Chapter 47

Registrar

The carriage slowed to a halt near a long stable where other garuda-drawn carriages rested. Garuda in an array of colors—blue, gold, and silver—preened their feathers or stood motionless, their bright eyes scanning the surroundings with an uncanny intelligence. Mags pushed the door open before the driver could dismount and offer assistance. She hopped down lightly, brushing dust from her tunic.

The driver, pipe still in his mouth, raised an eyebrow as she approached. “Eager one, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t have a lot of time to spare,” she said. She pulled two gold pieces from her Pocket, the gold coins appearing in the air before her. The man froze, the pipe clamped tight between his teeth as he watched the coins materialize from seemingly nothing. Mags smirked at his expression, presenting the two coins between her pointer and middle finger.

The driver reached out an open hand.

“You’ll get another gold each,” Mags said matter-of-factly, “if you and your friend help bring my luggage to my dormitory. Once I figure out where that is.” She dropped the coins into his outstretched hand and paused. “What’s your name?”

The man took out his pipe, stuffed it with a pinch of tobacco from a small leather pouch—deftly depositing the gold pieces into his pocket as he did so—and struck a match against the side of the carriage. “Stucco,” he said gruffly between puffs.

“Stucco, I’ll send someone to fetch you when I’ve got my bearings.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned toward the sprawling campus.

Stucco muttered something to his companion, who chuckled nervously, but Mags didn’t look back.

Brightwash Military Academy was a small city unto itself, buzzing with life and purpose. Wide stone pathways crisscrossed the manicured lawns, weaving between towering structures of marble and granite. Smaller buildings of ivy-covered brick were sprinkled throughout, painting a picture of an Academy that grew and evolved over a long, long history. Students of all ages moved with varying degrees of confidence, their crimson coats with navy accents standing out vividly against the pale backdrop of the buildings. Crowds of people not in uniform also bustled about. Of those that were clearly students, some carried stacks of books; others lugged equipment or sparred with practice weapons in the open courtyards. Voices blended into a cacophony—shouted orders, bursts of laughter, and the hum of distant machinery.

The air smelled of freshly cut grass, leather, and the faint metallic tang of magic. Mags took it all in, the nervous energy of the place was infectious. She kept her head high and her stride purposeful, trying to ignore the gazes she imagined lingered on her, curious or appraising. No one is paying you any mind. Get it out of your head, she thought.

The pathways gradually converged on the Central Yard, a vast open space surrounded by imposing buildings that radiated importance. Students and faculty moved in all directions, some with hurried steps, others strolling in groups. Mags paused, feeling momentarily overwhelmed by the scale and motion of it all.

“Excuse me,” she said, stopping a passing student—a boy about her age with neatly combed hair and a patch sewn onto his coat, which she know from her lessons marked him as a second-year. “Where can I find the Registrar?”

He pointed to a squat, ivy-covered brick building off to one side of the yard. Its windows gleamed in the sunlight, and a trickle of students moved in and out of its arched entryway. “Third floor,” the boy said, barely slowing his stride.

“Thanks,” Mags said, already heading toward it.

The crowd seemed to part for her instinctively as she walked. Whether it was her bearing, her confidence, or something else, she wasn’t sure. But Mags felt the weight of the scroll in her Pocket—a reminder that she wasn’t here to blend in. She was here to stand out. To attain the impossible.

“Off the grass!” A commanding voice shouted over the thrum of the crowds. Mags then quickly realized it was directed at her. She glanced down to see manicured, green grass beneath her feet. She then looked up at the crowds of people crossed through the Central Yard. They hadn’t been parting for her, they had simply been staying on one of the many brick-lined walking paths that cut through the Central Yard.

She leapt off the grass, shouting a quick, “My apologies!” before using one of the paths to wind through the Central Yard and get to the administrative building with the Registrar. Students must walk very fast here if they can’t cut through the grass!

Finally, she reached her objective, waiting for two older students to walk out of the building before hurrying inside. The interior of the administrative building was quieter than Mags had expected. The noise of the bustling campus was muffled by thick brick walls and high ceilings, leaving only the faint rustle of paper and the occasional muted conversation echoing through the partially opened doorways lining the halls. She found the stairs at the other end of the first floor, and quickly climbed them to the third floor, as the student had told her.

At the top, she entered a wide room lined with filing cabinets and shelves sagging under the weight of ledgers and scrolls. At the far end of the room sat a desk piled high with papers, behind which was a man who could only be described as . . . imposing.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a greenish hue to his otherwise pale, gray skin. Two sharp tusks jutted from his wide lower jaw, and thick-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on his wide nose. His dark, curly hair looked slightly unkempt, giving him a scholarly air at odds with the crisp crimson uniform of the Crown Coalition he wore. Unlike the students’ uniforms, his was adorned with polished gold epaulets and insignia denoting rank. Major, Mags thought, recalling the insignia from her lessons with Libicocco.

The man glanced up as she approached, his sharp black eyes peering over the top of his spectacles. “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked in a voice that was deeper than she’d expected, calm but with an edge of formality. He spoke in the common tongue, but with a drawl that she couldn’t place.

“Are you the Registrar?” Mags asked, straightening her back.

“I am,” he replied, folding his hands on the desk. “Midhat Mavani, Chief Registrar of Brightwash Academy. And how may I help you?”

“I’m here to enroll.”

Mavani blinked slowly, then let out a short, scoffing laugh. “You do realize that the Welcome Ceremony for this semester is today, ma’am?”

She crossed her arms. “I do.”

The Registrar’s face grew serious once more. Mags couldn’t help but think he and Libicocco would be a perfect match. “You’re too late, I’m afraid. The admissions examinations were conducted weeks ago, and candidates from the regional exams were expected to report for final interviews last week. Brightwash does not accept late applicants, regardless of the circumstances. You will need to re-apply next year . . . and be more cognizant of the application and reporting deadlines.”

Mags didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached into her Pocket, focusing on the scroll tucked safely within. The tiny parchment appeared in her palm, and she placed it on the desk in front of Mavani.

He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as he examined the object. There was no mistaking the intricate seals stamped into the scroll—symbols of authority that few would dare to forge. She knew he’d be able to instantly recognize them and know that someone from high within the Ravaelian Empire produced this scroll. Still, he hesitated, his expression unreadable. “What is this?” he asked, though the recognition in his eyes betrayed his curiosity.

“A Special Recommendation for Admission,” Mags said.

Mavani frowned, the tusks jutting from his lower lip giving the expression an almost comical intensity. “All students admitted by Special Recommendation have already been accounted for.”

“Well, you haven’t appropriately accounted for me, then.”

“Even those who have received recommendations to the Academy must follow our protocols. After all—”

He stopped mid-sentence as he broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment. A pulse of aura escaped from beneath the wax that Mags could feel with her [Aura Sense]. Rubicante explained that this would be a unique aura signature that kept those from opening and reading the scroll before it reached its intended audience. Mavani’s eyes scanned the text, his expression growing more incredulous with every line. When he reached the bottom of the scroll, his gaze snapped back to her, suspicion clouding his features. He studied her again, this time more intently, as if trying to reconcile the contents of the letter with the girl standing before him. Mags wished she knew what the scroll said.

“Wait here,” he said brusquely, rising from his chair. The room seemed to shrink as he stood, his massive frame nearly blocking out the light from the tall window behind him. He was nearly as tall as Alichino, even if not as wide. He strode to the door with the scroll in hand and exited without another word, leaving Mags alone with the towering stacks of paperwork and the echo of her own heartbeat drumming in her head.

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Was there an issue with the Special Recommendation? Only a few were handed out in any given year, and typically by the heads of the Noble Families with the most influence in the Empire (and therefore the Crown Coalition). Occasionally, leadership of the Guilds, or even the Emperor himself, were known to bequeath Special Recommendations to truly talented young Soulsingers. Mags trusted that Frey Sarto would have gone through the work to obtain a real Special Recommendation, and not attempt to craft a counterfeit. But the thoughts of their plan crumbling to ash before it truly started flooded her mind. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she continued to stand there, staring out the tall window behind Mavani’s cluttered desk.

After an awkward amount of time, the door creaked open, and Mavani returned, his imposing figure framed by the muted light of the hallway. He strode back to his desk, scroll in hand, and seated himself with deliberate care, his expression inscrutable. He placed the scroll onto the polished surface and adjusted his spectacles, clearing his throat in what seemed like an attempt to gather his thoughts.

“Very curious,” he began, folding his hands atop the desk. “We had not accounted for another Special Recommendation this school year. Yet, after verification, I find this recommendation is indeed legitimate. Unorthodox, but undeniable.” His sharp gaze fixed on Mags. “What did you say your name was?”

“Magdalena,” Mags replied, her voice steady. “Of Solstice.”

“Of Solstice.” Mavani chewed on the words. One thick brow arched. “You’re not nobility? . . . A talented bastard, perhaps?”

The words stung like a slap, and Mags felt a surge of heat rise to her face. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, but she forced herself to keep her tone measured. “No. Not a bastard, and not nobility. Just a girl from the Far Country.”

Mavani leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. Very interesting. To have received a recommendation of this magnitude . . . you must truly be a diamond in the rough.”

He turned his attention to a large tome, its leather-bound cover worn but well cared for. With a grunt of effort, he heaved it onto the desk, the weight of it causing the wood to groan in protest. The pages were filled with tightly packed lines of ink, each entry precise and organized. He flipped through the book with deft fingers until he landed on the page he sought.

“The Headmistress and the Academy Council will not be pleased about this unexpected addition to the recruit roster,” he mused, his finger tracing a line of text. “But there’s little they can do about it. Rules are rules.” He stopped at a particular entry and tapped it with one blunt finger. “Now, let’s see . . . all First Year housing has been fully allocated, but there’s a vacancy with a second-year student. I’ll place you there until a spot in a First Year dormitory becomes available.”

Mags’s stomach tightened. Her lessons made her well aware of the reputation the first semester at Brightwash—known as the Entrance Trials—had. Most First Year students didn’t survive their initial semester. They were shipped off to the Coalition Force’s front lines as expendable soldiers. It was a part of the bargain a person entered into when they willingly became a recruit at the Academy. She bit the inside of her cheek, willing her expression to remain neutral.

The Registrar began to mark things down in his tome. He pushed a piece of paper towards her with his other hand, pointing a finger to an empty line near the bottom of the page. “Enrollment agreement. Please sign there.” He placed a fountain pen on the table besides the parchment.

She scanned the page, though already knew its contents. She picked up the pen and scribbled her name where he had indicated.

Mavani looked up. “You’ve brought your belongings, I presume?”

“Yes,” Mags said. “A carriage is waiting at the stables. The driver’s name is Stucco.”

Mavani nodded and reached for a small, mirror-like plate embedded into his desk—a scrying mirror, she realized. He muttered something under his breath, and the glass shimmered for a moment before dimming again.

The door opened and a young man with closely cropped hair and a bright crimson uniform entered.

“Please, locate a carriage in the stables manned by a driver named Stucco,” Mavani instructed. “Retrieve the luggage and deliver it to Fleming Hall, Room 405.”

The porter nodded briskly and prepared to leave, but Mags stopped him with a quick word. Reaching into her Pocket, she withdrew two gleaming gold pieces and extended them toward him. “For the drivers,” she said simply.

The young man hesitated, glancing at Mavani, who waved a dismissive hand. “Go on, take it,” the Registrar said.

The porter nodded curtly, clicked his heels in a quick salute, before he accepted the coins and departed, leaving Mags alone with Mavani once more. The registrar closed the tome with a resounding thud, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “I assume your belongings do not include the Academy’s uniform?”

“No,” Mags replied.

Mavani sighed, the sound one of long-suffering patience. “Of course not. The Welcome Ceremony starts soon, and you’ll be required to attend in full uniform. Come, follow me. We’ll get you fitted, though it’s likely the clothiers will only have something approximating your size for today.”

He rose from his chair, the large tome still on the desk, and motioned for Mags to follow. As they exited the administrative building and began weaving through the bustling campus, Mavani spoke, more to himself than to her.

“I’ll prepare your schedule and have it delivered to your room. If you need a tour of the campus, you’ll need to arrange that separately. Maps are posted at key locations, of course. One would think the Academy could provide personalized orientation for new students, but alas, the Crown Coalition’s generosity only stretches so far.”

Mags followed in silence, her boots clicking against the brick paths that twisted through Brightwash’s sprawling campus. Students hurried past in small groups, some clutching books or training swords, others animatedly chatting about topics she couldn’t catch. The air hummed with energy, an undercurrent of tension and excitement that Mags presumed was due to the upcoming new semester.

They arrived at a long, squat building set apart from the more grandiose halls near the Central Yard. The building’s simple, utilitarian design stood in stark contrast to the rest of the campus, its wide entrance flanked by brass signs engraved with the words Quartermaster’s Hall.

Inside, the space was a flurry of activity. Metal tracks crisscrossed the ceiling, each carrying dozens of neatly hung articles of crimson clothing. The fabric swayed gently as the tracks clicked and whirred, the sound blending with the chatter of men and women bustling about.

A stern-looking woman with short, graying hair approached Mavani, her arms crossed. “Registrar,” she said curtly. “What is it now?”

“I need measurements for an incoming student,” Mavani replied, his tone as dry as parchment. “And a uniform suitable for the Welcome Ceremony.”

The woman, who Mags presumed was the Quartermaster, eyed her.

“Special Recommendation,” Mavani said.

That seemed to be explanation enough. The woman scowled but waved Mags over. “Stand here,” she instructed, pulling out a measuring tape. With quick, practiced movements, she measured Mags’ height, shoulders, and waist, muttering under her breath all the while.

“She’ll need the standard set,” the woman said, addressing an assistant who had appeared with a clipboard. “It won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fine,” Mavani said, his voice clipped.

The assistant disappeared into the labyrinth of moving tracks and returned moments later with a crimson uniform. “This one should fit well enough for today,” she said, handing it to Mags.

Mags took the bundle of fabric, its weight surprisingly heavy in her arms. She nodded her thanks, though the words felt awkward in the charged atmosphere.

“Try not to ruin it before tomorrow,” the woman added, her tone half-joking, half-warning.

Mavani gestured for Mags to follow him once more. They exited the building and made their way across campus to a towering dormitory marked Fleming Hall. Inside, the stairwell spiraled upward, and Mavani led her to the fourth floor, stopping before a door marked 405.

The room inside was larger than Mags had expected. One half of the space was clearly lived in, with neatly arranged books, a stringed instrument of some sort leaning against one wall, and a dark blue quilt draped over the bed. The other half was bare save for the furniture—a bed, a wardrobe, and a small writing desk—and Mags’ luggage, which sat neatly stacked beside the bed.

“Your roommate, Rue Hirata, is a Second-Year student,” Mavani explained. “All Second-Year students are required to return to campus no later than today, after their field missions, so she should be here at some point.”

Mags nodded, her gaze lingering on the signs of life that filled Rue’s side of the room.

“Make yourself presentable,” Mavani added as he turned to leave. “The Welcome Ceremony is mandatory.”

With that, he departed, leaving Mags alone in the quiet room. She set the uniform down on the bed, her mind racing with thoughts of what the next hours—and the coming weeks—would bring.

She turned her attention to the uniform laid out on the bed. The crimson coat, neatly folded, caught the light streaming in from the window, its navy lapels and brass buttons gleaming with an almost ceremonial brilliance.

She shrugged off her traveling clothes, folding them quickly and placing them at the foot of her bed. Then, she began the careful process of donning the Academy uniform.

The white button-down shirt was stiffer than she expected, the fabric crisp against her skin. She fastened the navy breeches, tucking the shirt neatly into the waistband before pulling on the tall, black boots. The leather hugged her calves snugly, their polished surface catching her reflection as she moved.

Finally, she slipped on the crimson coat. The brass buttons ran in a perfect line down the front, and the spade-shaped navy and bronze epaulets sat proudly on her shoulders. She adjusted the navy-piped cuffs, marveling at the quality of the fabric. It felt like more than a uniform—it was a declaration, a challenge, a second skin she’d have to grow into. She knew many of the admitted First Year recruits were from regional military academies, and were accustomed to the setting and being in uniform.

When she finished, she turned to the mirror mounted on the inside of her wardrobe. The girl staring back at her looked older somehow, her dark eyes sharp against the backdrop of crimson and navy. It was a disguise she would need to master. Remember why you’re here. She thought of Solstice, of Vitomir, Sabo, and the children.

She squared her shoulders and stepped out into the hall.

Mavani was waiting just outside, his arms folded across his broad chest. His dark, tusked face appraised her with a critical eye, but the faintest hint of approval softened his usual severity.

“This will do,” he said, nodding once. “The Welcome Ceremony is starting any moment. You’ll be needed on stage with the other recruits admitted on Special Recommendation.”

“On stage?” Mags asked, her voice steady despite the jolt of nerves that ran through her. This hadn’t been mentioned once during her lessons.

“Yes,” Mavani replied, already turning to lead the way. “You are something of an oddity, Ma’am. The Academy Council will want to present its latest ‘promising addition’ to the rest of the student body. It’s tradition for all recruits on Special Recommendation to be on stage during the Welcoming Address. Consider it your first test—of composure, if nothing else.”

Mags fell into step behind him, the boots clicking against the polished floors with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. As they descended the stairs, she tried her best to mentally prepare herself for this unexpected turn of events. They joined a procession of uniformed students making their way towards a vast structure, an amphitheater sitting on the edge of central campus atop of a hill. She knew there were several coliseums on campus, but couldn’t recall their names.

“The Welcome Ceremony is in a coliseum?” she asked.

“The Crimson Circlet,” Mavani replied. “It’s one of the few places on campus that can hold this many people.”

As they drew closer, Mags took in the massive, free-standing structure. The elliptical-shaped outer walls carved of a reddish, sandy colored stone. Its façade, multiple stories high, was covered in carving and statues, crafted from the same stone.

“Welcome to Brightwash Academy, Miss Magdalena of Solstice,” Mavani said, a faint smile playing at the edges of his tusked mouth. “Do try to survive.”