Verius Itharion let the silence breathe.
Then, as if picking up a thread woven before any of them were born, he continued—his voice quieter now, but no less certain.
"This year," he said, "the Academy changes."
The air stilled again. Not in awe, this time. In attention.
"You will find new faces among your peers—new voices among your halls. Commoners, yes. Born without crest or title. Admitted not by blood, but by trial. And they passed."
There were no gasps. No murmurs. Only the quiet weight of truth laid bare.
"This decision is not a concession," Itharion said calmly. "It is an evolution. A return to form, not a departure. For when Lysandra the First Flame forged this place, she did not ask for noble lineage. She demanded excellence."
He stepped forward, just once. His robes whispered with the movement.
"And more than that…"
