wasn't large. One bed, a desk, a storage trunk, and a wall-shelf already half-filled with notebooks that didn't belong to him. His roommate hadn't arrived yet.
Atlas placed his blade gently on the table.
Then stood before the narrow mirror bolted to the wall.
His reflection looked the same.
Ash-blond hair, tied loosely back.
Gray eyes, too quiet for a boy his age.
No expression.
He undid the top clasp of his travel coat, loosened the collar, then walked to the window.
The academy rose upward from the cliff like a tower of ambition. Below the dormitory wing, he could see the stone-dueling terraces and the observation balconies above them.
There were students already gathering.
He watched them.
None looked strong.
But strength wasn't something you showed early. Not unless you were a fool.
He sat down and began to unpack.
---
Midday came with the second bell. A sharp chime that echoed through all seven wings of the academy, calling first-years to the **Spirewalk**—a wide, polished hall where classes were posted.
He arrived early.
By instinct.
The walls were lined with old dueling relics—broken blades, fragments of steel etched with names of former academy masters. Each one encased in glass, each labeled with their form, discipline, and fate.
Most ended with *Killed in duel*, or *Died at border*, or worse—*Blade never recovered*.
Atlas stopped before a case with no blade in it.
Just a single parchment. Faded.
> *NAME: IRION MIREN*
> *FORM: VOID THREAD (UNCLASSIFIED)*
> *RESULT: BANNED*
> *FATE: UNKNOWN*
He stared at it for a while.
Then he moved on.
---
The first class of the week was **Sword Foundations**—taught by an instructor called Master Halven. A thin man with shoulders too broad for his frame and a gaze that weighed every student like a ledger entry.
"There are only three things that matter here," Halven said without preamble. "Form. Intent. Execution."
He let the silence stretch.
"Everything else is nobility fluff and breathing exercises."
Atlas didn't speak.
Most of the class didn't either.
They listened.
They watched.
He could feel the nerves humming off the others—half of them posturing, the other half pretending not to panic. That tension hadn't hit him. Not yet.
Then the instructor added, "We will observe a match tomorrow. Full combat. Live demonstration between high-second-year candidates. You will not spar until we've seen what failure looks like."
He didn't smile.
Then he turned and walked out.
---
That night, Atlas skipped the dining hall and wandered instead toward the older wings—places not marked on the map he was given.
He passed through a cloistered hallway lit only by spellglass. He paused once, watching the glyph-light ripple across his boots. At the end of the corridor, someone stood leaning against a pillar.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
Or maybe she had, and just didn't care.
**Serenya Vaelcrest.**
She wore the same uniform as everyone else. But it didn't sit on her the same. Her posture was too precise. Her silence was too sharp. Even in stillness, she moved like a blade waiting for a hand to grip it.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
She turned her head only slightly, enough to meet his gaze—but not enough to acknowledge him.
Then, coolly:
"You'll last longer if you stop watching every corner like you're in a tomb."
Atlas said nothing.
He walked past her.
But as he did, she added:
"They say Westenra teaches caution. Not paranoia."
He stopped.
Looked over his shoulder.
"I wasn't taught. I survived."
She didn't flinch.
Just said, "Let's see if you keep surviving once the blades come out."
Then she turned and vanished into the dark.
---
Atlas returned to his room after curfew.
His roommate still hadn't shown.
Good.
He needed quiet.
He drew the curtain. Lit the small lamp beside the bed. Then sat down, legs crossed, eyes closed.
The white realm came instantly.
But it wasn't empty this time.
The *crack* on the floor had widened.
A hairline split. Like something underneath was pressing up.
He looked across the space.
The **Second Fang's shadow** wasn't there.
But a new one stood farther back.
Taller. No sword drawn.
Just standing.
Watching.
He didn't approach it.
Instead, he knelt and traced the crack with his fingers.
It pulsed once—cold.
And in that moment, he knew:
This was no longer just memory.
No longer just training.
This realm was becoming a place of *consequence*.
And the next Fang would not be earned