Thousands of the students gathered before the entrance of the Royal Dome, the heart of Sulliva Academy. As the heavy doors opened with a low groan, all conversations halted. A hush fell. The sheer scale of the place did that to people.
The twins followed the students inside, and as soon as they entered, its grand interiors of gold and iron felt like a gigantic maw waiting to swallow them whole. It wasn't just big. It could hold nearly half the population of Cordoba's slums.
Rows of black stone seats stood in spirals, each step carved with the Academy's emblem. Above them, golden chandeliers hung beneath a raised platform where the massive tree stood. They glowed like quiet galaxies of light, filling up the entire place. Liberty slowly turned, breathless.
Lincoln's gaze shifted to the proscenium stage. He saw nobles and students already gathered in small groups along the front rows. The outstanding senior students, easily recognized by their dark pauldrons, crimson capes, and the coiled chains beneath their armor winding around their arms, claimed the front left seats. Their faces were stern and worn, it's clear that they've seen things and lived to tell the tale.
Across from them, the heirs of each royal house took their seats-- that must be their spot, he thought, as he tugged Liberty along, who was still lost in awe. Far back among the other nobles, Clara settled herself at the end of the row, slipping into the empty chair to avoid drawing the attention of other nobles and preserve her solitude. She adjusted the small audio implant resting along her ear. Her eyes, observing, her fingers drumming against her phone.
Then just in front of her, two girls walked past-- Ravelle von Eisenhart and her older sister, Selene von Eisenhart, a senior, as she and the other students quickly recognized. Ravelle, with her sharp green eyes and tightly braided silver-blonde hair, looked straight ahead. Selene, taller than most, strode forward in the distinctive black gambeson worn by graduating seniors, her presence imposing.
Their shoulders brushed lightly as they passed. Ravelle lowered her head, her hands curling tightly into fists.
Neither spoke. No glance was exchanged.
Yet the silence between them roared louder than any words.
Moments after the students had settled, a hush fell over the hall. Ten figures in long ceremonial robes, faces solemn, They walked in unison, with a slow measured pace, their hands at the back.
Behind them walked the last figure, slower. All eyes were casted on him-- Director Albrecht Forst, the head of Sulliva Academy. He did not look at the students, his eyes locked at the stage. His robe was darker, minimal, and unlike the others.
Upon reaching the center, the first nine figures spread out, positioning themselves behind the podium. Then the lead figure who was a woman taller than most of the others, her blonde hair coiled atop her head held by a golden laurel wreath.
"Magister Silvan Caelior"
Her name was whispered among the students.
She raised a hand, and the silence settled deeper.
"Students of Sulliva, new and returning… stand witness to the opening rite of the academic year."
All the students rose in unison.
"This House of Knowledge, receives you. By the decree of the Solis Veritatis Charter, you are bound now not merely by your name or merit, but by oath to the pursuit of truth, craft, and transformation," She paused for a moment, her eyes sweeping over the gathered students, studying them in silence. Then she continued.
"Let the curtain rise on a new year. Let masks fall and truths be tested. Let ego dissolve, or be tempered." Then she turned, slowly, and extended a hand toward the center of the stage.
"And now, I yield the floor to the bearer of this institution's will. The Eye That Watches, the Voice of Balance..."
"Director Albrecht Forst"
A pause. Then an anticipatory applause. The Director stepped forward. He clasped his hands behind his back. He did not consult his notes, nor smile. Then came his voice-- gruff, weathered, one that speaks authority.
"At Sulliva, we do not promise safety. Nor do we promise fairness."
"We promise challenge."
His words hung in the air
"Some of you bear names honed by centuries. Others wear none. Here, that matters only once." "For tomorrow, and every day after, you will be weighed not by your birthright, but by your action. And action, students, is merciless."
"You will be broken, tested, unmade. And those who endure will not simply graduate. They will emerge transformed." His gaze shifted toward the seniors, who offered him their respectful salutations.
The Director raised his hand toward the crest above them.
"Sulliva is not a school. It is a forge. And each of you is raw ore. How you emerge from flame and pressure… is up to you."
Silence. Then, applause erupted. The crowd had held its breath too long and finally remembered to exhale. Everyone sat at the His call.
Lincoln didn't clap. He kept his eyes on the robed figures, especially the director. The man looked a lot like His Majesty. A small chuckle slipped out.
"What's the matter, brother?" Liberty with her doubtful stare.
"One of the Magisters is our target. We need to investigate them one at a time."
"Did Sir Maximilian give us a name?"
"Lael Rivers,"
As the last echoes of applause faded, one of the Magisters rose, particularly the one positioned at the far right side of the podium. His hands were covered in black gloves, silver rings with strange patterns circling his veins. A plain, matte black masquerade mask hid his face. Less for concealment, more to challenge anyone to guess who he was.
Lincoln's gaze locked onto him.
"Magister Lael Rivers," the girl beside him said suddenly. She wore the same student uniform, her pastel pink feathered hair falling gently around her face. Her sapphire blue eyes met his bloodshot-red ones. Lincoln could tell she was of noble blood, but there was something off about her.
"He was my homeroom teacher," she offered a smile, her eyes squinting. "But he doesn't talk much in class."
Liberty tensed beside him, her eyes scanning the Magisters with suspicion.
Then, three of the seniors rose. Their footsteps were slow and heavy as they marched toward the stage. They wore the formal darkwear of Sulliva's upper ranks: black gambesons trimmed with gold, each tailored with their household sigils. Dark metal pauldrons rested on their shoulders, linked with decorative chains that wrapped around their arms, while crimson capes hung down their backs.
They stood at attention before the stage.
"Let us take a moment to recognize and praise these three students for their outstanding performance during their internships at the Crusader Career Center."
"From the House of Althann. Kain von Althann. From Class D, First Section."
Kain stepped forward. He was tall, but not bulky. His crimson cape bore the insignia of a burning crown, and his hair tied back that gleamed with streaks of orange that shimmered unnaturally, like embers. His skin held the golden undertone.
Kain did not bow.
He simply stood, his amber eyes scanning the crowd with the confidence of someone who had never once needed to look up at anyone.
Whispers danced between rows.
"That's the heir of Althann. He was deployed in the Northern Zone, right? He made it even back with his colleagues unscathed. He's from the Nautilus regiment, right? I heard that he tore a Xenoform bare-handed."
"Nautilus..." Lincoln wondered,
"They're Mutants," the pink feather-haired girl from earlier muttered again.
"The Monarchy figured out how to keep their precious Aetherian experiments running, nice and quiet, right under the Coalition Group's nose," she chuckled.
"...Or so we all believed. The Northern Zone's a nightmare crawling with dangerous Xenoforms... pretty sure they'd turn a blind eye to this one. Honestly, I almost feel bad for Lord Althann. Word is, those bio-reintegration projects in the Crusader Center hurt like hell."
Lincoln didn't answer and just stared at her then back at the stage.
Next came another.
"From the House of Eisenhart. Selene von Eisenhart. From Class D, Second Section."
This time, it was quieter. Colder.
The girl from earlier stepped forward, poised, her gaze cold. Her crimson cape bore a sigil of a silver crescent nestled within a spiraling tree. Only a few clapped. Many hesitated. Because Selene belonged to the Eisenhart, and not everyone trusted a bloodline rumored for cannibalism.
"The last legitimate heir of Eisenhart. Their house is a splinter of the Blutreichter. They were casted out eight years ago due to the... cannibalism controversy and rumors... no one really dared to investigate."
"Did they really do that, how horrible..." Liberty gasped,
"Rumors, sister. Rumors..." Lincoln replied.
Despite the murmurs around her, Selene stood still, unmoved. Her eyes were droopy, expression blank, indifferent... yet her gaze was locked on her sister, Ravelle.
Ravelle felt it and looked down, avoiding her stare.
"You're a disgrace. Why do you even bother showing up?"
Selene's words echoed in Ravelle's mind as she shut her eyes briefly. Selene silently returned back to formation.
Melissa, sitting two rows behind Ravelle, noticed how Ravelle's shoulders stiffened and her fists clenched. The Eisenhart disgrace trying to pretend she's relevant, she thought.
"Poor thing", Melissa muttered, mockingly. "If you're going to cry, do it somewhere else."
"Everyone knows Selene only looks at you to gauge the distance before drawing her sword and driving it into your gut."
Ravelle wasn't born inside the estate. Some say her mother was a housemaid. Others say a Red Skull deserter.
"Half-blood trash" Her lips curled into a faint sneer.
She turned her attention to Selene instead. "At least that was a proper Eisenhart."
"If Ravelle had any sense, she'd kneel and beg her sister to kill her. Would've been less embarrassing than whatever this is." Melissa yawned and shifted her gaze elsewhere, already bored.
The Magister continued,
"Last but not the least, Keevah Petrovna. From Class D, Third Section."
A wave of sarcastic cheers and exaggerated applause erupted from the third and fourth-year students, loud and mocking in tone. At the far corner of the stage, stood a tall, brusque girl with long black hair, messy side-swept bangs partly covering her face.
"SHUT UP, YOU PIECES OF SHIT! John you asshole--" she barked, her tomboyish voice flipping the crowd off without hesitation.
A cluster of senior students snickered, one cupping his hands to shout. "We love you too, Keevah! We truly do!" one of the students replied,
A wave of laughter and cheers immediately followed. She raised a middle finger toward the crowd, but quickly pulled it back the moment she noticed the Magisters' eyes on her. One of the Magisters gave her a smile that was tight-lipped, laced with contempt and barely hidden irritation.
Melissa rolled her eyes. "Who the fuck is that Mongrel? Is she supposed to be famous?" She watched Keevah flip off the crowd with vulgar ease.
"Loud. Brash. Unhouse-bred. The kind the Academy lets in to lick their boots and die early."
Some freshman girl to her left flinched as Keevah yelled back. Melissa side-eyed her.
"If you're scared of that hound, you don't belong here either!"
She leaned back into her seat, arms crossed.
The other freshmen, including Lincoln and Liberty, were caught off guard.
"Ahh... my old friend, still very famous in the upper-class." said the feather-haired girl beside Lincoln
"She's not a noblewoman," Lincoln replied
"Yes... and?"
He paused for a moment, glancing back at Keevah, who stood there awkwardly, silent and stiff, as the waves of cheer kept on.
"You know, that's not very decorous of you," she chuckled in response "Just like what they say, nobles hate mirrors. Especially when they don't like what they see."
"Don't mistake my tone for contempt."
"I see nothing more than contempt behind that tone, Milord."
"Then you should've asked what I truly think before making that assumption, Milady. Not everyone here thinks that way,"
"Well then," she mused, "what do you think, Milord? Do you think she deserves to be up there with us? With them?"
"Respect isn't measured by standards" his voice stern "It's earned by surviving them. Whether she fits anyone's mold is irrelevant"
A brief paused between them occurred then suddenly, her quiet chuckle broke the silence in between them. The girl's eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile stayed.
"You speak with such conviction," she said, voice sweet, "but conviction without grace is merely stubbornness in formal attire."
"I'm not here to impress you with grace, Milady." he replied shrugging.
"Shame. You're doing a fine job of it without even trying." she muttered, brushing her pink bangs aside with a flick. "You're either incredibly naive… or exactly what I need."
"Need?"
"Yes. Consider this your unofficial invitation to the Student Council" She said it with a flourish. "We could use someone who thinks they understand the lower stratum. A noble rebel, how… fashionable."
He tilted his head, amused. "Is this what 'defeat' looks like in noble terms?"
She scoffed. "This is what opportunity looks like, Milord. You'll learn the difference in time."
"I don't need it," he dismissed "I choose where I go."
"Then choose wisely. People don't always get invited this easily." she leans quite close to him, "So, I hear you've taken a liking to one of the Magisters, Lael Rivers, was it? Need a little help for that trouble?"
He scoffed faintly, his face leaned in closer to hers "Tempting... though I'm starting to think the real trouble is here facing right in front of me. You're far too persuasive for your own good, Milady."
"Am I? Well… I suppose it's more effective when I'm not even trying." she said with a sly smile, her head slightly tilting to the side, voice dropping just enough to spark heat between the words. "Besides... you wouldn't want to be just another spectator, would you?"
He hesitated, glancing once more at the senior students, walking back to their respective seats.
Then, as the final student returned to their line, the Director stepped forward once more.
"Let their presence remind you that this is not a game of inheritance. It is a crucible. And even the stars burn before they shine." He turned, facing the full hall again.
"With the procession concluded and the freshmen welcomed, the year has officially begun. You are now dismissed to your respective classrooms. Be ready when the summons comes tomorrow. Know this: the gates are shut, and they do not open without purpose. Viventia et pax!"
"Viventia et pax!" The students saluted in unison. They slowly got to their feet, gathered their belongings, and sluggishly blocked the path to the exit.
Lincoln turned back to the girl "…I'll think about it," he muttered.
The feather-haired girl grinned. "Good."
He gave her a side glance, "You've been talking circles around me for a while now. Least you could do is tell me your name."
She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the shift in his tone. "Only fair, I suppose. But names are such... delicate things."
He waited, unfazed.
"Fine," she said, extending her hand.
"Anneliese von Bentheim" her gaze locked on his, her hand offering to him
Lincoln shook it lightly, his grip firm. "Lincoln of the Ramsay Household"
Her gaze sharpened in curiosity. "Now that's intriguing."
She took a slow step back, her face unreadable.
"If I recall though... last I heard, Lady Ramsay had no heir."
Her words hung. Lincoln's eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.
"Or maybe I'm thinking of someone else entirely. Honestly, lineages are such a bore."
She turned halfway, glancing at him with a grin. "I'm far more interested in your cutting wit, and your bloodshot-red eyes anyway." Anneliese smirked,
"Well, now that you've got my name… let's see what you'll do with it."
She gave him one last sultry smile, before slipping past the crowd.
As she walked away, a shift rippled through the surrounding students.
Whispers turned to murmurs, then respectful hushes.
Some parted to give her room, others nodded or gave slight bows.
"Wait... that's Anneliese von Bentheim--"
"No wonder she walks like she owns the place... her family basically does."
"She's the sole heiress of the Bentheim estate. Their house owns a quarter of the Academy's shares, don't they?"
"More like half, if the rumors are true."
All eyes followed her with awe. Few students dared speak too loudly as she passed. Lincoln, still standing amid the silence she left in her wake, kept his gaze forward. Quietly curious.
Then, beside him, Liberty spoke.
"I… didn't know if I should butt in," she said, her hands folded in front of her.
"You two were talking about things… too fast for my ears to catch up."
Lincoln glanced at her, "You weren't wrong," he said plainly.
She gave a small, sheepish smile. "She seemed… intense. And really pretty. Like... very dangerously pretty!" He didn't answer.
Liberty tilted her head. "Everything alright?"
He gave her a faint nod. "For now."
Both of them merged in the crowd.
Clara at the edge of her row, slowly stood as her place slowly emptied. She reached up to adjust the audio implant tucked behind her ear. It hissed once, slowly re-synching its frequency.
While it did, her eyes swept over the dispersing crowd. Until they landed on him. On Lincoln.
He was speaking to Liberty, his tone low and undecipherable. But when his gaze drifted upward towards her, something struck.
Red eyes.
Not just red. Blood-red, beautiful shades of crimson hue.
What are those eyes? Where have I seen those...
She blinked once. Composed herself. Then quietly turned away, vanishing into the crowd.
END OF CHAPTER SIX