The Academy's gates stood looming before him. Weathered towers stretched toward the sky, their surfaces bearing the marks of five centuries—the Valorian wolf, the Draconian serpent, the Phoenix of House Ashford, each sigil worn smooth by wind and rain but still radiating the kind of authority that made spines straighten. Between them, stood an archway of weathered brick that held the Academy's motto in flowing script: Virtus et Disciplina. Virtue and Discipline.
Ethan Cole stood among one hundred and ninety-five hopefuls on the cobblestone leading to the academy doors. The crowd pressed around him with nervous energy, shifting feet, whispered conversations, the rustle of clothes that marked special occasions for most of these families, but he wasn't seeing strangers, but he saw ghosts of the future.
Cassandra Voss stood near the academy's eastern wall, her auburn hair braided with silver thread. Even at sixteen, she possessed that particular stillness that marked genuinely dangerous people that even the other noble children gave her space. In his old life, she'd graduate second in their class, disappear into the Shadowlands on a classified mission, and return three years later as something that remembered humanity the way you might remember a childhood song, just distantly, with more nostalgia than recognition, a ghost of her former self.
And there was Maya.
She stood in conversation with a cluster of merchant-class applicants, her golden eyes bright with intelligence. Dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the morning light and glowing. Simple brown traveling clothes, but she wore them with elegance that spoke of inner confidence rather than inherited privilege.
Seeing her alive and whole, unmarked by the scars that would come, untouched by the betrayals that would break her, almost brought Ethan to his knees. In his old life, they wouldn't speak until circumstances forced them together in their third week. By then, the Academy's social hierarchies would be carved in stone, and he'd be too proud, too isolated, too afraid to approach her until necessity overcame awkwardness. She would die believing he was just another privileged noble who'd never seen her as more than a useful ally.
The memory of her final moment hit him like a blow. Golden eyes wide with shock, blood spreading across her Academy robes, his name on her lips as the light faded. He'd held her body in the ruins of the capital, promising vengeance he'd never live to deliver.
This time would be different. It had to be.
"Form lines!" Master Aldric Stonefield's voice cut through Ethan's reverie. His gray beard was precisely trimmed, his Academy robes immaculate despite the early hour. Behind him, six junior proctors arranged themselves at long tables beneath the archway's shadow. "Present your letters of recommendation and prepare for preliminary evaluation!"
The crowd surged forward with barely contained desperation. Ethan let the current carry him, observing the subtle hierarchies that emerged in the spaces between bodies. Noble children moved with confidence, their fine clothes and practiced bearing creating invisible barriers that lesser applicants unconsciously respected. Merchant-class candidates clustered together like they were afraid of being picked off if they wandered too far from the group, although some moved directly with the nobles. The few peasant-born applicants hung at the edges, their eyes fierce with the knowledge that this represented their singular chance at escape.
"Cole, Ethan." The name came out steadier than he felt when he reached the registration table. The junior proctor, a thin young man with ink-stained fingers and the eager expression of recent Academy graduation, looked up with poorly concealed curiosity.
"Ah, the executioner's son." No malice in his tone, but the words rippled outward through the crowd. Conversations paused mid-sentence as heads turned. The weight of his family name settled across Ethan's shoulders like a familiar cloak, heavy, but not entirely unwelcome. "Letter of recommendation?"
Ethan produced the sealed parchment his father had obtained from the local magistrate. Standard language, nothing that would distinguish him from dozens of other applicants. The proctor broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning the contents before making a careful notation in his leather-bound ledger.
"Proceed to the inner courtyard for written examination. Two hours to complete the assessment."
The Academy's inner courtyard was designed to intimidate. Flagstones worn smooth by centuries of use stretched between buildings that seemed to lean inward, creating a sense of enclosure that was both protective and oppressive. Banners bearing the Academy's colors, deep blue and silver, hung from tall poles, their fabric stirring in the morning breeze.
Long tables arranged in precise rows awaited them, along with long wooden chairs on both sides of the table, clay inkwells, and sheaves of parchment bound in leather.
Ethan took his assigned seat and fought to appear like a normal sixteen-year-old rather than a thirty-year-old consciousness trapped in adolescent flesh. Around him, other applicants settled with varying degrees of confidence. Some reviewed notes scribbled on scraps of parchment while others sat in rigid silence, their faces masks of concentration, even a few whispered prayers to whatever gods they favored.
When Master Stonefield raised his hand, the courtyard fell silent with the weight of one hundred ninety-five held breaths.
"Three sections await you, which include, History and Law, Natural Philosophy, and Strategic Analysis. Each carries equal marks. Two hours to complete all three. Begin."
The examination booklet fell open beneath Ethan's hands, and he felt the crushing weight of future knowledge pressing against his consciousness. These questions were familiar; now, they seemed almost insultingly simple.
Discuss the factors that led to the Third Succession War and evaluate the strategic decisions made by House Valorian during the siege of Ironhold.
His quill moved across the parchment with confidence that had been absent in his old life. Not just the basic facts any student might memorize, but the deeper currents of politics and personality that had shaped those events.
Ethan wrote about King Aldric's growing paranoia in his final years, how Queen Lyanna's early death had shattered the delicate balance of court alliances. He analyzed the siege of Ironhold not as a simple military engagement, but as a cascading failure of intelligence that revealed fundamental weaknesses in the kingdom's defensive strategies.
The natural philosophy section proved equally manageable. Questions about metallurgy, mechanical advantage, alchemical properties, those knowledge he'd gained through years of hard experience, now compressed into elegant theoretical frameworks.
The strategic analysis scenarios that followed tested not just tactical knowledge, but the ability to think several moves ahead, to anticipate the movements of both allies and enemies.
Ethan finished with forty minutes to spare, setting down his quill and surveying the courtyard. Most applicants were still writing frantically, their faces tight with concentration. A few had completed their work and sat in careful stillness.
Maya Thornfield was among the former. She sat with hands folded in her lap, expression calm but alert. When she noticed his attention, she offered a small smile that acknowledged their shared situation without presuming familiarity.
The gesture was perfectly Maya, simply considerate, intelligent, maintaining appropriate boundaries while extending quiet encouragement.
Something twisted in Ethan's chest. The weight of that knowledge, of all the conversations they had, the trust that had grown between them, and the final moment when everything would go wrong and he'd be powerless to prevent it.
Not this time.
The physical assessment awaited in the Academy's training ground behind the towers and main building, sprawling across nearly three acres of carefully maintained grounds.
The obstacle course stretched before them.
Five distinct trials, each crafted to eliminate roughly eighty percent of the candidates.
The Wall of Humility rose thirty feet from packed earth, its surface deliberately irregular to provide handholds. The Maze of Mirrors lay beyond it, polished steel surfaces reflecting and distorting light in ways that could disorient warriors. The Water Trial's shifting platforms suspended above murky depths. The Corridor of Blades with its mechanical rhythm of swinging practice weapons. Finally, the Circle of Truth, a simple dirt arena where applicants would face junior instructors in single combat.
"Volunteers for the first group?" Master Stonefield called.
Ethan stepped forward before doubt could interfere. Around him, a dozen others did the same, the bold, the desperate, the supremely confident. Maya was among them, her golden eyes bright with determination that made his chest tighten.
At the Wall of Humility, he positioned himself at the stone's base. The surface was rough beneath his palms, worn smooth in places by countless previous attempts. He could feel the weight of every watching eye, from the proctors, fellow applicants, and the Academy itself.
"Begin!"
Ethan moved with precision, hands finding purchase with the confidence of experience. The optimal path revealed itself as clearly as if someone had drawn it in chalk. His feet sought the small ledges and cracks that would support his weight without excessive effort.
Around him, other applicants struggled with varying degrees of success, but he ascended steadily, reaching the narrow ledge at the top with controlled breathing and steady hands.
The subsequent obstacles fell away with similar ease. The Maze of Mirrors, navigated through remembered patterns. The Water Trial's shifting platforms, managed through balance and spatial awareness. The Corridor of Blades, its mechanical rhythm as familiar as a childhood song.
But it was the final test that would determine whether his performance had been too flawless, too suspicious.
Mistress Denna waited in the Circle of Truth, a woman with graying hair and scars that spoke of real combat experience. She stood to one side while his opponent, a fellow student, also held a blunted sword. Sarsha Milkins, her name was.
"Two minutes," Mistress Denna announced. "Demonstrate composure under pressure."
Ethan drew his practice blade and fell into a basic guard position. When Sarsha came at him with controlled aggression, he met her attacks with confidence that bordered on the uncanny. His parries were economical, his counter-attacks measured. He didn't try to press any advantage, which would have been suspicious, but he demonstrated awareness that made Mistress Denna's eyebrows rise from where she stood.
"Well done, Cole," she said when time was called. "You show promise."
As Ethan rejoined the successful candidates, fragments of whispered conversation drifted from the proctors' table.
"...executioner's son showing unexpected promise..."
"...technique too refined for basic training..."
"...bears watching..."
The whispers followed him like shadows, marking him as someone of interest. In his old life, he'd been invisible until the third week of classes. Now, he was already on the Academy's radar.
Whether that was an advantage or a dangerous complication remained to be seen.