The academy infirmary smelled of antiseptic herbs and the metallic tang of blood. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the rows of empty beds. All except one.

  Dalia sat motionless beside Ezra's cot, her fingers curled around his weathered hand. The healing mages had done what they could, closing his wounds and stabilizing his condition, but the elderly mechanic remained unconscious, his breathing shallow and labored. Occasionally, his eyelids would flutter, and Dalia would lean forward, hope swelling in her chest, only to have it deflate when he remained stubbornly trapped in whatever dark dreamscape held him captive.

  The pirate attack had ended as abruptly as it began. Captain Blacklock's forces had withdrawn after seizing a dozen students—all from prominent families, Dalia had later discovered—and inflicting enough damage to leave the academy reeling. The magical storm had dissipated with their departure, leaving behind a sky of innocent stars that seemed to mock the chaos they had witnessed.

  "You should rest," a gentle voice advised from behind her.

  Dalia didn't turn, recognizing the soft cadence of Healer Moira, a middle-aged woman whose kind eyes belied the steel in her spine. "I'm fine," she replied automatically.

  "You haven't slept in two days," Moira countered, moving to stand opposite her across Ezra's bed. "Exhaustion helps no one, least of all him."

  Dalia remained silent, her thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of Ezra's hand. How could she explain that sleep meant reliving those terrible moments in the workshop? The pirates advancing through smoke and flame. Ezra's blood staining her trembling hands. The desperate, reckless surge of magic that had erupted from her like a volcanic cataclysm, tearing through the workshop walls and burying two of the attackers beneath a cascade of stone and timber.

  The third had escaped, but not before shooting Ezra again in his hasty retreat.

  "I can't leave him," she finally said, her voice barely audible.

  Moira sighed, her expression softening with understanding. "He would not want you to neglect yourself on his account." She reached across the bed, gently touching Dalia's shoulder. "One hour. Just close your eyes for one hour. I'll wake you if there's any change."

  Before Dalia could formulate another protest, the infirmary door swung open with a decisive thud. Headmistress Varrine strode in, her imperious features set in a mask of grim determination. Following close behind were Professor Caldwell and a thin, reedy man Dalia recognized as Master Phineas, head of the Academy's disciplinary committee.

  Something cold and leaden settled in the pit of Dalia's stomach. She straightened in her chair, squaring her shoulders for whatever storm approached.

  "Miss Sinclair," Headmistress Varrine began without preamble, "you will accompany us to my office immediately."

  Dalia glanced at Ezra's still form, reluctant to leave. "Can't this wait? I'd rather stay until he—"

  "It cannot wait," Varrine interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "Master Ezra's condition is stable, and we have matters of grave importance to discuss."

  The walk through the academy's corridors felt interminable. Dalia was acutely aware of the sidelong glances from students they passed, the whispered conversations that died abruptly at her approach. News traveled fast within these walls, and it seemed everyone had heard some version of what had transpired in the mechanics workshop.

  Headmistress Varrine's office occupied the highest level of the academy's central stack, a circular chamber dominated by a massive desk of polished ironwood. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the academy grounds, where repair crews were still clearing debris from the attack. The walls were lined with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, their stern gazes seeming to follow Dalia as she took the lone chair placed strategically in front of the desk.

  Varrine settled into her high-backed chair, while Caldwell and Phineas flanked her like sentinels. No one spoke for several uncomfortable moments.

  "Do you understand why you're here, Miss Sinclair?" Varrine finally asked, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.

  Dalia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I assume it's about what happened during the attack."

  "Partially," Varrine acknowledged with a slight nod. "Though recent events have merely brought to light concerns that have existed for some time."

  Professor Caldwell stepped forward, a scroll unfurled in his hands. "Let us review the facts," he said, his voice clinical and detached. "During your time at this academy, you have accumulated seventeen formal warnings for improper use of magic, three citations for reckless endangerment during flight exercises, and numerous instances of insubordination."

  "Most of those were minor incidents," Dalia protested, heat rising to her cheeks.

  "Minor?" Caldwell's eyebrow arched incredulously. "You crashed an experimental glider into the observatory dome. You created a magical feedback loop that shattered every window in the eastern dormitory. You—"

  "That's enough, Professor," Varrine interjected, raising a hand. "I believe Miss Sinclair takes your point."

  Dalia bit her tongue, restraining the defensive arguments that crowded her mind. She'd passed all her exams. She'd excelled in tactical simulations. She'd even won the summer flight trials, outmaneuvering students with far more experience. Surely that counted for something?

  "Now," Varrine continued, her piercing gaze fixed on Dalia, "let us discuss the events of two nights ago. During the pirate incursion, you engaged in prohibited combat with the intruders despite explicit instructions for all students to shelter in place."

  "They were attacking Ezra," Dalia countered, her hands clenching involuntarily. "What was I supposed to do, hide and let them kill him?"

  "Your intentions may have been noble," Master Phineas interjected, his reedy voice carrying a surprising authority, "but your actions were catastrophic. Your uncontrolled magical outburst collapsed an entire section of the workshop wing."

  "I saved Ezra's life," Dalia insisted, her voice rising despite her efforts to remain calm.

  "And nearly cost others theirs," Caldwell retorted sharply. "Three maintenance staff were trapped in the collapse. They survived only by the grace of the old gods and the quick thinking of Professor Littlebrook, who shielded them with a barrier spell."

  The revelation struck Dalia like a physical blow. She hadn't known. In the chaos that followed, with Ezra bleeding in her arms and academy guards swarming the area, she hadn't thought to ask about collateral damage. Shame burned through her, hot and suffocating.

  "I didn't... I didn't realize," she stammered, her earlier defiance crumbling.

  "No," Varrine said, her tone softening marginally, "you didn't. And therein lies the crux of our concern, Miss Sinclair. Your impulsivity, your inability to consider consequences before acting, represents a fundamental danger not only to yourself but to everyone around you."

  Master Phineas produced a sealed document from within his robes, placing it delicately on Varrine's desk. The Headmistress broke the wax seal with a practiced motion and scanned its contents briefly before addressing Dalia once more.

  "The disciplinary committee, after reviewing all evidence, has reached a decision." Her voice was measured, each word falling like a stone into still water. "You are to be expelled from the Aeronautical War Academy, effective immediately."

  The world seemed to tilt beneath Dalia. Expelled. The word echoed in her mind, incomprehensible at first, then devastating in its clarity. Her dream, her future, everything she had worked toward since childhood—gone in an instant.

  "You can't," she whispered, more plea than protest. "Please. I can do better. I can control it."

  "I'm afraid the decision is final," Varrine replied, though something like regret flickered briefly across her features. "Your personal effects will be packed and ready for collection by tomorrow morning. Arrangements will be made for your return home."

  Home. The word twisted like a knife in Dalia's gut. Her father's disappointment would be unbearable. The smug satisfaction of relatives who had predicted her failure from the start would be even worse. She'd be relegated to the margins of society, just another failed noble daughter to be married off to whatever middling lord would take her.

  "Isn't there... isn't there anything else?" Dalia asked, desperation bleeding into her voice. "Some alternative? Probation, perhaps, or—"

  She broke off as Varrine and Caldwell exchanged a significant look.

  "There is... one possibility," Varrine said slowly, as if weighing each word. "Though I'm not certain it would be any more palatable to you than expulsion."

  Hope flickered weakly in Dalia's chest. "What is it?"

  Professor Caldwell cleared his throat. "The academy has recently acquired an aging airship, the 'Crimson Gull.' It was intended for use as a training vessel, but assessment has revealed it to be too costly to refurbish. It needs to be delivered to the scrapyard at Northyard Point."

  The Crimson Gull. Ezra's words in the workshop echoed in Dalia's memory. Deck seven, berth thirty-nine. The manifest says... scrapped materials. But it's not.

  "You want me to pilot it there?" Dalia asked, confusion momentarily displacing her despair.

  "Not merely pilot," Varrine clarified. "You would be assuming full responsibility for the vessel and a minimal crew for the duration of the journey. It would be a one-way mission, after which you would make your own arrangements. The academy would not facilitate your return."

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Understanding dawned on Dalia with cold clarity. This wasn't an alternative to expulsion—it was exile disguised as a task. A convenient way to remove her from the academy while avoiding the scandal of outright dismissal.

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then the original verdict stands," Phineas replied with a slight shrug. "You leave tomorrow with your reputation in tatters and your academic record permanently marked."

  Dalia stood abruptly, unable to remain seated under the weight of their judgment. She paced to the window, gazing out at the academy grounds bathed in twilight. Students traversed the paths between buildings, their lives continuing uninterrupted while hers lay in ruins around her.

  "Why the Gull specifically?" she asked, remembering Ezra's urgency. "Why not any other vessel?"

  "It's the only airship currently slated for decommissioning," Caldwell answered, though something in his tone suggested he wasn't being entirely forthright. "And given its condition, we deemed it... appropriate for the circumstances."

  Dalia turned back to face them, suspicion crystallizing into certainty. "This was Ezra's idea, wasn't it?"

  The momentary flicker in Varrine's expression confirmed her guess.

  "Master Ezra suggested it might be a suitable arrangement," the Headmistress acknowledged guardedly. "Though the decision ultimately rested with the committee."

  Of course. Ezra had known this was coming. He'd tried to warn her, to prepare her, even as he lay bleeding in her arms. The Crimson Gull wasn't just a convenient solution to her disciplinary problems—it was important somehow. Important enough for Ezra to mention it with what he likely thought were his dying breaths.

  "I'll do it," Dalia declared, the words escaping before she could fully consider their implications.

  Surprise registered briefly on Varrine's face. Perhaps she had expected more resistance, more negotiation. "You understand the terms? Once you leave, there's no returning to the academy."

  "I understand," Dalia replied, a strange calm settling over her. This wasn't the ending she had envisioned for her academic career, but perhaps it wasn't an ending at all. Perhaps it was something else entirely—a beginning disguised as a conclusion.

  "Very well," Varrine said, reaching for a quill. "You will report to the eastern hangar at dawn tomorrow. The ship's manifest and crew details will be provided to you then."

  As Dalia was dismissed from the office, her mind whirled with possibilities. What was so special about the Crimson Gull? What had Ezra been trying to tell her? And why did she have the unsettling feeling that she was being maneuvered like a playing piece on a board whose full dimensions she couldn't yet perceive?

  The corridor outside her dormitory room buzzed with hushed conversations that abruptly ceased as Dalia approached. A small crowd had gathered, eager for a glimpse of the academy's latest pariah. She kept her head high, her expression carefully neutral, though internally she cringed at their undisguised curiosity.

  "Is it true?" Lyra Chen emerged from the crowd, concern evident in her dark eyes. "Are they really expelling you?"

  Dalia hesitated, suddenly aware of the many ears straining to catch her response. "Not here," she murmured, unlocking her door and motioning Lyra inside.

  The room, which had been her home for three years, already felt alien. Someone—probably one of the academy's service staff—had begun the process of packing her belongings. Books had been removed from shelves, clothing folded and stacked in neat piles beside an open trunk.

  "So it is true," Lyra said softly, taking in the half-dismantled room. "Oh, Dalia, I'm so sorry."

  Dalia sank onto her bed, suddenly too exhausted to maintain her fa?ade of composure. "Not exactly," she admitted. "I've been... reassigned, I suppose you could say. I'm to deliver the Crimson Gull to Northyard Point."

  Lyra's brow furrowed. "The old Mark IV junker? That thing's barely airworthy. And Northwind is at least a fortnight's journey, even with favorable winds."

  "Twenty-three days, according to the charts," Dalia corrected, having mentally calculated the route during her walk from Varrine's office. "And yes, that 'barely airworthy junker' is apparently my ticket out of total disgrace."

  "It's still utterly unfair," Lyra insisted, sitting beside her. "The attack wasn't your fault. And Ezra dinmight have died if you hadn't intervened."

  Dalia managed a wan smile, touched by her friend's loyalty. "The committee saw it differently. And truthfully, maybe they're right. I did bring down half the workshop wing."

  "To save a life," Lyra countered fiercely. "Anyone would have done the same."

  "But not everyone would have done it quite so... destructively." Dalia picked at a loose thread on her bedspread, unable to meet Lyra's supportive gaze. "You know how I am, LFyra. My magic has always been... problematic."

  "Powerful," Lyra corrected. "Not problematic. Just untamed. And that's hardly grounds for expulsion."

  "Apparently, it is when combined with a pattern of 'reckless behavior and insubordination,'" Dalia quoted Professor Caldwell's words with a grimace. "Anyway, it's done. By this time tomorrow, I'll be airborne and academy life will continue without me."

  Lyra was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "There's something more to this, isn't there? It feels... strange. Rushed."

  Dalia hesitated. Could she trust Lyra with her suspicions? With Ezra's cryptic message? But what if she was wrong? What if she was merely grasping at mysteries where none existed, desperate to believe her expulsion served some greater purpose?

  "I don't know," she finally replied, deciding on a partial truth. "It's all happened so quickly, I've barely had time to process it."

  Before Lyra could press further, a sharp knock rattled the door. Without waiting for a response, Elias Graywood sauntered in, his customary smirk firmly in place.

  "Well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with affected casualness. "Bit of a mess you've made, haven't you, Sinclair?"

  Dalia tensed, in no mood for Graywood's particular brand of aristocratic condescension. "What do you want, Elias?"

  "Just paying my respects before your... departure." His gaze swept dismissively over her half-packed belongings. "Though I must say, I'm surprised they're letting you fly anything after your little magical tantrum. Scraping you off a mountainside would be such a tedious administrative burden."

  "You know what would be truly tedious, Graywood?" Dalia retorted, rising to her feet. "Having to explain to the academy board why the son of Admiral Graywood was found dangling from the astronomy tower flagpole in his undergarments. Again."

  Elias's smile tightened, a flush of anger creeping up his neck at the reminder of a particularly humiliating prank from their first year. "Always the jester, even in disgrace. I admire your commitment to character, if nothing else."

  "If you've finished gloating, you can leave now," Lyra interjected coolly. "Some of us still have basic manners."

  "Oh, I'm not here to gloat," Elias replied, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I'm here to offer some friendly advice. The Crimson Gull is... temperamental. I'd check the fuel lines before departure if I were you. Terrible tragedy, the number of old ships that go down due to simple mechanical failures."

  His tone made it abundantly clear that this wasn't friendly advice at all, but a thinly veiled threat. Dalia studied him, a chill running down her spine despite her outward composure. Graywood had always been antagonistic, but this felt different—darker, more deliberate.

  "I'll keep that in mind," she replied evenly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have packing to finish."

  Elias lingered a moment longer, his gaze calculating. "Safe travels, Sinclair," he finally said, a curious emphasis on the word 'safe' that made it sound like anything but a well-wish. "Do try not to destroy any more academy property on your way out."

  After he left, Lyra turned to Dalia with wide eyes. "Was he just...? Did he actually suggest sabotaging your ship?"

  "I don't know what that was," Dalia admitted, "but it certainly wasn't concern for my well-being." She rubbed her temples, a headache beginning to pulse behind her eyes. "Add it to the growing list of mysteries surrounding this whole situation."

  "You can't go alone," Lyra decided abruptly. "Not after that. I'm coming with you."

  Dalia shook her head firmly. "Absolutely not. I'm not dragging you into my mess, Lyra. You have a promising career ahead of you. Don't throw it away on some misguided act of friendship."

  "It's not misguided," Lyra protested. "It's—"

  "It's decided," Dalia interrupted gently but firmly. "Besides, the crew has already been assigned. I doubt Varrine would approve last-minute additions, especially ones with your academic standing."

  Lyra opened her mouth to argue further, then closed it with a resigned sigh. "Promise me you'll be careful, then. And not just with the ship. Something feels... off about all of this."

  "I promise," Dalia assured her, though privately she agreed with Lyra's assessment. There were too many unanswered questions, too many strange coincidences. Captain Blacklock's attack. Ezra's cryptic message. Elias Graywood's veiled threats. The hastily arranged 'alternative' to her expulsion.

  It felt less like punishment and more like... what? A mission? A test? Or perhaps something more sinister—a convenient disposal of a problematic student?

  After Lyra left, promising to return before Dalia's departure the next morning, the room fell into a heavy silence. Dalia stood motionless, surrounded by the dismantled pieces of her former life. Three years of study, of dreams, of determination—all neatly sorted into piles for packing.

  Outside her window, the academy's warning horns sounded the approach of evening curfew. Students would be returning to their dormitories now, preparing for another day of classes and training that would continue without her.

  Impulsively, Dalia grabbed her academy jacket and slipped out of her room. There was one place she needed to visit before she left, one person she needed to see.

  The infirmary was quiet in the late evening hours, lit only by the soft glow of mage-lights that hovered near the ceiling like miniature moons. Dalia moved silently past the duty healer's desk, relying on three years' worth of after-hours excursions to avoid detection. She knew the night staff's routines, the creaky floorboard near the medicine cabinet, the exact angle at which to push the inner door to prevent its hinges from squealing.

  Ezra still lay motionless on his cot, his condition apparently unchanged. Dalia approached quietly, pulling a chair close to his bedside. For several minutes, she simply sat in silence, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

  "They're sending me away," she finally whispered, though she had no way of knowing if he could hear her. "The Crimson Gull, just like you said. What were you trying to tell me, Ezra? What's so important about that ship?"

  Ezra made no response, his weathered face serene in unconsciousness. Dalia sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

  "I'm scared," she admitted, the words easier to say to someone who couldn't hear them. "Not of piloting the Gull or whatever dangers might be waiting out there. I'm scared of failing. Of proving everyone right about me." Her voice caught slightly. "Of disappointing you."

  She reached out, taking Ezra's hand in hers. It felt cool and dry, the skin paper-thin over prominent veins and knuckles gnarled from decades of mechanical work.

  "You've always believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. You saw something in me that others missed." Tears welled up, blurring her vision. "I don't know if I can do this without you."

  A gentle pressure against her fingers made Dalia freeze. Ezra's hand had tightened around hers, almost imperceptibly. She leaned closer, searching his face for any sign of consciousness.

  "Ezra? Can you hear me?"

  His eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His lips moved, forming words too soft to hear. Dalia bent down, her ear close to his mouth.

  "...trust them," Ezra whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "The crew... chosen carefully. Trust... their experiences. Learn from... your own."

  "The crew of the Gull?" Dalia asked urgently. "Who are they, Ezra? What am I supposed to be looking for?"

  But Ezra had slipped back into unconsciousness, his hand going limp in hers. Dalia sat back, frustration and concern warring within her. He was trying to tell her something important, something that might make sense of this entire confusing situation, but his condition prevented him from explaining clearly.

  She would have to figure it out herself. Whatever secrets the Crimson Gull held, whatever purpose Ezra had in directing her to it, she would uncover them.

  As Dalia slipped out of the infirmary, her earlier shame and self-pity had hardened into something more useful—determination. She might be leaving the academy in disgrace, but she was not defeated. Not yet.

  Copper and Magic with Dalia and her crew. This is my first book, and I’m beyond excited to share this steampunk adventure with you. If you’re enjoying the ride, I’d be absolutely thrilled if you’d follow me for more updates and chapters! I’d also love to hear your thoughts—any suggestions, favorite moments, or even little mistakes you spot would mean the world to me. Thanks for soaring along with me—hope to see you in the next chapter!