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"You took it from my pocket."

"You should guard your valuables."

The shopkeeper considers this. Then nods once. "Fair." Rowan beams. Perrin looks betrayed. The woman returns to knitting. "Go."

At the back of the shop, Soren pulls one book from a crowded shelf. Nothing happens. He pulls another. Still nothing. Then Dax reaches between them and presses a hidden latch. The entire shelf slides aside.

Soren sighs. "I was creating suspense."

"You were pulling cookbooks," Dax answers.

"Suspense can be domestic."

Stone stairs descend beneath the shop. Music rises from below. Faint at first. Then louder. Drums. Strings. Hundreds of voices. Heat rushes upward carrying the smell of food, smoke and spilled alcohol.

Nyra looks at me. I smile. Together, we descend.

The underground chamber is enormous. Not built. Carved. Rough stone walls rise around a cavern wide enough to hold half the Academy. Lanterns hang from iron chains. Long tables crowd the edges. A bar stretches across one wall beneath shelves filled with bottles from all six kingdoms.

Students dance near a small platform where three sirens and a wolf play music loud enough to make the floor vibrate. Vines climb the stone ceiling, dotted with tiny flowers that glow with every beat of the drums. Wolves arm-wrestle vampires at one table. Two Medusae carve designs into stone mugs while arguing with a dragon-blooded student over card rules. Every race. Every year. Together. No banners. No uniforms. No visible hierarchy. I stop at the bottom of the stairs. The Academy teaches unity. This place lives it.

Nyra turns slowly. "Is this legal?"

Cassian considers the question. "Parts of it."

"Which parts?"

"The stairs."

A wooden board hangs beside the entrance. The letters are carved deeply enough to survive generations of students ignoring them.

HOUSE RULES: 1. NO MAGIC. 2. NO ACADEMY RANK. 3. NO FAMILY TITLES. 4. HELP CLEAN BEFORE SUNRISE. 5. WHAT HAPPENS HERE STAYS HERE. Below the final rule, someone has added: 6. THORNE PAYS FOR HIS OWN DRINKS.

Dax stares at it. "Political persecution."

An old man behind the bar points a cloth toward him. "You owe me fourteen silver."

Dax frowns. "Capitalism is cruel."

Old Bram is already downstairs when we reach the end of the staircaise. He looks past Dax. His eyes land on Rhyven. "Corvell." Rhyven stops. "You still owe me two chairs."

"I broke one." Rhyven answers.

"You broke two."

"The second one was weak."

Bram points toward the fighting pit. "You break another, you repair it."

Rhyven continues toward the bar. The smallest hint of amusement touches his mouth. Gone before I am certain I saw it. The fighting pit occupies the center of the cavern. A circular space sunk several feet beneath the floor, surrounded by a low stone wall and crowded benches. No cages. No bloodstained sand. Only packed earth, ropes marking the boundary and an older student checking names on a wooden board. A sign hangs above the entrance. NO MAGIC. NO WEAPONS. NO GRUDGES AFTER THE BELL.

Two students fight inside. A fae woman and a human man. No spells. No inherited strength. Only footwork, grappling and discipline. The fae slips beneath his arm, catches his momentum and throws him onto his back. The crowd erupts. She immediately offers her hand. He accepts. The cheers grow louder. Respect, not humiliation. I understand the appeal. At Varethia, inheritance follows us everywhere. Here, everyone enters the pit with only what they have learned.

Rowan is already betting. We have been inside for less than four minutes. Nyra watches her place two silver pieces beside a wolf's name.

"Do you know him?" She asks.

"No." Rowan answers.