Season I, Episode II: The First Appraisal

The boarding-house bells had not yet rung when Iskander Halevar woke beneath the sloping roof of his Lowstone attic. Dawn seeped through the stubborn window as he dressed in the best clothes for the Halls of Aura. Before fastening his satchel, he unwrapped his illuminated manuscript. The green leather cover remained unmarred, every gilded page as he remembered.

“My name is Iskander Halevar of Sunvale,” he practiced under his breath.

His old master had always said the Halls existed to find people with talent, no matter where they came from. Today, someone would finally see what he could do.

Gallery Street had changed overnight. Yesterday, Iskander had seen artists. Today, he saw professions.

Illuminators laid gold leaf with practiced hands while cartographers washed blue across fresh coastlines. Calligraphers drafted contracts beneath neat awnings; sculptors bargained over commissions that would outlive every hand now shaking. Apprentices hurried between workshops bearing pigments, chisels, and rolled canvas, and patrons moved from stall to stall with purposeful eyes.

No one waited for inspiration. They were already at work.

Every successful artist belonged somewhere, Iskander noticed as he walked toward Hallward. A guild badge stitched to a sleeve. An apprentice bent under supplies. A family name painted proudly above a workshop door.

How long it took to earn one of those names?

The Halls of Aura did not rise from Hallward. They presided over it.

Iskander stopped walking.

The cathedral climbed heavenward in pale marble and hallowed gold, its vaulted roofs gathering four immense wings about the Grand Library like scholars bent over a single page. High above, stained glass cast the Octave in jeweled light, and morning bells rolled through cloisters alive with students, instructors, and couriers.

His father had spent a lifetime binding books. Now, Iskander stood before the place where every book in Pnereth seemed to have come home.

Outside the library’s doors, he read signs identifying each of the four Halls. There was the Hall of Record, keeper of maps, manuscripts, and the memory of nations. The Hall of Doctrine, humming with magical inquiry. The Hall of Practice, where lecture courts, botanical gardens, and reflection pools turned theory into craft. And, his destination, the Hall of Instruction, where Grammats, Didaskals, and Horisto began their studies.

The Hall of Instruction stood open beneath an arcade of towering columns. Iskander smiled and started toward the entrance.

Then he saw the line.

Hundreds waited, portfolios tucked beneath their arms or strapped to their backs. Human and Deoi alike shifted through the morning shade, murmuring softly to one another.

Surprised, Iskander followed the line beneath the cloisters, around a reflection pool, and under an archway where the queue continued beyond sight. He joined the end of the line with mouth gaping.

A young woman a few places ahead adjusted the leather tube slung across her shoulder and laughed nervously. “Fifth year’s the charm.”

Her companion nudged her. “You reached the First Interview last year. You’ll make the Second this time.”

“I hope so.”

“You will.”

Around them, applicants compared portfolios, traded news of instructors, and debated what the First Appraisal might demand this year. Iskander’s master had spoken of the Halls as though talent needed only somewhere to arrive. Standing among hundreds who had arrived before him, Iskander wondered whether talent alone would be enough.

By the time he reached the admissions office, the noon sun shone through the stained-glass windows and the line had become a room. Clerks accepted forms, stamped documents, and called the next applicant beneath tall windows.

The woman at the counter smiled politely. “Good morning. How may I assist you?”

“I’ve come to apply for Grammat training.” He set his satchel carefully on the counter. “I was also hoping to inquire about scholarships.”

“Certainly.” She laid a neat stack of papers before him. “We’ll begin with the application.”

Iskander looked from the forms to her. “And the scholarship?”

“Scholarship applications open following enrollment.”

He blinked. “Following enrollment? I had hoped a scholarship might help me enroll.”

Her expression stayed kind, though she’d obviously answered this before. “Admission precedes scholarship. And admission requires faculty sponsorship.”

“How does one receive sponsorship?”

She turned a polished placard toward him, the pathway descending one step at a time: Application. Application Fee. First Appraisal. First Interview. Second Appraisal. Second Interview. Third Interview. Fourth Interview. Faculty Sponsorship. Third Appraisal. Selection. Enrollment. Scholarship Eligibility.

Beneath it, in smaller script: All first-year students remain subject to the Final Appraisal. Continued instruction is contingent upon satisfactory demonstration of growth.

Iskander read the board twice. “So, I must complete all of this before I may even apply for a scholarship?”

“That is correct.”

His fingers drifted toward the packet. “And the application fee?”

The clerk named the amount.

For a moment, the sounds of the hall retreated. He had enough pnerethi to keep the Lowstone attic another two months. He did not have enough to pay rent and the application fee though.

He hesitated, then reached into his satchel. “If it would help, I brought my portfolio.”

The clerk looked up as he touched the waxed cloth. “Oh. Please don’t.” She smiled apologetically. “Your portfolio won’t be reviewed until the First Appraisal.”

“I only thought—”

“I know.” Her voice remained gentle. “Bring your finest work then. The panel will have time to give it the attention it deserves.”

His hands lingered on the green leather before he wrapped it once more. No one had asked what it contained nor wondered how long it had taken. The manuscript slipped back into the satchel exactly as it had come out.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

Iskander managed a small smile. “No. I think you’ve answered everything.”

Gallery Street was just as busy when he returned. Gold leaf still caught the afternoon light and cartographers still bent over fresh coastlines and apprentices still hurried while patrons paused before finished work.

Only Iskander had changed.

Yesterday he had seen artists. Today he saw apprentices, masters, and sponsors.

He found an empty bench overlooking the street and opened his sketchbook. The Halls waited behind him, magnificent enough to fill an entire page.

Instead, he drew the line. Hundreds of figures vanished beneath marble arches, each carrying something they hoped would be enough. Beneath the sketch he wrote: Every library begins with a reader, but does every scholar begin by waiting outside the door?

He closed the book and looked once more toward the distant towers of the Halls of Aura.

Tomorrow, he would begin finding a way to earn his First Appraisal.