The train screeched as it curved around the cliffs of Velora, the view outside framed by golden forests and hanging clouds.
Aarin Vale pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane, trying not to let the twist in his gut ruin the beauty of it.
He hadn't left Dunsmere before.
Not once.
In Dunsmere, cows had more attitude than people. You woke up at dawn, milked things, shoveled things, and if you were lucky, got a slice of fried honeybread before bedtime.
But today wasn't a honeybread day.
Today, he was headed to Crescent Academy—the most elite magical school in the five provinces.
A place where bloodlines mattered more than grades and students trained to become spellweavers, rune-fighters, or political advisors to the High Council.
And Aarin Vale… had a name no one recognized and boots that still smelled like goat manure.
When the train finally pulled into Velora Station, Aarin stepped out and looked up.
The academy towered above the cliffs like a living castle, its stone walls covered in glowing runes that shifted every few seconds.
Spires twisted toward the sky, and a massive silver arch led the way to the front gate, pulsing with magic.
A student nearby whispered, "The arch tests you, you know. Sees if you're worthy."
Aarin gulped.
He adjusted the leather strap on his satchel and walked toward the gate.
A voice behind him cut through the crowd.
"Nice boots."
Aarin turned sharply.
A girl leaned against a stone column, arms crossed. Her silver-blonde hair was pulled into a loose braid that shimmered under the sun, and her uniform jacket was half-buttoned like she couldn't care less. Her dark eyes studied him like he was a mildly interesting insect.
He looked down at his boots. Still stained. Still smelled. Wonderful.
"Thanks," he replied, not sure if she was being sarcastic.
She smirked. "Let me guess. Dunsmere?"
"How'd you—?"
"Your accent gave you away. And your boots smell like they've stepped through a barnyard rebellion."
Aarin straightened. "That's... fair."
"Lyra Solenne," she said, extending a hand.
He shook it. Her grip was firm, not delicate like he expected.
"Aarin Vale."
"Vale," she repeated, tilting her head. "Sounds poetic."
He smiled awkwardly. "It's more... cow-related than poetic."
She laughed—a short, musical sound that caught him off guard.
"Well, Cow Poet," she said, "if you're trying to make a good first impression, you might want to button your robe correctly."
He looked down. Three buttons mismatched. A disaster.
"Brilliant," he muttered, fixing it as she walked off.
A few moments later, the intercom crackled to life above them.
"First-year students, please proceed to the Celestium for the Bonding Ceremony. Attendance is mandatory."
Aarin followed the flow of students across the courtyard. Everything around him buzzed with magic—lamps that floated, gardens with singing flowers, and tiny dragons fluttering through enchanted wind currents. He tried not to gawk.
The Celestium was breathtaking. A dome made entirely of enchanted glass, it reflected the sky like water, and the stars shimmered even though it was midday. Inside, hundreds of first-years sat on floating stone platforms arranged in circles.
He spotted Lyra again, seated near the front, flipping a silver coin between her fingers.
Aarin looked around and saw an empty spot beside a tall boy with snow-white hair and a half-mask over one eye.
"You lost?" the boy asked.
"Just... new," Aarin replied, sitting beside him.
"Obviously."
Aarin turned to him. "And you are...?"
"Caius Blackmoor," he said, not offering a handshake.
The name sounded familiar. Rich. Dangerous.
"Aarin Vale."
"Dunsmere?"
"Yeah. Is it that obvious?"
Caius gave a small smirk. "Let's just say you wear your barn like a badge."
Before Aarin could respond, a woman in flowing violet robes floated to the center of the dome. Her eyes glowed faintly as she raised both arms.
"I am High Instructor Velmira," she said, her voice echoing magically. "Welcome to Crescent Academy."
The floating platforms stilled.
"Today, you will be bound to your rune-mark—your magical signature. It will define your growth, your strength, and, for some of you, your survival."
The students murmured.
Velmira continued. "One by one, you'll be called to step into the Starlight Pool and receive your mark."
A crystal platform rose from the center of the room, filled with liquid starlight that shimmered like molten moonlight.
Names were called, and students stepped forward. Some emerged with glowing sigils on their arms or chests. One girl even fainted when her mark burst into flames before settling into shape.
Then, the instructor spoke:
"Aarin Vale."
His heart leapt to his throat.
He stood, walked down the glowing staircase, and stepped into the pool. The liquid was warm, weightless, like stepping through memories. He closed his eyes.
A searing heat flared up his spine.
A shape burned across his shoulder blade.
He clenched his jaw.
Then silence.
Velmira's eyes narrowed. "A rare mark."
Murmurs rippled.
He turned slowly, the sigil now glowing faintly under his shirt. He couldn't see it, but he felt it—pulsing, ancient, alive.
He walked back to his seat, passing Lyra.
She leaned toward him.
"Well, Cow Poet," she whispered, "looks like you're not just boots and awkward charm."
He swallowed.
"Thanks... I think."
She gave him a sly look. "Try not to die, Aarin Vale."