Three days after becoming allies with a group of renegade spies, I stroll into the University on a sunny morning, wearing a heavy gray robe I bought at a little shop selling various school supplies for beginning students. The fabric is stifling, but it's important to fit in as much as possible. Thankfully, I don't need to worry about wearing the iron band around my neck that's become the new standard for commoners around the city. If I'm accepted into the University, they'll give me iron bracelets to indicate which semester I'm in, my primary area of study, and the sponsors I have among the current members of the church, if any. Until then, it's perfectly reasonable for me to be iron-less, since I'm claiming to be the ward of a minor lord who lives on the outskirts of the Ylvemoran countryside.

Explain to me again why if you're just pretending to be one of them, you need to ask permission, Balsevor says.

Balsevor doesn't approve of my methods of creating a false identity. He's made it clear he thinks a simple disguise should be more than sufficient. Or maybe he senses that there's more to my desire to join the University than snooping around. Sindred may have sent me here to find out where exactly my mother is located, but that’s not the reason I decided to enroll as a real student. Crazy that I might actually want to learn something at a school for wizards. I'm looking forward to this, and I'm not sure how much of that is for the nostalgic fulfilment of a childhood dream. I may be known as an impressive magic user in the Wood, but my power is limited. Maybe, by learning some basic spellcasting, I'll be able to harness my abilities, use them in more versatile ways. More human ways.

The Hall of Admissions is a rather squat building built off of the library. Since the semester has already started, I'm the only one currently walking in that direction. I push through the ridiculously tall, iron-studded doors and enter a large, dimly lit room with a desk in the center. When my eyes adjust to the new lighting, I see long, narrow shelves along the walls containing rows upon rows of rolled up scrolls. Sun shines through small windows high up on the walls, reflecting off floating specks of dust to create an ancient, mysterious effect.

Two people sit behind the desk. One is an aging woman with a very sharp chin and long neck. The other is a small man hunched in his chair, with thinning red hair and scraggly beard. He is holding a large monocle over one eye and reading a scroll that's close enough to his face to bump his prominent round nose.

"Come forward," the woman says, something inherently critical in her high-pitched voice.

I step up to the desk, smiling. "Good morning! I’m here to become a student?"

"Yes, yes," the vulture-like woman says. "We know. You're late. The semester began last week."

"I was held up. Lord Avermire has been ill," I say, a line I've practiced. "I'm his ward, and help look after him."

"Avermire?" The red-haired man looks up from his scroll. "He has a grown son, does he not? An heir. Why take on a ward?"

"Are you a bastard?" the woman asks, with analytical nonchalance, like she's inspecting the food on her plate.

I clear my throat, thankful that this woman makes it easy to fake awkward discomfort. "Yes, ma'am," I answer.

"Hm!" she says, with a sniff of disdain. "Well, then, let's see your referral."

"His illness…" I trail off, adding a wince for good measure. "The lord is old and dying. He wasn't able to write one for me…"

"Too ill to dictate to a scribe?" the woman asks. "Well, I'm afraid-"

"Patrizia." The man somehow manages to cut her off despite his quiet, wavery voice. "Do you have any other letters of recommendation?" he asks me. "Perhaps from a sponsor?"

I told you this wouldn't work, Balsevor says.

I sigh. "No, I'm-"

The door swings open, letting a rush of sunlight and cool air into the room. "I’m his sponsor!" a voice rings out, echoing around the quiet chamber.

Both of the people behind the desk stand up, squinting at the figure in the doorway. Even though her features are in shadow, I can tell who it is right away. Her melodic voice is unmistakable, with it's effortless arrogance and perpetual note of smug amusement. Vessimira.

Did she bring her ugly cat? Balsevor wonders.

"I would come in," she calls, "but I'm not allowed in the building."

The two admissions workers gasp. The woman seems appalled, while the man appears suddenly afraid for his life. His ruddy complexion has turned a grayish white. He reaches into a drawer behind the desk and pulls out two iron bracelets. His hands are trembling so badly they clink together repeatedly before he manages to place them on the desk. His companion watches him silently, her eyes bugging out of her head.

"Do get on with it!" Vessimira yells into the room. "I have other things to do today."

At that, the woman's willpower seems to snap. She grabs a scroll from the neat stack to her right and hastily begins to scrawl. "Your name?" she asks me, pausing.

"Odin Avermire," I say.

She barks out a couple more questions: my age, confirmation of where I'm coming from, description of my previous level of education. Then: "Primary area of study?"

They both look up at me as she asks this. The man is holding a wand in one hand and a single iron bracelet in the other. He waits.

"Pneumatism," I say. The art of life and death.

I hear two intakes of breath. They don't move.

"You'll have to ask Master Ellerin," the man squeaks, glancing up towards Vessmira as he does, "if he'll permit a… a late student."

"We can leave it blank, until you find out," the woman says. "Just come back later today. There are plenty of alternatives, if necessary."

The man looks regretfully down at the iron bracelet in his hand before putting it back in the drawer. The other one, already finished, he pushes across the desk towards me.

The woman spins the scroll around and holds out the quill. "Sign here!" she orders.

I sign my name at the bottom of the scroll and take the iron bracelet engraved with the words "FIRST SEMESTER." It’s large enough to slip easily onto my wrist, but as soon as I put it on I feel it tighten subtly. It is just snug enough that I can't take it back off easily. I look questioningly at the red-haired man.

"You-uh...You have to come to us, if you need the bracelet removed or altered," he stutters.

The woman adds, "It will continue to tighten, if you attempt to remove it without approval."

"Thank you," I say, nodding.

The woman hands me a scroll, pulled from a separate stack at her other side. "This has all of the information you'll need: first semester classrooms and times, the professors' offices and visiting hours, meals, church obligations."

"Welcome to the University," the man says, and I can tell it’s a dismissal. They can't wait to see the doors closing behind me.

Vessimira is smiling when I exit the building, clearly pleased with what she just accomplished. "Welcome to the University," she says, with a note of mocking. "I've been waiting for you, you know."

"I thought you told me it was a waste of time," I say. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"I had a feeling," she says. Today she's wearing a more traditional dress of thick black wool. The high collar and loose-fitting style are unlike her, but she's given the outfit her own flair by adding a polished steel corset that hugs her form in a way that I’m sure makes it very difficult to breathe. She reaches into one of her deep pockets, pulls out a bracelet and offers it to me. It's the same as the one I've just been given, except this one is studded with small rubies and has her name engraved upon it in looping letters: "Vessimira Nikaldia."

"You made this because you 'had a feeling'?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"Don't worry, you can take this one off, if you want to," she says, with a short, high laugh. "But I would be a little disappointed."

"Well...thank you, my lady," I say, smiling. "That was truly impeccable timing."

She smirks, eyes twinkling. "I know. That was part of the fun of it."

I look down at the scroll in my hand. "Apparently I'm to see a Master Ellerin? I should probably be going."

"Of course. I wish you all the luck with that man. You will visit me, though? In the palace?" she asks. "The invitation still stands, and Rapuki has been anxious to see you again."

Oh, how tempting, Balsevor drawls.

"I will," I say, feeling as though I've been roped into some sort of bargain. Maybe it's from my years spent in the Wood, but I am wary of debts owed with unknown terms of payment. Especially those involving beguiling women.

Please tell me you don't find this person attractive, Balsevor says, proving that dragons have no comprehension of human biology. I ignore him, knowing any response at all will only encourage additional commentary.

...

It isn't until I'm halfway up a staircase in the Pneumatists' Tower that I double check my scroll and realize Master Ellerin's office is located in a different building: the main temple, right in the center of campus. I sigh and take the stairs back down two at a time. Is there a spell to make it easier to get around this place? If there is, I probably missed the day they taught it. I'm grateful that at least Sindred made me study a basic map beforehand, as the only building I've ever entered is the main temple.

Entering the giant golden tower feels like stepping into a memory. Not necessarily the terrible one of being carried through these doors soot-stained and begging for my mother the night of Balsevor's arrival, since right now it's too sunny and bright for those grim rememberings. What I'm reminded of is weekly church gatherings and spectacular festival performances. Things that felt so mundane when I was young, but, looking back, seem more like a form of manipulative theater to convince us of the Ironborn's transcendence. A grand act. How much of it was lies? Maybe that's part of what I'm here to find out.

Inside is a massive round hall with a high, domed ceiling. Benches are lined up before a tiered stage at the far end. Close to the edges of the room are rows of large white pillars, connected to each other with supportive arches. The floor is tiled in intricate patterns, and mosaics on the walls and ceiling depict various scenes of the goddess. The biggest one, above, shows her flying, arms spread wide, silvery white hair curling around the golden rays of light that branch out from her body. I stop for a moment. I've seen this image dozens of times, but I'd never considered the glittering opal of her hair. Despite the rich bronze of her skin, she looks like Sindred.

Who is that woman? Balsevor asks.

As I gaze up at her, I start to wonder if I know the answer. I'll have to take another look at the sacred writings I took for granted when I was a child.

"You lost, boy?" an old priest asks. "Or just ogling the holy masterpieces?"

I snap back to the moment. "Actually, sir, I could use some help," I say, smiling. "Fastest way to Master Ellerin's office?"

The man frowns, as though my very presence is offensive to him, but he leads me over to a plain looking wooden door engraved with the word "UP" and gestures to it with a flick of his wrist.

I open the door expecting a staircase, and instead find a tiny box of a room with dark walls, no wider than the door itself, and just deep enough for one person to stand inside.

I look at the priest. "Um, I…"

His frown deepens. "This is what happens when you skip orientation," he says, eyes rolling upward as if in prayer. "Go on, get in."

Owl, I'm not sure about this, Balsevor says.

I take another look at the priest's miserable expression, and instead of asking for further clarification, I step into the small chamber. Backwards, since that seems to make the most sense. The priest closes the door, shutting me in darkness. A second later, a word engraved on this side of the door begins to glow with soft white light: "NAME."

"Odin Avermire," I say tentatively.

Nothing happens. The walls are close enough on either side to brush against my sleeves.

Owl… Balsevor complains.

"Odin Avermire," I say, this time forcefully.

"Not that name!" the priest shouts from somewhere on the other side of the door.

Oh. Feeling foolish, I say, "Master Ellerin."

The cramped space seems to breathe for a moment, stretching up and out, only to shrink right back so quickly it feels like I imagined the whole thing. Then there's a loud clanging knock, like a heavy metal object was dropped to the ground somewhere right above my head. I'm glad no one's around to see me jump.

"Enter!" a voice calls from beyond the door.

Instead of the temple chamber where I was before, the door opens into a large, light-filled study. It has a white carpet and hardly any furnishings. Instead of a desk, there is a long steel counter that’s been polished to gleaming. The only thing on its surface is a deep bowl of fruit, some of which I notice are rare or out of season. Behind the counter is a row of iron shelves with an assortment of potted herbs and plants, many unusual, lumpy and spiked. Another set of similar shelves is to the right, except these ones are filled with neat rows of glass jars and vials, each neatly labeled.

Master Ellerin stands before me, different than I pictured. I must have met him at some point in my childhood, yet this muscular, broad-shouldered man seems utterly unfamiliar. He appears to be rather young, with his face clean-shaven and his hair cut short. Instead of wearing the heavy linked robes of his station, he wears a shirt and trousers of clean white linen. When I enter the room he's holding a shiny red apple, tossing it absentmindedly between his hands as he scans me up and down.

"You are?" he asks.

"Odin Avermire, sir," I say. "I'm here to get permission to be your student."

"No," he says.

I start to argue, but stop myself. "Very well," I say instead, and turn around to go.

"What makes you think you deserve a place in this school?" he asks, interrupting my departure. "I've never heard of you, and you can't even arrive on time."

I tilt my head around to look at him, and smile. "You're right. I clearly don't belong here."

He throws the apple, and without thinking I reach up and catch it. It's surface is warm from being handled, smooth and unblemished. I look down at it like I'm confused how it got there.

"Putrefy," he says. "That is the spell my students learned while you were doing whatever else was more important. It means to decompose. To rot, spoil. Use the apple to demonstrate."

"Can I see the spell?" I ask.

"The incantation, or one of them, is ior olt. It is a minor pneumatic spell, so the only material components required are the organic object in question, and your own body. Rather slim chance of mana overextension, but, since you're… behind and ignorant, the risk exists."

"And that means… weakness, aging, illness… death?" I clarify.

"If it comes to that. I'd be impressed if you managed to kill yourself decaying an apple," he says. I get the feeling he's not often impressed.

"Alright," I say, shrugging.

I lift the apple to eye level and narrow my eyes, focusing precisely as I would if I was about to conjure a tiny ember. Then I visualize the apple withering in my hand, skin becoming brown and wrinkled, flesh wet and soft, its smell sickly sweet, sharply sour. When I have the image solidly in my head, I narrow my eyes and whisper, "Ior olt."

At first, it seems to be working as intended. There's a tug of magical energy somewhere within me, pulling at the apple, my body consuming its life the way fire consumes oxygen from the air. That tiny rush of energy feels like taking a sip of water: refreshing, but insignificant. As I watch, the once red apple goes rapidly from splotched and mushy to dried out and blackened. Then it bursts into flames.

Oops, Balsvor says, though it was my mistake.

With a twitch of my hand, I snuff out the fire. Grimacing, I look up at Master Ellerin.

He stares, wide-eyed, from the burnt husk of the apple to my face, then back.

"Who are you?" he asks, stepping toward me. He grabs my hand, where I still hold the crispy remains of the fruit. Then he pulls a pointed metal wand out of his pocket, easily mistakable for a very thin blade, and slaps it down on my bare wrist.

Of course, my flesh doesn't burn and blister at the touch of iron. His brow furrows. I opt for a look of innocent surprise, saying nothing.

"I have to speak to the other Masters," he says with a low voice. The way he looks at me is intrigued, calculating, but he speaks in a sort of distracted way, as though he has a lot to think about and I'm in his way.

I nod. My heartbeat starts to quicken at the thought of being so close to getting away with this plan only to be caught at the last second. What would he do, if he and the other Masters conclude I am some demon? Hunt me down to lock me up again?

Like we'd ever let that happen, Balsevor says.

"Thank you for your time," I say, taking a step backwards towards the door. My eyes drift to the wide windows on my left, the open sky outside. His office is near the top of the tower. How I'd love to just leap through and fly away.

"You'll start tomorrow," Master Ellerin says.

"What?" I spin my head to look at him.

"Don't be late," he says. "Pick up your books from the library, and make sure you study."