Aragon academy
The sea is the first thing you notice.
Cold, endless, silver-blue — it stretches beneath the cliffs like glass caught mid-breath. The carriage jolts as it climbs the final stretch of road, the smell of salt and wet stone sharp in the air. Ahead, half-veiled in mist, rise the spires of Aragon Academy — taller, broader, and far stranger than you ever imagined.
You lean out the carriage window for a better look. The castle seems to grow out of the coastline itself, its walls blending with the cliffs, towers spearing upward into clouds. Banners ripple in the wind — each marked with an open eye over a wave. A faint hum follows the breeze, like the air itself is enchanted.
You still can’t quite believe you’re here.
A year ago, you were watching the aptitude ceremony through the tavern window — scrubbing dishes, pretending not to care. You remember the way the children stood in the square, their palms glowing as the magician tested them one by one. You remember how small you felt, how impossible it seemed that magic could ever belong to you.
And then, later that night, a woman in a travelling cloak asked your name.
“Fifteen?” she’d said, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Strange. I don’t remember testing you.”
You hadn’t known what to say. But she’d smiled — calm, sharp-eyed, and tired in a way that felt ancient. Merin Goldstone. The name still echoes when you think of her. The magician who tested your village… and who somehow decided to make you her student. Her patron.
Now, sixteen and far from home, you’ve reached the Academy she spoke of — the place where you’ll either prove you belong… or lose everything.
The carriage stops with a hiss of brakes. A line of students steps out ahead of you — some in embroidered cloaks, others with servants carrying their trunks. Their laughter and chatter fill the chill morning air.
You step down last, your single travel bag slung over your shoulder, and join the stream moving toward the enormous iron gate. Its hinges are carved with constellations and runes that shift as you pass beneath them, whispering words you can almost understand.
Beyond lies the courtyard of Aragon.
Stone paths lined with impossibly bright flowers, birds of colors you’ve never seen darting among the branches. A marble fountain at the center sends up silver arcs of water that hang in the air too long before falling. Everything hums faintly — alive with quiet, deliberate magic.
You tighten your grip on your bag strap. This is it.
The first day of the rest of your life.
Ahead, a girl with red curls is struggling with a trunk that appears to be sprouting leaves. A vine snakes from its latch, tugging at her wrist as she mutters a stream of creative curses under her breath.
Cold, endless, silver-blue — it stretches beneath the cliffs like glass caught mid-breath. The carriage jolts as it climbs the final stretch of road, the smell of salt and wet stone sharp in the air. Ahead, half-veiled in mist, rise the spires of Aragon Academy — taller, broader, and far stranger than you ever imagined.
You lean out the carriage window for a better look. The castle seems to grow out of the coastline itself, its walls blending with the cliffs, towers spearing upward into clouds. Banners ripple in the wind — each marked with an open eye over a wave. A faint hum follows the breeze, like the air itself is enchanted.
You still can’t quite believe you’re here.
A year ago, you were watching the aptitude ceremony through the tavern window — scrubbing dishes, pretending not to care. You remember the way the children stood in the square, their palms glowing as the magician tested them one by one. You remember how small you felt, how impossible it seemed that magic could ever belong to you.
And then, later that night, a woman in a travelling cloak asked your name.
“Fifteen?” she’d said, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Strange. I don’t remember testing you.”
You hadn’t known what to say. But she’d smiled — calm, sharp-eyed, and tired in a way that felt ancient. Merin Goldstone. The name still echoes when you think of her. The magician who tested your village… and who somehow decided to make you her student. Her patron.
Now, sixteen and far from home, you’ve reached the Academy she spoke of — the place where you’ll either prove you belong… or lose everything.
The carriage stops with a hiss of brakes. A line of students steps out ahead of you — some in embroidered cloaks, others with servants carrying their trunks. Their laughter and chatter fill the chill morning air.
You step down last, your single travel bag slung over your shoulder, and join the stream moving toward the enormous iron gate. Its hinges are carved with constellations and runes that shift as you pass beneath them, whispering words you can almost understand.
Beyond lies the courtyard of Aragon.
Stone paths lined with impossibly bright flowers, birds of colors you’ve never seen darting among the branches. A marble fountain at the center sends up silver arcs of water that hang in the air too long before falling. Everything hums faintly — alive with quiet, deliberate magic.
You tighten your grip on your bag strap. This is it.
The first day of the rest of your life.
Ahead, a girl with red curls is struggling with a trunk that appears to be sprouting leaves. A vine snakes from its latch, tugging at her wrist as she mutters a stream of creative curses under her breath.