Ashes of the Elite

The white light fades, burning through my eyelids, leaving afterimage ghosts of color drifting in my vision. I've been victim to teleportation spells before, and the vertigo is familiar: a sudden lurch, the world tilting, stomach doing slow somersaults. I grit my teeth and force myself upright, refusing to let my knees buckle or my insides revolt. Some of the others aren't so lucky. I hear the harsh retch of someone vomiting behind me, the wet sound of sick splattering on stone, and weak groans echoing from a dozen directions.

I keep my eyes forward, blinking rapidly, trying to orient myself. My first thought is: Where the fuck are we?

I blink hard, forcing my senses to catch up. We're still inside the building. The same grand hall, the same high, arched ceilings, the same banners no, the banners are gone. The air is different. I taste cold wet wind, and the light is harsher, rawer, almost wild. It takes me a second to realize the proctors are all still on the platform, looking down on us like a jury about to deliver a sentence and boy don't they fit the part. My gaze sweeps upward and lands on a row of proctors, all standing at the very edge, looming above us. Evanora radiant in her white robes, Dean Abrashi's arms folded across his chest, Julian Boleyn silent and marble-still, Afia Balogun's hands clasped behind her back, and the rest, including the small, forgettable Hilla, whose teal eyes flicker over the crowd with bland disinterest. And the other proctors who have yet to introduce themselves.

Evanora stands at the front, arms folded, lips curled in a sneer. "Listen now, children. The Academy is due north. We expect you all to arrive by the end of the week." Her voice carries no warmth, no amusement just command, pure and simple.

I blink, mouth dry, and the thought stabs through my mind: What the fuck do you mean, arrive by the end of the week? Aren't you bastards taking us there? I glance at Elijah, who looks equally baffled, eyes darting between the proctors.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, Evanora waves her hand in a broad, almost lazy gesture. The world shivers. The walls of the building begin to ripple not just flickering, but actually coming undone. The stone peels away in layers, translucent at first, then vanishing entirely, like someone is unmaking the world piece by piece. The ceiling dissolves, letting in a rush of cold, wild air. Dim sunlight floods in. The marble beneath our feet splits and cracks, and suddenly, the floor itself is falling away.

I stumble, instinctively reaching for balance, but there's nothing to grab. In less than a minute, the entire building is gone. I'm standing on grass real, living grass, not the polished stone I've grown used to. The platform is a memory. The only thing left is the pedestal where the proctors stand, now a stone island in a sea of green.

Evanora laughs, the sound brittle and bright. "The Academy lies behind those mountains," she calls, her voice carrying easily over the wind. "We exist over a thousand miles outside of Lusa, in the Great Mountain Range of Sinwade!"

Sinwade. The name thunders in my head. I rack my memory for the geography lessons I mostly slept through. The Sinwade mountains are legend an unbroken, savage wall that stretches nearly two thousand miles, the natural barrier between Avrael and Trola. They're supposed to be impassable, haunted by storms and monsters that have all been made extinct by humans. The terrain is so sinister the weather so bad no cities or outposts were ever even erected near the mountain range.