Mika crouched behind a fish cart, her nose wrinkled, her tail flicking away a persistent fly. The market square bustled with idiots—merchants haggling like their lives depended on it, nobles pretending not to gag at the smell, guards lazing about like overfed cats with nothing to prove.
Perfect.
She adjusted her scarf, tucking her fox ears tighter beneath it.
Step One: Find a mark.
Step Two: Lift their purse.
Step Three: Don’t get caught.
Easy.
Or it would be, if her stomach hadn’t growled loud enough to startle a pigeon.
"Shut up," she muttered, pressing a hand to her ribs. "We’re working on it."
The target was almost too easy—a scholar type, robes too fancy for the slums, nose buried in some scroll like the words were going to fly off the page and kiss him.
His coin purse dangled from his belt like a ripe fruit begging to be plucked.
Mika moved.
A bump. A flick of her fingers. A whispered, "Oops, sorry!"
And—
Gotcha.
She ducked into an alley, already weighing the purse in her palm. Heavier than expected. She tore it open.
Coins, yes. But also—
A folded parchment.
She squinted.
"The hell…?"
The words swam in front of her eyes.
GRAND ACADEMY
Open Trials: Ages 13–18
Room, Board, and Training Provided
No Fees
Mika’s ears twitched.
“No fees?”
Her stomach growled again.
She kept reading.
Magic. Combat. Scholarship. All disciplines considered.
Chosen applicants granted full sponsorship.
A slow grin spread across her face.
“Well, well.” She tucked the parchment into her shirt. “Guess I’m gonna be a scholar.”
Back in her hideout—a crumbling bell tower that groaned when the wind hit it wrong—Mika counted her coins.
Enough for a hot meal. Maybe two, if she haggled. Or robbed the vendor. Or flirted. (All viable options.)
But the parchment sat beside her, smug and official-looking.
A roof. Real food. Every damn day.
Her fingers traced the Academy’s seal, embossed and probably cursed.
“They’ll take one look at me and laugh,” she muttered.
But then she caught her reflection in a jagged shard of mirror: small, sharp, sly.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Yeah, okay,” she told the girl in the glass. “We’ll cheat.”
She stared at the stolen parchment like it might start insulting her.
"Okay," she muttered, "how the hell do I get there?"
The Grand Academy wasn’t exactly next door. South, past the Blackridge Peaks, according to the flyer. Which meant: travel. Food. Shelter. Not getting murdered by bandits or, worse, questioned by guards who thought “fox ears” was reason enough to draw steel.
Her stomach growled again.
"Shut up. I'm thinking."
Option 1: Steal a horse.
Pros: Fast.
Cons: She’d never ridden one. Also, horse thieves got hanged.
Option 2: Sneak onto a merchant caravan.
Pros: Free ride.
Cons: Merchants were paranoid. She’d probably end up shipped in a crate labeled “perishables.”
Option 3: Walk.
Pros: None.
Cons: Everything.
She groaned and flopped onto her back. The ceiling had a crack shaped like someone laughing.
“Yeah, yeah. Hilarious.”
Fortune, when it came, smelled like rotten fish.
At the docks the next morning, Mika overheard two sailors arguing:
“I ain’t carting some noble brat all the way to Ridgewatch for scraps!”
“It’s easy coin, you idiot! Kid’s got papers—just drop ’em at the crossroads!”
Mika’s ears perked.
Ridgewatch.
That was halfway to the Academy.
She grinned.
Time to be a noble brat.
The kid was perfect.
Velvet doublet. Shiny boots. Hair combed like he had staff. A face that screamed “I’ve never been punched, but I’d cry if I was.”
Mika waited until he wandered too close to the dockside alleys.
A “stumble.” A “helpful” yank. A “whoops, my knife just slit your purse strap.”
The boy yelped as she dragged him into the shadows.
“Relax, rich boy,” she hissed. “I’m not gonna stab you. Probably.”
Five minutes later:
-
His travel papers: Alistair Veyne. Ugh.
-
His coin purse: lighter than expected. Cheap.
-
His clothes: offensively expensive and offensively itchy.
Mika scowled at the doublet. “This thing’s gonna give me a rash.”
Worse? The hat. A feathered, floppy crime against fashion.
She yanked it low over her ears, tail twitching angrily under the too-tight trousers.
“Either this,” she grumbled, “or walking. And I hate walking.”
The ship’s captain squinted at her. “You the Veyne brat?”
Mika forced her tail to stop thrashing. “Do I look like I enjoy repeating myself?”
(She’d heard a noble say that once. Worked great.)
The captain scratched his beard. “You’re… shorter than I expected.”
“And you’re uglier than I expected,” she shot back. “Guess we’re both disappointed.”
A beat. Then—
The captain barked a laugh. “Fine, you little shit. Get onboard.”
Mika exhaled.
So far, so good.
The ship left port just after noon. As Ravenna’s grime and rooftops disappeared behind them, Mika leaned on the railing and squinted at the water.
“Guess I’m Alistair now,” she muttered.
Then, quieter:
“Hope you like the Academy, kid. ’Cause you’re not getting your spot back.”
Turns out, noble clothes sucked.
The doublet chafed. The boots pinched. And the hat—it deserved a burial at sea.
But the worst part?
Acting noble.
No slouching. No swearing. No snatching extra bread at meals (even though she absolutely could have).
The sailors mostly left her alone. Probably too busy or too scared of “noble consequences” if they roughed her up.
One night, as she picked at her gruel and tried not to vomit from the ship’s constant bobbing, a voice hissed from the shadows.
“Hey. Noble.”
Mika glanced up, one hand already drifting toward her knife.
A scrawny deckhand leaned against a barrel, grinning. “You ain’t foolin’ anyone.”
Mika froze.
Then: “You gonna tell?”
The boy snorted. “Why would I? Nobles are boring. You? You’re interesting.”
She blinked. “That’s… unsettlingly honest.”
He shrugged. “Watch the first mate. He likes rich boys.”
Mika rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Gross. Thanks.”
“Anytime, ‘Your Grace.’”
He vanished back into the shadows.
Mika grinned.
Okay. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be all awful.
On the fourth day at sea, she nearly got caught.
The captain’s steward knocked on her door without warning.
“You left your academy letter in the galley,” he said, holding the parchment.
Mika stared at it like it had sprouted fangs.
Think fast.
“Oh,” she said, snatching it. “You read it?”
The steward looked horrified. “Of course not, Your Grace!”
She nodded sharply. “Good. Keep it that way.”
He bowed and scurried off.
Mika locked the door behind him, back pressed to the wood, heart hammering.
“Smooth,” she muttered. “Real smooth.”
Final lines:
As Ravenna’s slums faded into the horizon, Mika adjusted her stupid hat and glared at the sea.
“Free food,” she reminded herself. “Free bed. No more gutters.”
Her tail ached. Her ears itched. Her boots were made of pain and betrayal.
Worth it.
Probably.
“Let’s see how long this noble gig lasts.”
Then she smirked, hands behind her head, and let the wind steal the last of the fish-stink from her scarf.
The Academy could wait.
She was just getting started.