Astronomy class was held at the very top of the tallest tower, where the wind howled and the stars seemed close enough to touch. The climb was exhausting, but the view made it worth the effort—an endless, velvet sky scattered with pinpricks of light that glittered like diamonds. The stone platform was ringed by a low parapet, and telescopes of every size stood ready, their polished lenses aimed at the heavens.

Lessons always began late, just as the last light of day faded into twilight. The air was crisp and carried the faint scent of damp stone and old parchment, mingling with the quiet murmur of turning pages. A large chart of constellations hung on the wall inside the tower, detailing the shifting positions of the celestial bodies through the seasons. Each night brought a new task: tracing the arc of a planet, mapping unfamiliar stars, or noting the phases of the moon.

The silence of the night was broken only by the soft scratch of quills on parchment and the occasional rustle of robes in the wind. The work demanded patience and precision; a single miscalculation in an observation could throw an entire star chart into disarray. But for those who took the time to look, there was a strange peace in gazing into infinity, searching for order among the endless, glittering chaos of the sky.