Chapter 3 - Beyond the Veil

Elara sat stiffly in her seat, the murmur of conversation around her muffled beneath the roar of her thoughts. She kept her expression neutral, her posture measured, her hands folded neatly in her lap as the train soared through another layer of clouds. The others hadn’t noticed anything—not the extra time she’d taken, not the flustered way she’d rejoined them. And they certainly hadn’t heard the diaper she now wore, retaped and awkwardly lopsided beneath her uniform. Her white blouse and silver sash looked just like theirs, the fresh linen stiff and almost ceremonial in its crispness. All first-years seemed to be dressed the same, indistinguishable in form—blank slates, not yet colored by house or magic. Yet Elara felt like a forgery. A girl in borrowed clothes with a secret she couldn’t shake.

She crossed her legs and instantly regretted it, the soft resistance of padding reminding her again that she was different. She hadn’t meant to sit so strangely, hadn’t meant to wince, but Mei’s glance flicked in her direction just a moment too long. Elara gave her a tight smile, one that said I’m fine, and turned quickly back toward the window.

The world beyond the glass was beginning to shift again. The mountains had returned, jagged and snow-kissed, rising like ancient sentinels from valleys threaded with rivers of silver and mist. The train curved along impossible cliffsides, suspended not by track but by enchantment, the rails forming just ahead and vanishing behind. And then, as if on cue, the conversation faltered—Quinn pausing mid-sentence, Marcus straightening in his seat, Mei’s brows lifting in quiet awe.

A pressure built in the air, subtle at first, like the moment before a thunderclap. Then came the shimmer.

The space outside the train warped like heat rising from stone. The mountains rippled. The air fractured. A bubble—vast, translucent, and layered with barely perceptible runes—stood in the train’s path. It wasn’t visible so much as felt, the sense of passing through something ancient and living. There was a pulse of resistance as the train breached it, a hum of power so vast and so deliberate that it sent a tingle down Elara’s spine. Her ears popped, and for one breathless moment, the world stilled.

Then it unfolded.

The bubble fell away behind them, and the mountains ahead parted like a curtain drawn by unseen hands. The valley was lush, immense, green with ancient forest and cascading falls that shimmered like liquid crystal in the morning light. Mist clung to the rocks, curling around stone arches and delicate bridges. In the very heart of it, nestled among cliffs that looked like they had been carved just to cradle it, stood the castle.

Littlewick Academy.

Towers of ivory and black stone stretched high into the clouds, their spires crowned with glowing weathervanes that turned without wind. Floating lanterns drifted lazily between balconies draped in ivy, and bridges—some physical, some spectral—connected separate wings that hovered in the air like islands bound by magic alone. Wide courtyards and spiraling staircases rose and fell with impossible geometry, shifting slowly even as she watched.

Elara’s heart thudded in her chest. Her embarrassment, her discomfort, the ache of uncertainty she’d nursed since the letter arrived—all of it fell away beneath the sheer awe that now crashed through her. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t even a school. It was a threshold, carved into reality, defying reason. The kind of place that does not ask who you are. But who will you become.

The train curved downward now, spiraling gently toward the station nestled at the foot of the cliff. The platform gleamed with polished stone, enchanted lanterns floating above the archway like curious eyes. Professors waited there, tall figures in layered robes of house colors, faces unreadable, postures regal.

The compartment was quiet.

No one spoke as the train slowed, gliding across a short stretch of conjured track that shimmered beneath it. Elara drew a breath and stood, brushing imaginary dust from her uniform. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her sash.

The station platform glistened beneath an enchantment of gently glowing runes, each one etched deep into the dark stone, humming softly with power. As the students filed off the train, the warm afternoon light seemed to slow and soften, filtered through the pale mist that still clung to the mountain air. There were no cheering crowds, no welcome banners, no orientation guides clapping them on the back. Only a line of robed professors stood in silent formation, their garments trimmed in red, green, or blue glinting faintly in the sunlight. They watched the students with sharp eyes, not unkind, but assessing and measuring. Not one of them spoke.

Elara stepped down onto the platform with her heart hammering against her ribs. The stone was warm beneath her boots, her pack slung over her shoulder, and the sounds of the train faded behind her like the closing of a door. The professor gestured wordlessly, motioning the first-year students to follow. So they did—fifty of them or so in total, maybe a few more, the upper classmates wondering off on their own, laughing and poking fun at one another. For a school spoken of in myth and rumor, the group was small.  It was as if each of them had been selected not just for potential but for some purpose she hadn’t yet grasped.

They were led through stone halls carved directly into the mountain’s face. The architecture was grand yet minimalist, like the bones of something older dressed in magic. Light poured from crystalline sconces along the wall, and gentle drafts of cool air whispered past their legs as though the castle breathed. Eventually, the hall opened into a vast, circular chamber—the dining hall.

Elara stopped short, eyes wide.

The room was a perfect circle, the ceiling a broad dome of glimmering glass that opened to the sky, the afternoon light now bathing everything in gold. The outer edge of the hall was lined with ornate serving windows—half-kitchens, really—each glowing with illusion-spelled displays of the day’s offerings. Trays of food floated just behind the glass: roast meats, fresh vegetables, golden breads, elaborate desserts, fruit charmed to shimmer like gemstones. The scent hit her like a wave—savory, sweet, foreign, and familiar all at once. Her stomach twisted in response, both with hunger and nerves.

The room itself was divided subtly into three crescent-shaped sections, one shimmered in ruby hues, one in sapphire, and one in deep emerald light. Students instinctively filtered into the open space near the outer ring, eyes drawn to the central platform that dominated the chamber’s heart. It rose just above their heads, a polished obsidian disk with curved seating where the professors now ascended to take their places. Elara noticed the absence of backrests and deliberate posture design. From that high dais, the faculty could see everything. Everyone.

A man stepped forward. He was tall and angular, draped in layered silver robes with a collar high enough to frame his face like a portrait. His hair was pale, not gray but platinum, and his eyes were the color of starlight. When he raised a hand, the murmuring quieted at once.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice resonant and smooth, magically amplified without effort. “I am Headmaster Aldric Vale, Warden of Littlewick Academy.”

A beat passed. No one clapped. No one spoke. His presence filled the space so completely that silence felt more appropriate than celebration.

“You have crossed the threshold. That in itself is no small feat. You are not here by chance, nor by favor. You were chosen.” He let the word hang for a moment, its weight settling on every shoulder. “Chosen to walk the path of the arcane, to awaken what lies dormant, and to confront what you do not yet understand.”

His eyes swept the group slowly, measuring. Not unkind, but deliberate. “Before you are allowed to eat, to sleep, to train, you must be assigned. At Littlewick, we do not merely sort our students. We place them according to the deepest threads of who they are. Not who they pretend to be. Not who they hope to become. But who they already are.”

He extended a hand, and a ripple of light spread from the platform, branching like veins across the floor beneath them. Symbols glowed—one red, one blue, one green—arranged in an intricate pattern of interlocking circles.

“There are three Houses at Littlewick,” Vale continued. “Ruby: for the bold, the adventurous, the strong of will and body. They do not fear danger. They seek it. They leap when others hesitate. They lead.”

A flash of red pulsed from the symbol nearest Elara’s foot, and she swore she felt it buzz in her bones.

“Sapphire: for the cunning, the curious, the reserved. Those who study before they act, who hold their power close and reveal it only when the moment demands. The ones who question why before they ever ask how.”

Next, a cold and bright blue light shimmered, casting ghostlight across the faces of several students, who visibly straightened under its glow.

“And Emerald: for the compassionate, the selfless, the loyal. The protectors. Those who place others before themselves, not from weakness, but from strength. They bind us together. They remind us who we are.”

Green light bathed the last third of the room, soft and warm, like moss and morning dew.

“Your place is not chosen by preference,” the headmaster said, his voice growing quieter now. “It is revealed. And it begins now.”

A sound pulsed from the platform—like a bell rung deep within the stone. The light surged again, reaching up toward the dome above and refracting a dozen spiraling rays of color.

Elara felt something stir in her chest. A pull. Not left or right, not ruby or sapphire or emerald. Just inward. A recognition. A key turned in a lock she hadn’t known was there.

The light faded slowly, settling back into the stone beneath their feet as names were called. A hush had fallen over the room during the sorting, a reverent stillness broken only by gasps of recognition or bursts of relieved laughter. Elara had held her breath when the red light flared beneath her boots—Ruby—and next to her, Quinn practically bounced in place when her name was called and the same crimson glow wrapped around her. They’d shared a wide-eyed grin, both too stunned and giddy to speak. Around them, students drifted toward their new Houses, breaking into small clusters as they found familiar names or at least friendly faces. 

After a few awkward minutes of shuffling and whispered congratulations, a professor stepped forward and gestured toward the ring of food counters lining the edge of the room. The air filled instantly with the smell of roasted meats, herb-laced vegetables, and warm, honeyed bread. Elara’s stomach growled audibly, and Quinn grabbed her by the sleeve. “C’mon,” she said, already weaving through the dispersing students. “If we wait, all the good stuff’ll be gone.”

They reached one of the open counters marked with a ruby banner. The food floated behind enchanted glass—gleaming roast chicken, golden rolls, thick mashed potatoes with a pool of rich gravy. Quinn stepped up first, grabbing a tray as the older witch behind the counter greeted her with a nod.

“Name?” the woman asked, already reaching for a plate.

“Quinn!” Quinn grinned.

The tray that appeared before her was generous—half a chicken breast, roasted carrots, a square of custard pie, and a clear glass of water that poured itself with a twist of the lunch lady’s finger. Quinn thanked her cheerfully and stepped aside to let Elara through.

Elara stepped up, already holding her tray out. “Elara,” she said, expecting the same tray of food, but the lunch lady didn’t even glance at the serving trays. She turned instead toward a clipboard floating in midair beside her, her finger tracing a line down a long list of names. When her finger stopped, she looked back at Elara and gave a nonchalant nod.

One by one, the components of her tray came together.

A smaller portion. Chicken—shredded. Potatoes—neatly pre-mashed. Carrots—cut into soft, quarter-sized rounds. The pie was missing entirely, replaced by a pale apple puree in a tiny ceramic bowl. And then, the final humiliation: her drink. Not a glass. Not even a goblet. A bottle. An actual, clear plastic baby bottle, filled with pale yellow juice, the nipple capped neatly until the moment it floated onto her tray and clicked into place.

Elara stared at it.

“What,” she said, her voice sharp and rising, “is this?”

The lunch lady didn’t blink. “That’s your meal, sweetie. Part of your meal plan.”

“There must be some mistake,” Elara snapped, her cheeks burning as a few students in line glanced their way. “I didn’t ask for this—I’m not—this isn’t funny.”

The woman shrugged, entirely unmoved. “Not a joke. Got your name on it. See?” She pointed at the clipboard, and Elara, mortified, spotted her name highlighted in faint red beside a set of runes she didn’t recognize.

Quinn, watching from the side with wide eyes and a tray full of perfectly normal food, looked torn between concern and amusement. Elara clenched her jaw, took the tray before it could float away on its own, and stalked toward the tables marked for Ruby first-years. They were situated along the outer ring of the Ruby crescent, a few small round tables grouped neatly beneath a floating banner bearing their house crest: a roaring flame wrapped in a thorny crown.

They sat together, Quinn practically throwing herself into her seat. Elara lowered herself more carefully, mindful of the bulk beneath her skirt, of the soft crinkle that sounded impossibly loud now. She set her tray down and glared at it, crossing her arms.

“Well,” Quinn said, a fork already in her mouth, “I was going to ask if you had some secret pie stash you weren’t sharing, but… uh.” Her eyes flicked to the bottle. “That’s... definitely not pie.”

Elara didn’t answer at first. She just stared at the bottle, at the tiny indents in the rubber nipple, at the way it sat there with such innocent finality. “I don’t get it,” she said quietly. “What’s going on?” 

“Maybe it’s some hazing ritual,” Quinn said, shrugging. “I mean, it’s Littlewick, right? Half the stuff we’ve seen today doesn’t make sense.”

Elara looked at her, doubtful. Hazing didn’t usually involve meal plans and diapers. Hazing didn’t involve baby bottles and… this level of planning. But she didn’t say it. Not yet.

Instead, she picked up her fork—because it was that or sit there and starve—and poked at the shredded chicken. Around them, the dining hall buzzed with new voices, the thrum of a school just beginning to wake. But beneath it all, in Elara’s chest, was a pressure that hadn’t quite found words. Confusion and shame.

The din of the dining hall had settled into a low hum, the kind of background noise that buzzed comfortably once the first edge of nerves had dulled. Forks clinked against plates. Chairs scraped gently across the polished floor. Soft laughter rose in bubbles here and there as students, still uncertain, still forming impressions, began to breathe a little easier. Elara didn’t share in that ease. She pushed another forkful of pre-cut chicken into her mouth, chewing without tasting, and carefully measuring every movement. Her tray still sat mostly full, the bottle untouched at the edge of the table, like a line she wasn’t yet ready to cross.

Quinn had, thankfully, stopped teasing. She seemed to have picked up on Elara’s shifting mood—more tense now than embarrassed—and filled the silence with idle chatter about their classmates instead. But Elara only half-listened. Her thoughts kept circling back to the lunch lady, to the clipboard, to the deliberate portioning, and the baby bottle placed in front of her like it was normal. Like it was expected. Why her? Why only her?

And then the room changed.

It wasn’t anything overt—no trumpet, no burst of light. Just a shift in energy. The kind of pause that spreads from table to table like a ripple across still water. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned.

Two figures were approaching the Ruby sections: older students, tall and sure-footed, uniforms sharp and marked with additional sashes of woven silver denoting senior rank. They moved with the kind of confidence that only came from being obeyed often. One was a stocky, good-natured-looking boy with dark curls and a friendly smirk. 

The woman beside him walked with precision. Her long black hair was swept back into a high braid, streaked with crimson at the ends, and her eyes—amber, sharp, unyielding—scanned the group like a general assessing a new regiment. She wore the Ruby sash proudly across her chest, and her boots clicked with each step, the sound cutting cleanly through the low murmur of the hall. When she spoke, her voice was smooth but carried a weight that could silence a storm.

“First-years,” she said, stopping beside their table, “welcome to House Ruby.”

The other Ruby students straightened instinctively, all conversation dying in an instant. Elara looked up and froze. The woman’s gaze had landed on her. Not with warmth. Not with curiosity. With intent.

For a moment, their eyes locked.

Then, just as quickly, those amber eyes dipped down—a flicker, barely a second, but enough. Enough for Elara to feel her whole body ignite with dread. The woman had looked. At her waist. At the slight, betraying bulge beneath her uniform skirt that Elara had worked so hard to ignore. The bulk of the diaper was impossible to conceal, even seated.

Then the woman smiled—thin, professional—and addressed the group at large again.

“My name is Selena Virelle. I’m the senior Caregiver for Ruby House, and I, along with my fellow caregivers, or CGs, will be responsible for your well-being, safety, and discipline during your first year. If you have questions, bring them to us. If you have problems, we solve them.”

She paced once, slowly, her eyes sweeping the gathered first-years.

“But we expect obedience,” she added, “and we expect every one of you to take responsibility for your growth here. If something is asked of you, you do it. If something is given to you, you finish it.”

Her voice sharpened just enough to make the next moment feel inevitable.

“Elara, dear.”

Elara’s stomach dropped. Every pair of eyes turned to her. She looked up, schooling her expression, but her mouth had gone dry.

“Y-yes?”

Selena’s tone remained pleasant, almost gentle. But her eyes held none of that softness. “You haven’t touched your bottle.”

Elara’s face flared red, her breath catching in her throat. She opened her mouth, searching for a protest, an excuse—something—but Selena was already stepping forward, hand gesturing lightly.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly, but with finality. “Come sit at the front. We like to keep special ones where we can watch them better.”

The way she said "special" made Elara want to melt into the floor. She stood slowly, every motion stiff and awkward. The crinkle beneath her skirt felt louder than it had ever been. Selena’s silent command floated her tray beside her, and Elara moved, dazed, to an empty seat near the very front table, where the two caregivers could oversee everything and where everyone would see her.

She sat, her tray settled in front of her.

Selena knelt slightly beside her, not crouching, not patronizing—but close enough to whisper. “We don’t waste food here, sweetheart. Or drink.”

Elara stared at the bottle. Her hands didn’t move.

“To the rest of you,” Selena called aloud, “this is your first lesson: obedience begins with small things. Finish your meals. Finish your drinks. Follow instructions. And remember—we see everything.”

There was no cruelty in her tone. That somehow made it worse. 

Elara raised the bottle. Her hands trembled.

She drank.

The nipple collapsed with a soft, infantile squish as Elara drew her first hesitant sip. The taste—cloyingly sweet and unmistakably artificial—coated her tongue like syrup, a twisted parody of apple juice tinged with something thicker and heavier. 

She wanted to spit it out. Wanted to hurl the bottle across the dining hall, to scream, to fight—but her throat moved on instinct, swallowing with a quiet gulp that might as well have been a thunderclap. The moment stretched, her humiliation blooming through her chest and up her neck in waves of hot color. She could feel the eyes on her—some wide with confusion, others flickering with poorly hidden amusement. But most were blank.

Selena remained crouched beside her, poised like a hawk, her amber eyes fixed on Elara with serene satisfaction. 

Elara took another sip, and then another. The crinkling between her thighs somehow felt louder now, like the bottle had awakened every secret she had tried so hard to bury.

When half the bottle had drained, Selena stood and turned to face the room.

“To the rest of you,” she said, her voice as smooth and cutting as glass, “let this be your first reminder.”

She paused—just long enough for every student to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“You may have arrived here believing you were clever. Talented. Even exceptional.” Her eyes swept the gathered first-years, the quiet tension rippling outward. “But at Littlewick, your past is irrelevant. Your will means nothing. From this day forward, you will follow instructions, obey your betters, and learn what it truly means to belong.”

Then her gaze slid back to Elara, and her voice dropped into something that shouldn’t have been so soft, because it carried like a spell.

“Welcome to your new lives, little ones.”