You arrived with the morning tide. The mists curled low over the canals of Helia, that hidden jewel of the Blessed Isles. Bridges of white stone arched between floating islets, and golden light kissed the domes and towers with reverence. Bells chimed softly from spires, their echoes tangled in birdsong and the chatter of a hundred voices. Helia was not still. It lived and breathed.

Scholars in deep blue robes paced the piers, scrolls tucked under arms, debating celestial alignments with fierce hand gestures. Nobles disembarked in satin and lace, their sigils flashing in the sun as they inspected their reflections in the water. A bard floated by on a barge, plucking a harp that played a song you didn’t recognize. Market stalls crowded the waterside, selling charms against nightmares and intriguing bottled. Even the wind seemed to carry rumors.

Your name was spoken by a silver magic automaton who bowed and gestured toward the high bridges that led to the Academy. Now you stand in the classroom, the walls are smooth marble, veined with gold.

To your left, lounging with the ease of someone deeply accustomed to admiration, is Tyrus. His dark skin gleams, his white hair caught in golden rings and braids. He wears the regalia of a noble house without shame or modesty. “Look sharp, new one,” he said with a wink. “They love eating fresh minds here.” The students around him chuckled. You didn’t know if it was at you, or with you. Maybe both.

Azura Morthag sat near the far window, half-lit by the soft sun. Her blue eyes glimmered, unreadable. Her long black hair was braided with tiny crystal beads. She looked noble, yes, but distant. And then your eyes followed hers…Grael Erlok. He stood beside her, not touching, but close, so very close. Tall, lean, with black hair tied back, and an expression colder than winter sea. A commoner, clearly. But there was a storm behind his silence. He did not speak. He didn’t have to. Azura’s hand found his beneath the table, her touch barely there.

Professor Vassel turned his full attention upon you. He is tall and ethereal, with long golden hair cascading like spun gold, his robes sweeping behind him. “Late on your first day,” he mused, turning to address the class, hands clasped behind his back. “A bold strategy. Let us hope it is not contagious.”

He paced slowly, deliberately, the air thickening, then he stopped and looked at you.

“Tell me” he said, voice rising, “what is the purpose of punctuality?”