The rain had started by the time they reached the western dormitories. Cold drops pelted the cracked stone path leading up to a squat, vine-strangled building nestled in the shadow of Paladas' grander towers. Moss climbed the walls like old bruises, and the wooden sign that once bore House Mennefer now hung askew, letters faded and half-burnt.
Nagara stopped at the threshold, eyes narrowing. "This is a storage hall."
Azlin gave a wry smile. "No. This is your new home."
The heavy oak door creaked open with the effort of age and disuse. Inside, the entryway was dim and drafty. A chandelier hung by one chain. The air smelled faintly of damp parchment, ink, and stubborn mildew. The stone hearth in the common room was cold and cracked. A teacup from who-knows-when rested abandoned on a side table, and the rug bore stains from both alchemical experiments and failed charm wards.
A rat scurried somewhere behind the walls.
Nagara stepped forward stiffly, his boots almost reluctant to touch the floor. "This is a mistake," he said flatly.
"No," Azlin said, moving toward the spiral stair. "It's House Mennefer."
Nagara turned on him. "You're joking."
"I wish," Azlin replied lightly. "Mennefer's the lowest-ranked house. A bit of a… retirement home for misfits, failed entrants, and students the academy doesn't know what to do with."
Nagara blinked, frozen. "They put me here? After what I did and Redris's scroll recommendation of my ability and skills.."
Azlin shrugged. "Lazlark doesn't do anything without reason. But Mennefer isn't what it looks like." He gestured vaguely at a water-damaged ceiling. "Okay, maybe it is. But the people aren't all hopeless."
"This is beneath me." The words came before Nagara could stop them. His voice rang too loudly in the hollow hall.
A few students poked their heads out from doorways above. Murmurs started—half-whispers and speculative eyes.
Azlin offered a small apologetic smile. "And here we are. Everyone, this is Nagara Veldorys. He'll be joining our house."
A boy leaning on the second-floor railing raised a brow. "Nagara? The fallen prince? I have heard of him lately!"
"Looks like it," a girl added from the stairwell, her tone somewhere between amusement and suspicion.
Nagara's jaw clenched. The shame was sharp, like biting down on ice. He didn't meet their eyes.
Azlin noticed. "They're not mocking you. Yet. You'll find Mennefer doesn't bite unless you deserve it."
"Great," Nagara muttered.
Down in the corner of the lounge, Rania had already claimed the only intact velvet armchair, her tea set resting on a side table she'd somehow cleaned with a flick of her hand. Steam rose from the porcelain cup in her hand. She hadn't moved since they arrived.
She sipped delicately. "Don't be so dramatic, prince. A little mold builds character."
He shot her a look. She returned it with a bored blink.
Azlin clapped his hands once. "Right! Rooms are upstairs. Take any open one. There's only eight of us left. The fireplace can be lit if you know any heat spells. And if your pride hasn't caught hypothermia yet, you can join us downstairs for dinner later."
Nagara turned slowly, taking in the cracked floors, leaning banisters, and peeling sigils on the walls. His royal upbringing itched under every flake of dust.
But no one here bowed. No one knelt. They just watched.
And for the first time in years, Nagara realized he would have to earn his place—not with a name, but with something else entirely.