The first bell woke Vhar before daylight reached the window.
GONG!
He sat up and waited for his ribs to finish objecting. The pain beneath his left shoulder had lost its sharpest edge overnight, his wrapped ankle accepted his weight, and his fingers closed without trembling, although the cloth across his knuckles pulled tight.
Someone knocked twice.
"If you are awake, open the door before the broth cools," Dema called.
Vhar washed, changed the cloth around his wrist, and pulled on the loose dark shirt she had found in the public stores. Radrazh and Ulqor settled across his back once he tightened the crossed strap and tested both knots.
Dema stood outside with two steaming cups balanced on a tray. She passed him one and started down the corridor without waiting for ceremony.
"The medic asked to see you walk before Reader Ilven takes the rest of your morning," she said.
Vhar drank as they joined the traffic on the stairs. Salt, ginger, and rendered fat warmed his throat. "Does Ilven ever stop taking mornings?"
"Only when the papers stop arriving, and last night they followed him to supper."
A kitchen apprentice squeezed past them with a basket of onions, while two students blocked half the landing as they argued over a missing boot. Dema sent both students moving with a look that suggested she had heard the same argument before.
The First Measure Academy had woken around Vhar without arranging itself for him. Workers pushed breakfast carts across the courtyard, wet shirts hung beneath an eave, and a yard instructor was already shouting at someone who had arrived with one sandal unlaced. The ordinary movement eased something inside him that sympathy could not have reached.
The medic crossed the lower hall carrying clean wraps toward a student whose hand had swollen around a wooden splint. She pointed at the final stair without slowing.
"Walk down that one normally, turn left, and breathe deeply when you reach me."
Vhar finished the broth, descended without using the rail, and turned. The ache pulled beneath his shoulder blade near the end of the movement, but his ankle accepted the step.
"Mostly the left side?" she asked.
"Yeah, though it is better than last night."
She watched one breath fill his ribs and gave the ankle wrap a quick pull to check its tension. "Keep hard landings off that side for three days and find me if the ache starts stabbing when you breathe, although flat-ground work is fine."
"I was hoping the Academy saved roof jumping for the second week."
"That depends on the roof." She moved on to the waiting student before Vhar could ask whether that answer had ever reassured anyone.
Reader Ilven was not waiting behind a desk. He stood beneath the lower hall arch with a ledger tucked under one arm and the padded evidence box held against his hip. Broken black cords and the brass rod from the collar frame lay inside, each piece wrapped and marked with red thread.
"Walk with me," he said.
They crossed the courtyard toward the reader yard. Students were stepping between painted lines while an instructor struck the paving with a switch whenever a heel landed outside the marks.
Ilven shifted the ledger beneath his arm as they moved. "Conditional admission gives you the public-quarter room, meals, treatment, and the reader yard, while your conduct, recovery, and the restricted review decide what opens after that."
"What happens when House Talvern arrives?"
Ilven shifted the evidence box away from a passing cart. "They meet the registry, the corridor witnesses, and a record showing that you reached us alive, so they may send paper or people, but nobody carries you out of this courtyard because an offering sheet says you died."
Vhar watched an entrant stumble between the lines and recover before the switch touched the ground. "Could the Academy still send me back?"
Ilven stopped beside the yard gate. His tired expression became more attentive. "The Academy can refuse to train you if you endanger everyone around you or if your admission fails. Refusal would put you outside our protection, which is not the same as delivering you to House Talvern. I would rather you understand the difference now."
"Yeah, I understand the difference."
"Do you still want the place?"
Beyond the gate, bodies moved beneath the open morning sky. No one knelt before an altar, and every person inside the lines had entered on their own feet.
"Yes, I am staying," Vhar said.
Ilven opened the ledger against the top of the evidence box and showed him the first blank line. Vhar signed his present name while standing beside the yard. The ink held steady.
"Bring that page to the residence counter after the first movement period," Ilven said. "Dema will have your room key."
The weapon attendant occupied a rack beneath the gate roof. She inspected the crossed scabbards while they remained on Vhar's back, tugged each knot, and ran a leather measuring cord from his shoulder to the lower ends.
"Radrazh and Ulqor?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Keep them sheathed in the dining hall, wash rooms, and sleeping corridor. Yard instructors decide when steel comes free, and the rack beside each marked lane holds them during body work." She threaded a narrow white strand through the paired guards. "This breaks if either blade leaves its scabbard. It warns us without pretending it can stop you."
"What happens if it breaks for a real reason?"
"Bring both blades to me afterward and tell me what happened, but if the reason is still happening, pull the red cord beside the rack first."
Vhar glanced at the cord hanging within reach of the yard entrance. "That makes more sense than asking the thread to defend the building."
The attendant gave the strand a final tug. "You would be surprised what people expect from string."
She waved him through.
The morning movement period asked for no display of power. Vhar walked painted turns, lowered himself onto one knee without dropping his weight, and crossed a short beam while an instructor watched his ankle. The work left heat beneath the bandage but no fresh pain. When another entrant slipped near his injured side, Vhar shifted away instead of catching him badly, and the instructor redirected the boy with one hand.
"Keep your own balance before borrowing somebody else's," she told them both.
The next lane narrowed between two upright poles. Vhar stopped at its entrance, removed the crossed harness, and set both scabbards on the marked rack rather than forcing their ends through the students waiting beside him. The weapon attendant checked the white strand before accepting them. Inside the lane, Vhar turned through shoulder-width gaps, caught a weighted sack against his chest, and placed it on the opposite platform without letting his sore side collapse. When he returned, the attendant handed the harness back with the strand still intact.
"Most new candidates forget what they are wearing before the first doorway," she said.
Vhar settled the straps without striking either pole. "The doorway usually reminds them."
At the end of the period, sweat had dampened Vhar's collar, and hunger had returned with enough force to feel healthy.
Dema met him near the kitchen doors. She carried a square brass token and an iron key with blue thread tied through its bow.
"Public quarter, fourth stair, third door," she said. "The room remains yours while admission stays open. The blue thread tells the cleaners it is occupied, while this token covers the small things you choose for yourself."
She placed both in his palm. The token bore the Academy measure-mark on one face and a plain notch on the other.
"Meals, treatment, and the room do not come out of it," Dema continued. "Use it at the public stalls for soap, thread, a comb, or whatever else seems worth having; the keeper records each mark, so tell the counter if you lose it."
Vhar closed his hand around the key and token. One opened a room that no guard had locked from the outside. The other bought something no priest, branch elder, or quartermaster had selected for him.
"Who else lives on that floor?"
"First-year readers, two kitchen apprentices, and a cart boy who sleeps through every bell; they have work of their own, so let them keep it."
"I was not planning to reorganize the floor."
"That should make you popular. The last student moved every wash bucket and started a feud before supper."
They entered the dining hall with the breakfast crowd. Dema pointed out the residence stair, the public-stall gate, and the rain cistern as they passed each one, while Vhar fixed the route in his mind through doors, paving changes, and the sound of the kitchen.
At the serving pots, she took the empty cup from him. "Eat first because the room will still be upstairs afterward."
The kitchen woman filled his bowl until grain covered the ladle. When Vhar reached for it, she kept hold of the tray.
"Medic's mark?"
He showed her the folded slip.
"That earns you an egg as well. Sit near the open doors if the smell of bandages bothers you."
"The bandages have behaved better than most people I met this week."
She released the tray with a quiet snort. An entrant behind Vhar leaned sideways to see the extra egg and muttered that injuries were apparently profitable. The kitchen woman heard him.
"You can earn one the same way if you are foolish enough."
The entrant decided his plain bowl was sufficient.
Vhar looked through the open hall doors toward the reader yard, where the next group had begun crossing the painted lines. House Talvern still possessed its offering record, and the Academy held the remains of the device meant to make that record true.
He now had another record carrying his name, a key, a place to train, and money he could spend without permission.
None of it promised safety, although all of it gave him somewhere chosen to stand.