Once Raven’s crates were hauled off the wagon, his spooked coachman-for-hire immediately climbed back aboard and drove away in a hurry, presumptively to a place warm and distant from his former fare.

Raven smirked.

“And so it begins,” a voice said in his ears. Girlish and small, the familiar voice only Raven could hear still rang with shrewd perception. But then again, she’d been with him since he was just a boy. The name of her pandora was Rue the Day. He called her Rue, the name she asked to be called.

He stood alone on the side of the road, a gravelly gray interruption to the snow surrounding him. The Bomfrosts did not grow at such an altitude, nor did much else. He shook his robes free of the accumulating ice. His clothing served him well, loose around the chest and legs, but tight around the waist by a cloth belt. His sleeves were wide and extensive to hide his hands.

He turned to the grand iron gate barricading entrance to Nine Star Academy. The wall of Reyk Roespeye surrounded the gate, one of twelve. The city’s fortification towered high into the gray sky, thick in its defense but lacking all grandeur. Typical of Roespeye, with its cowardly citizens hiding far up in the mountains and behind deep walls. Men and women of “education and practice.” But they knew what lurked beyond the mist-strewn ranges, no matter how high their precious refuge reached.

The Titan suffered no walls.

Raven glared. But he will suffer me.

Anger again welled up within him. His most important work was about to begin, and after waiting so long, he couldn’t wait to start. But then, he paused. He could feel Rue beating on his heart, filled with doubt, fear and a great sadness equal to his wrath. But instead of asking about it, he waited for her to broach her distress.

“Raven…what if I get taken?” she asked.

“I would never allow that,” he replied right away.

Another pause. “And you won’t die, either… right?”

Raven stared hard, mouth moving in twitches. He folded his arms, and his anger subsided.

“If I do… it’s only because I’ve succeeded,” he finally replied quietly. “But no matter what happens, you will live, Rue. You will live well.”

The crates carrying his possessions sat in the snow beside him, but he set off without them, following the barely visible road as it passed by the gate. The doorway granted passage to a huge clock tower built into the wall. A massive pendulum bob rocked back and forth with riotous clacks. At the gate, a boy about Raven’s age waited nervously, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He stood beside his own set of crates, which he watched protectively, as if afraid someone might steal them at any moment. When he noticed Raven, he did a double-take, appraising his clothing with an odd expression and stepping back.

At that moment, the twenty-span high gate clicked, and the carved door of iron opened with a riotous screech. A bald man with a ledger peeked his head out.

“Oh, there are still more of you,” he said with mild surprise, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Next please. You may leave your possessions there. We will see to them… if you are approved for enrollment, of course.”

Raven stepped forward, and the man bid him entrance. The boy waiting was about to protest, but Raven stopped and looked him in the eyes. All objection to cutting in line vanished, and Raven proceeded through the door.

And in no time at all, he found himself before his quarry. The seven masters of Nine Star Academy sat before him, eyeing him with mild interest from the other side of the immense hall. Raven bowed his head, a devilish smile growing.

“Be nice, Raven,” Rue said.

“Not today, my friend,” he whispered back.

“What was that, young man?” one of the masters asked. “Step forward.”

Raven did as commanded, slowly stepping into the cavernous, dimly lit chamber. The Ilias Drome, or grand meeting place, of Nine Star Academy dwarfed any cathedral he had ever laid eyes upon. Or at least he suspected it did, because the top could not even be seen. Darkness consumed the expanse above thirty spans. Pandora in iron cages lined the circular walls, illuminating what they could. Some flickered, being close to heavenly retirement, while others glowed with the steady determination of a new term.

Parchment papers were scattered all over the place. Yellowed with age, the pages skittered across the stone floors at the direction of some undetectable air current. As he moved, they made way for him before resuming never-ending loops and twirls of disorder.

Raven stopped in the middle of the hall, arms limp at his side and head still bowed. In seven different-leveled oak podiums, the teachers sat in silence, donned in official black.

“Masters,” he said.

“Name,” one of the teachers said impatiently. “Be quick about it, son. It’s been a long day, and you are very late. I’m tempted to close enrollment right now and turn you back into the cold.”

Raven looked up, eyeing the large, bearded man with a glare. “For me, you will make an exception.”

Four of the other masters frowned at Raven’s statement, while the youngest, and the only female among them, smiled with amusement. The last teacher’s face could not be fully seen, as the high collar of his coat reached up past his nose. But incredibly bushy black eyebrows turned down in a carefully guarded look. A cardinal sitting on his shoulder chirped shrilly at Raven before turning its back on him.

The first master harrumphed with disdain. His immense black beard ruffled in anger as he spoke up, “Is that so? Tough talk from such a short and sickly-looking runt. Before I turn you away right now for your manners, why don’t you explain to us why you are so special.”

Raven sniffed, a contemptible smile on his lips. “My name is Raven Whitesong of Reyk Surlance. No need to remember it, for by the end of my time here, it will be burned into your memory. I come here for what you are fond to call an education, but what I shall label an utter waste of time. However, to your benefit, I will enroll, and by doing so, show you something grand.”

The bearded master’s face began turning various shades of red, and a teacher beside him had to grasp his arm. “Calm yourself, Czeslaw.”

“Surlance?” Czeslaw growled behind gritted teeth. “That filthy, sorry excuse for a city? Where even dogs are shamed to live?”

“Indeed. Yet another embarrassment for you, I suppose. That a student from such a place should be greater than the lot of you combined.”

Czeslaw slammed his fist on the podium while two other masters quickly stood in anger.

“Enough!” the female on the far right said with authority. Her smile remained, and a fire danced in her eyes.

“Enough, indeed!” Czeslaw growled. “Where is Sampson? I want this boy out of here right now.”

A silence permeated the seven as they stared at Raven with a mixture of scorn and bewildered disbelief.

The female spoke again. “Do you know who I am, Raven Whitesong?”

Raven’s smile turned another notch. “Master Fyre – mathematics and science. To your left, Master Cooley – economics; Master Turngood – pandora and Hydra; Master Czeslaw – history, artifacts, and relics; Master Bastille – religion; Master Smith – seals; and…” Raven slowly turned to look at the bushy-eyebrow teacher. “…Master Selim Forir – battle and war tactics.”

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Forir’s expression didn’t change, save for a subtle spark in his gaze.

Fyre ran a hand through her brown ponytail, not the slightest put off. “If you know who we are and what this is, and if you’re so amazing, then there must be a reason you have come to our fair school other than to brashly insult us. So please, if you could end the posturing and get to the real purpose of your presence, we can get home that much faster.”

“Home? Don’t you mean to Little Fastings, Master Fyre? Or have you already gambled away this month’s salary at the casino?”

Czeslaw gasped in fury. “You little—”

Fyre clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, how fascinating. You’ve even taken the time to study each of us. I do indeed have something of a gambling problem, don’t I? Not much of a secret, though. If Little Fastings was open this time of year, I’d probably be there. Well, you have my attention, young Whitesong, regardless of the reason you are here.” She turned to the other teachers. “Let’s commence with enrollment, shall we?”

“You can’t be serious,” Turngood exclaimed in a labored voice. He patted down the wisps of white hair still left on his head. “This boy is utterly contemptible.”

“Too bad. I’ve decided this is interesting. And after a long day of enrolling one boring student after another, this is just the cap on the day I wanted.” She pointed to Raven. “Disrobe.”

Raven reached to his waist, unraveling the belt. His robes fell to the ground, revealing a naked torso. And his pants were of thin material. The masters leaned forward, wide-eyed. His skin was paler than anything they’d ever seen, nearly glowing. He was indeed short for his age, but his robes had belied a toned physique, adorned with several thin scars. His head was shorn and shaved. And each ear featured an earring with a dangling green orb.

“Young man,” Smith spoke up, lowering his rectangular spectacles to examine him closer. “How are you not freezing to death?”

“I embrace the cold,” Raven answered with a straight face. He continued to stare at Czeslaw.

“Turn around,” Fyre ordered, resting her chin in her hand.

Raven turned once. When he did, Czeslaw slapped his podium in triumph. “Look at that! I should have known.”

A rigid scar was etched into the back of Raven’s head, brutal in every sense of the word: a square marking with a line running diagonally through it.

“There you have it,” Czeslaw said, folding his arms in delight. “A filthy Rogue. Doesn’t even have a pool.”

“Hang on,” Fyre interrupted. “Rogues are branded with ink. That’s no tattoo.”

“Trifles. If he has Hydra, he can prove it. I’m throwing this rat back to the snow right now.”

Czeslaw reached into his cloak and produced a pandora. The silver card featured an emblem of a spear. He stood up and held the card before Raven. The pandora burst with a halo of light. A sphere of energy bubbled from the surface, then shot forward. From the blinding streak, a form materialized. Raven turned and watched as armor of stone appeared out of the light, forming a soldier twice his size, at least ten spans high. A mighty spear also appeared, which the warrior took with one enormous hand. The other hand reached down and grabbed Raven by the neck, snatching him off the ground.

“Rook, that’s enough!” Fyre shouted.

But Czeslaw didn’t listen, so happy was he to rid the Ilias Drome of the instigator. However, his smile washed away when he realized Raven wasn’t struggling. He simply hung from the statue’s hand like a rag doll, pale gaze rife with amusement. Czeslaw’s face then drained of all flush when his stone soldier began to crack and crumble. With a riotous crash, the guardian collapsed in a heap of rubble before disappearing in a flash of light. Raven landed back down with ease, and the light from the teacher’s pandora faded.

Raven kneeled, calmly picking up his robes and proceeding to clothe himself once more. The six other masters sat with dropped jaws while Czeslaw still stood with arm extended, frozen and wide-eyed.

“I assume you still require certain information for enrollment,” Raven said once he was finished. “Let’s start with the demographics. I have already stated I am from Surlance, but it is true I have no pool, for I was adopted. I am sixteen years old, five-point-two spans tall, one-hundred thirty danes heavy, and devout to the Holy One.”

“If you have no pool, how are you able to use Hydra?” Master Bastille asked, lifting his wide-brimmed hat and blinking several times. “You claim to serve the Holy One. Then dispense with the lies.”

Raven did not answer, making Bastille frown. The religion teacher leaned toward Master Smith and whispered, “He clearly has a pool. The scar means nothing. Maybe it was the result of bullying, or perhaps some cruel punishment in his youth.”

Smith nodded, then cleared his throat. “Raven Whitesong, a condition of enrollment is to reveal your strongest pandora, if you possess any. Please do so now.”

“I cannot do that,” Raven replied.

“Then you will not be enrolled.”

Raven sighed again with added emphasis. “The Titan’s Law states no one can be forced to reveal a pandora greater than Class Five.”

The elder master issued a trebling chuckle. “You possess a pandora stronger than Five? Among the teachers sitting before you, only Master Forir owns a pandora of such clout.”

“Hence my contempt for your authority.”

“You truly delight in obstinance, don’t you? The Titan’s Law may prohibit forcing a person to reveal his high-class pandora, but we can inquire about the highest you possess. So tell us, young man… what is the class of your greatest soul?”

“Class Eight.”

Czeslaw and Turngood again yammered their outrage.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Smith agreed. “Young man, you are a liar! This is a place of higher learning, not a jester’s court. Why have you come here if your only intent is to—”

“Show us your highest pandora then,” Fyre quickly said. “Class Five or lower.” Her eyes twinkled with anticipation.

“Certainly,” Raven replied, lifting an arm. “Let me substantiate your collective weakness.”

A pandora drifted out of his wide sleeve, hovering before him and slowly turning in place. The card featured an emblem of a woman holding a sheath of wheat and blowing a powerful wind across grain fields.

“Widow’s Reaver. Class Five,” Raven said. At that moment, another pandora drifted out of his robes, floating up next to the first. “How about this one? Class Five.”

Again and again, gray cards emerged from his sleeves, until twenty were lined in a row between Raven and the seven masters.

“And these are just my Class Fives,” Raven finished. “Would you like to see my Fours?”

Again, six dumbfounded masters made no response. Raven waited in silence, basking in their shock. His plan was commencing flawlessly.

“As expected,” the voice in his ears said.

Fyre, however, clapped her hands with glee. “This is going to be the best year our city has ever seen. How delightful! I expect you to be on time to my class, young man. I can tolerate narcissism seven days a week, but tardiness is a different matter.”

Raven sniffed. “As you wish.”

“HOLD ON!” Czeslaw nearly screamed. “You’re not the only one with a say, Fanny. I’m not finished yet. Or have you forgotten we don’t do this for free?”

Fyre frowned. “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, then.”

Czeslaw’s burly chest expanded as he looked down on Raven in judgment. “Tuition is two-thousand crowns.”

Fyre’s head snapped to look at him in shock. “What? That’s ten times normal tuition for a year.”

“That’s the tuition! Or have I suddenly been replaced as treasurer on this—”

He was interrupted by a loud thud that echoed through the hall. The masters looked at Raven again. At his feet sat a velvet bag tied with a golden cord.

“Done,” Raven replied.

Czeslaw’s eye began to twitch.

“Not enough?” Raven asked. He reached into his sleeve. Two more large bags fell at his feet. “What about this? Is this enough, Master Czeslaw? Would six-thousand crowns suffice for this year’s tuition? You are, after all, the treasurer.”

Raven issued a look of pure loathing that shot daggers at the man. “You will enroll me now,” he rasped.

“Young Whitesong.”

The feathery voice of Master Finitim Cooley finally emerged after complete silence during the whole exchange. The dark-skinned man with a sharp nose and even sharper eyes stood, laying hands on his podium.

“I must concur with Master Fyre. You have not come to simply mock us. You have come here for a purpose, and you are pursuing that purpose even now. Your words are laced with intention, full of poison seeking specific victims. Enough games. You have made your point. So, tell us. Why have you come here?”

Raven considered Cooley carefully. I might have underestimated this one.

“Am I enrolled?” he finally asked.

Cooley nodded. “You are.”

Raven slowly lifted his arm, finger pointed high. “I have come… to issue a challenge.”

A riotous creak filled the chamber.

A drop of black rain fell on Czeslaw’s podium, splashing in a tiny puddle before vanishing. The teachers all looked at him, and then up into the darkness. Another black drop fell on Turngood’s nose, and yet another on a stack of papers in Fyre’s hands. Drop, drop, drop. And in moments, the Ilias Drome was consumed with a black downpour of silent, shadowy rain that vanished into nether upon impact.

It ended as quickly as it began. Another loud screech, like metal on metal, preceded a blaring gong. And from the darkness above, a single wooden beam descended. The massive square post of dark lumber stretched down so far, Raven’s pointed finger nearly touched it. At the end of the beam, four ivory busts of eagles were installed, one on every side. Each of their beaks held a copper sphere.

“What are you DOING?” Bastille nearly screamed in horror. “You can’t invoke the Vark Ilias!”

“I am now a student of Nine Star,” Raven replied, lowering his arm. “So yes… I can. Generations of former masters have tried to snuff the Vark from memory, but nothing is hidden from my eyes. You will remember this.”

“What on earth is the Vark Ilias?” Turngood asked.

“It’s a special ritual that all students of Nine Star Academy have the right to call upon,” Czeslaw answered darkly. “It allows them to issue a challenge to any schoolmaster. Yet another of Panka’s nasty, pointless tricks.”

“You idiot brat!” Smith exclaimed, matching Bastille’s fear. “The Titan will definitely hear about this! And then he’ll come… oh no, he’ll come to Roespeye! What have you done? He’ll come!”

Raven smiled. That’s exactly the point.

Master Fyre’s cheer vanished. She looked Raven in the eyes. “What is your challenge?” she asked.

He pointed at them. “At the end of my term here at the school, one year from now, I will defeat each of you in any contest you name!”