Soren had traversed deep, shadowed valleys and scaled jagged mountain ranges that seemed to scrape the sky itself. By the time he reached the final trading post, his boots were caked in the dust of three different kingdoms.

He stepped into a cramped shop, the air thick with the scent of cured meats and old parchment.

"What are you looking to buy, lad?" the merchant asked, wiping a grime-streaked counter.

"Food," Soren replied, his voice raspy from the road. "Enough to last me a day."  

The merchant paused, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the traveler. "A day? You’re cutting it close. Where are you headed in such a rush?"

"Wiltfen," Soren said.  

The merchant’s hand stopped mid-motion. He looked at the boy with a flicker of genuine surprise—and perhaps a hint of pity.

"You do know you need to be accepted in advance, right?" the man asked. "Wiltfen isn't a place you just walk into. It's autonomous. It follows its own rules."  

Soren didn't flinch. "I know. I have the letter."  

The merchant whistled low, leaning over the counter. "Well, you must be something special, then. You’ll be the only one of your kind within those walls."  

A cold knot of worry tightened in Soren’s chest. He didn't ask what the merchant meant. He simply paid for his supplies, his fingers lingering for a second on the coin, before spotting a carriage preparing to depart outside.  

He rushed out, the heavy gates of the academy already looming in his mind.

He was finally here. The gate to Wiltfen stood before him—a threshold between the world he knew and the magic he had traveled so far to claim.  

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