The moment Ethan stepped into Classroom IV, all conversation stopped.
A soft hush blanketed the wide, sunlit room.
Rows of crescent desks arranged in tiers curved toward a center platform, where a podium stood beneath an enormous floating parchment that pulsed with faint magic. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes bound in velvet and enchanted leather, their spines glowing with titles of renown.
At the center of it all, stood Ethan—eight years old, carrying a satchel that was almost as big as his torso.
Eyes turned.
Dozens of students stared, ranging in age from fourteen to early twenties. Every one of them wore the golden-trimmed white robe of the Royal Literature Academy, but with tiny distinctions—family sigils, embroidery styles, precious brooches that whispered of wealth and legacy.
And now, they stared at him.
A boy from a humble bookshop. Son of a middle-class merchant. And a writer whose first book had climbed its way through ink and wonder into the halls of the noble class.
"I-Is that him?" someone whispered.
"Ethan… Ethan Verne? The one who wrote Sky Under the Water?"
"The dragon-fish boy!"
"That story was incredible."
Murmurs spread like a warm breeze.
Some students stood to offer quick nods of respect. Others leaned in, eyes filled with curiosity and unspoken admiration. One girl with pearl rings leaned across her desk and whispered, "I cried for two days after the second act. Is it true you wrote it in forty-seven days?"
Ethan, caught off guard, gave a shy nod.
A tall boy near the front, with a polished lapel bearing the crest of House Valehart, turned and gave Ethan a firm, approving nod. "My father said your story carried more meaning than most official state epics. High praise, from a battle-hardened Duke."
"Th-thank you," Ethan mumbled, stunned by the warm reception. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched his satchel.
He wasn't used to being seen—really seen—not as the merchant's son, but as a writer.
But then, a voice cut through the pleasant hum like a jagged tear across a parchment.
"Hmph. What's a paperboy doing in a scholar's chair?"
The room fell silent again.
A young man stood near the window, leaning back in his chair with a languid arrogance. He looked about seventeen, with slicked-back golden hair and piercing green eyes that carried the weight of entitlement.
His robe shimmered with threads of platinum. His family crest—a hawk clutching a scroll—glinted at his shoulder.
"Forgive me," he said lazily, "but I must've taken a wrong turn. I thought this was the Royal Academy of Literature, not a village scribbler's guild."
A few students chuckled uneasily.
Ethan's stomach twisted. But he held his ground.
The boy continued, his voice silky with venom. "Tell me, Master Verne—how many generations of nobility must your family boast before being invited here? Oh, wait… none."
Another student muttered, "That's Lord Fenric Elowen. He's the heir of the Grand Archivist."
Fenric's green eyes narrowed. "My family built half of the archives this place stands upon. And yet they let this child into our halls. Do we let stonemasons teach music now?"
A hush fell.
Ethan clenched his fists.
Before he could speak, a voice interrupted, clear and cold.
"Funny. I didn't know arrogance was part of the curriculum."
All heads turned.
The girl with silver eyes—the same girl who had guided Ethan moments ago—stood from her seat gracefully, her back straight and gaze direct.
Fenric blinked. "Lady... Anvery?"
Whispers erupted.
Lady Anvery Lyrell. The daughter of Duke Lyrell. A future duchess and a literary prodigy in her own right. Her family's crest—a silver flame encircling an open book—was embroidered in fine thread across her chest.
She smiled politely, but her eyes held fire.
"Sky Under the Water moved more hearts than all of your family's dry historical tomes combined, Fenric. And from what I recall, writing is not bound by blood. Only ink."
Fenric scowled, but said nothing.
She looked to Ethan and nodded to the empty seat beside her. "Come, Ethan. You're among writers, not relics."
Grateful but speechless, Ethan moved to the seat beside her as whispers reignited across the room.
As he sat, the heavy silence lifted. Students cast curious glances at the pair of them—him, the boy from a bookshop, and her, a noble daughter with fire in her words.
For now, Ethan had survived his first trial in the Academy. But he knew this was only the beginning.
This was a place where titles clashed with talent. Where ink battled bloodlines.
And he was ready to write his story—one line at a time.
Just as the murmurs in the classroom began to settle and the last of the nobility eased into their seats, the atmosphere shifted—almost like the room itself was holding its breath.
The grand wooden doors at the back of the hall swung open with a soft thud, and a pair of heels clicked rhythmically against the marble floor.
She walked in.
A tall, graceful woman in a flowing deep-blue robe embroidered with silver ink-like patterns that shimmered as she moved. Her dark hair, streaked with strands of elegant silver, was tied into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder. Her presence demanded attention—not by force, but by poise.
Students straightened. Conversations halted. Even the ever-arrogant Fenric Elowen turned his gaze forward.
She approached the central podium with deliberate steps, placing a thick, leather-bound tome upon it. Her amber eyes swept over the students like she was reading a particularly long and curious passage.
Then she spoke, her voice smooth and confident, like a story being told in the perfect rhythm.
"Good morning, scholars. I see curiosity already burns strong in this room. That is good. You will need it."
She smiled, a slight and knowing curl of her lips.
"I am Professor Lysandra Valein, your instructor for the primary foundation class: Imaginative Composition and Narrative Artistry. You may call me 'Professor,' or simply 'Ma'am.' Whichever carries more respect in your tongue."
Several students scribbled down her name immediately. Others, like Ethan, simply listened—captivated.
"You may know me from some of my published works," she continued, gesturing casually toward the towering bookshelf behind her. "Perhaps The Song of Hollow Rivers, The Wolf Who Wrote, or Letters From a Dying Star."
Gasps and murmurs filled the room.
"Wait—she's the author of Letters From a Dying Star?"
"I cried so hard reading that!"
"She wrote The Wolf Who Wrote?" That's required reading in every noble estate!"
Ethan blinked in awe. Even he had heard of Letters From a Dying Star. It was famous for bringing an entire kingdom to tears, including seasoned soldiers and highborn lords.
Professor Lysandra gave a faint nod, her expression remaining calm.
"This academy is not just a place of learning. It is the forge of authors. Each of your instructors here—whether they teach verse, history, metaphorical warfare, or narrative construction—is a master of their craft. You are not just being taught; you are being sharpened."
She glanced around the room again, her eyes pausing—just briefly—on Ethan.
"And yes," she added, with a glint of mischief in her tone, "I am aware we have quite a bit of chatter surrounding our newest and youngest student."
Ethan stiffened. All eyes turned to him.
"Good," she said. "Let that curiosity bloom. Writing thrives in discomfort, in wonder, and in pressure."
She gestured, and with a flick of her finger, the floating parchment behind her ignited with glowing letters as if written by an invisible quill.
"Ink is more than a tool—it is a mirror. To write is to expose yourself, strip away pretense, and let others gaze at your soul. Most of you will fail. Some of you will fly. But all of you will bleed ink before the end."
The room was silent again. Not out of fear—but reverence.
Professor Lysandra closed the tome on the podium and raised her hand.
"Let us begin with introductions—not of names or houses. But of stories. Each of you, write me the first paragraph of your soul. I do not care for elegance or titles. Give me raw truth, wrapped in words."
A thousand thoughts rushed into Ethan's head. His fingers twitched. His heart raced. A familiar itch crept into him—the one that always came before writing.
He glanced at Lady Anvery, who was already poised, pen in hand, focused.
And then down at his blank page.
He whispered to himself with a smile, "First paragraph of my soul, huh?"
He had already lived that once. Time to write it again.