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They bear no Family crests. Instead— A black flame rising through ash. A silver wave beneath a storm cloud. A white mountain split by gold. A dark tree growing beneath stars. A crimson sun pierced by an arrow. A pale wing crossing a field of blue.Six symbols I have never seen. Six Wings.

The realization comes before anyone explains it. My attention moves to the figures standing beneath the banners. The Chief Wings Officers. All six. Caelen beneath the crimson sun. Lyss beneath the silver wave. Maelis before the white mountain. Soren under the dark tree. Dax beneath the black flame.And Rhyven stands beneath the pale wing. No slouching. No hands in his pockets. No visible irritation. His uniform bears silver wings across both shoulders and a narrow insignia at the throat. He looks older like this. Not in years. In responsibility. His golden eyes move across the gathered first-years with the same focus he gives a fighting opponent. Not looking for weakness. Accounting for people.

Nyra follows my gaze. "They're different."

"Yes." The answer leaves before I decide what she means. Perhaps she means the uniforms. The silence. The way each officer seems to anchor the upper-years behind them. At the Ball, they were Caelen's friends. At breakfast, they were loud, sarcastic and occasionally unbearable. At the Place, they were students. Here— They are the people the Academy trusts to lead everyone else.

The final first-year enters the field. The iron gates close behind him. The Headmaster walks onto the central platform. No applause follows. No introduction is necessary. He stands between the six banners, hands folded behind his back.

"You have spent your first week at Varethia learning what you inherited." His voice travels effortlessly across the field. "You have studied your histories. Tested your instincts. Discovered the beginnings of your individual manifestations." A pause. "Today, you begin learning who depends upon them."

The air changes. Not dramatically. A tightening. Every first-year feels it. The Headmaster gestures toward the six banners. "Varethia was founded by peoples who understood that strength divided becomes vulnerability." The banners stir despite the absence of wind. "This Academy does not train six collections of heirs." His gaze moves across us. "It trains one generation of leaders."

Behind him, silver lines appear across the field. They divide the lower grounds into six enormous sections. "You will study with many students. You will fight beside more. But from this morning until your final year concludes, you will belong to one Wing." Whispers break out. Quietly. Immediately silenced when the Headmaster continues. "Your Wing will train together. Compete together. Serve together. And answer together when one member fails to return." The last words carry more weight than the others. Not threatening. Serious. No one whispers again. "Wings are not organized by race." The Family crests embroidered across some uniforms briefly glow. Then fade. "They are not organized by rank, wealth or political alliance." He looks toward the first-years. "They are designed to deny you the comfort of sameness."

Nyra's shoulder brushes mine. Cassian stands on her other side. Rowan slightly behind us. We will not necessarily remain together. I had not considered that. Something in my chest tightens.

The Headmaster continues. "A Wing is not friendship. A Wing is not family." A pause. "It may become both." He turns toward the officers. "But first, it is responsibility."

An administrator steps forward carrying six narrow scrolls. The Headmaster breaks the first seal. "Ash Wing." The black flame banner ignites—not with real fire, but dark light. Dax steps forward. The field remains silent. He does not grin. That may be the most alarming thing I have seen since arriving. Names begin to be called. Twenty first-years move toward the Ash section. Wolves. Fae. Two vampires. A human student. A dragon-blooded girl. No pattern I can identify. Rowan's name is called eighteenth. She looks at us. Her confidence falters for one second. Then she squares her shoulders.

"Try not to become unbearably boring without me." She says.

"That will be difficult," Cassian replies.

"You'll manage." She squeezes Nyra's hand, bumps her shoulder against mine and jogs toward the black flame. Dax acknowledges every new student with one short nod. When Rowan reaches him, he says something too quiet for us to hear. Her face lights with outrage. Good. She will be fine.

"Tide Wing." Lyss steps forward beneath the silver wave. Her posture is graceful. Her attention severe. Cassian's name is called early. He looks unsurprised. Sirens do not automatically belong to Tide—three are already standing with Dax—but the assignment suits him enough to seem deliberate. Before leaving, he leans toward me.

"Don't look worried." He says.

"I don't."

"You do." The word settles warmly. Then he touches two fingers lightly to Nyra's shoulder. "I'll find you after." He crosses the field. Lyss greets him with a brief smile. The student beside her, a third-year deputy, records his number. No titles. No special treatment. Only placement.

"Stone Wing." Maelis.

"Root Wing." Soren. Nyra's name is called beneath the dark tree. Her eyes widen. Soren's Wing. It feels almost too obvious until I remember Nyra's manifestation is not merely plants. Rootsense. Living networks. Connection. The Academy may have considered that. Or perhaps I am already inventing meaning. Nyra looks toward me. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. Then I smile. "Go."

"What if—" She starts.

"Nyra." She stops. "You'll be excellent."

Her expression softens. "You don't know that." She says.

"I do."

She hugs me before I can react. Quickly. Then walks toward Root Wing. Soren watches her approach with unusual seriousness. When she reaches him, he offers no elaborate bow. Only says something that makes her stand a little straighter. I cannot hear it. I hope it was kind. With Soren, it probably sounded insulting first.

"Dawn Wing." Caelen steps forward beneath the crimson sun. First-years around me begin whispering.

"That's Vaelith."

Then another. "He completed the Frost Vigil alone."

Again. "He carried two students down the northern pass."

Again. "My sister said he hasn't lost a tactical assessment in two years."