The week passed.
Zephyrion found himself standing before his full-length mirror. He looked so tall in his pure black shirt tucked into his baggy cargo pants. With his hair neatly tied in a ponytail, every inch of him looked neat and presentable. Every youth being drafted today was meant to wear this. He couldn't help but admire how he looked.
He could imagine his mother standing there, struggling to wipe away the tears from her eyes after unleashing an endless barrage of kisses on his cheeks. She would moan and whine, asking if he really had to go, before convincing herself there was no other choice. She would probably follow him all the way to the academy gates.
If she were here. If…
He exhaled through his nose. He had to focus. Today was a big day.
Every youth from across the Ferran Empire would be attending, especially those from the Dynasty houses. The Sarakhel Faith House. The royal house of Eryndor. The great craft house, Kharadun. Each of them would send their best.
