The morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains of the Sunny household, casting long streaks of gold across the room. The faint sound of a carriage passing outside drifted through the open window, mingling with the soft clinking of porcelain teacups from the kitchen. Willhem sat at the edge of his bed, buttoning his shirt with a quiet determination. Today was the beginning of something new, something that filled him with equal parts excitement and unease.
"Willhem," Beatrix called from the hallway, her voice firm but kind. "It's time for you to get ready. The carriage is waiting, and you mustn't be late on your first day."
"I'm almost ready, Aunt Beatrix," Willhem replied, adjusting his cravat in front of the small mirror on his dresser. He tugged at the fabric until it sat just right—a task his father had always emphasized. "A gentleman must always present himself with dignity, Willhem."
As he finished dressing, Willhem glanced around his room. It was a modest space, filled with books and small trinkets his father had brought home over the years—a brass compass, a leather-bound journal, a framed map of the region. Everything in the room spoke of Alwin's influence, a constant reminder of the man Willhem aspired to emulate.
The school was located in the heart of Duskholm, an imposing building of dark stone and tall, arched windows that loomed over the bustling streets. Willhem had never been to this part of the city before; his life had always been centered around the quiet edges of town, where the Sunny estate stood like a solitary sentinel. But now, as the carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets, he found himself awestruck by the sights around him.
Victorian architecture dominated the skyline—grand façades adorned with wrought-iron balconies, gas lamps flickering faintly in the morning light, and intricate carvings that seemed to breathe life into the stone. Carriages moved briskly through the streets, their wheels clattering loudly, while well-dressed gentlemen and ladies strolled along the sidewalks, umbrellas and canes in hand.
As the carriage slowed, Willhem leaned forward, peering out the window at the school's entrance. The gates were tall and ornate, with intricate ironwork that bore the emblem of the institution—a phoenix rising from flames, encircled by a Latin motto: "Ex Tenebris, Scientia"—From Darkness, Knowledge.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Beatrix said, her voice pulling him back to the present. She sat across from him in the carriage, her posture impeccably straight, her gloved hands resting on her lap. Dressed in a high-necked gown of deep green, she exuded an air of authority that Willhem had come to respect.
"It's… grand," Willhem replied, his eyes still fixed on the gates.
"Grand, indeed," Beatrix said with a faint smile. "But do not let its grandeur intimidate you. The school is a place of learning, a place where you will not only hone your knowledge but also learn the manners and poise befitting a young man of your lineage. Remember, you are a Sunny. Hold your head high."
Willhem nodded, though his nerves refused to settle. As the carriage came to a halt, Beatrix gave him one last, searching look.
"You will do well, Willhem," she said softly, her stern demeanor softening for a brief moment. "Your father would expect nothing less."
The interior of the school was no less impressive than its exterior. The hallways were lined with polished oak paneling, and the floors gleamed with the shine of freshly waxed tiles. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings, their glass crystals catching the morning light and scattering it in a hundred directions.
A master of ceremonies stood near the entrance, dressed in a dark waistcoat and carrying a clipboard. He greeted each student with a polite nod, his tone clipped and formal as he directed them to their respective classes. Willhem handed over the sealed letter of introduction Beatrix had given him, his name written neatly in her elegant script.
"Ah, Master Sunny," the man said, scanning the list before him. "You'll be in Professor Wexley's class. Room 3C, down the hall and to the left. I trust you'll find your way without trouble?"
"Yes, sir," Willhem replied, his voice steady though his hands felt clammy.
As Willhem made his way through the hall, he couldn't help but notice the other students. They were dressed as finely as he was, their polished shoes clicking softly against the tiles. Some stood in small groups, speaking in low, cultured tones, while others walked alone, their expressions carefully neutral. Willhem caught snippets of conversation about subjects he barely understood—philosophy, engineering, the latest advancements in alchemy.
The air was thick with an unspoken hierarchy, and Willhem felt the weight of it pressing down on him. This was a world of privilege and expectation, one he wasn't sure he entirely belonged to.
Professor Wexley's classroom was a spacious room filled with rows of desks, a large chalkboard at the front, and shelves upon shelves of books that looked older than the building itself. The professor was a tall man with sharp features and an air of meticulous precision. His dark frock coat was spotless, and his spectacles perched on the edge of his nose as he reviewed a pile of papers on his desk.
"Take your seat, Mr. Sunny," he said without looking up, his voice clipped but not unkind. Willhem hesitated for only a moment before finding an empty desk near the middle of the room.
The lesson began promptly, with Professor Wexley launching into a detailed explanation of the principles of alchemical transmutation. He spoke with the kind of passion that made even the driest of subjects come alive, his chalk scratching across the board as he illustrated complex equations and diagrams.
Willhem found himself both overwhelmed and enthralled. The concepts were far more advanced than anything he had studied at home, but there was a beauty to them—a logic and elegance that drew him in. He scribbled notes furiously, his pen moving across the page as he tried to keep up with the professor's rapid explanations.
By the time the bell rang for lunch, Willhem's hand ached from writing, but his mind was alive with questions and ideas. The dining hall was a cavernous space filled with long wooden tables, and the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted through the air. Students filled the room, their voices rising in a low hum of conversation.
Willhem sat at the edge of a table, unsure of how to insert himself into the already-formed cliques around him. He picked at his meal, his mind still lingering on the morning's lessons.
"First day?" a voice asked, pulling him from his thoughts. Willhem looked up to see a boy about his age, with dark, neatly combed hair and an easy smile.
"Yes," Willhem replied, offering a polite nod. "It's… a lot to take in."
The boy chuckled. "It always is. I'm Edmund Lockwood. My family owns one of the steel factories on the south side of the city. And you?"
"Sunny. Willhem Sunny," he said, hesitating for a moment. "My father is… an Military Commander."
"An Commander, you say?" Edmund's eyebrows rose with interest. "You'll fit right in, then. Mr. Wexley loves his alchemy students though he doesn't make it easy for us."
Willhem smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of relief at the friendly tone. As they continued to talk, the overwhelming sense of loneliness began to fade, replaced by the tentative hope that perhaps, in this new place, he could find his own footing.
Evening
Back at the Sunny estate, Beatrix waited by the window, watching the carriage approach. As Willhem stepped down, his face flushed with the cold and the excitement of the day, she greeted him with her usual composed demeanor.
"How was it?" she asked, handing him a cup of warm tea as they settled in the drawing room.
"It was… challenging," Willhem admitted, his eyes lighting up. "But I liked it. I want to learn more."
Beatrix's lips curled into a rare smile. "Good. That is exactly what your father would want to hear."
Willhem sipped his tea, his thoughts already racing ahead to the next day.