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I glance toward my brother. He hears none of it. Or pretends not to. The names continue. Not mine. An officer near the platform leans toward Caelen and whispers something. His gaze finds me briefly. The officer gestures in my direction. I cannot hear the question. I can guess it. Your sister? Caelen shakes his head. Once. Decisive. The officer looks surprised. Caelen says something else. His eyes move toward the pale wing banner. Toward Rhyven. Then back to the list. My chest tightens. Absolutely not.

"Sky Wing." The pale blue banner unfurls fully. A white wing stretches across it, crossed by a thin black line resembling either lightning or a fracture. Rhyven steps forward. This time the whispers are quieter. Not because students have less to say. Because his name seems to require less explanation. The administrator begins reading. A Medusa boy. A wolf girl. Two sirens. A human student I recognize from Combat Theory. Selena. She crosses the field with perfect composure. Rhyven nods as she joins the Wing.

Then— "Eirea Vaelith." Of course.

Several heads turn toward Caelen. Not Rhyven. Caelen remains beneath his own banner, expression unreadable. He chose this. Or at least permitted it.

I cross the field. Rhyven watches me approach. No sigh. No sarcastic remark. I stop in the Sky Wing section. His gaze moves briefly toward the crest on my uniform. Then my face.

"Vaelith."

"Corvell."

One corner of his mouth almost moves. Then he turns back to the list.

The assignments continue until all one hundred and twenty-four first-years stand beneath a banner. Nyra is across the field. Rowan farther left. Cassian near the central platform. Separated. Not gone. The distinction matters. I look at the students around me. Selena. A Medusa boy with stone-grey braids. A small siren woman who keeps rubbing her palms against her trousers. A broad human boy carrying himself like he expects everyone to question why he is here. A dragon-blooded girl with a burn scar curling around one ear. People I do not know. People whose decisions may one day become my problem. And mine theirs.

The Headmaster raises one hand. Six sections become silent. "These assignments are permanent." A few students stiffen. "Transfer requests will not be considered because of personality conflict."

Rhyven glances toward me. I catch it. He looks away before I can respond. Asshole.

"Wings earn privileges through collective performance." The Headmaster continues. "They also lose them collectively." Quiet discomfort spreads. "If one member violates curfew during Wing service, the Wing answers. If one member fails an assessment because assistance was withheld, the Wing answers. If a student goes missing during field duty—" His voice hardens. "—the Wing does not return without them."

No one moves. The words are not dramatic here. They are doctrine. The Academy is teaching us exactly what it believes. Power does not belong to individuals. Neither does consequence.

The Headmaster dismisses the second- and third-year formations first. They do not leave. They rearrange. Each Wing gathers around its banner, upper-years forming loose circles around the new first-years. The field becomes six smaller worlds.

Rhyven waits until Sky Wing has assembled. Twenty first-years. Fourteen second-years. Six third-years, including two deputies. Forty students total. He stands before us. No platform. No dramatic distance. Just one student facing the others. Everyone waits for a speech. Rhyven looks across the circle. Long enough that discomfort begins spreading. Then— "Don't die."

Silence. Someone laughs uncertainly. Rhyven does not. The same student stops. Rhyven folds his arms. "Questions?"

A human first-year raises his hand. "Seriously?"

"Yes." Rhyven answers.

"That's the speech?" The student asks again.

"Yes."

Dax's voice carries from Ash Wing across the field. "Corvell!"

Rhyven closes his eyes briefly. "What?"

"You forgot the motivational part."

Rhyven considers this. Then looks back at us. "Try not to die."

Ash Wing erupts in laughter. Even several Sky students smile.

Rhyven looks toward Dax. "Better?"

"Transformative." Dax nods.

"Fuck off."

The Headmaster is still on the platform. He either does not hear or has given up years ago. Once the laughter fades, Rhyven's expression changes. Not colder. Focused. "My job isn't to make you like me." A pause. "Conveniently, most of you won't." A few smiles remain. "My job is to know where you are, what you can do and what will get you hurt." He looks toward the first-years. "Your job is to answer honestly when I ask." His gaze lands on the nervous siren. "Name." She straightens.

"Mira Solenn." She answers.