[Day: Monday – Weekday] [Location: Royal Dormitory Room 223b– 0604, Trial Orientation Day]

At 0600 hours, the automated dormitory systems engage. Bioluminescent veins along the ceiling brighten incrementally. The air adjusts to optimal humidity for scaled skin. External hall traffic increases by 14.3% over standard baseline—consistent with pre-trial orientation.

The knock occurs twice, knuckles sharp and rhythmic. Pattern suggests intentional identity signaling, possibly a noble peer. Sound profile eliminates standard servitor, courier, or cleaning staff.

Through the reinforced door: muffled breathing, slight rustling of fabric, and the faint scent of pressed citrus oil and alchemical ink. No accompanying vocal cue. The visitor waits.

A flicker of auric glyphwork triggers just beyond the frame—part of the Royal Security Net. Identity confirmation protocols log a brief interaction with the door’s wardline. A protective hesitation, or respectful pause. Either way, the visitor has not disengaged.

At the same time, the morning bulletin auto-deploys to all royal-linked dormitories. Data includes:

• First-Year Trial Orientation Schedule

  • 0730: Formal Invocation Ceremony – Grand Hall

  • 0815–1030: Rotational Briefings by Discipline

    • Evocation: Professor Dural
    • Transmutation: Professor Caelith
    • Conjuration: Professor Sylaris
    • Necromancy: Omitted (Position pending)

  • 1100–1200: Trial Mechanics Review, Archmagister Olyssus

  • 1200–1300: Meal Period (assigned seating by caste)

  • 1300–End: Free study, faculty access restricted

• Addendum: “All heirs of royal blood are required to attend pre-assessment interviews with their assigned advisory panels. No exceptions.”

The knocking resumes—once, firmly. Then silence.

From the far end of the hall, a younger student shouts, “Move it, Crownboy! We’re not waiting for your drama!” Laughter follows, muffled by corridor acoustics.

A second knock. Slower. Measured. Deliberate.

{{user}}: “I'm coming!” I growl in annoyance at whatever or whomever is on the other side of the door and move to dress. It takes longer than people might imagine to get a school uniform, even a custom made one, over a pair of twenty-foot wings, a tail, and scales. I'd be much more in my element with a loin cloth, or even nothing at all considering my mostly scale-based anatomy, but that would only reinforce the idea that everyone already holds about Dragonoids.

“We're an uncivilized, barbaric race of carnivorous brutes,” I chuckle, recalling the usual insults. “Well...” I flex my razor-sharp claws before my face then retract them again, “they're not entirely wrong about that.”

I move to the door and dispel the high-security wards for the day then activate the seal and the door vanishes into the floor.

“Yes?” I ask, turning to see who knocked and firmly hoping it's not my half-brother, David.

[Day: Monday – Weekday] [Location: Royal Dormitory Hall – 0604, Trial Orientation Day]

The figure waiting at the threshold is neither David nor court-appointed. No guards trail her, and no herald announces presence. Instead, the visitor stands alone—shorter than most, a whisper of movement wrapped in tailored grey silk layered with the minimal badge of her station: a single jade pin shaped like a burning feather.

Regina. First Princess of House Ryker. Eighteen years old. Human. Crown-blooded. Noted for exceptional compliance, not brilliance. Commonly observed near aviary towers, infrequently in dueling grounds. Her presence here is statistically anomalous.

She startles at your voice, taking a reflexive step back before recovering. Her green eyes flick up—briefly—and then down again. Not in shame, but in calculation. She clasps her hands before her, fingers intertwined in a practiced courtly pose. Her cheeks hold a trace of color, not from exertion.

“I…” she begins, then swallows. “I brought this.” She extends a tightly sealed envelope. The wax bears Queen Aelis’ sigil—ivy-entwined thorns. Poisonous flora.

“I was told to deliver it. Personally. No courier.” She hesitates, then adds in a voice barely above whisper: “Mother said… you’d know what it meant.”

Behind her, the corridor remains empty, but the scent of bitterleaf perfume still lingers faintly in the air. Aelis’ signature blend.

There is no aggression. No warning. But within the envelope, tension coils—unopened but undeniable.

Regina lowers her gaze again, then quickly steps back. “That’s all. I—I’ll go now.”

She does not go.

Not yet.

I hesitate, wondering if opening the letter from my mother-in-law who is famously known for hating my guts, my continued existence, and may or may not be implicated in a number of attempts on my life over the years, including the attempt when I was just an egg... is a good idea or not.

“Why'd she send you?” I ask, “if this is a piece of paper with an explosive glyph etched into it, you'll be in the blast radius if I open it.” I sigh, seeing Regina pale, “sorry, that was mean of me. Your mom would never be so obvious.” I pause and then smile at Regina and hand it back to her.

“But just in case, why don't you do your big half-brother a favor, and open it and read it to me, eh? I'm sure Queen Aelis would have guessed that I'd ask you to open it. You're close enough to me that I won't be bothered by you reading the contents and dear enough to her that I'm sure the contents wont harm you. Make sense, sis?”