The sun rose over the academy, painting the halls in gold. Yet no warmth reached Serenil.
He stood alone before the Academy Council, gathered in the obsidian chamber known as The Prism. Twelve elders—archmages, martial sages, noble heads, and beastkin lords—sat in a semi-circle behind an invisible wall of mana.
Dean Elvire, a stoic centaur woman with eyes like polished jade, slammed her staff. "Serenil Faeloria. Explain yourself."
His voice was steady. "I protected a diplomatic guest under threat of assassination."
"You unleashed a Soul Gear within academy grounds!" barked Lord Veran, the High Druid of the East Grove. "Voidrender—an artifact forbidden during peace-time exercises."
"It was a battlefield," Serenil replied. "Make no mistake. The moment those blades were drawn, this school became war ground."
A low murmur ran through the council.
"Intent is not law," snapped Archmage Tyr Kaldros. "You are a prince, not a god."
Another councilwoman—a foxkin with one golden eye—added coldly, "Or perhaps… you are too dangerous to remain here."
The word expulsion hung in the air.
But before anyone could speak further—
SLAM.
The chamber doors flew open.
And in marched Hestia Nyveris, dressed in royal black and silver, flanked by beastkin guards bearing her house's crest.
"Then you would punish a boy," she said, her voice ringing like silver bells, "for saving my life?"
"Hestia—" Tyr started.
She raised a finger.
"I am the daughter of King Hrelgorn Nyveris, and future representative of peace between Faeloria and the Beastkin Confederacy." Her eyes flared with righteous fury. "Should Serenil be expelled, the Beastkin Kingdom will consider the engagement null and void—and any treaties that followed with it."
Silence. Thunderous, suffocating silence.
Elvire narrowed her eyes. "Are you threatening the council, Princess?"
"I am stating the consequences of foolish decisions," Hestia replied sweetly. "Which I trust you're wise enough to avoid."
Serenil stared at her, lips parted slightly.
He hadn't expected this.