Frostwing Academy | ONC 2024

1 - The Academy

"So, Miss Montrose, tell me—why do you want to join Frostwing Academy?"

I fix my eyes on Dean Yoren's oakwood desk and take a deep breath. Silence rests heavily between us; the dean's fountain pen hovers over a fresh piece of parchment, a drop of ink poised to drip onto its smooth, creamy surface.

"Miss Montrose?"

I lift my eyes and roll my shoulders to ease the gathered tension. Dean Yoren cocks his head, one bushy grey eyebrow raised curiously. The dean of Frostwing Academy is an old man, barrel-chested and slightly stooped from years hunched over a desk. All the hair on his head has migrated to his face, as he sports a thick, bushy grey mustache and an impressive pair of mutton-chops. His pale blue eyes study me from behind round spectacles.

"We need money." I force the words out, swallowing hard to combat the rising flush to my cheeks.

Dean Yoren sighs and taps the end of his pen on the parchment. The droplet of ink jiggles free and splatters onto the unblemished paper, creating a miniature universe of black stars in a sea of white. "Yes, word of your family's misfortune reached us here."

My chin lifts and I clench my fists at my sides, knuckles brushing against the fine weave of my flower-patterned dress. Mother long sold off mine and my younger sister's finery, but I managed to keep this one hidden in case I needed it.

"I'm sorry," the dean says, his voice low and compassionate. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Don't show emotion, Herleva, I tell myself. Forcing my hands to unclench, I give a little toss of my head to show just how unconcerned I am. The heavy brown ringlets at my neck sway with the motion.

"My father is a fool, Dean Yoren," I tell the old man. "He was told repeatedly not to lead the caravan through the Highland Pass." Father had managed to secure an extremely lucrative deal with the Bakar of Tekk to sell their wares in Eastarion, but he lost it all to bandits. Thousands of crowns worth in crystal goblets, exquisite furniture, and bolts of silk vanished into the forest, never to be seen again.

All to shave off a day of travel.

Mother said that we should be happy that Father didn't lose his life, but I could see in her eyes that she didn't mean a word of it.

Dean Yoren nods slowly. He lays his pen down in a jade holder and reaches for a file. I see my name in bold letters on the top page as he opens it.

"Well, Miss Montrose," he says as his thick, ink-stained fingers fan through the half-dozen pages, "you did score very highly on our aptitude test ..."

Of course I did, I think, squaring my shoulders. I had years of the finest private education a daughter of the merchant class could afford.

"But," the dean continues, looking up, "I must be frank. You come from a very privileged background. You have led a very different life than the majority of our students and I'm afraid that no matter how determined you are, this might not be the best fit for you."

The rebuke is softly spoken, but that doesn't prevent the barb from hitting home. I flinch, eyes narrowing. Mother always said I get my stubbornness from Father. Perhaps I am a fool like him, after all, I muse as I get to my feet. The embroidered hem of my skirt swishes against my ankles as I push the chair back and rise. Dean Yoren's eyes widen as I slowly make a circuit around his office. It's a richly appointed room, loaded with as many books and bits of academia as there are expensive and rare objects.

"A Bakar cabinet, yes?" I inquire, nodding at the impressive golden unit situated at the back of the room. A quick peak inside reveals several rows of liquor bottles sitting on red velvet-lined shelves.

Very expensive liquor.

"Yes," the dean agrees, albeit a little tightly.

I continue my assessment of his office, pointing out the foreign rug beneath his feet, an antique bronze lamp from the Fourth Dynasty, a tapestry depicting the Arrival of Saint Tormund ...

Dean Yoren lifts a hand and I pause. "What are you getting at, Miss Montrose?"

I look out the window, down into the courtyard of Frostwing Academy. The snow-capped peaks of the Urlan Mountains surround us, their presence a heavy reminder that I'm no longer in the capital.

"We are both products of privilege, Dean Yoren," I tell the old man, folding my hands demurely in front of me. "But you have survived. So will I."

Dean Yoren looks me up and down. I remain at the window, the picture of poise outside, but inside my stomach tangles with nerves. I have to secure my place because despite the dangers, there is money to be made here.

"Sit, Miss Montrose," the dean says at last, gesturing with one beefy hand to the chair I'd recently vacated.

Gathering my skirts with one hand, I cross the room gracefully and sink back into the worn chair. The dean coughs and shuffles the papers of my file. "Very well," he begins. "But before I accept your commitment, there are a few concerns you must be made aware of."

I nod. I've heard about the requirements.

"Admittance to the Academy is free, but you will accrue a debt that must be paid off before you are allowed to graduate. The Academy pays for everything—food, clothing, accommodations, gear. Not just for you, but for your partner as well. You will be able to chip away at this debt by performing jobs. All money is returned to the Academy, but you are allowed to keep any tips for yourself."

I take a deep breath. "And how much is my debt?" This is the question I've been dreading to ask.

Dean Yoren pulls a page out of my file and slides it across the desk towards me. I lean forward and peer down at it. The numbers jump out, bold as can be, in an itemized list. The final tally makes me suck in a breath.

Twenty-thousand crowns.

Dear saints, I curse as I fall back in the chair. I'm doomed—doomed to a life bound to this mountain stronghold. There's no way I'll be able to recoup those funds in time to save my family from ruin.

"Miss Montrose?" Dean Yoren prompts.

I press a hand to my aching belly, wishing that I had forgone the corset in favor of a peasant's shift.

My little sister's face swims in my vision, pinched and scared for her future. I see my older brother, worn and depressed after his fiancée left him for a man with a more secure fortune.

My mother, brave, bold, and haughty. A woman who refuses to break beneath the strain.

My father, the fool, the cause of our ruin.

"Where do I sign?" I ask, reaching a hand out for the contract.

Dean Yoren stares at me but does not pass me a paper. "There's one more requirement before I formally admit you to Frostwing Academy, Miss Montrose."

"And what's that?"

"You must be accepted by a gryphon."

Bloody hell, I sigh, eyes shooting to the window. I saw them earlier, those massive winged beasts with their charges, sweeping and dipping across the sky with dizzying speed. The nausea curling in my belly doubles back on itself.

How could I forget? The very reason Frostwing Academy sits in the mountains is because of the gryphons. The only creatures capable of easily reaching the most remote villages in Eastarion.

"Yes. Of course."

A mixture of doubt and pity fills the dean's face. He rises from his chair and gestures towards the door. Determined not to be deterred, I shove myself to my feet more forcefully than a lady of my breeding should and follow him out of his office.

Look what you made me do, Father, I moan, repressing a shudder and lifting my head high.