Varyan counted the ceiling cracks. Forty-three.
He had morized them months ago, during the first assembly of the year. Back then, he had hoped the principal would replace the damaged stone. No such luck. Dragonhold Academy spent its coin on training grounds and feasts, not on maintenance for halls used by first-years.
The assembly hall could comfortably fit a forty-foot adolescent dragon. Curved white walls rose to an arched ceiling forty-five feet high, ending in massive red-and-blue iron double doors. The room was wide enough—forty feet across—to hold every first-year student, and it did.
Every single one of them was pretending to listen.
The man standing at the podium was five-foot-six, soldier's build, raven-black hair, blue eyes—typical House Gilverc. His armor bore five Dragon Stars. General rank. Big deal.
Varyan couldn't care less.
House Gilverc were the rudest pricks in existence. They always preyed on the weak, and right now, Varyan's own house—House Roverc—was on the decline. Fewer generals every year. Fewer Cosmic Dragons. Fewer reasons for anyone to respect them.
Varyan's father had once told him that House Gilverc rose to power by marrying into the royal family during a succession crisis. They had been minor nobility before that—border lords with more ambition than land. Now they acted as if they had been chosen by the Dragon Gods themselves.
"Let tell you about the current state of our great empire," General Theron Gilverc said, his voice echoing off the curved walls. "The border wars drain our resources. The demon incursions grow bolder every season. And what do our so-called noble houses do? They bicker. They sche. They produce fewer and fewer warriors worthy of the Dragon Star."
The general stepped down from the podium and began walking among the seated students. His boots clicked against the polished stone floor. Each step echoed like a drumbeat.
Varyan kept his eyes forward. He had learned long ago that eting a Gilverc's gaze was an invitation for trouble.
"So houses," Theron continued, his voice dropping to sothing almost conversational, "have forgotten what it ans to be Dragons. They have grown soft. Weak. Content to live off the glories of their ancestors while contributing nothing to the present."
The general stopped directly in front of Varyan's row.
"Take a good look at the students beside you," Theron said, sweeping his arm across the room. "So of them will rise to beco legends. Others will fade into obscurity, rembered only as footnotes in the histories of greater houses."
His gaze lingered on Varyan.
The other students noticed. A few snickered. Varyan kept his face completely blank.
He had heard worse. Much worse.
The speech continued for another twenty minutes. Varyan stopped listening. He was too busy morizing the exits.
There were four: the main double doors behind the podium, a side door to the left used by faculty, a service passage behind the stage hidden by a velvet curtain, and a narrow ventilation shaft near the ceiling that only soone his size could fit through.
You never knew when you might need to run.
When the assembly finally ended, Varyan waited for the crowd to thin before standing. He moved toward the side exit—the one farthest from the Gilverc cousins who were already scanning the room for easy targets.
"Roverc."
Too late.
Kaelen Gilverc stepped into his path. The general's nephew. Sa raven hair. Sa smug expression. Sa belief that his house's star justified crushing anyone smaller.
Behind Kaelen, two other Gilverc cousins flanked the exits. They weren't even trying to hide their intentions.
Varyan stopped. "Kaelen."
"Did my uncle's speech inspire you?" Kaelen asked, smiling. "I hope so. The empire needs strong families. Not... what's left of yours."
A few students nearby laughed nervously. Most just hurried past, eager to avoid being caught in the crossfire.
Varyan said nothing. Silence was its own kind of weapon. It denied them the reaction they wanted.
"I asked you a question," Kaelen said, his smile hardening.
"I heard you," Varyan replied calmly. "I just didn't think it deserved an answer."
The laughter stopped. The air grew tense.
Kaelen's face flushed red. "You think you're clever, don't you? The withered leaf, pretending he still has a branch to stand on."
He stepped closer. He was a head taller than Varyan and twice as broad. His shadow fell over the smaller boy like a guillotine.
"I heard your father couldn't even hold a border post," Kaelen continued, his voice loud enough for everyone still in the hall to hear. "They reassigned him to logistics. Can you believe it? A Roverc, counting supply crates. Your great-grandmother must be spinning in her grave."
Varyan felt the words like small cuts. He didn't show it.
"Enjoy your victory," Varyan said quietly. "It must be exhausting being this invested in a house that doesn't think about you at all."
He stepped around Kaelen and walked toward the side exit.
No one stopped him. The Gilverc cousins parted like they weren't sure what to do.
Behind him, Kaelen's voice followed: "Keep running, Roverc. One day, you'll run out of places to hide
."
Varyan didn't look back. But he rembered the words.
He always rembered.
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