Indra was walking back to his room with slow, patient steps. The wood corridors of the dormitory smelled faintly of bark and old books; lamplight pooled in the corners and the late afternoon had already thinned into something close to evening. He liked this hour — fewer people, fewer voices to cut across the soft calculus he kept running in the quiet of his head.
There, near the stairwell shadow, she came down.
A girl with hair black as ravens' wings, pulled high into a ponytail that fell to her waist. Eyes that matched the color of spilled wine — not the dull red of Naaji's but a cleaner, deeper crimson, alert and cold. Raven Xipil tilted her chin, as if testing the air. Indra's mouth pulled into a thin grin.
There she is, he thought, indulgent. Perfect timing.
He walked past, close enough to feel the warmth of her, and let his palm rest briefly against her shoulder. His voice dropped to silk as he murmured, "Hello—Raven Xipil."
She moved like a coiled spring. No hesitation. With an abruptness that made Indra's grin line into a genuine flash of surprise, she had him pinned to the wall; one hand braced against the wood at his shoulder, the other pressing a blade of pure red — narrow, impossibly bright — to his throat. The color bit flesh. A hot bead of blood welled where the edge kissed skin.
"How do you know that?" Her voice was a knife. Sharp. Demanding.
Indra said nothing. He let the question hang.
Raven pushed the blade harder until it almost punctured. He blinked, then let a fat bead of scarlet run down his neck. "Answer," she snapped.
"Why should I?" he said finally, his voice a bored drawl. He felt the small pain and filed it away. "I hold the information. You don't know everything I know. You can't kill me—you don't have proof anyone else shares the same facts I do, and your unable to risk that. I have authority here."
Her jaw worked. She did not smile. Raven's eyes narrowed — suspicion and a contained anger that felt like a sleeping animal — but she eased the pressure and let him go at last, stepping back with her hands on her hips, blade disappearing as quick and clean as a blink.
"So," she said. Her voice went low and wary. "What do you want then?"
Indra wiped his neck with the back of his hand and smiled like a man with too many options. "I have vital information," he said. "Something that can help your father. Help your clan."
Raven's brows pulled together. "You expect me to buy that?"
"You don't have to believe it," Indra answered. "You have a choice: risk hearing me out, or end me and never know what I could have offered. Which is better? Information with a chance… or nothing with certainty?"
She bit her lip and exhaled — a small, sharp laugh, half humor, half disbelief. "Alright. You're entertaining. I'll play. What do you want me to do for this information?"
"Take me to your father." Indra's tone was casual, almost conversational. "And don't tell me it's impossible — you have a hidden teleport pad. I know it exists."
Raven's face flickered: surprise, then wariness. She crossed her arms. "I'll see. Two weeks, at most. But—"
"But?" Indra prompted.
"You'll meet me twice a week until then," she said. "And you keep everything we say — and everything you know — secret. No one. Not a peep."
Indra's laugh was soft. "You don't get to dictate terms, Raven. But I'll humor you. You bit first; I'll bite back. Makes things more fun."
She allowed the corner of her mouth to lift, almost into a smile. "You are infuriating. Fine." She stepped aside, studying him as if memorizing contours. Then she turned and melted into the corridor, ponytail swishing like a pendulum.
Indra watched her go. The moment she rounded the corner, something slipped across her expression — doubt or strategy, he couldn't tell. She paused as if to reconsider, then walked on, leaving him alone with the small smear of his blood on his hand and a new, small plan forming in his mind.
He opened his door to the dormitory and walked in to find Luce Seinaru gasping on the floor, chest heaving, sweat slicking his golden hair. The prince looked as if he'd been molded and then stretched to his limit — training had taken the last of his poise and left rawness in its place.
Indra dropped onto the bed opposite and watched Luce with lazy interest. "Why are you training so hard?" he asked. The question was casual; his tone was not.
Luce did not reply.
Indra watched him a beat longer. "Is it your brother?" he asked. He smirked. "He is the strongest in the kingdom, isn't he? No wonder you look like you're about to melt."
Luce's face tightened. He hesitated, then spat, "Shut up."
Indra grinned. "You're the worse version of him, you know that? All the pressure with none of the actual crown."
That struck a nerve. Luce lunged, hands closing, but Indra moved with the practiced ease of someone who'd had people rush him all his life. He stepped aside, letting Luce's fingers close on empty air.
"Why are you attacking me?" Indra asked, entirely feigned innocence.
"Because of what you just said!" Luce exploded. The prince swung again; anger flamed raw and personal.
Indra's leg moved on reflex. A short, precise kick to the stomach — not lethal, not even close — and Luce doubled over, breath stolen from him. He fell to the floor and lay there, clutching his middle, eyes wide with existing disbelief.
"You should relax," Indra said mildly, turning to leave. "It's strange when you accuse people of things they didn't do."
He got a good twenty paces down the hall before a laugh bubbled up, a sound that was far too sharp for the quiet dormitory. "He's so easy," he said aloud, delighted. "If he's already cracking at simple jabs, the Mace—" He let the thought trail, mouth curving. "—won't be an issue at all."
When he closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it, the grin stayed. The prince had shown him both a weakness and a predictable intensity.
—————
Morning came like a drumroll.
Class hurtled into routine. Indra and the others sat, shifting through gossip and notes, until Aoi stood and the room tightened like a fist around what he would say next.
"Good morning." Aoi sorted papers with practiced composure. "Before we begin, an announcement: the Kingdom Tournament has been moved up. It will take place the third weekend from now." His eyes scanned the room like a man surveying chess pieces. "In case you didn't know, the tournament happens once a year — the best of Fasl come from across the kingdom to fight, to test their strength. The rewards are great, and reputation even greater. For six years running, our first prince has taken the crown."
There was a burst of reactions — interest, irritation, scheming.
Naaji's face lit up like someone set her on fire in a good way. She sat forward, bright-eyed and impulsive. Indra watched her, then looked at her and said, "You should join."
Her reply was instant, an eager laugh that bordered on disbelief. "Really?"
He nodded then, like a teacher approving a small but correct step. "Yeah. It'll push you. You'll learn faster with that pressure."
She launched herself across the table and hugged his arm like a child. "I will. I will! I'll get ready. Thank you."
Indra's expression softened — not much — but enough for any watcher to note that he kept some things close.
—————
Across campus, later that day, tensions moved like weather. In a small practice room that smelled of sweat and blood, Hikaru Aima kicked a table and let out a snarl that was half-grief, half fury.
Veli, pacing, watched her with the exhaustion of someone used to these outbursts. "What now?" he asked.
She spat the name of Selene like someone naming a plague. "That damn slut. She shows up acting like she's the victim. She stole everything from me when we were kids. Now she pops back as if nothing happened. It's infuriating."
Veli exhaled. "You always do this. You blow everything up."
Hikaru's hands curled into fists. Her eyes were hard, dangerous. "I'm going to take everything away from her." The words came like a vow. "Every scrap."
He rumbled something that might have meant sympathy or might have been a warning. She didn't listen.
—————
That night, under a slate sky dusted with distant stars, Indra sat by his window and thought through the day as if it were a field ripe for sowing. He had Raven lined up as an odd variable — a potential ally if she could be bent, a hair-trigger enemy if she could not. Mira had been contained for now; the seed of compromise was planted. Mona would watch Mira and would, for the time being, think Indra an ally. Luce's temper had been tested. Naaji was aflame for the tournament. Haruka and Hikaru would scheme with venom.
Everything seemed in place. The board was messy in the ways of live games — people moved in unpredictable ways, spoke words that hid thoughts — but mess could be shaped.
He let out a slow breath. The sound of his own pulse was loud in the quiet room.
A soft vibration on his palm told him a message had come through his dorm comm — a notice of his first meeting with Raven in three days. He smiled with something like anticipation.
Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks to convince her to open the door. Two weeks to prime her kin. Two weeks to maneuver the classroom's pieces so the Mace sits where I can take it without blood that cannot be accounted for.
He changed the note to vague nonsense and set it aside. Outside, the dormitory hummed like a living thing; inside, Indra's smile remained, quiet and dangerous as a held breath.
The tournament would be a spectacle. The dungeon would be a test. But what he wanted—what he needed—was a weapon and a veiled hand inside his enemies. He would take both, and he would take them carefully.
From the corridor, laughter and footsteps drifted down like a promise. Indra rose, smoothing his sleeve. There was work to be done tomorrow; there always was.