As soon as he stepped into the hall, Emryr understood the origin of the jokes claiming Albion was where all of the Crown’s wealth had gone to die.

  The hall was as grand as a cathedral, with ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and stained-glass windows portraying the ancestors of Britain’s great ducal families. Along the walls, small copper pipes ran silently, releasing steam at intervals. The seats, arranged in rows before the elevated pulpit, looked more comfortable than the bed in his own apartment.

  The grandeur of the place was almost insulting.

  But once he was done admiring the architecture, his eyes turned to the people.

  They were… different. Very different.

  Each one had their own eccentricity—some dressed extravagantly, others modestly; some were silent, others loud.

  Some wore three layers of magical protection and didn’t even try to hide it. Others wore unstable enchantments as if they were fashionable amulets.

  “Of course. Nothing safer than an arcane amplifier poorly calibrated… right next to your jugular,” Emryr thought.

  Some descendants of those portrayed in the stained glass proudly pointed to their heritage, bragging about their lineage. Others, more focused, understood that blood alone meant nothing in this world—and that, if one traced the family trees of all great kings, they would inevitably reach some random commoner.

  “What a damned place... gathering so many miserable people into one building. And me, of course, being one of them,” he muttered.

  The only difference was that he knew it. The others still believed they were above the game. But deep down, everyone here was willing to kill—or die—for power. The price was the only variable.

  He knew people well. And better than anyone, he understood that, in the end, everyone here was the same.

  In their eyes, ambition shone. And ego. These were the common traits of those who had made it into the most prestigious institution in the world.

  Whether those traits were causes or effects didn’t matter. What mattered was that all of them were chasing something.

  And Emryr was no different.

  “Attention!” echoed a commanding voice from the front of the hall, immediately silencing the students' murmurs.

  “Presenting Archduke Amberth Ambrosius, rector and pontifex of the Imperial Academy of Arcane Arts of Albion.”

  The voice came from a man in his forties, formally dressed, with visible scars from past battles. But the attention of the audience didn’t stay on him for long.

  The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

  Then, Amberth entered—flanked by the eight lords of the academy.

  The light filtering through the stained glass subtly shifted. A cold chill ran down some spines.

  And with slow steps, he walked down the central aisle like someone who already knew the end of all things.

  Considered the greatest living mage. Perhaps the greatest in history.

  Alive for more than seventy years, Amberth Ambrosius had served as Albion’s rector for over four decades. Whispers moved through the room as he calmly reached the adorned pulpit, standing atop what looked more like an altar than a professor’s platform.

  There was something… unreal about him.

  His hair was long and white, and a pair of round vitreum glasses rested on his aged face, hiding his eyes. He wore gray robes crossed with bands of the same color and held a brown staff, as tall as he was.

  At the top of the staff, a silver dragon coiled around the dark wood, engraved with ancient runes from top to bottom. The eyes of that dragon seemed, in a strange way, to be watching every person in the room.

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  The nobles from the Great Houses sat in the front row, backs straight, chins raised, robes embroidered with glowing sigils. Behind them, the rest of the students formed two columns.

  And by the altar, alongside the Rector, stood eight figures: the eight Lords of Albion. The most powerful mages in the world. Each one a master of a different arcane field. Each one with a gaze more eccentric than the next.

  Among them was Lord Doe—now appearing as a man in his forties, with long black hair and sharp blue eyes, wearing a coat similar to Emryr’s. But those who knew him were aware this was merely one of his many faces.

  Doe stared at Emryr with a mildly irritated expression, clearly due to the delay. Emryr responded with an apologetic smile. The lord then turned back to face the hall, letting out a soft sigh first.

  Amberth then began to speak:

  “Good morning, and welcome.” His voice was calm—almost bored. “I greet you in the name of Her Majesty and congratulate you on your admission to Albion.”

  For a moment, Emryr heard a deep hiss. Like something scraping against the walls of the world.

  Something looked back at him. Only him.

  His neck tingled.

  The stained glass trembled slightly, as if something had passed just outside, blocking the light for an instant. A distant sound of claws against stone reverberated—but before he could react, Amberth raised a hand—and the environment returned to normal.

  “We proceed,” he said, his voice unchanged, ignoring whatever had happened, as if he fully understood it. He looked straight at Emryr, recognizing the boy's perception, and continued.

  But Emryr had seen it.

  The silhouette reflected in the stained glass was tall and misshapen. Not human. Something like an elongated reptile, its shape blurred, as if seen through frosted glass.

  Its eyes—if they were even eyes—glowed with a macabre blue. Only for a moment. Then, they vanished.

  A blink. And whatever it was… was gone.

  Amberth continued:

  “By luck, effort, or destiny, you are those who will lead Britannia into a new age. Future lords, great mages, and loyal servants to Her Majesty.”

  The speech went on. Long. Ridiculously boring.

  As Emryr listened, two things became clear to him.

  First, that this man was hardly human anymore. Every syllable, every word, every phrase… was delivered with mathematical precision. The pauses, the breaths—everything followed an unchanging pattern, calculated to perfection.

  Second, this man had long since lost any passion for what he was doing. Perhaps because of decades spent repeating the exact same speech.

  Beside him, a silver-haired woman watched Amberth closely, as if reading something hidden behind his words. Her appearance was inhuman—a silent, unsettling perfection. Like a statue that breathed.

  Her eyes, blue like Emryr’s, glowed faintly.

  “Entropy is accelerating again,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the altar.

  Emryr turned to her, startled. But the young woman just smiled faintly.

  “Don’t worry. Sometimes, forgotten things prefer to stay forgotten. I’ll accept whichever choice you make…”

  Before he could respond, she was already lost in the crowd.

  He looked around, confused. As if he had heard an echo from the future—or from something that knew him before his current existence.

  “I believe you have all chosen the courses you wish to take,” Amberth continued, finally nearing the end of his speech. “Starting tomorrow, report to the corresponding classrooms. Your accommodations have already been assigned. That is all.”

  And with no further ceremony, he turned and exited through the same door, followed by the other lords.

  The students began to disperse, each heading toward their dormitories. Emryr looked for his professor, but couldn’t find him.

  “He ditched me because he was mad? Seriously?” he thought.

  Still, an unsettling feeling lingered after seeing that thing through the stained glass. Remembering what he saw, he quickened his pace toward Lord Doe’s mansion, worried about what might’ve happened.

  And, as always, bad luck decided to show up.

  Rain began to fall.

  “Perfect.”

  He sighed, looking up at the gray sky before murmuring:

  “Inertia negation.”

  Four small blue points lit up in the air before him. With a quick calculation, Emryr formed a spell. Raindrops slowed as they neared him, suspended in the air before touching his body.

  As he walked, Emryr felt something watching him. He didn’t remember this sensation in his mind—but his soul remembered. Like curious eyes peeking through an ancient keyhole.

  Emryr continued walking through the campus until he saw Doe’s mansion.

  The massive building, still within the Palace of Westminster’s walls, stretched horizontally with three elegant stories and gothic-style windows, matching the palace’s architecture.

  Around it, a small lake, a few benches and tables beneath trees of various species—but nothing exceptionally flashy.

  The sound of raindrops falling on the water was the only thing he could hear. It only added to his tension.

  Then he saw something slightly unsettling.

  A small girl stood at the entrance, shielded beneath a red umbrella. Her hair was white. Her skin, pale. And her eyes… red.

  She stared at him briefly before waving and running into the building, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  The rain kept falling. The clouds made the day even grayer. And Emryr realized, with a certain discomfort, that he was completely alone.

  The place was relatively isolated from the rest of the academy.

  He walked to the building, opened the half-closed door, and found himself in a large parlor. Well-decorated, well-maintained, filled with classic Victorian furniture. A grand rug stretched from the door to the far end of the room, and a fireplace warmed the air in a cozy way.

  Two staircases rose before him, curving gently before converging on the second floor. To the left, a massive door remained closed. To the right, another stood slightly open.

  Emryr didn’t think twice before walking through it.