Excellence is not inherited. It is proven. Every day.

  — Archrectrix Severra Sorevin-Telvane

  It’s funny. I’d spent my whole life looking up at Velspire Academy.

  A jagged silhouette on the skyline, it was visible from every rooftop in every district in the City. Even from Slipjaw, through the haze of coal smoke and steam vents, you could see the Spire—taller than the Imperial Palace, taller than the watchtowers, taller than sense. It pierced the sky like a needle meant to stitch the Empire together with law and science and unyielding steel.

  And now here I was, standing in its shadow.

  This high up, I could see the bay as it stretched out away from the city. It shone bright blue under the sun, the summer sky dotted with white clouds. Seagulls pinwheeled in the sky, shrieking bloody murder as they circled the middle city markets. I could see all of this and more from the courtyard of The Spire. Even the lower city looked almost clean from this height, just a smudge on the edge of civilization.

  The Spire itself loomed behind me, with pipes threading the outer walls like veins. Brass domes turned with the sun, and every window glinted sharp like a blade. There were no seagulls here, just copper birds that circled the smallest tower, wings flapping in mechanical unison.

  I shifted in the stolen mechanic’s uniform, the collar sticking to the back of my neck. The heat was different here—drier, filtered, like even the air had been scrubbed. A dozen students crossed the courtyard in tailored coats and leather satchels, walking like they’d belonged here since birth.

  I mean, let’s be honest, they probably had.

  Feeling absurdly out of place, I didn’t move. Just stood there, staring down at the place I was leaving behind and feeling sorry for myself.

  “Oi—’scuse me!” a voice called, clipped and impatient. “You with Facilities?”

  It took a second to realize that they were talking to me. I turned.

  A boy about my age—maybe a little older, all pressed linen and copper cuff-links—was stalking toward me from across the courtyard. His boots were polished. His belt was monogrammed. His face carried the permanent scowl of someone used to being obeyed.

  “Our floor condenser’s still down,” he snapped. “Third North dormitory. You lot said it’d be handled by morning, and it’s not. I nearly asphyxiated brushing my teeth.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He looked me up and down, taking in the grease-streaked front bib, the worn boots, the patched satchel. His expression sharpened. “Are you even certified?”

  “No, are you?” I countered.

  His face flushed, but before he could respond, a steward in blue descended the steps of the main entrance at a near run, tablet clutched to his chest and forehead already beading with sweat.

  “Miss Trenfell?” he called. “Miss Iolite Trenfell?”

  The boy looked between us, confusion flickering.

  The steward reached my side, breathless. “Apologies for the delay, miss—the Lord Inventor didn’t give us much time to prepare, and there was a bit of a scramble to find you suitable quarters. Right this way, please. The Archrectrix will see you now.”

  I glanced once at the boy, whose mouth had opened slightly, then shut.

  “See you around,” I couldn’t help throw his way, my lips curving upward in a sneer of a smile. I hefted my bag and followed the steward up the steps and into the main hall.

  The room was massive. Easily three or four stories high, it echoed with the chatter from the students on the wide marble staircase that dominated the south end of the hall. On the eastern wall was a huge scoreboard with names and numbers.

  The steward, seeing me gawk at it, slowed briefly.

  “The Ranking,” he said by way of explanation, waving his hand toward the board. “The Spire’s heart and breath.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “This is how the staff keeps track of which students are exceptional and which are falling behind,” he said. As I stared, a name, Orin Bratchel, rose up in the tally, his score changing from 354 to 355, putting him in the number 3 slot.

  “Ah, yes, Orin,” the steward said. “Third-year Metallurgy student. Incredibly bright. Word is he’s entering the Lord Inventor’s program this year. We expect good things from him, good things indeed.” He scurried forward, forcing me to catch up.

  He gestured to parts of the hall as we made our way through its massive length, rattling off directions that, frankly, I didn’t care about. I was just going to forget them in five seconds anyway. Cafeteria, Conservatory, Library, Chemical Labs- all of it ran together into one long, overstimulating blur.

  Then, he turned down a hallway I hadn’t noticed under the shadow of the stairs. “And this is the faculty offices.”

  The echoing din of the Main Hall fell away as he led me down the rich, wood-paneled hallway. Doors punctuated the long stretch of paneling every dozen or so feet. At the end of the hall was another set of stairs, this one not nearly as wide and the same color of wood as the walls.

  He led me up, and at the top was a set of double doors.

  Archrectrix Severra Sorevin-Telvane, read the brass placard. My heart suddenly double-timed as warmth broke out along my back, climbing up my shoulder blades. Panic bled through me like fire.

  This was not how my life was supposed to go. I was supposed to be home by now, not in some flippin’ school for the fancy elite. Heat burned my scalp as I struggled to push the panic down.

  The steward rapped on the wood.

  “Enter,” a sharp voice called from within.

  The steward opened the doors.

  A woman sat behind a huge wooden desk on the other side, her upswept hair the same color as her steely eyes. She flicked her cold gaze over me. “So,” she said. “You’re the slum rat Master Oxwell is forcing on me.”

  The panic evaporated. “Excuse me?”

  Instead of answering, she lifted the reading glasses that hung from her neck on a delicate gold chain and plucked a scroll from the desktop. “I’m sending a new first year to the academy this afternoon,” she read, her voice as flat and dry as ash. “Her name is Iolite Trenfell. See that she has everything she needs. Yours, M. Oxwell, Royal Inventor.” She tossed the scroll back onto the desk with a dismissive flick. Her eyes stayed fixed on me.

  “I don’t appreciate being blindsided, Miss Trenfell,” she said. “And I don’t appreciate having my curriculum tampered with by a man who hasn’t set foot in a classroom in twenty years.”

  “I didn’t ask to come here,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

  “And yet, here you are,” she countered with all the cold precision of a plasma cutter.

  I clenched my jaw, hard enough to ache. She acted like I’d just crawled in through a sewer grate and tracked mud across her precious floor.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She rose then—slowly, like she didn’t need to rush for anything or anyone. Tall and thin as an iron rod, she moved with the kind of precision that made you forget about age. Her high-collared coat was deep green brocade, the lace at her neck and cuffs more weapon than ornament. Even her silhouette looked engineered—angular, unyielding, deliberate.

  At a side table, she lifted a tall silver carafe and poured a stream of black coffee into a waiting cup made of fine bone china.

  “You have no academic record,” she said, pouring a measure of thick white cream into the cup. “No letters of recommendation. No entrance exam scores.” She picked up a delicate silver spoon so small it looked ornamental and stirred, her clear, hard eyes watching me.

  “You’ve submitted no patent applications.” She walked back to her desk as she spoke, each denoucement punctuated by the sharp rap of her hard-soled shoes. “Built nothing sanctioned.” Rap. “Filed no apprenticeship hours.” Rap. “You are, by every metric we recognize, unqualified.”

  She recited my disqualifications like they were my obituary. If I’d had anything to throw, I might’ve shattered that stupid cup she was sipping from.

  Once seated, she lifted the cup and took a slow, unhurried sip. “And still we find ourselves thrust together.” She set the cup down with surgical grace. “Inserted by decree, not merit. Protected, for now, by a man who collects curiosities the way other men collect war trophies.”

  “I’m not here to make trouble,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

  “Let’s hope that remains true.”

  She folded her hands with precise economy and leaned forward. “You will attend all classes. You will participate in all labs and examinations. You will not miss a single lecture without written permission from your instructors. And you will keep your head down.” She reached for her coffee and took a delicate sip. “If I hear even a whisper of misconduct, you will be removed. Quietly. Permanently.”

  I held her gaze. It took effort.

  “You’ve been assigned temporary quarters in the second-year dormitory,” she added. “There was no space in the first-year hall.”

  I nodded. “Fine.”

  “I’m told your background is mechanical. Hands-on. Unguided. Messy.” She said it like a diagnosis. “You’ll be placed in General Studies until a track is approved. If a track is approved.”

  The words lodged under my skin like metal shavings. Gods forbid they let the feral girl from the gutters touch anything that matters. “I build things,” I said. “I’m not some wild experiment.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?” She reached for a paper and lifted her glasses, peering through the lenses at the words in front of her. “Your academic advisor shall be Dr. Seld. See that you meet with him this week. I’d hate for you to fall behind.” Those last words were laced with pointed sarcasm.

  I should’ve said something. Should’ve told her where she could shove her lace and her silver spoons. But my mouth stayed shut, locked by the weight of Jan’s absence.

  Instead, silence pulsed between us and I’m sure she could hear the silent fuck off old bitch I was repeating with my eyes.

  She turned away, back to her papers. “You’re dismissed.”

  I turned to leave, grateful to be rid of her brittle presence.

  “You may believe this place is some kind of escape,” she said without looking up. “It’s not. It’s a crucible. The ones who leave it whole are not the strongest. They are the most useful.”

  My throat felt tight, and I glanced at her from over my shoulder.

  She looked up one last time. “Prove your worth, Miss Trenfell. Or burn out like the rest.”

  The door creaked open in front of me.

  The steward stood waiting.

  I wanted to tell her I’d survived things she didn’t even have a name for. That I’d already burned half of Undertown and walked away. But instead, I strode out the waiting door. Because I knew better than to bare my teeth to someone who had already measured and found me wanting.

  And she could fuck off.

  The steward didn’t speak as we walked, and I didn’t encourage him. The echo of our steps on tile chased us through the halls like we were being followed, even though we weren’t. We passed through corridors of copper-veined marble and ceilings too high for comfort, past glass displays of medals and machinery I didn’t recognize, and portraits of tight-lipped scholars who looked like they’d bite your fingers off if you touched their inventions wrong.

  We ascended a stairwell that curved like a spinal column, iron-boned and hollow. The walls here were darker—wood paneling replacing stone, softer gaslight casting long shadows. Students passed us in pairs or threes, their conversations low and deliberate. A few glanced at me. Most didn’t bother.

  "Your advisor's office is just back there," the steward said, nodding at a heavy door off the next landing. "Professor Seld. He keeps... odd hours, but you’re expected to meet with him before the end of the week."

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t care.

  He cleared his throat, quiet like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. "He’s not... terrible. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s usually the truth."

  Still, I said nothing.

  The dormitory halls were hushed and ridiculously, immaculately clean. Everything smelled like dustless wood and lavender oil, not people. Not grease or steam or fire. The doors were evenly spaced, brass nameplates polished to a shine. I wondered how many of them knew each other. How many of them had grown up expecting this place, dreaming of it? I imagined them memorizing the layout before they ever stepped foot inside. I imagined them calling their parents after their first lecture, comparing professors and lab partners like recipes.

  I trailed half a step behind, biting down on the inside of my cheek until the taste of blood cut through the numbness.

  The steward stopped at the very last door on the hall.

  It was tucked into a corner, half-lit by a single wall sconce. There was no nameplate, no evidence that I existed here.

  As if he saw me staring at the empty space, he cleared his throat as he unlocked the door. “The mandate was so sudden there was no time to order you a—”

  He reached for the handle, but I shoved past him and opened the door myself.

  He hesitated behind me, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

  “This is where you’ll be for now,” he said. “If you need linens or—”

  “I’m fine.”

  He lingered anyway.

  I turned. “I said I’m fine.”

  A pause. Not long. Just enough to make it awkward.

  Then he gave a quick bow—more reflex than respect—and said, “Good luck, Miss Trenfell.”

  I slammed the door when he left, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

  I leaned my forehead against the wood and stood there for a long breath. Then another. The tears didn’t come. I wasn’t sure they would. The anger was still too loud in my chest. Still too red.

  I turned around.

  The room was bigger than I expected, which somehow made it worse. A bed sat against the far wall, stiff and narrow and tucked so tightly it looked military. A desk. A high-backed chair. A polished dresser. A rug with a pattern so precise it made my eyes hurt. The window was shut tight, framed in iron, its glass thick enough to keep the world out.

  Everything was too clean. Too cold. Too empty.

  This wasn’t a dorm. It was a specimen box.

  I kicked my bag across the room. It hit the leg of the desk and toppled onto its side. One of the buckles snapped. Good. Let it break. Let something feel the way I did.

  I crossed to the bed and sat down hard enough to make the mattress creak. I braced my elbows on my knees and tried to breathe.

  Jan would’ve cursed up a storm. Bank would’ve laughed, bitter and wide-eyed, and asked if we could take the place apart brick by brick. Hester would’ve told me to wait—just wait—for the right moment to gut the whole machine from the inside.

  But they weren’t here.

  They weren’t anywhere.

  And I was in a stranger’s room with a uniform that didn’t belong to me, surrounded by people who thought I was a stray someone had dragged in off the street.

  I clawed the collar of the mechanic’s shirt open. It felt like a skin I couldn’t shed. Like it might catch fire if I didn’t get out of it fast enough.

  I stood again. Restless. Burning.

  The desk held a stack of blank parchment and a squat black-barreled ink pen. A student handbook. A thin folder stamped with the Academy’s seal—my name spelled wrong on the corner. Inside: an orientation packet, a list of assigned courses, lab rotations, campus diagrams I couldn’t read and didn’t want to. The lamp on the corner ticked softly. I reached for it, changed my mind. Didn’t trust myself not to hurl it through the wall.

  I opened the wardrobe. Inside were six Academy uniforms, each folded with exacting precision. Black coats, pressed slacks, two vests in different tones of gray, brass buttons lined up like medals. There were drawers with socks, belts, a winter scarf in school colors. Everything measured. Sterilized. Filed into place.

  Like someone had taken a mold of a perfect student and expected me to fit inside it.

  I wanted to scream.

  I shut the wardrobe hard enough to rattle the hinges.

  Walked back to the bed. Sat down. Stared at my hands.

  The fire came in little flickers, heat rising up my spine and curling at the edge of my fingers. It didn’t spark, not really. Just shimmered like it wanted to.

  I clenched my fists until it passed.

  Then I curled onto the bed, on top of the stiff sheets, my boots still on. Pulled the quilt tight over my body and stared at the wall across from me.

  I was alone.

  I was alive.

  And I wasn’t sure which part hurt more.