My fifteenth birthday arrived with considerably more fanfare than I thought necessary.
Apparently, the heir to a duke couldn't simply eat cake and call it a day.
There were visiting nobles. Gifts. Speeches. Enough polished silver on the dining tables to equip a particularly fancy infantry company.
Father hosted a formal dinner.
Mother commissioned a cake large enough that I briefly wondered whether someone was supposed to jump out of it.
Nobody did.
Another disappointing departure from the promised protagonist experience.
Milo and Lottie gave me a drawing tucked inside a folded piece of paper.
In it, I stood beside Dantalion while holding a weapon that appeared to be half rifle and half cannon.
"I drew the horse," Lottie explained.
"I did the writing," Milo added.
Across the bottom, in careful letters, were the words:
Happy Birthday, Dare.
I thanked them and put it somewhere it wouldn't get damaged.
Some gifts deserved better than being lost beneath a pile of expensive nonsense.
Veronica gave me a new pair of training gloves.
"Try keeping these," she said.
A touching sentiment.
Truly.
But beneath the celebration sat one unavoidable fact.
I was fifteen now.
The academy wasn't something waiting in the distant future anymore. The departure date was marked on Father's calendar, my travel trunk stood open in my room, and every birthday guest seemed determined to ask whether I was excited.
I was.
Mostly.
For fourteen years, I had been waiting for my life to begin.
Now that the next part was nearly here, I kept noticing things I would miss.
On the morning we left, Lottie inspected the carriage as though she suspected it might steal her brother.
She walked around it twice.
Checked the luggage.
Looked underneath.
Then she stood in front of Milo with her arms folded.
"You have to write."
"I will."
"And come back."
"I will."
"And don't let him lose his gloves."
I looked at the sky.
My reputation was suffering across multiple age groups.
Milo hugged her.
She held on hard enough to wrinkle his new coat.
It was a plain brown coat, well made, with room in the sleeves for growing.
He had tried to refuse it.
The housekeeper had informed him that representing the household in clothes that didn't fit was not an available option.
An astonishing number of generous acts in our home arrived disguised as administrative requirements.
I was beginning to appreciate the technique.
Mother hugged me next.
Then she adjusted my collar.
Then she hugged me again because apparently the first one had been preliminary.
"You have your letters?"
"Yes."
"Your identification?"
"Yes."
"Money?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where it is?"
"That feels unfair."
She smiled, but her eyes shone.
I suddenly remembered another woman standing in another doorway, watching me leave with a bag over my shoulder.
Different life.
Same expression.
I hugged her before she could ask the next question.
"I'll write too."
"You had better."
Father waited beside the carriage.
He handed me a sealed envelope.
"For the academy bursar. Your arrangements are complete."
Then a smaller one.
"And this?"
"Your great-uncle's office sent its congratulations on your birthday and acknowledged your forthcoming assessment."
The king.
Of course.
Nothing complicated about carrying royal correspondence to school.
Father watched my expression.
"You are not being sent as a representative of the crown."
"Good."
"You are being sent as my son."
Somehow, that felt heavier.
Then he smiled.
"Try to return with the same number of limbs."
"I'll make it a priority."
Veronica was coming with us to Crownstead.
Not as my permanent tutor.
Her commission would conclude after my placement assessments and formal transfer to academy instruction.
I'd known that for weeks.
Hearing her say it beside a packed carriage made it feel unpleasantly real.
Thirteen years.
She had taught me to read this world's script, insulted my Fireballs, corrected my posture, and hit me with enough practice weapons to qualify as an architectural survey.
I wasn't sure how to thank someone for all that.
So naturally, I chose poorly.
"You'll miss having someone to shout at."
She checked a strap on the luggage rack.
"I'll visit."
"Comforting."
"I thought so."
She stepped aside so Milo could climb in.
For once, she didn't call me an idiot.
I decided not to ruin it.
Dantalion traveled with the mounted escort.
We took the King's Road west toward Crownstead, passing villages I knew by name but had never visited.
The map had made the journey look simple.
The road disagreed.
We stopped for a damaged wagon axle.
Waited behind a flock of sheep.
Spent an impressive portion of one afternoon negotiating with a mule that appeared philosophically opposed to bridges.
Milo watched everything.
Mills.
Stone markers.
A roadside shrine covered in ribbons.
A patrol checking travel papers beside a toll station.
At first, every armed stranger made his shoulders tighten.
Veronica noticed without mentioning it.
She began explaining things before they happened.
"Road wardens. They'll check the carriage seal."
"Bridge toll. We have the payment ready."
"Travelers' inn. The stable yard is behind it."
Small facts.
Predictable steps.
By the second day, he had stopped reaching for the seat whenever hoofbeats approached.
I filed that away.
Not all useful lessons involved weapons.
At an inn on the third evening, we shared the common room with merchants, two academy families, and a scarred woman wearing an adventurer's charter badge.
She carried no obvious weapon.
Naturally, I noticed her immediately.
One of the merchants complained about Veyran inspections.
Another complained about Berken inspections.
The woman ate her stew.
"Which side do you think starts it?" the first merchant asked her.
She swallowed.
"The side whose idiots get lucky first."
That quieted the table.
Later, I asked Veronica whether that was a sensible assessment.
"It's a memorable one."
"Not the same thing?"
"No."
She glanced toward the merchant.
"Some people want war. Some fear it. Some expect to profit whether it happens or not. Be careful about mistaking confidence for information."
I looked into my cup.
My old life had provided several excellent examples of that lesson.
Apparently, it traveled across dimensions.
We saw our first Crownstead watchtower before noon on the fifth day.
Then another.
Then the road climbed a gentle rise, and the city spread beneath us.
Walls.
Roofs.
Towers.
More people than I had seen together since arriving in this world.
Crownstead curved around the meeting of two rivers, its older districts packed behind pale stone walls. Bridges crossed the water like broad ribs.
Barges moved beneath them.
On the northern heights stood the royal palace.
Across a wide stretch of terraced ground, separated from the palace by gardens and administrative buildings, rose the academy.
Not one building.
A whole damned neighborhood.
Lecture halls. Dormitories. Towers. Training yards.
A dome of blue glass caught the sunlight.
Beyond it, something bright struck an invisible barrier and scattered like sparks.
I leaned forward.
"Please tell me that's normal."
Veronica looked out.
"Practical warding demonstration."
"Oh, I am going to enjoy this place."
Milo pressed close to the window.
He didn't say anything.
His face said enough.
We stayed at a townhouse belonging to Father's household.
I had forgotten that being rich occasionally meant discovering additional houses.
A steward received us.
A hot bath restored my faith in civilization.
Then the assessments began.
The written examination was manageable.
The handwriting portion was an act of persecution.
History included a question about the Gray March.
I resisted the urge to write, Everybody claims it, nobody agrees, and ordinary people will probably pay for the argument.
Instead, I provided dates.
Veronica would have been proud.
Etiquette involved an interview with a severe woman who introduced herself without a title.
A trap, naturally.
I offered the appropriate neutral courtesy and waited.
She made a small mark on her paper.
I tried not to look smug.
Mostly succeeded.
The practical assessors were considerably more interested in my gun.
I demonstrated the carbine on approved targets.
Declared its reservoir.
Explained its limitations.
Then I disclosed the launcher.
One examiner stopped writing.
Another asked me to repeat myself.
We relocated to a reinforced range.
Veronica looked delighted.
Not because of the weapon.
Because someone else now had to complete the paperwork.
After the demonstration, the senior examiner removed his spectacles.
"That configuration will require specific authorization for use on academy grounds."
"I assumed as much."
"Good."
He put the spectacles back on.
"Keep assuming it."
Minor Healing received a quieter evaluation.
Pocket Dimension earned an inspection of its contents.
The examiner found bandages, water, food, spare clothing, and a neatly maintained inventory.
Somewhere behind me, Veronica radiated unbearable satisfaction.
My admission was confirmed the following afternoon.
Placement would continue after orientation, but I had passed the entry requirements.
The academy accepted Milo's registration as a junior household attendant under the conditions Father had arranged.
His education remained part of the agreement.
So did his pay.
The clerk explained it to him directly rather than speaking over his head.
I liked her immediately.
When she handed him his identification token, he turned it over several times.
"That means you belong here," I told him.
He closed his fingers around it.
"I know."
This time, I thought he might.
On our final morning at the townhouse, Veronica inspected my uniform.
Adjusted one cuff.
Stepped back.
For the first time since I was two years old, she seemed uncertain what to say.
That made two of us.
"Thank you," I managed.
She looked at me.
"For all of it."
Her expression softened.
Then she tapped my forehead with two fingers.
"Use this before the launcher."
"That's your farewell advice?"
"It's excellent advice."
I laughed.
Then I hugged her.
She froze for half a breath before returning it.
No joke.
No wandering thoughts.
Just gratitude for someone who had helped raise me.
When we separated, she cleared her throat.
"Try not to make your instructors regret accepting you."
"No promises."
"Darien."
"I'll do my best."
"That," she said, "will do."
The carriage stopped beneath the academy's outer arch.
Students streamed past us in dark blue uniforms.
Some arrived with trunks.
Some with servants.
Some carrying everything they owned.
Milo climbed down beside me, holding his small case in one hand and my document satchel in the other.
I offered to take the satchel.
He shook his head.
"It's my job."
"Lessons first."
"I know."
"Meals aren't conditional."
"I know."
"And if you want to go home—"
"I'll tell you."
I nodded.
Above us, carved letters stretched across pale stone.
BERKEN ROYAL ACADEMY.
Fifteen years old.
A functioning system.
A magical rifle.
An actual rocket launcher.
And, somehow, a very real chance that my greatest immediate enemy would be a lecture schedule.
Still, standing beneath those gates, I felt the excitement rise.
Beyond them waited crowded paths, unfamiliar faces, and towers full of things I had spent two lifetimes wanting to learn.
For once, I didn't imagine an audience applauding.
I adjusted my satchel strap on Milo's shoulder so it wouldn't dig in, then looked up at the entrance.
"All right, buddy."
He stood a little straighter beside me.
"Let's see what they can teach us."