The evening air carried the scent of jasmine through the courtyard garden.
Alaric sat alone at the wrought-iron table, steam rising from his teacup in lazy spirals.
The sun was setting behind the estate’s walls, painting everything in shades of amber.
He lifted the cup, letting the warmth seep into his palms. Earl Grey, Selene’s favorite, which ant the entire household drank it whether they liked it or not.
The first sip was always the best, before it cooled, before—
"Lord Alaric?"
A maid stood at the garden entrance, hands folded properly in front of her apron. Young, nervous, the way her weight shifted from foot to foot gave it away.
"Yes?"
"Lady Selene requests your presence in her study, my lord."
He held the cup for another mont, watching the steam dance. Then set it down with a soft clink against the saucer.
"Tell her I’ll be there shortly."
The maid curtsied and disappeared back into the manor. Alaric stayed seated for another heartbeat or two, then rose, slowly.
The chair scraped against stone too loud in the garden’s quiet.
Then he moved and walk through the manor, passed the portraits of Glimor ancestors he had no connection to, their painted eyes following his movent down hallways.
Servants nodded as he passed. The study was at the far end of the east wing, behind a heavy oak door.
He knocked three tis.
"Enter."
The door opened with a soft creak.
Selene sat behind her mahogany desk, erald eyes already asuring him before he’d fully stepped inside.
Papers were scattered across the surface, lists, docunts bearing official seals.
"Sit." She gestured to the chair opposite her.
The leather creaked as he settled, and for a mont they simply regarded each other.
"The Academy entrance examinations are in six months."
Straight to business, then. Alaric kept his expression neutral, though sothing in her tone made him sit straighter.
"You’re strong," she continued, tapping her pen against the desk. "Your combat abilities are... more than sufficient. But strength alone won’t get you through Phoenix Academy."
He tilted his head slightly. "aning?"
"aning you have no academic records. No formal education that exists on paper." She leaned forward, her gaze sharpening.
"You’ll need to pass written examinations—history, mathematics, essence theory, political studies."
Alaric processed this, already seeing where the conversation was heading.
She leaned back, studying him like a rchant appraising goods. "How’s your classical Valerian?"
He blinked, genuinely confused. "My what?"
"Exactly." A thin smile played at her lips as she pulled a sheet of paper toward her and began writing.
"We have six months to transform you from a capable fighter into an educated nobleman."
The pen scratched against parchnt, each stroke deliberate. "I’ll arrange tutors. You’ll study six hours daily, at minimum."
"Six hours of—"
"Reading. Writing. morization." She didn’t look up from her notes. "The Academy isn’t just about producing warriors, Alaric. It’s about creating Valterexia’s future leaders."
She set down her pen and fixed him with that penetrating stare.
"Phoenix Academy isn’t like those regional institutes scattered across the territories, training ambitious children."
Rising from her chair, she moved to the window.
The dying light caught her dark hair, transforming it into sothing almost ethereal.
"It’s the institution that shapes kingdoms. Every capable house sends their heirs there. The connections you make..." She paused, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. "The enemies you create, they’ll follow you for life."
Alaric watched her silhouette against the window.
"The Academy sits at the convergence of three major ley lines." She turned back to him.
"It’s why essence cultivation is so effective there. Students have access to resources and training that simply don’t exist anywhere else in Valterexia."
Returning to her desk, she pulled out another docunt, this one sealed with crimson wax.
"The Academy divides students into four houses based on entrance exam performance. Your placent determines everything, what resources you can access, which dormitories you’ll live, even which sections of the library are available to you."
Alaric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let guess, we’re aiming for the top house."
"Silver Crown." Her smile sharpened like a blade.
"Anything less would be... disappointing."
She slid a thick to across the desk.
"We begin tonight. ’History of Valterexia, Volu One.’ First three Chapters, with a written summary on my desk by morning."
Alaric lifted the book, testing its heft. It felt like holding a brick. "This looks... thorough."
"Knowledge rarely cos in convenient packages."
She gathered her papers with practiced efficiency. "Any questions?"
"Just one." He t her gaze. "What happens if I fail?"
Her smile didn’t waver, and for the briefest mont, sothing flickered across her features and gone like a shadow passing over the moon.
"You won’t."
*********
anwhile, inside a dimly lit room.
The sobs ca in waves, muffled by the pillow pressed against the face of a figure, sitting at their bed.
Livia had locked the door hours ago, ignoring the servants who’d knocked with breakfast, with tea, with increasingly worried inquiries.
Her eyes were red, from hard-shed tears, hair disheveled, wrist throbbed. Purple had deepened to black at the edges, yellow creeping in.
Through the heavy oak door, her father’s voice rose like thunder.
"Three! Three houses have withdrawn their interest since last night!"
Sothing crashed, probably his fist against the wall. The paintings would be rattling in their fras.
"Lord Ashford sent a letter this morning. ’Regrettably must reconsider.’ Reconsider!" Another crash.
"His son was practically begging for her hand last month!"
"Varell, please—" Her mother’s voice, trying for calm.
"And the Sterlingtons! They didn’t even have the courtesy to write. Just packed up and left before dawn."
Tap! Tap! Tap!
He paced the hallway, heavy, angry, getting closer to her door then away again.
"Do you know what they’re saying?" His voice dropped, more dangerous quiet than loud. "That she was... entertaining Lord Steelwind in the gardens. Alone. At night."
"That’s not—"
"It doesn’t matter if it’s true, Mirenna! What matters is what people believe. And right now, they believe our daughter is—" He cut himself off, but the word hung there anyway.
Livia pulled the pillow tighter over her head.
But it didn’t help block the voices.
"And Caleb." Duke Duskwood’s voice turned disgusted.
"Getting himself beaten like a common tavern brawler. In front of everyone. By the sa man who—"
"We don’t know what really happened—"
"We know enough! The Steelwinds have withdrawn their grain contracts. Do you understand what that ans? Without their backing, we can’t secure the eastern trade routes. We’ll lose thousands."
Thum!
A door slamd sowhere. Then her father’s voice, closer now, right outside her room.
"Livia! Open this door!"
She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
"We need to discuss. Lord Pemberton has a second son, a bit older, but well established. If we move quickly—"
"Varell." Her mother’s voice, sharp. "Not now."
"Then when? When we’re completely ruined? We barely have enough property to leverage as it is, and now—"
"Our daughter is hurt."
"Our daughter has destroyed any chance of a decent match! And Caleb," His voice broke with fury. "That boy just made everything worse. Made us look weak."
Footsteps retreating. Then, from farther away:
"I’m going to my study. Send word to Lord Garrett’s father. Perhaps... perhaps we can salvage sothing from this ss."
"Varell, no—"
"What choice do we have? If the rumors are already spreading, at least a formal arrangent would stop them. Make it seem... intentional."
Inside the room... Livia’s stomach turned. She had barely made it to the washbasin before the bile ca up.
Marry Garrett.
Her father wanted her to marry—
Thum!
Another door slamd. Then silence except for her mother’s quiet footsteps pacing the hall.
A soft knock echoed at her door. "Livy?"
But she didn’t answer.
"I know you’re listening. I... I’ll try to delay him. But you need to co out eventually. We need to think of sothing."
Think of sothing.
As if thinking could undo what happened. As if planning could erase the bruises or the whispers or Caleb’s blood on the ballroom floor.
Eventually, her mother’s footsteps faded.
Livia sank back onto her bed, staring at the bruises on her wrist.
Outside, she could hear carriages on the drive. More families leaving. Distancing themselves from the Duskwoods.
She pulled her knees to her chest and waited for the world to stop falling apart.
But it didn’t.
Outside, Caleb stood against the wall near the staircase, shoulder pressed into the cold stone. His father’s voice still echoed from the study below.
The words blurred together. Just noise.
His jaw ached from clenching. The bruises on his face pulled with every breath, but that pain was nothing.
He pushed off the wall.
Took the stairs two at a ti, boots hitting wood loudly enough to rattle the portraits
The hallway stretched ahead, servants flattening themselves against walls as he passed.
Thum!
His door slamd behind him hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
For a mont, he just stood there. The room was quiet, too quiet. Too normal.
"Why?"
The word ca out cracked.
"Just why ?"
His fist connected with the porcelain vase before he’d even decided to swing.
Crack!
It exploded, shards biting into his knuckles, scattering across the floor.
Blood welled imdiately.
But the pain felt good.
The chair went next.
He grabbed it, lifted, and threw it against his desk, sending papers flying like startled birds. An inkwell shattered, black spreading across his mother’s favorite rug.
His boot found the waste basket. Then the side table. Wood splintered. Sothing glass broke, but he didn’t see what, didn’t even care
Then suddenly the rage just... stopped.
He stood in the center of his destroyed room, chest heaving.
Blood dripped from his hand against the floor.
Pat! Pat! Pat!
The sound too loud in the sudden quiet.
His legs gave out.
And he slid down against the bed fra, the wood was cool against his back. The floor was hard, unforgiving.
Blood ran between his fingers, pooling in his palm. He watched it, disconnected. Like it was soone else’s hand, not his.
Then he let his head fall back against the mattress and brought his uninjured hand up to cover his face. But that just made the mories clearer.
Garrett’s fist. The crack of his nose breaking. The marble floor rushing up. And worse—
Livia’s voice.
’Please. Please stop.’
Begging. For him.
"Why?"
He gritted his teeth.
"Why am I so weak?"
The question hung in the destroyed room.
Another mory surfaced.
That slave who humiliated him, beat him up.
He bit his lip hard, tasting his blood.
Then another image ca. This one from the trial.
The black-haired boy who’d taken down Asher like he was nothing. Asher, who’d trained for years. Who was supposed to be one of their best.
But that boy had destroyed him.
Easily.
"Why am I not like them?"
His fist ca down on the floor. The impact shot pain up his already damaged hand.
Smack.
Again.
His blood made the floor slick beneath his hand.
Smack.
His knuckles split wider. But he didn’t care.
"Just WHY?"
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