Today I wake up calm. Sunlight filters softly through the dirty windowpanes to form abstract designs on the wooden floor. I breathe out a sigh of relief and slowly gather my resolve to push back the covers of the cozy bed. Chilly spring air seeps through the edges of the tiny window and raise goosebumps on my bare arms, and I rush to throw on my sleeves, vest, leggings, and overskirt.

                I struggle to rub the sleep from my eyes, but my body is already buzzing with excitement and nerves. I lace up the boots I had carelessly tossed into the corner the night before and go through the practiced motions of packing up my small valise. The last thing I pack is my silver charm. Pulling it out of its worn pouch, I rub the smooth silver for good luck. I know I’m going to need it.

                My boots clatter while I go step by step down the stairs to the first floor of the inn. I toss the barmaid a coin for a breakfast of soft, steamed bread and greens. Now that I am more awake, the fear is starting to outweigh the excitement. I think I’m safe, probably. That was why I was here, right?

                While I have been to other cities, being in Islapur is still overwhelming. I step out of the inn less than a bell past dawn, but the streets are already crammed with carts, people, and the constant roar of sound that seems to characterize the city. As the crossroad of the continent where all rivers meet, the city feels like a microcosm where all races and cultures meet. I walk past somberly mannered northern monks who are dressed in likewise somber colors. Probably they are on their way to early morning prayers. One monk, who looks younger than the others, shoots irritated glances to the caravan of turbaned  andalician traders behind him. Their tanned skin and colorful garments flash in the early light while they gesticulate wildly and speak their native language with impossibly quick tongues. 

                I’ve just managed to wrestle my way to the main square when an elbow catches me off guard at the shoulder and I careen into the poor bystander to my left. I glance up to look at the culprit as a tendril of irritation breaks my calm, but whoever it was is already lost in the teeming crowd. A groan from under me reminds me that currently I am awkwardly sprawled across some poor soul, and I’m pretty sure I’m not that light.

                “Sorry,” I offer with a wince as I scramble to my hands and knees. The unfortunate youth rolls off his face, and I raise my hand to help him up. He ignores my hand and starts to fastidiously pat the dust off his loose hair and blue shirt. Now that I can see his face, I notice that there is a pale green tint to his complexion. He must be a leytling, one of the forest folk, but I had never seen one outside the forest before

                “Please offer no fake sympathy when you are trying to bully someone,” he intoned matter-of-factly. “I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, though this is the first time someone was willing to sacrifice their own well-being to push me into the dirt.” I blink at his statement, my ire delayed by his straightforward delivery. Is that what he thought I was doing?

                “I will have you know,” I said as I stood up slowly, “that I had no such intention. I am just as much a victim as you.” Deep breaths. Stay calm. “I am sincerely sorry, but if you can’t take my apology at face value, then there is nothing more I can do.” His berry red eyes were large in his face as he watched me assessingly. Just as I was about to give up and walk away, he broke into a smile.

“My apologies then,” he said. He held his hand up and I pulled him upright. He looked at my hand with a fascinated expression.  “This has been a most interesting encounter. I wish that I could stay longer, but I am running late as it is.” He turned and walked away abruptly. That was rather rude, but what else was I expecting? I was the one who knocked him over. I start weaving through the crowd again.

                The ebb and flow of the crowd begins to feel natural to me when an uneasy feeling starts forming in the pit of my stomach. Out of the corner of my sight I spot a tanned, dusty street urchin eyeing me from between two stalls. Eyeing my purse, I realize with relief, clutching the small bag close to my chest. Fear keeps me sharp, but I also realize that it has made me paranoid. I can never tell when my instincts are giving me fair warning or just trying to remind me that no matter how secure I feel, I am never safe. Suddenly the busy streets don’t seem as reassuring.

                It only took a few tries and only one moment in which I was completely lost to make it to the imposing gates of the Academy. The elegant metal twists and whorls high above my head, drenched in the royal colors of bronze and blue. I feel shabby under its bright grandeur, and I muse that this is likely only the first of many such moments to come if today goes well. I would be walking the grounds where nobility and even royalty were sent to be educated. The thought alone is enough to make me lightheaded with wonder.

                My shoes kick up fine clouds of dust from the smoothly paved stones of the road. As I come closer to the entry right of where the carriages are driving through, the guard waves someone through and catches sight of me. His eyes narrow in disdain at, I assume, my rather drab and travel-worn appearance. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and walk smoothly to his side, holding out a neatly stamped piece of paper. He squints at the impossibly delicate lines a little longer than is entirely necessary, but to my relief he says nothing and impatiently ushers me through. Breathe, I tell myself, willing my pounding heart to a steadier rhythm.

                I hadn’t dared to ask him where the Principal’s Lodge was, and now I am left to my own devices. The academy grounds sprawl before me, a grass and stone labyrinth in brilliant whirls of color. I choose the widest road and follow it, trying to unobtrusively follow a student. She carries a small bag and a small cat while her two servants balance a palanquin of her belongings between their shoulders. We pass a tangle of colonnaded marble and several brilliant fountains when I decide that I should steel my courage and ask for directions.

                “Excuse me,” I ask levelly, “Could you tell me where I could find the Principal’s Lodge?” The honey-skinned girl comes to a leisurely halt and raises an eyebrow to me, but points to a smaller purple building we have already passed. I am slightly embarrassed, but also grateful. I thank her and offer my name. I learn that her name is Larianne DeFonta, and while she is not rude, she keeps her distant politeness and smoothly bids me farewell before I can ask anymore.

                Streams of carriages and students on foot tangle chaotically, most going opposite of me. I have never seen so many people my age in one place before, and the noise seems to whisper promise in my ears. At the same time I feel self-conscious of my apartness, that I do not belong here and that I am only standing here because of the whims of a dying man. The thought curls in my stomach and brings sadness and guilt to the fore. Focus, I can’t afford to let grief make me useless.

                I push the heavy oak door aside and step inside.