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"I'm beginning to understand."

Friday nights at The Place have already become something I look forward to. That realization feels strange. Not because of the tavern itself. Because of what it represents. For a few hours no one asks about bloodlines. No one cares whose daughter I am. No one measures my worth against House Vaelith. We're simply students. Students who argue over cards. Students who make terrible bets. Students who loudly insist they aren't drunk after exactly one mug of cider.

"I am perfectly coordinated." declares Elias as he narrowly avoids walking into a support beam.

"You greeted that beam."

Nyra sits beside me, quietly smiling into her drink. She's still not comfortable with the noise. I don't think she ever will be. But she's stopped flinching every time someone cheers. Progress.

She leans closer. "I've learned something."

"What?" I ask.

"Wolves gamble on absolutely everything."

Rowan looks offended. "We're not all wolves."

Nyra blinks. "You're proving my point."

A roar rises from the far side of the tavern. Not from the fighting pit. From a long wooden table. We all look over. Three dragon-blooded students are attempting to stack empty mugs into a tower taller than themselves. The tower sways dangerously. Someone begins counting. "Nine! Ten! Eleven!" The top mug slips. The entire structure collapses. Wood and laughter explode across the room.

Old Bram doesn't even look up from polishing a glass. "Clean it." he says calmly.

Three guilty third-years immediately begin picking up mugs. Apparently this happens often.

"I still don't understand." Nyra says.

"Understand what?"

She gestures around the room. "This."

"The Place?"

"No." She smiles softly. "Everyone."

I follow her gaze. A fourth-year helps a nervous first-year shuffle cards. A villager carries fresh bread directly to the musicians without being asked. Two second-years are teaching Elias a drinking game he clearly does not understand. The Place hums with easy familiarity.

"It's like..." Nyra searches for the words. "The Academy disappears."

"No. It doesn't." She looks at me. "I think..." I glance toward Caelen, who is laughing with three other Chief Wings Officers near the far wall. "This is the Academy. The real one."

She considers that. Then slowly nods. "I think you're right."

"Vaelith!"

I don't even have to turn around. Only one person says my surname as though it's a challenge. Dax. He drops onto the empty chair backward, resting his arms across the backrest. His blond hair is still damp from training earlier that afternoon.

"You owe me."

"I do?" I ask.

"You never finished our argument."

"I distinctly remember winning our argument." I laugh.

"You escaped."

"I left."