The walk to the female dormitories was an exercise in suppressed rage. Astraea moved through the vaulted hallways of Aethelgard with a stiff, regal gait that was constantly undermined by the fact that her borrowed boots squeaked on the marble.
"The architecture is... efficient," Astraea remarked, her voice dripping with the kind of faint praise one might give a well-built pigsty.
"It’s the most beautiful place I've ever seen," Lyra whispered, sticking close to Astraea’s shadow. "The 'Grace Wing' is where the high-potential mages stay. They say the beds are stuffed with griffin down."
They didn't make it to the beds.
In the center of the common room, blocked by a semi-circle of girls in pristine silk robes, stood the "welcome committee." At the center was a girl with hair so blonde it looked bleached by magic, her fingers glowing with the soft, ambient light of a high-tier barrier mage.
"Well, well," the girl said, her voice a polished blade. "The mud-kitten and the failure. I heard about your little performance in the arena, Astraea. Very... visceral. Though I suppose when you lack the refinement for proper support magic, you have to resort to biting and scratching like a common beast."
Astraea stopped. She looked at the girl's glowing fingers, then at the two sycophants flanking her—mages who specialized in "Support-Attack" spells, the kind of flashy, low-impact light shows Astraea used to watch for entertainment during the Eon Festivals.
"And you are?" Astraea asked, her voice dangerously calm.
"Elara, Head of the Grace Wing," the girl preened. "And I’m here to ensure you understand the hierarchy. In this wing, those who can provide the most utility to the frontlines eat first, sleep first, and speak first. You? You’re a statistical anomaly. A woman who wants to play soldier."
Astraea took a step forward. The two sycophants raised their hands, light flickering in warning. Astraea didn't even blink. To her, their "power" felt like the heat of a candle compared to a collapsing star.
"You speak of utility," Astraea said, her gold-flecked eyes narrowing. "But all I see is a girl hiding behind a glow she didn't earn. You are a wall, Elara. And walls are only useful until someone decides to walk around them."
Elara’s face flushed a sharp, angry pink. She didn't strike—that would be beneath her—but she gestured toward a dark, cramped hallway near the kitchens.
"Trash goes in the bins," Elara hissed. "You and your little shadow are in Room 4-B. Down the hall, past the laundry. You’ll be sharing with the other 'special' case. Try not to let her delusions rub off on you."
Astraea didn't dignify her with a retort. She simply walked past, her shoulder brushing Elara’s with enough force to make the barrier mage stumble.
Room 4-B was small, damp, and smelled faintly of old parchment and metal polish. It was meant for two, but a third cot had been squeezed into the corner.
Sitting on that cot was a girl who looked like she was mourning a lost war. She was tall, with broad shoulders that were currently slumped, and she was meticulously polishing a heavy steel gauntlet that looked like it belonged on a statue, not a healer.
"Another one?" the girl asked without looking up. Her voice was deep, resonant, and weary. "If you’re here to tell me my 'Holy Smite' is actually just a 'Great Heal' that I'm casting wrong, save your breath. I’ve heard it from the instructors already."
Astraea stepped into the room, her eyes immediately fixated on the gauntlet. "That’s a Vanguard’s piece. Heavy plate, reinforced for parrying blunt force."
The girl finally looked up. Her eyes were a stormy grey, filled with a stubborn, desperate fire. "I’m Selene. They enrolled me as a Holy Healer because my mana pool is 'too pure' for the infantry. But I don't want to mend bones, stranger." She held up the gauntlet, her grip tightening. "I want to be the reason they don't break in the first place. I want to be a Paladin."
Astraea felt it then—a double-thrum from the mark on her thigh. It wasn't just Lyra’s budding potential anymore. The tattoo burned with a demanding, sovereign heat as it recognized another soul being crushed by the world's expectations.
Astraea looked around the miserable, cramped room. Her pride was buried in the mud, her divinity was a memory, and she was surrounded by outcasts.
She felt a slow, predatory smile spread across her face.
"Well, Selene," Astraea said, tossing her dull daggers onto the empty cot. "It seems this room is significantly overqualified for the roles they've given us. Shall we start a riot, or just a revolution?"
Astraea watched Selene for a moment. The girl’s movements were precise, but there was a heaviness to them that didn't come from the steel gauntlet. It was the weight of being told "no" every single day.
"A Paladin's path requires more than just heavy metal, Selene," Astraea said, crossing the cramped room. She reached out and tapped the gauntlet. "It requires the ability to turn your soul into a fortress. Tell me—when you channel your 'Holy Heals,' what does it feel like?"
Selene looked frustrated. "It feels like... like I’m trying to pour a waterfall through a needle’s eye. The instructors tell me to be 'gentle' and 'nurturing.' But when I call the Light, it wants to roar. It wants to strike."
Astraea nodded. "Because you aren't a vessel; you’re a conduit. They’re trying to make you a cup of water when you’re meant to be a tidal wave."
She turned to include Lyra, who was watching them from the doorway. "We have a problem, though. A Goddess—or even a Queen—is only as effective as her tools. You have no bow, and you," she looked back at Selene, "are missing the rest of that suit. A single gauntlet is just a heavy glove."
"The Academy armory only issues gear based on your 'designated track,'" Selene sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Healers get staves and robes. Support-Strikers get light wands. Frontline gear is kept under lock and key in the Iron Wing. Only the 'real' warriors—the men—and the high-noble women get access."
Astraea’s fingers twitched. Manual procurement. The mortal term for it was likely 'stealing' or 'earning,' but she preferred 'reclaiming.'
"We'll find a way to liberate what you need," Astraea said, her stomach suddenly letting out a sharp, undignified growl. She winced, pressing a hand to her midsection. "But first... this vessel demands tribute. If I don't consume something soon, I may actually perish of pure irritation."
"The Mess Hall?" Lyra asked, looking nervous. "But the Grace Wing girls will be there. They usually take the central tables. We’re supposed to wait until the 'High Potentials' are finished."
"I have waited ten thousand years for many things, Lyra," Astraea said, her gold-flecked eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "I will not wait for a bowl of porridge because a girl with a glowing finger said so. Lead the way. I want to see what else this Academy is trying to suppress."
The Aethelgard Mess Hall was a cavernous space of vaulted ceilings and long communal tables. It smelled of rosemary, roasted meat, and the unmistakable scent of teenage ego.
As the trio entered, the usual roar of conversation dipped. The "outcasts" of Room 4-B were a strange sight: Lyra, the shivering healer; Selene, the "failed" paladin; and Astraea, the mud-stained enigma who walked like she owned the very air everyone else was breathing.
"Look," Astraea whispered as they moved toward the serving line. "Don't just look at the boys in their plate armor. Look at the girls at the edges."
She gestured subtly toward a table in the far corner. A girl sat alone, her nose in a book, but her fingers were tapping a rhythm on the table that mimicked the cadence of a cavalry charge. At another table, a girl with scarred hands was being mocked by a group of male squires for her "clumsy" mana control.
"Potential is everywhere," Astraea murmured, her thigh tattoo beginning to thrum with a low, constant heat. "Hidden under layers of 'support' labels and 'gentle' expectations. We aren't just here to eat, my maidens. We're here to scout the ranks of my new army."
She picked up a tray, looking at the mystery meat and gray tubers with profound suspicion.
"Is this... what you eat to maintain your forms?" she asked Selene, horrified.
"It’s... hearty?" Selene offered weakly.
Astraea poked a tuber with a wooden spoon. "Vesta, if you can hear me, I hate you."
She began to scan the room, her gaze settling on the central table where Elara and her "Grace Wing" elite were holding court. They were surrounded by the Academy’s top male prospects, laughing and preening.
Astraea didn't see a social elite. She saw a target-rich environment.
"Selene," Astraea said, her voice dropping into a commander's tone. "That table in the center, the one with the silk runner and the actual salt cellars. Is there a rule that says we can't sit there?"
Lyra turned pale. "It's... it's 'tradition' that only the top ten percent sit there."
"Tradition," Astraea mused, "is just a word for a habit that hasn't been broken yet. Follow me."