He exhales. “Right, then. Do you want to tell your classmates, or shall I?”

I don’t. We talked about this in a meeting well before the start of term. But you don’t call out your Dungeon Master, keeper of the world and rules and trials you have to face, and he – head of sixth form – is ours, seven hours a day, five days a week.

We settle on a subtweet-ish assembly, Boules asserting vaguely that – even if we’ve moved up from the lower school – today is a new start. That Greenglade is a place of growth, whether that means trying a new sport this year, working harder, or making friends. That sometimes people change their hair, or clothes, or names, and we respect those explorations or we face consequences.

I’m not mentioned, but I swear that everybody knows. I feel them stare. And the only thing that stops me running is imagining the gym as a vast, merry drinking hall, and Borók proudly lifting up his mug and cheering, daring anyone who wants a fight.

That, and knowing that I’m here with the whole party – Sabre and Justice – our troublemaking elven bard and his half-orc professor, queerplatonic partners both in-game and out – and Tro – fiercest Dungeon Master ever to build worlds. Nerds who’d overthrow a government, and they’re all on my team.

*

Psychology is … not actually lessons in mind reading, unless they’re saving that for later. Mostly, the first lesson is us flicking through the coursebook and discussing deadlines and key concepts, but it’s cool, seeing all the ways you can explain and test and toy with human thinking. And no one questions my new name.

We’re doing this.

By the time we get to English literature, I’m buzzing. Stories are my jam. Actually, this whole day is my jam. I have never – ever – felt more like myself, more seen. I get to wander the halls as my actual self, in safety, and spend the whole day challenging my brain. This is my utopia…

But at the bell there’s still a scrum to leave, in which Matt DeFranco shoves me ‘accidentally’ into a desk.

A hero would shove back. Borók would take a hammer to this weevil’s knees. I don’t. Obviously. Some things are fated to remain unchanged.

*

“Wow,” I groan, dropping into a common-room chair. “This day is exhausting.”

We have a room now.

“Yup!” Tro grins, hopping up into another, and crouching in the seat. “Oooh, coffee!”

We have coffee now. Terrible, stale vending-machine coffee, but it’s ours.

We spread out across the table, making at least some pretence of working in our very first study period.

By lunchtime, Tro’s had seven coffees, and the final members of our party are curled into one chair, considerably calmer than our DM.

“Anybody want another?” Tro asks, holding up a paper cup.

Sabre sniffs. “That is an abomination.”

“Suit yourself. Scout?”

“No thanks.”

“Dwarf’s got sense.”

I grin.