In Tamemire, society was divided into four factions: the Majuscule, the Conceded, the Hapless, and the Rebels.
Despite Sovereign Daltus's iron-fisted rule and totalitarian control, he allowed all citizens—regardless of their faction—to attend the Academy of Knowledge.
On the surface, it seemed like a rare act of fairness, a chance for everyone to pursue education.
But once inside, the divisions were impossible to ignore.
Each student bore a distinct faction crest, a symbol of their status that determined how they were treated.
It wasn't just about the emblem on their uniform—it was in the way they carried themselves, the privileges they had, and the invisible lines that separated them.
The Academy wasn't a place of unity; it was a mirror of the world outside, where power dictated everything.
The Oswald family, which is Skanders family—once esteemed members of the Conceded—had fallen from grace.
They were now labeled as Rebels, stripped of their former status, yet they refused to be reduced to the Hapless.
They still had wealth, influence, and a name that carried weight, but among the elite, they were outcasts, unwanted and watched.
At the heart of Tamemire stood the grand Academy, the single institution where the new generation was shaped—where the privileged solidified their power, and the outcasts fought to survive.
Skander tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his jaw set as he mentally braced himself.
"It's another damn day, and I, Iskander Domitian Oswald, will live through it."
There was no need for goodbyes.
The muffled laughter from the other room and the clink of a glass confirmed that his father was still… occupied.
Skander didn't even glance back as he stepped out, the door creaking shut behind him.
The morning air was crisp and cool—a brief moment of relief before the day truly began.
Skander walked slowly, savoring the quiet, his boots crunching against the dirt path. He always left early. Partly to avoid his father. Partly for the solace.
Ahead, the dirt road stretched toward the bus stop, flanked by scattered, run-down houses and the edge of the woods.
The shadow of last night's encounter still clung to him, but daylight had a way of making nightmares seem less real.
Kicking a pebble, he let his mind wander until he reached the dimension bus stop—a worn signpost with peeling paint barely standing upright.
A handful of students clustered nearby, chatting among themselves, their eyes barely flicking in his direction.
The low hum of the approaching transport filled the air, its sleek black frame hovering just inches above the cracked pavement.
It didn't have wheels—it didn't need them. Circular anti-grav stabilizers pulsed beneath it, emitting a faint blue glow as it adjusted its altitude.
The exterior was reinforced with dark alloy plating, giving it the look of a prison transport rather than a school bus.
A bold, glowing "Academy TRANSPORT" label flickered on the front, as if that made it any less intimidating.
With a mechanical hiss, the reinforced doors slid open. The students fell silent. They knew the drill.
One by one, they stepped forward, pressing their fingertips against the small scanner embedded in the entrance panel.
A thin red light swept over their skin, verifying their identity before granting entry.
When Skander stepped up, he pressed his fingers to the scanner without hesitation, the cold metal sending a faint shiver up his arm.
A second passed. Then another.
BEEP.
A small warning icon flashed in red before disappearing.
Monitored. Restricted. Rebel-born.
Skander exhaled sharply through his nose. He had seen it too many times to care.
As he stepped inside, he immediately felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him.
Whispers. Stares.
The son of a Rebel. The unruly boy who always seemed like trouble.
The air was cold. The seats were stiff, lined in a dull, metallic gray. The bus had never been about comfort—it was about efficiency, control.
The doors sealed shut with a hiss.
The transport lifted slightly before accelerating forward, its smooth, almost eerie speed carrying them toward the Academy of Knowledge.
Skander scanned the rows of seats, ignoring the hushed conversations. Then, his gaze landed on her.
Hana.
She was near the back, her dark hair framing her round face, her expression soft yet steady. She gave him a small wave, a flicker of warmth in the sea of hostility.
Skander's lips twitched into a tight-lipped smile. He made his way toward her, slipping into the seat beside her as the whispers faded into background noise.
Hana didn't speak—she rarely did. Instead, she pulled out her notepad and scribbled something before sliding it toward him.
"You okay?"
A tiny frowning face was drawn next to the words.
Skander rolled his eyes, but the gesture lacked any real annoyance. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"I'll tell you when we get to the academy. Something happened last night."
Hana's eyes widened slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. She nodded, enthusiasm brightening her usually quiet demeanor.
For the first time that morning, the tightness in Skander's chest eased.
Hana was… different. A constant in the chaos.
A flicker of light in the darkness.
He exhaled, settling into his seat.
For a brief moment, the whispers and stares didn't matter.
Hana is from the Hapless faction and has a hearing problem, which makes her speak rarely—not because she can't, but because it's difficult to keep up.
She relies on hearing aids, but they're cheap and barely effective. Still, she refuses to let it stop her.
With unwavering determination, she insists on attending the Academy, no matter the challenges.
She has been Skander's friend for as long as either of them can remember, a quiet yet constant presence in his life.