The Academy of Varenhold never truly slept, but on the morning of a royal visit, it forgot how to breathe.
Servants scurried through marble corridors carrying brass polish and nerves in equal measure. Mana lamps flared brighter than usual, the air thick with the scent of wax, soap, and fear. Every archway wore crimson and gold banners, their folds whispering of duty. Even the statues of old emperors seemed to watch more keenly, as if history itself had straightened its spine for inspection.
Ardan Vale stood at the edge of it all—unmoving, unreadable—watching the chaos unfold from the upper terrace. Below, the academy was a hive trying to look like a cathedral. He had seen this ritual before, years ago, in another life. The frantic preparations, the desperate polishing of marble and reputations alike. It was all the same dance: the small trying to make themselves worthy of being stepped on.
He found the symmetry almost comforting. Empires changed faces, not patterns.
A faint voice cut through the noise behind him.
"You've been up all night again, haven't you?"
Lyra's reflection appeared in the window before her voice reached him. Her hair was pulled back loosely, traces of fatigue under her eyes. She carried two cups of tea—one already cooling, the other steaming. She offered him the warmer one.
"You'll collapse before the prince even arrives," she said.
He took it but didn't drink. "The body endures what the will commands."
She sighed. "You talk like an old man trapped in a student's body."
He almost smiled. "You're not far off."
Lyra leaned against the railing beside him, looking down at the frantic preparations. "They say he's the empire's golden son," she murmured. "Polite, brilliant, the kind of noble who actually listens when commoners speak."
"Listening," Ardan said quietly, "isn't the same as hearing."
She frowned. "You sound like you already hate him."
He tilted the cup, watching the ripples distort his reflection. "I don't hate kings, Lyra. I simply remember what they cost."
Something in his tone chilled her into silence. After a long pause she said, "You really should rest."
He looked at her then, eyes softening just enough. "I will. After today."
When she left, the faint scent of her perfume lingered — lavender and steel. He let it fade before returning his gaze to the horizon.
By the afternoon, the academy plaza had transformed into a stage of marble and expectation. Hundreds of students stood ranked by class and discipline, their uniforms immaculate, expressions strained. Instructors whispered final corrections, adjusting posture, smoothing sleeves, muttering prayers.
Ardan stood in the third line—close enough to observe everything, far enough to remain forgettable. He'd chosen the spot deliberately.
The great bell rang once, twice, thrice. A tremor ran through the formation. Then came the sound that silenced all others: hooves against stone, measured and slow, followed by the hollow clang of armored boots.
The carriages appeared through the courtyard arch, sunlight flashing off their gilded edges. Crimson banners fluttered above them, the coiled golden dragon of Varenhold shimmering with every gust of wind. When the first escort dismounted, the collective breath of the crowd seemed to vanish.
From the central carriage stepped a young man dressed not in ostentatious regalia but in tailored simplicity—white and gold trimmed with black leather gloves. No crown rested on his head, but authority radiated from him as naturally as light from flame.
The Second Prince of the Empire.
Alaric Varenhold.
Ardan's jaw tightened — imperceptibly. The last time he had seen his face, it had been pale and still, lying in a coffin draped in the imperial crest. The assassin's blade had taken Alaric's life and set in motion the war that tore the Empire apart.
And in that chaos, Kael had risen.
Now, here stood the same man — alive, unscarred, shining with the naivety of youth and the untested arrogance of one born to rule.
The Prince greeted the professors first, his voice measured and courteous. Every word carried the polish of royal education, yet none of the cruelty Ardan associated with his bloodline. A dangerous combination. Idealism with power was always fatal—to someone else.
When the prince's gaze swept across the rows of students, Ardan lowered his head just enough — not submissive, not proud. Perfectly calculated mediocrity.
"Students of Varenhold," Alaric began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the plaza, "today we honor not blood nor birthright, but merit. The empire endures because each of you learns what we once forgot—that strength without wisdom is ruin."
A noble sentiment. Ardan almost applauded the irony. He had watched this same boy, older and harder, command armies that reduced half the continent to ruin. Wisdom, it seemed, was always learned too late.
The ceremony blurred together—formal greetings, rehearsed laughter, token demonstrations of magical theory. Then Professor Selric announced a spontaneous exercise: a joint display of strategy and applied sigilcraft. Pairs were chosen seemingly at random. Ardan's name echoed through the air.
He stepped forward with practiced indifference, partnered with three others from the tactical division. Across from them stood a noble team led by Cael Dornhart—brash, confident, eager to impress the crown.
"Begin," Selric said.
Mana flared. Illusory terrain sprang into existence—stone pillars, shallow water, shifting mist. The task: capture the opposing banner without incapacitation. It was meant to test coordination, not victory.
Ardan's opponents never realized they'd already lost.
He moved like water through the illusion, every gesture precise, his team reacting before he spoke. He'd studied each student for weeks—strengths, weaknesses, impulses. Cael favored aggression. Predictable.
A feint here, a redirected spell there. Ardan manipulated the terrain's mana field subtly, converting defensive wards into traps without anyone noticing. When Cael lunged, his foot struck an unstable sigil. The illusion imploded, swallowing him up to the knees in shimmering fog.
By the time he recovered, Ardan's hand had already touched the banner.
Match over.
The instructors murmured in approval. Selric's brow rose. "Efficient," he said. "Almost surgical."
Exactly the impression Ardan wanted: competent, not extraordinary. A student worth noting, not fearing.
Still, when he turned to step back into formation, he felt it—one gaze lingering longer than the rest.
Alaric's.
The prince's expression sharpened — curiosity flashing for a heartbeat. He leaned slightly toward Selric, whispered something, then turned away as though the moment meant nothing.
But Ardan caught it. That subtle hesitation, that flicker of recognition — not memory, not yet, but intuition.
Perfect.
He bowed with the rest and stepped back into the ranks.
The ceremony continued. Speeches followed — predictable oaths to unity, to progress, to the Empire's eternal glory. Ardan barely heard them. His focus was elsewhere.
He wasn't listening to words. He was measuring pauses. Weighing tones. Calculating how easily a young prince's ideals could be bent.
And he found his answer quickly.
Alaric spoke with conviction — but conviction built on belief, not experience. He was kind. Too kind. The kind of ruler who would die surrounded by enemies he mistook for allies.
Ardan had already buried one like him.
This time, he would use him instead.
Later, as the crowds dispersed and the prince's retinue prepared to leave the courtyard, Ardan remained by the fountain. The reflection in the water fractured his face — half light, half shadow.
From across the plaza, Alaric turned one last time. Their eyes met — only for a breath.
It was not recognition, but curiosity.
And that was enough.
That evening, Ardan sat by his desk, the city lights flickering beyond the window. The sigil under the floorboards pulsed faintly — steady, patient, hungry.
He dipped his quill and wrote a single line in his journal:
Step One: Secure the Fool.
Then another, smaller note beneath it:
The kindest men make the best weapons.
He leaned back, watching the ink dry, and whispered to the empty room —
"History may seat him at the table… but I'll be the one pulling the chair."
The candle flame bent toward him, black at the edges, as if the Balance Sigil below approved.
And outside, the last echo of the royal anthem faded into silence — leaving only the heartbeat of ambition behind.