The Royal Academy is situated almost exactly midway between Port Ridge and Luddoff, lying seventy miles east of the port, and sixty miles west of the capital. Since we are traveling by foot, it takes us about three full days before arriving on the fourth morning, and as we crest a large hill, the school finally comes into view, a spacious campus spanning several miles wide, surrounded by forested mountains on the south and west ends, and cuddled by lakes to the north. Down into the valley we go, across a bridge, and then we arrive at the western gates, welcomed by banners fluttering along the walls, patterned with roses of red and white, as well as a pair of guards manning the entry. When they spot us approaching, they immediately bow in respect, addressing in near unison, “Welcome back, Professor Renolds.”

“Fred. George,” Gin greets, “Staying out of trouble, I see.”

The two guards, who I now realize are teenagers perhaps sixteen years of age, both develop wide grins on their faces, again nodding in sync. “Of course, Professor Renolds.”

Gin shrugs in reply. “That’s a shame,” he says, offering a smirk of his own, “Well then, good day to you both.” And with that, he proceeds along down the road. As for myself, I’m standing motionless in place, still a bit dumbfounded by the fact that I’m hearing people actually referring to Gin as “Professor Renolds”. The words just sound so… bizarre as they move along my tongue.

“Professor Renolds. Professor Renolds. Professor Renolds,” I repeat under my breath, trying to acclimate myself to the idea.

“What are you chanting?” a voice asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. It’s Vivian, an unimpressed expression across her face. “A curse of some kind?”

“Uh, one could think of it that way,” I reply. This draws a tilt of the head from my companion, but she doesn’t comment further, gesturing me along instead. As we pass by the guards, I note that the two are in hushed gossip, giggling like school children.

“He remembers our names!” one of the boys is busy whispering to the other. His friend, noting us passing, quickly ribs him in the side with an elbow, indicating for him to stop talking and the two immediately stiffen, bowing their heads respectfully. I offer the two a polite bow back, for I feel a bit uncomfortable simply receiving their gesture as is. Ahead, I see Vivian already through the gates, head held high, eyes unwavering, having ignored the guards completely. I move quickly to catch up.

Pass the walls and I find myself in the campus proper, as a large courtyard of lush greenery spans before me, and together with Gin and Vivian, we proceed deeper into the school, passing by beige-brown buildings made of brick, lecture halls and classrooms, I presume. The stone appears old, smooth and weathered by wind, with vines of ivy growing up the sides. The further we go, the more students we encounter as well, some looking like full-fledged adults in their early twenties, others as young as fourteen perhaps. They are dressed in a variety of outfits, spanning from light tunics to heavy armor, with some carrying swords, some carrying bows, some carrying books and some carrying seemingly nothing at all. The one unifying garment is a hooded cloak which all the students wear, a mandatory uniform of some sort I can only assume, though this too comes in two varieties, black and white. And while it’s not apparent to me the significance of the color, there does appear to be about a two to one split in favor of the white cloaks, that is, twice as many white cloaks as black ones.

I take a pause, breathing in the floral scent of the earthy air, listening to the melodic chirp of birds as well as the idle chatter of students walking by. I feel my eyes slipping shut, and suddenly, I’m back on Earth, back in my old shoes, my old life. I’m standing in the middle of a courtyard, not so different than this, watching as the hazy forms of people pass. And then there is a voice, calling out to me from behind. It’s my friend, Aiden. His face is a bit blurry, but I can still tell it is his. He’s complaining about something, doing poorly on an exam, I think, and a laugh escapes my lips, for I remember not doing so hot myself, and then we’re on to the next subject- girls- as he peppers me with questions- my type, my ex’s, if I preferred boobs or butts.

That’s right. We were talking about girls on that day too, about Rachel Miller, when…

“Ah! Are you crying?” a voice asks flatly, breaking into my remembrance.

My eyes fly open, and I see Vivian, inches away from my face, an impassive expression on her own. A flash of heat finds its way to my cheeks, and I quickly turn away, wiping myself with the inside of an arm. “N-No! I’m not crying…”

“Master! Jaxon’s totally crying!”

“I’m not-!”

A hand on my head causes me to pause, and when I look up, I’m surprised to see that it’s Vivian, a softer gaze in her eyes now. “There. There,” she says, voice still monotonous, patting me as she would a puppy, “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, beansprout? But this place is a sort of home too.” A sense of surprise draws from her words, my gaze reaching for her crystal blue eyes.

Is she trying to…?

Before I can complete the thought, however, a loud yapping shatters the moment, pulling my attention away. Looking over, I spot a blond-haired teenager rushing towards us, his hand waving emphatically through the air.

“Gin! Gin! Gin!”