The moment Ethan stepped through the gilded gates of the Royal Academy of Literature, the breath caught in his throat.
It was… breathtaking.
Tall, ivory towers spiraled like quills piercing the sky. Vines with silver-tipped leaves curled around latticed balconies. Marble courtyards shimmered under enchanted lanterns, and great floating parchments drifted overhead like paper birds, displaying fragments of timeless literature in glowing ink.
The air itself seemed scented with stories—dusty old pages, fresh parchment, and the ink of possibility.
At eight years old, Ethan had seen many things only in books. But this—this-this was beyond imagination.
"I'm really here…" he whispered.
A soft wind rustled through the cherry-blossom trees lining the courtyard, as if the academy itself was welcoming him.
Before heading to his assigned classroom, curiosity tugged at his feet. The classroom could wait—this place was a library of wonder, and he had pages in his heart waiting to be filled.
He wandered through long hallways with stained-glass windows depicting legendary writers and past a fountain shaped like an open book where words flowed like water. Everything called to him.
But as he turned down a quiet corridor flanked by stone columns, a sudden voice sliced the air.
"Well, well… What do we have here?"
Ethan stopped.
Three older students leaned against the wall ahead, arms crossed, curiosity sharp in their eyes like quills ready to stab.
One looked around nineteen, tall and serious, with a silver brooch indicating second-year elite status. The other two were perhaps fifteen and seventeen, lounging with casual arrogance, academy cloaks fluttering slightly with enchanted threads.
Ethan straightened, holding his satchel closer. "Good morning," he said politely.
The oldest one stepped forward, raising an eyebrow. "You lost, kid? The kitchen's back near the gates. Maybe you're here to clean the inkwells?"
The second snickered. "Or maybe he's a mascot. A writing cub in the den of lions."
"I'm not lost," Ethan replied calmly, though his heart beat fast. "I'm a new student."
The three blinked.
Then laughter.
"You?" the youngest of the trio said with a mocking grin. "The Academy doesn't admit anyone under fourteen. You're barely old enough to write your name."
"I'm eight," Ethan said simply.
Silence.
And then, an incredulous whistle. "Eight? That's a new one. You must've bribed half the court."
The oldest stepped in, narrowing his eyes. "Or maybe you're that boy. The 'sky under the water' boy."
Ethan said nothing, but his silence said everything.
A long pause.
Then, the older student's expression shifted—not in awe, but in the way someone inspects a rival they hadn't expected.
"I read that story," he said. "It was... impressive. For a child."
His tone turned sharp, clipped. "But don't think a single popular tale makes you a writer. Here, we study philosophy, etymology, ancient verse. Books older than your bloodline. You may have fans, but this place demands scholars."
"I'm here to learn," Ethan said quietly. "Not to impress you."
The air thickened for a moment, tension coiling between them.
The second-year student's gaze lingered, then he stepped aside with a shrug.
"Fine. Go learn," he said. "Just don't cry when the words bite back."
The trio walked off, laughter echoing faintly behind them.
Ethan stood alone for a long moment.
He wasn't hurt—not exactly. He'd been teased before, in subtle ways back home. But this was different. These weren't school bullies—they were writers, students, and peers. And to them, he was just an anomaly.
A child who dared to sit at the adults' table.
He looked up at the nearby stone wall, where a carved phrase glowed faintly in old glyphs:
"Here, words are weighed, not whispered. Let the weak be silent."
A challenge, not a warning.
Ethan took a breath and turned toward his assigned hall. His shoes tapped against the marble like punctuation marks.
"I'll show them," he whispered. "I'll show them that age means nothing when the story is strong."
And so, with heart pounding and determination blooming in his chest, Ethan walked forward—toward the very first chapter of his greatest unwritten tale.
The corridors of the Royal Academy twisted like the pages of an ancient tome—ornate, grand, and utterly disorienting.
Ethan had been following the golden plaques on the walls—"West Hall," "Scribe's Wing," "Arcane Archives"—but they all seemed to loop endlessly, like walking in circles through an enchanted labyrinth. After the encounter with the older students, he'd taken a side path to avoid further attention, but now even the silence of the halls mocked him.
He clutched his satchel tighter. Inside were his notebooks, a fresh set of ink quills gifted by his father, and the invitation letter. All signs pointed to Classroom IV, West Hall, yet West Hall had seemingly disappeared into thin air.
"Maybe I should've asked for a map instead of royal coins..." Ethan muttered under his breath, staring hopelessly at a bust of an ancient writer he'd already passed twice.
Just as he turned to retrace his steps again, a voice stopped him.
"Hey. Are you lost?"
It was light, melodic, and filled with casual amusement.
Ethan turned.
Walking toward him was a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, her long chestnut hair tied in a graceful ribbon behind her head. She wore the academy's standard uniform—a white robe with gold trimming—but it fluttered more elegantly on her than on the others he'd seen, like it belonged to her. Her steps were graceful, and her poise noble, but her smile was warm.
The most striking thing, however, was her eyes.
Silver. Like quicksilver in motion, shimmering with intelligence and something else... curiosity, perhaps.
"Um…" Ethan blinked. "A little."
She tilted her head, amused. "You're not very good at hiding it."
"I'm looking for Classroom IV, West Hall," he said quickly. "But I think I passed the same statue three times."
Her smile widened. "Let me guess—you're the eight-year-old prodigy everyone's whispering about?"
Ethan froze. "Wha—how did—?"
"It's been a buzz since sunrise," she said, walking past him and motioning for him to follow. "Youngest student in history. Wrote Sky Under the Water. Some say the king himself summoned you."
Ethan felt his cheeks heat up. "I didn't expect people here to care…"
"Well, you wrote a story about a fish becoming a dragon. That's not something people forget easily," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Especially not people who like dragons."
He followed her, still processing. "Wait, you read it?"
She nodded. "I did. It made me cry, actually. But don't get too full of yourself."
Ethan smiled for the first time since entering the academy.
They turned through a spiraling hallway where stained-glass windows painted them in hues of sapphire and emerald.
"I'm Ethan," he said quietly after a moment, unsure if he should be the first to introduce himself.
But she only smiled enigmatically and said, "I'm in the same class. You'll find out soon enough."
He blinked at her cryptic response but decided not to press. There was something graceful about her—like she knew a thousand things he didn't and wasn't in any rush to tell him.
What neither of them realized was that this was Lady Anvery Lyrell, the youngest daughter of Duke Lyrell of Valmere, a noble house known for its rich literary heritage. She had sent him a letter weeks ago—anonymous, elegant, and heartfelt—after finishing Sky Under the Water. In it, she'd written:
"Your words reminded me that even those trapped in still water can rise beyond the sky. I do not know who you are, but I thank you, truly."
Now, here they were, walking side by side, both unaware that their lives had quietly intersected long before this meeting.
Finally, they reached a large double door adorned with golden quill motifs. A plaque read:
Classroom IV – Fundamentals of Literary Expression and Imaginative Creation
She stopped and turned toward him.
"Well, here we are," she said, that half-mischievous, half-kind smile returning. "Try not to get lost between your seat and the desk."
Ethan chuckled nervously. "Thanks for guiding me. I… needed it."
"Don't mention it. Just make sure you write something good this year. I'd like to cry again—but for the right reasons."
And with that, she pushed open the door and walked into the classroom, her silver eyes catching the morning light just long enough to gleam like a secret waiting to be told.
Ethan followed, feeling strangely lighter, the earlier tension of the day melting away.
Somehow, even though he'd gotten lost, he felt like he'd found the right path after all.