“How are you not tired yet?!”

  One of the carriage drivers yelled at me from his perch, sweat soaking his shirt and dripping off his nose. I jogged by the second wagon, matching its pace.

  I shrugged. “I dunno. It’s not as bad as working on the farm.”

  The man just shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Probably calling me crazy. Not sure why he was so surprised—it had only been a couple hours of steady jogging. That’s nothing.

  Honestly, the pace was kind of relaxing.

  No plowing fields. No hauling sloshing buckets from the well. No chasing after goats or getting yanked around by siblings. Just me, the dirt road, and the steady creak of wagon wheels.

  Compared to harvest season? This was a vacation.

  The caravan stretched ten wagons deep—mostly traders and travelers headed for the city near the Grand Academy. Not the school itself. That part was closed off, guarded, strict.

  Everyone knew the rules: no bribes, no letters, no back doors. If you wanted in, you had to pass the entrance exam. No exceptions.

  The city, though? Open to anyone with coin or boots tough enough to make the trip. Which made it a decent place for people like me to tag along. Get my bearings. Find out where the test was being held. Hope for the best.

  I wasn’t the only one headed that way. But I was definitely the only one jogging like some stray mutt too stubborn to ask for a ride.

  The other passengers laughed at first. Sneers. Jokes. Someone even threw a grape. Missed by a mile.

  By now, they’d mostly stopped paying attention. I guess once they realized I wasn’t going to keel over or beg, they got bored.

  Didn’t bother me either way.

  My boots were solid. My legs stronger than most folks’ backs. And besides, riding felt… wrong.

  Like skipping steps.

  I don’t skip steps.

  Around midday, the caravan stopped to water the horses and break for lunch under the shade of a bent old pine. I found a patch of grass and sat cross-legged, unwrapping a bundle of bread and dried meat I’d packed from home.

  It was tough. Dry. Bland as anything.

  But it was mine.

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  I chewed slowly, watching a group of merchant kids fan themselves and complain about dust. Their boots were polished. Their coats embroidered with patterns I didn’t recognize—probably trade houses. Probably important, at least to them.

  One of them caught me watching. A boy a little younger than me, with sandy blond hair and a too-clean face. Looked like someone who’d never gotten dirt under his fingernails on purpose.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Aren’t you hot, running around like a beast?”

  I swallowed. “Not really.”

  He blinked, like he didn’t expect me to answer.

  Then he rolled his eyes and turned back to his friends. “Peasants are built different, I guess.”

  I let it go. No point picking a fight over something that stupid.

  If I got into the Academy, maybe one day I’d be wearing coats like his.

  If not—well, I had two good hands, and there were always fields waiting.

  But a few minutes later, while his friends were busy arguing about whose family sold better silk, the same boy drifted away from them and plopped down a few feet from me.

  He pulled an apple from his coat and tossed it in the air lazily. “You really jogged the whole way from that last village?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not even red in the face,” he said, watching me like I was a talking dog.

  “Farm work,” I said. “Builds the lungs.”

  “Huh.” He took a bite of the apple. “I’m Maurice. My father runs a trade guild in the south—Halden & Sons. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  I hadn’t, but I nodded anyway. “Big name?”

  He shrugged. “In some circles.”

  I took another bite of my bread.

  Maurice chewed his apple for a bit, then said, “So, you’re aiming for the Academy too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think you’ll pass?”

  I paused. “I think I’ll try harder than most.”

  That got a quiet whistle from him. “Bold.”

  “It’s not bold if you’ve got nothing to fall back on.”

  He looked at me for a second, like he was weighing that. “Fair enough.”

  Then he leaned back, arms behind his head. “Honestly, I’m only going because my dad wants me to. Says having a mage in the family makes you ‘less dispensable.’ Direct quote.”

  “He can’t just get you in?”

  Maurice snorted. “You think I wouldn’t have taken that deal if I could? Nah. Academy doesn’t care who your parents are. You fail the exam, that’s it. Doesn’t matter if your house sells silk or soap or runs half the southern routes.”

  That made me grin. I liked the sound of that.

  “Guess we’re both stuck proving ourselves.”

  Maurice glanced over. “Yeah. Just one of us is doing it while jogging like a lunatic.”

  I smirked. “Builds character.”

  That afternoon, the road curved around a wide bend and gave us our first clear glimpse of the mountains in the distance.

  Jagged and tall. Dusty gray like spilled ash against the sky. And somewhere behind them, tucked away like a secret, was the Grand Academy.

  My steps slowed. Not from fatigue.

  Something else.

  Anticipation, maybe. Or nerves. Or the weight of everything riding on a single test.

  “You ever seen it before?” I asked.

  Maurice shook his head. “First time. I’ve met graduates, though. My dad invited one to dinner once. Wore robes like they were stitched from lightning. Talked like he could see through walls. Made everyone uncomfortable.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “He was the most powerful person in the room. And he knew it.”

  I nodded slowly. “That’s the kind of power they teach there?”

  “If you survive it.”

  We walked on in silence for a while, the road crunching underfoot.

  Then Maurice glanced sideways at me. “If we both make it in, try not to act too surprised.”

  “Same to you.”

  He tossed me another apple. “Eat that before it bruises. And hey—don’t die during the test. It’s hard to make friends when they keep exploding.”

  “Noted.”

  The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the road in gold and shadow. The wind picked up. The mountains looked closer now.

  I kept walking.

  And Maurice walked beside me.