The Academy walls were colder than Cael remembered. Not temperature-wise—though the ancient stones held a lingering winter chill—but in their spirit. They were no longer the halls of hope and ambition from his youth.
Now, they felt like a tomb.
And like any good tomb, it was filled with the buried dreams of the overconfident.
Cael adjusted the cuff of his Academy-issued coat. Midnight blue, stitched with sigils of containment, trimmed in silver for first-year initiates. He hated the color. It looked too much like House Ardent's original battle standard.
That part of him was dead. Or buried. For now.
The morning after his duel victory, his name was on every lip.
"Velren."
"The bastard from Southlight."
"Did you see what he did to Tavin Morlen?"
He didn't gloat. He didn't need to. His silence made them nervous. That was power.
The student body split into three broad camps:The Blooded—direct heirs to the Twelve Houses. Arrogant. Entitled. Dangerous.The Scions—lesser nobles. Hungry. Scrappy. Always watching.The Shadows—orphans, bastards, and the politically discarded. Nameless. Dispensable. Some with secrets more dangerous than gold.
Cael straddled the line between Scion and Shadow. Technically bastard-born, but magic-apt and bold enough to bleed a Blooded in the arena.
And they all noticed.
Especially Veyra Aelthorn.
She approached him two days later, without warning, as he studied in the open library—three stories of glass, iron, and enchanted archives that made even the most hardened warlords walk with reverence.
"Velren," she said, voice like frost-glass. "You don't belong with the sheep."
Cael didn't look up from his book. "I'm allergic to wool."
That earned him the ghost of a smirk.
"Clever," she said. "Too clever for a lowborn. Southlight doesn't produce minds like yours."
He raised his gaze slowly. Her eyes were silver—a rare mutation among the Aelthorn line, rumored to come from a pact made generations ago with a forgotten god of shadows.
"Do you always insult potential allies?" he asked.
"I test them." She stepped closer. "You passed."
They walked the garden paths in silence. Every noble school had its garden—part tradition, part trap. Conversations here weren't recorded. Magic didn't work as cleanly under the enchanted trees.
It was a place where secrets bloomed.
"You're not who you say you are," Veyra said.
"And you are?"
She smiled slightly. "A girl with enough knives to carve the truth out of liars."
Cael gave a soft laugh. "Then you'll love what I'm hiding."
They stared at each other for a long beat. No fear. Just calculation.
Finally, she nodded.
"Join my study circle. Four seats. One just opened. We control seventy percent of the class resources. You'll have access to spells, duel records, and professors who look the other way."
"What's the cost?"
"Loyalty," she said. "And silence."
"I'm good at pretending," Cael said.
"Then welcome to the wolves."
The group was known as the Iron Vein—a mockery of the Academy's "pureblood ideal." Each member was elite, brutal, and power-hungry.
Cael met them that night:
Alric Dorne, a flame user with a temper and lineage that traced back to dragonkind.
Sevi Elowen, a mind reader in training, subtle and always smiling for the wrong reasons.
And Veyra herself, the cold-eyed queen with an unknown endgame.
They didn't trust him.
He didn't care.
He only needed them to open doors.
Over the next few weeks, Cael learned how to play the Academy game all over again—this time as a ghost behind a mask.
Instructors praised him for his theoretical insight. Other students cursed him under their breath after sparring matches. And behind closed doors, he mapped out power structures like a warlord planning a siege.
The kingdom's fate was decided inside this Academy. Alliances forged here became treaties. Rivalries turned into civil wars. Nobles weren't trained here—they were weaponized.
And Cael had come to build an arsenal.
One night, he was summoned to Headmaster Maltric's office.
A mistake? Or a test?
He walked the tower steps slowly. There were no guards, just enchantments and statues that whispered in dead languages when you passed.
Maltric was ancient. Tall. Grey-bearded. Eyes like glass reflecting storms. People said he was the last mage to duel a god and walk away breathing.
"Caius Velren," he said as Cael entered. "Or should I call you by your real name?"
Cael didn't flinch. "You may call me student. For now."
Maltric smiled grimly. "Bold. Arrogance suits the competent."
"Then I'll wear it proudly."
Maltric walked to the window. "You're here to change something, aren't you?"
Cael said nothing.
"Good," the Headmaster said. "This place has grown soft. Predictable. We need chaos, now and then. Just don't get caught."
After that meeting, Cael knew one thing for sure:
He wasn't alone in wanting the kingdom to burn.He'd just have to decide who deserved the first spark.
Veyra invited him to a private duel circle that weekend.
"Not public," she said. "Just you and me. No rules. No watching eyes."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "Foreplay or assassination?"
"Whichever you survive," she replied.
They met in the shadow-glass chamber beneath the west wing—where illusions were real, and the walls ate sound.
Veyra stood at one end, a dagger in each hand, and a smirk like blood on ice.
"Begin," she whispered.
She moved like a whisper. Cael blocked her first strike with a shimmered shield, countered with a kinetic pulse—but she vanished mid-spell, reappearing behind him with a blade at his neck.
He ducked, twisted, flung his mana in a horizontal slash—and she caught it with a shield spell he hadn't seen her cast.
Ten moves in three seconds.
They circled.
"This isn't about winning," she said.
"No?"
"It's about seeing."
Seeing what?
She struck again—high, then low, then with her magic flaring like purple fire. Cael met each blow, learned her rhythm, memorized her breath.
And then he saw it.
Her weakness.
He didn't take the shot.
Instead, he dropped his guard, stepped in close.
"Checkmate," he whispered.
Veyra blinked. Realized the trap. He'd lured her in. Her blade was raised too high. She couldn't parry in time.
And he didn't strike.
Instead, he kissed her cheek.
"Don't trust me," he said.
Then he walked away.
After that night, Veyra's posture around him changed. Not softer. But more dangerous.
She knew he wasn't predictable. And that made her interested.
The rest of the Academy? They started picking sides.
Velren the bastard became a name whispered with respect—and fear.
Even Lysandor Vale, the crown prince's golden dog, sent spies to watch Cael's sparring matches.
Good.
Let them look.
They wouldn't see him coming.
Cael returned to his quarters that night to find a sealed letter waiting. The wax bore the mark of House Elowen—burning dagger.
He read it under moonlight.
"Information requested:Subject Lysandor Vale.Confirmed three assassination attempts in the last two years. Suspected blood pact with foreign faction.Mission: Infiltrate Vale's inner circle. Cause fracture from within.Objective: Destroy from the inside."
He folded the note and set it ablaze with a flick of his finger.
Challenge accepted.
He would rise.
From bastard to strategist.
From ghost to kingmaker.
And one day… to the throne they stole from him.
But first, he'd pull down every mask the court wore—and wear his own like a crown of blades.