The hinges creaked faintly as I pushed the door open, stepping into the workshop-classroom of Golem Theory and Constructive Arcana. The air smelled of heated crystal dust and aged parchment, the scent clinging to every table and scroll scattered around the expansive chamber.
Students bustled to their seats, most of them boys, some already elbow-deep in sketching glyph circuits or adjusting mana-threaded joints on half-formed constructs.
My boots clicked with calm precision across the floor, my posture upright, movements unhurried—just enough to draw glances. I offered the professor a respectful nod and took the empty seat near the back, giving a casual flick to the edge of my teal hair as I sat.
My voice, carefully modulated by the dragon artifact coiled around my left wrist like a dull vine bronze tattoo, was still echoing softly from my polite "Good morning."
I was, after all, Lord Albert Nightreign, the newly enrolled noble from a "frontier kingdom," and no one had yet dared to question my peculiar close resemblance to the elusive Queen Feria Avelia Nightreign. No one expected her to disguise herself as her own younger brother. And certainly not with such flair.
It was all part of the ruse. A diversion. A game.
I wasn't here just to sample classes. I was here for two things: to scout a worthy consort under the guise of anonymity—and to enjoy myself while my beloved kingdom behaved well enough under the careful eyes of my advisors.
The class passed smoothly. I corrected a mistake the professor made about mana-tempered cores without sounding arrogant, and my own small demonstration of a light-footed golem sentinel earned murmurs of approval.
But as I stood, brushing off the shimmer of chalk-dust from my gloves, a brash voice cut through the buzz of voices.
"Lord Albert!" someone called.
I turned slowly, raising a brow.
A tall youth stepped forward. Golden curls, sword-callused hands, and a smile that was just a little too sharp to be friendly. "Care to test your skill beyond the classroom?" he asked, voice laced with the challenge he couldn't quite hide. "There are rumors, you see. That you're not just gifted in theory, but in actual combat. I'd like to see if there's truth to that."
The room fell into silence, save for the faint hum of a dormant construct in the corner.
I held his gaze a moment longer than polite, then smiled. "Of course," I replied with the elegance expected of someone with a royal upbringing, my voice still smooth, still unreadable. "It would be poor manners to ignore such curiosity."
We moved to the dueling arena outside. The professors allowed it—they always seemed to allow it. It looks like nobles quarreling was practically a school pastime.
The watching students had no idea they were about to see a queen play.
I stood on the left edge of the ring, placing one hand over my chest in mock reverence as I summoned my familiars.
Not my blade. Not a massive obsidian golem. No—that would be too easy.
Instead, a soft glimmer pooled at my feet, forming into twin feline shapes. Ethereal, sleek, and utterly mesmerizing, they shimmered like starlight drawn into fur. One stretched and yawned lazily. The other curled around my legs with a flick of its crystalline tail.
The crowd's laughter was immediate.
"Is he serious?" someone muttered. "Cats?"
"Such weak-looking familiars will duel for you, Lord Albert?" my opponent grumpily mocked, unsheathing a polished staff carved with fire-etched runes. "This isn't a tea party. I'll show you what it truly means to duel!"
"Neither is this a war," I said, flexing my fingers as the stardust cats circled me with bored grace. "But it's very telling how quickly you underestimate the great elegance of these two beauties."
The match began.
It ended in less than two minutes.
My opponent didn't even realize what was happening until both cats blurred forward in coordinated silence, their paws not quite touching the ground. One slid beneath his stance, sweeping his legs as if gravity no longer applied to him, while the other leapt onto his chest mid-fall and cast a burst of blinding light directly into his face.
He was on the floor before his fire spell could ignite. His staff spun out of reach. My cats sat calmly at his sides, purring.
The arena was dead silent.
My expression never changed. I offered a polite bow, nothing more. "Thank you for the match," I said coolly, then turned.
And there he was—Al, leaning against a pillar, barely holding back his laughter. He clapped, just once, and said warmly, "You always did like to humiliate them with style."
He was dressed in simple scholar's robes, his hair tied in a neat tail. A few curious students whispered at the resemblance, but they wouldn't figure it out. They never did.
"Did you enjoy your class?" I asked, brushing past him.
"I did. 'Magical Ethics in Summoning,'" he grinned. "You'd have hated it. So many rules. I nearly summoned a shadow imp just to spite them."
I gave him a sharp look, and he chuckled under his breath as we walked away from the murmuring crowd.
The afternoon sun was casting honeyed shafts through the high windows of the East Wing Lecture Hall, gilding every floating mote of dust in warm gold. Al and I arrived just as the bells finished tolling, a low chorus that echoed over the sprawling towers of Escarton Academy.
This class was different—larger, livelier. Exploration Theory and Ruin Management, the title read. A deceptively dull name for what was essentially Adventuring 101 for nobles and elite tacticians.
I slid into the seat beside my brother, adjusting the collar of my pressed uniform. Still in the form of Lord Albert, I wore it loosely, the top two buttons undone, my long teal hair tied back with a bronze clip. Across the wide semi-circle of seats, students were flipping thick volumes open, already muttering about tactical formations, emergency field protocol, and ruin-specific mana anomalies.
"This one's going to be good," my brother murmured beside me, eyes sparkling. "I heard there's a mock trial scenario next week."
"Ruin ambush or trapped idol room?" I asked, quirking a brow.
"Both," he grinned.
Glad to see Al finally loosening up and finally talking to me casually. After being addressed by him as 'my lord' and acting so formal these past few days, I couldn't stand it anymore and tickled him into submission the other night, telling him to relax and act as my younger brother. I'll deal with whatever the crowd might say about being too lenient and biased to 'my servant'...
Back to listening to the instructor, I had to admit, the subject was engrossing. The instructor—an aging adventurer with a steel leg and a terrifyingly dry wit—pushed us through simulated case files of failed and successful ruin delves, drilling us on every potential risk factor. Mana exhaustion, curse exposure, hostile native spirits, collapsing terrain, supply ration management. Solo and team strategies. How to assess a companion's reliability based on movement habits alone.
Far more enthralling than courtly luncheons and treaty rewrites.
I found myself leaning forward as the instructor launched into the logistics of dungeon gate stabilization—a highly volatile phenomena that has reportedly increased in the past two decades, he explained. If you didn't neutralize the gate properly, it could reopen weeks later and spew horrors right into a village.
My brother was taking notes at lightning pace, sometimes passing me snide little comments scribbled between diagrams of trap glyphs. I elbowed him once and got a grin in return.
Then came the exercise portion: forming temporary parties for simulated ruin-response scenarios.
"Let's see," the instructor drawled, peering over his spectacles. "You—Albert, right? You'll pair with Gerald and Leon for this one. And your servant there with—ah, Arlo and Zeffy."
I caught their names before I caught their faces.
Gerald was tall, bronze-skinned with a slightly arrogant tilt to his chin and the lean, disciplined form of someone raised in both battle and bureaucracy. His eyes, deep brown and unreadable, scanned me with open curiosity. He carried himself like he knew his name meant something, but wasn't insufferable about it.
Leon was different—silver-haired, leaner, his features graceful but sharp. He had the build of a duelist and the calm of a weathered tactician. When he extended his hand toward me, his smile was faint but genuine.
"Lord Albert," he said. "I've heard your insights in Golem Theory were... illuminating."
I returned his handshake with the poise of a prince, not a queen. "I merely corrected a misaligned core diagram. But I'm honored to leave an impression."
Gerald raised a brow. "Then I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of ruin team member you'd make. They say theory seldom survives the field."
I smirked. "They also say lightning never strikes twice. Scholars proved that wrong too."
The simulation was intense—a magic-forged illusion set within a canyon temple, the entrance rigged with proximity spells and hidden illusions. We worked fast, dividing tasks smoothly. Gerald was swift on the anchor traps. Leon disabled the puzzle lock on the door. I directed the stardust cats to map the interior structure in shimmering echo-lines.
We succeeded faster than any other team. And in the debrief, I let them do the talking.
"Very efficient," the instructor noted. "And... polite. Rare these days."
As the class dismissed, we lingered outside the hall, the light fading into dusk across Escarton's tall spires.
Gerald leaned back on the bench near the fountain, arms crossed. "You're not like most nobles."
"That's a compliment," Leon added with a sidelong glance.
I gave them a modest shrug. "I never saw the appeal of pretense. And I was raised to believe the world rewards discipline, not titles."
It was mostly true. Mostly.
Al strolled over a moment later, flushed with enthusiasm from his own group's success. Arlo and Zeffy waved their goodbyes, and he plopped beside me with a tired grin.
"Today was fun," he sighed. "You like your new teammates?"
I cast a sidelong glance at Gerald and Leon, who were still chatting amicably by the fountain.
Open-minded. Composed under pressure. Not blinded by arrogance.
...And two years younger than me.
I fought the smile tugging at my lips. Perhaps not ideal by age... but the court matchmakers would have no idea what to do with these two.
"They're competent," I said evenly, folding my arms. "And not hard to look at."
My brother choked on his laughter. "Sister!"
I flicked his ear.
"Shh. You never know who's listening."
But as we walked back to the dormitory halls, the soft glow of mage-lamps lighting the path, I let my mind wander to possibilities.
If the academy has more surprises like these… this game may become even more fun than I planned.
The late afternoon had cooled into the perfect hush of twilight. I had wandered into one of Escarton's lesser-known courtyards, a crescent of ivy-covered stone walls and old statues nestled behind the Library of Arcane Forms. I liked this place. It was quiet, shaded, and often devoid of the simpering stares that followed "Lord Albert" through the more popular paths.
That's when I heard it—sharp voices breaking the calm.
"I said hold it still," one of them snapped.
The reply was softer, flustered. "I—I told you, it's fragile—"
The second noble, with all the subtlety of a drunken warhound, barked a laugh. "If it breaks, then your lesson's a failure anyway. What kind of instructor can't even show a basic barrier charm without shivering?"
I turned the corner, my footsteps silent.
There they were—two young men in Escarton's rich blue-trimmed uniforms, tall and broad-shouldered, each armed with an air of inherited entitlement and bad parenting. And between them stood a slighter figure, delicate in build, pale of skin, with shoulder-length dark hair tied in a loose ribbon.
His glasses were cracked at the bridge. His robes slightly rumpled. And yet, something about him shimmered—an elegance in his stillness, a quiet steadiness in his eyes that defied his trembling hands.
I recognized him at once.
Not just a scrawny instructor, but Sage Ceshire of the East Wind, one of the Eight Sages. The youngest, and famously elusive. Rumor had it he hated courts, detested attention, and only took temporary teaching roles when forced to leave his reclusive sanctum.
The fools mocking him were sons of Lord Rudinal, a diplomat from the southwestern kingdom of Alatea. Their faces I knew—I'd seen them once as squalling children when their father had tried to introduce them as potential suitors. I declined then and, gods be good, that had been one of my best decisions.
"Careful," I called smoothly as I approached, "lest you bruise his ego with your graceless hands."
They turned, startled, then instantly shifted when they saw me—my disguise as Averan still flawless. One narrowed his eyes, then smirked.
"Lord Albert, was it?" he said. "You look... familiar."
"Do I? Well, I guess I do resemble my sister a lot," I tilted my head, voice light with amusement.
The other one stepped forward, blocking my view of Ceshire. "You're not friends with this—professor, are you?"
"I suppose that depends," I said mildly. "Are you planning to continue embarrassing yourselves?"
They bristled, of course. Typical. Their confidence was bred from generations of immunity to consequence.
So I lowered my voice to something softer. Deadlier.
"I wonder," I said, just loud enough for their ears alone, "what would happen if I asked my sister—Queen Feria—to suspend all trade agreements with Alatea for a single month."
That shut them up.
Their faces drained of color. One opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The other grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back, muttering, "Forget it—he's not worth it."
They walked off stiffly, not sparing another glance at Ceshire. I let them go, watching until they rounded the courtyard hedge like dogs with tails between their legs.
I turned to the instructor.
He'd been adjusting his glasses, but paused when our eyes met.
"I believe you dropped this," I said, offering him the cracked wand he'd dropped earlier.
He took it with delicate fingers. "Thank you," he said softly, then looked at me more closely.
There it was—that flicker of recognition behind his lashes. Smart man.
"You should forgive them," I said, offering a brief, elegant bow. "They didn't know they were harassing one of the Eight Sages. Let alone the youngest."
His eyes widened slightly behind the crooked frames, then narrowed in thought. "And how do you know that?"
I smiled.
"I make it a point to study the people worth knowing."
Ceshire chuckled, brushing his fingers through his dark hair. "That's quite the compliment, Lord Albert."
"Take it however you like, Sage Ceshire," I said, turning on my heel. "I'm sure you'll figure out why... eventually."
And I left him there in the courtyard, surrounded by fading light and ivy whispers, the petals of a windflower tree fluttering in his hair.
Let the Sage puzzle it out.
The game, after all, was still young.
The invitation arrived during the midday break—sealed in crimson wax bearing a sigil I recognized instantly: a pair of crossed swords over a phoenix plume. The mark of the swordmaster currently teaching at Escarton. A curious figure, that one. Hired only for a single year, rumored to have turned down commanding royal guard positions and high-ranking knighthood from several kingdoms. No one knew why he agreed to teach here—only that he trained with lethal elegance and eyes like a storm about to break.
Lord Albert, the note read, I would request a private spar after the final bell. The upper courtyard of the eastern bastion. No audience. No formalities. Just a blade's truth between two warriors. —R.
I let the corner of my mouth curl.
No audience? No problem.
No formalities? Even better.
The upper courtyard was quiet when I arrived. A place of pale stone and high winds, where the banners of Escarton fluttered like restless spirits. Swordmaster Rodrick stood near the edge of the training ground, stripped of his formal overcoat, wearing only a sleeveless tunic and bracers at his forearms. The sunlight caught his hair, crimson, streaked with amber strands, and lent a sharp gleam to the old scar cutting down the side of his neck. He was perhaps in his thirties now, aging like fine steel, with a presence that made the space feel smaller, tenser.
"You came," he said, offering me a practice blade. "Good."
I accepted it. "It's not every day I get summoned by a wandering legend."
He snorted once, amused, but said nothing more. We bowed in mutual respect, then began.
The spar was clean—no killing intent, but real. His technique was fluid, efficient, the kind born from battlefields and blood. He pressed hard, testing, baiting me with open strikes, but I danced with him all the same—light on my feet, slipping under his reach, turning the tide with subtle redirects.
We moved faster.
We struck harder.
And when I pivoted and dropped beneath a high sweep, forcing his guard open, the tip of my blade stopped just at his sternum.
He exhaled, lowering his blade with a smile.
"Still haven't managed to land a proper hit," he murmured.
I blinked. "Still?"
"That's right," he said, stepping back, brushing sweat from his brow. "We've fought before, you and I."
I tilted my head.
"You wouldn't remember me easily," he said. "But I was one of the escorts for the Saintess of Adina, five years ago. You were... less forthcoming then."
I stilled.
Five years ago. When I was tearing through Terah's underbelly, tracking down traitorous nobles trafficking humans under the banner of diplomacy. The Saintess had been en route to a holy site, her entourage nearly ambushed outside the Black Ridge. I'd joined the defense—no fanfare, no heraldry, just blade and firelight. One of the knights traveling with her had insisted I spar with him after, to judge my strength.
"I asked you not to hold back," Rodrick continued. "You didn't."
I searched my memory. The narrow path, the fire-lit trees, the proud swordsman with eyes too calm for his age—
Yes. I had broken his stance in three strikes.
I hadn't even asked his name.
"You were her sword," I said quietly.
"And you were chaos with a cold beauty with no fanfare, a rarity for a nobleman," he said with a grin. "The Saintess laughed for days about how I got humbled."
I returned the blade to the rack nearby and dipped my head in a courteous bow. "Then I'm honored to be remembered by the Saint's sword."
He chuckled. "Don't be so modest. I still can't scratch you."
I met his gaze. "Perhaps you've simply grown more discerning."
His laugh echoed around the empty courtyard.
I glanced at the sun, now sinking behind the tower's edge. "I'm late for my next class," I said, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeves. "We'll spar again soon. If you're still teaching."
"Count on it," he said, voice soft now, thoughtful. "Though I've been wondering something."
I paused, arching a brow.
"I couldn't place it before," he murmured. "But there's something... familiar about you. Not just the way you move. Something else. From back then. And now."
I said nothing.
Instead, I turned with a faint smile and walked away, boots silent on old stone.
Let him wonder.
The truth would find him eventually.
And when it did, perhaps the sword would speak with more than just steel.
The night had settled gently across Escarton's vast campus, blanketing the spires and halls in silver-blue silence. A few lamps still glowed in the distance—studious silhouettes, drifting night owls—but the little private balcony attached to our shared dormitory suite was blessedly still.
I sat cross-legged on the railing, one hand cupped around a warm teacup, gazing at the stars. My brother, Albert, sat on the padded bench with a blanket over his legs, his hair loose for once. He always looked softer like this. Like the little boy I used to read fairy tales to when the world was too loud.
He stirred the honey into his tea and glanced at me with a lazy grin.
"So," he said slyly, "how goes the grand search for a husband, O great noble Lord Albert?"
I snorted into my tea. "It's barely been a few weeks."
"But you have a list," he pressed with mock gravity. "I've seen it. You've scribbled stars next to names. Stars, Sister."
"Stars mean potential. Not interest." I flicked my fingers lazily. "And truthfully? The only thing I'm genuinely excited about this week is the dungeon dive practice on the weekend."
Al let out a short, delighted laugh and shook his head. "You're impossible."
"I'm honest."
"If your aides heard that, they'd probably start sobbing into their velvet gloves. All those years worrying about suitors and alliances… George will go acting out about his great efforts to find something suitable for the great, ruthless queen, Finneas, with a deep frown mumbling about being apathetic to her advisors, and Hugh, oh, Hugh would probably earnestly ask about your preference, and sleeplessly create a wide network of informants to seek your ideal partner but still fail simply because you're impossible!"
I grinned and reached out to ruffle his hair. "Let them worry. I'll worry about monsters, ruins, and curses for now."
Albert rolled his eyes fondly, but the amusement softened into something quieter. He looked out toward the training tower, where the watch-lights shimmered.
"Still," I said gently, "you should enjoy your time here too. That was part of the deal, remember?"
He looked at me, curious. "What do you mean?"
"I've kept you hidden for years. For your safety. You've lived quietly in the royal estate with only guards and tutors and occasional visits from court magi. But now you're here—among people your age, in a place where no one knows you're my brother or a blood heir to Terah's royal line."
He went still, the humor fading from his features.
"I want you to make friends," I continued.
"Try hobbies. Go to those silly dueling exhibitions if they interest you. Fall in love, maybe. Live, Lil Bro."
He put his teacup down and turned to me fully. "I know why you kept me hidden, Sister," he said, voice steady. "The kingdom changed fast under you. You rooted out the corrupt, challenged noble lines, and defied long-standing treaties. You made enemies. Powerful ones."
He exhaled. "If I were visible then, I would've been a target. I always understood that."
I studied him quietly.
He wasn't the same child I'd tucked behind me during assassination attempts or whispered lullabies to during sleepless nights. He'd grown—graceful, thoughtful, with eyes that had seen more than they let on. My precious baby brother.
Sigh.
He grew too fast.
"I never wanted you to carry the weight of my crown," I murmured. "Only to live the life I fought to protect."
He smiled then, and it was real. "And I do and I still do now."
There was a pause. The wind stirred between us, rustling the ivy on the balcony wall. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, signaling the hour before curfew.
Albert reached over and lightly bumped his shoulder against mine. "Still... if you do pick a husband, let it be someone who can keep up with you."
"Oh, I intend to," I said with a sly smile. "He'll have to survive both a dance and a dungeon crawl to make it past round one."
Albert laughed again, softer this time.
And under the gentle watch of moon and stone, we stayed there a while longer—two siblings cloaked in disguise, held together by unspoken loyalty, and the quiet hope that maybe here, in this academy of masked intentions and hidden truths, we might finally breathe and have a taste of freedom from the crown.