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Asher waves at the lake ahead and the distant sheep. "It's my job to worry about anything that might happen. Anything and everything. So I'm in the habit of it."

For as long as you've known them, Asher's been this way: intensely focused on their work, and refusing to budge from it no matter how much your siblings tried to distract them. That, of course, means making sure you're doing exactly nothing dangerous.

With Asher breathing down your neck, how are you to have any fun or freedom? Still, perhaps living away from the palace will help your mother trust that you won't drop dead out of her company.

The fishermen finish up refueling the plane; you drink deeply from your carafe of ice water and dust your hands on your pants. Asher rises with you, pulling their flying jacket on and zipping it up to their neck.

"We should get going," they say with a final wistful look over the lake.

Pulling on your flying cap and goggles, you wait for Asher to start the engine. They draw the plane around the edge of the lake, slowly picking up speed.

Your heart is in your throat as the plane takes off.

You Ascend

Circling the Gallatin Mountains, Asher guides the airplane west. Nestled in the valley below sits Gallatin town, a mile or two from the Academy. As the light fades, it grows harder to see ahead of you, and your face grows damp.

"We've hit a bank of fog!" Asher shouts from ahead of you. "Watch out for any planes nearby. It's hard to see anything!"

Worse, you realize, it will be near-impossible to spot Archambault Academy from this distance.

"What should I do?" Asher calls over their shoulder. Their voice trembles.

Best to avoid the fog altogether. Asher pulls the plane up sharply and veers west. You hear them shout something about avoiding the mountainside, but navigation is tricky with few landmarks to see.

The light is fading. Crimson sunset stains the sky, and it feels like hours as Asher takes you around the mountain. Your lips are growing cold.

Next

Finally, finally, you see twinkling lights below.

"That's it!" Asher yells. "The Academy!"

They bring the plane down, down, and you finally touch down with a jolt. Cheering bursts around you.

Next

A gaggle of teachers and students have been waiting on the field for you, and as soon as the engine is switched off, they swarm to you. You jump to the ground and, from the pilot's seat, so does Asher.

The tallest of the crowd is a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and a beard, whose picture you recognize from the Archambault prospectus. Lord Pascal Haberlin, the Headteacher. He bears a lantern and is dressed in a long brocade robe that looks suspiciously like a dressing-gown.

"Your Highness!" he shouts.

Next

Please allow us to welcome you to our little school!" calls Pascal.

You take off your cap and goggles, blinking at the sudden cool breeze on your face. The audience applauds as though you've done something remarkable, not caring about your ruffled appearance.

"My goodness," Pascal says, partially to you and partially for the benefit of the assembled crowd. "You're the absolute image of Queen Estell!"

You've heard that many a time. The blinking lights of the plane give your coloring an unnatural cast, but like the rest of the royal family…

"I'm Lord Pascal Haberlin," says Pascal. "Call me Pascal—that's how we do things here, we treat students like the young adults they are, not children."

Asher murmurs a polite greeting, ducking their head.

"Would you like to make your formal introductions?" Pascal says quietly to you. "Or shall I?"

You survey the gathered crowd. Some are watching you excitedly, while others are trying to look nonchalant. Pascal gives you a broad smile and gestures to you to begin.

I'm glad I gave you some entertainment this evening," you say. "And in case you don't know who I am…"

A burst of glad laughter. Of course everyone knows who you are. You introduce yourself as His Highness the Prince…

You are known as His Highness Irad Motahhari, Prince of Westerlin, second child of Queen Estell.

Asher applauds enthusiastically beside you while the students and teachers clap and cheer. Pascal beams at you.

"And how would you prefer us to address you, Your Highness?" he says.

Pascal bows deeply, and turns to address the crowd. "Settle down, you lot," he says. "I know how exciting it is for Prince Irad Motahhari to be here, but of course we'll deal with it with our usual aplomb."

A pair of teachers herd the students away toward the school, leaving you and Asher in the open evening air with Pascal.

"They'll get used to you," Pascal says fondly. "We haven't had a Westerlind royal here before, of course, and it's been a few years since we had Prince Rosario from Zaledo here, so everyone's a little excitable. Now! I'm certain you have a hundred things to think about, so I'll show you to your rooms."

With Asher, you follow him onward.

Next

Archambault Academy sits close to the top of a waterfall; as you walk with Pascal, you hear the roar of the water. A dizzying array of towers and spires soar high against the sunset sky. At the entrance stands an enormous marble statue of a rearing stag.

"That's Archie," Pascal says affectionately. "Been here for centuries. Lovely boy, isn't he?"

The whole place is ancient. Even the more modern gas lamps have been carefully blended with antique stonework and ornate stone carvings of animals and vines. Pascal is eager to explain where everything is, and the history of the architecture. Even if you wished to, it's hard to get in a word edgewise.

Pascal is keen to talk, and does not seem to require much in the way of reply. You circle past the thick conifer forest, and then he stops abruptly, raising his lantern to widen the circle of light. "Laurie Beaumont, is that you?" he calls out.

"I was finishing my Natural Science prep," says a cross voice from amongst the trees.

A stocky figure in the dove-gray Archambault uniform with long, inky-black hair and a darker complexion than yours emerges from the shadows, bearing a small satchel in one hand and a thick textbook in the other. The figure—Laurie Beaumont, you presume—looks you up and down and cradles the satchel protectively.

Next