Eryk kept the scholarship letter folded in the inner pocket like it could stop a blade. It didn’t even stop a finger. The gate attendant didn’t look up when Eryk stepped into the shadow of the arch. The man’s pen scratched, scratched, scratched, like Eryk was a form that would behave if he wrote hard enough. Two cadets in slate uniforms lounged beside the desk their uniforms stretched taut over their muscles, hinting at an athletic build, all clean seams and bored faces, watching arrivals like they were picking horses. Eryk set his trunk down carefully. He’d tightened the straps three times on the coach. The leather still squeaked like a complaint.
"Name," the attendant said. "Eryk Dane."
The pen paused. That was enough to make Eryk’s stomach tighten. Not fear, not exactly. Recognition was a kind of weapon here. The attendant’s eyes flicked to the letter in Eryk’s hand. Not his face. Not his boots. The letter.
"Scholarship," the attendant said, like he was reading an ingredient list that might contain insects.
Eryk held the seal toward him and didn’t flinch. Private rule. Don’t let them laugh twice. Don’t give them the scholarship-boy script.
"I can read," Eryk said. He regretted it immediately because it sounded like begging to be punished.
One of the lounging cadets snorted. The other one didn’t laugh; he just smiled, which was worse because it meant he could afford not to.
The attendant took the letter and tore the seal with a thumb too practiced. He scanned it, then stamped a token—thin metal, cheap—into Eryk’s palm.
"Gray rank," the attendant said. "Dormitory C. Mess hall after bell. Don’t miss orientation. Don’t lose the token. You lose it, you’re not in the system."
"I’m in the system," Eryk said, and heard himself. Like a child saying I’m real.
The attendant finally looked at him. Not with interest. With the mild irritation of someone forced to acknowledge a stain.
"Not the one that matters," the attendant said, and slid the letter back like it had become contagious.
The cadet with the smile leaned in just enough to be heard.
"Gray rank gets the far bunks. Try not to cry too loud at night. The stone carries."
Eryk’s throat did the thing it did when he wanted to say something sharp and his brain showed him the cost in advance. He swallowed it. He picked up his trunk. He walked through the arch like he belonged and counted his steps so his pace wouldn’t speed up.
Inside, the Imperial Relic Academy looked like someone had decided to build a fortress and then got bored halfway through and started adding courtyards. Stone everywhere. Flags snapping. A wide avenue of worn slate leading between drill yards and lecture halls and a central tower that watched all of it like a judge.
The rich-kids—no, the clan cadets—moved in little packs, already arranged by color and trim. Some had crimson piping on their cuffs. Some had silver. Eryk’s issued slate jacket had no trim at all, just a stiff collar that scratched his neck like it resented him. He saw eyes flick to his token hand. Gray. The cheapest metal. Not even brass. He adjusted his grip so the token disappeared behind his knuckles. He wasn’t hiding it. He was managing it. There was a difference. He’d learned the difference in markets where men watched your hands to decide what they could take.
Dormitory C sat behind the main blocks like it had been built as an apology. The path narrowed, the stone got older, and the air smelled like wet wool and boiled cabbage. A slate plaque by the door read C—PROVISIONAL. Somebody had scratched a line through PROVISIONAL and written "PIT."
Eryk pushed inside with his shoulder because his hands were full. The door stuck, then gave with a groan. The hall was long and dim, lined with hooks and scuffed benches. Noise leaked from upstairs—laughter, arguing, a trunk thumping, somebody practicing a chant badly.
He found a clerk at a small table, a girl with ink-stained fingers and the blank stare of someone who had seen too many names.
"Token," she said without looking up.
Eryk set it on the table. It clicked and felt too loud. She turned it over, checked the stamp, then slid a key across the wood.
"Third floor. Bunk seventeen. Don’t break anything. Don’t fight in the hall. If you fight in the hall, win fast so I don’t have to write two reports."
"Do you get extra ink for two reports?" Eryk asked, because pettiness was a reflex when he was cornered.
She looked up then, eyes flat. "I get extra work. Move."
Eryk took the key. It was iron, rough, and it scraped his palm. He liked that. It felt honest.
Upstairs, the third floor smelled like feet and polish. The room was one long chamber with bunks stacked two high, trunks shoved under frames, uniforms hung like skins. Some cadets had already claimed corners with curtains and lamps. Those were the ones with money.
Bunk seventeen was near the far wall, close to a window that didn’t quite close. The frame was warped. Cold air leaked in like a whisper. His mattress looked like it had been filled with shredded rope. His trunk hit the floor with a dull thud. A few heads turned.
A boy with a clean jaw and a red-trimmed cuff—why was a red cuff in C? —sat on the nearest bunk and watched Eryk like he was a new kind of insect.
"Gray," the boy said. Not a question.
Eryk hung his jacket on the bedpost carefully. He did everything carefully when people watched. It made them wait.
"Eryk," he said. "Didn’t ask your name," the boy said.
"Just confirming the color. They’re letting anyone in now."
The laugh that followed wasn’t loud. It was practiced, like a signal. Two others joined in, a little delayed, like they were checking if it was safe. Don’t let them laugh twice.
Eryk turned just enough to look at the cuff again. Red trim. Clan or sponsored. Here in the provisional dorm meant either punishment or a stunt.
"Your cuff’s lost," Eryk said.
"If you want, I can help you find your real room. It’s probably warmer."
The boy’s smile didn’t move his eyes.
"It’s not lost. I’m here to keep the grays from getting ideas. Scholarship boys always get ideas. They think brains are a substitute for blood."
Eryk hated that his ears went hot. It was a stupid body reaction. He’d told himself he wouldn’t do that here. He’d promised himself he’d be stone.
"My blood’s fine," Eryk said. "It stays inside."
That got a real laugh from someone, and Eryk hated that too. Any laugh in this room could turn on him depending on who owned it.
The boy stood up. He was taller by a few inches. Not much. Enough to make it a habit.
"I’m Tallen Mor," he said, like it mattered. "And you’re in my bunk."
Eryk looked at the number carved into the frame: 17. Then at the boy’s bunk: 8. The boy watched him look, enjoying the slow realization.
"No," Eryk said, and kept his voice even.
"This is mine. Key says seventeen."
Tallen stepped closer and reached for the key hanging from Eryk’s fingers. Eryk didn’t jerk away. He just closed his fist around it, iron biting skin. He’d rather bleed than snatch.
"You don’t get to keep things because a clerk gave them to you," Tallen said.
"Not here."
"Then what do I get to keep them for?" Eryk asked.
Tallen’s eyes narrowed, like Eryk had said something out of pattern.
"For as long as I let you," Tallen said. "Hand it over."
Eryk could have fought. He could have lunged. He could have made it ugly. And then he’d get written up, lose his place, get labeled exactly what they wanted: scholarship boy, feral, ungrateful. He thought in loops. He hated it. It saved him anyway.
He opened his fist and let the key dangle again. He didn’t give it. He just let it be seen.
"If you want it," Eryk said, "take it."
Tallen stared. This was the part where Eryk was supposed to flinch, to beg, to offer a deal. The scholarship-boy script.
Tallen reached out. Eryk moved his hand a fraction, not away. Down. The key slipped, clinked off Tallen’s knuckles, and fell between them.
Tallen looked down on instinct. Eryk’s heel came down on the key. Not hard enough to break it. Hard enough to pin it. Tallen’s face changed. It wasn’t anger yet.
