The hallway outside the infirmary was long and cold. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating the fine stonework of the walls and the polished marble of the floor. Every few feet, silk banners bearing the emblem of the Bastian Empire—a snarling wolf's head—hung silent and imposing. It was the architecture of power, designed to make one feel small.
A stern-faced man in the crisp uniform of an academy prefect was waiting for him. He had a scroll in his hand and a look of barely concealed distaste on his face.
"Ronan de Altor," the prefect said, his voice as sharp as cut glass. "I am Prefect Valerius. I will escort you to your assigned quarters." He didn't offer a hand or a word of welcome.
Ronan kept his eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped. He gave a small, jerky nod. "Thank you," he mumbled, making sure his voice was soft and hesitant.
They walked in silence. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the vast hall. Students, dressed in immaculate dark blue uniforms, passed by them in small groups. They would glance at Ronan, whisper to each other, and then look away. He could feel their stares like physical things—a mixture of curiosity, contempt, and a dark sort of fascination. He was a creature in a zoo, the last of a dying species.
He kept his face a perfect mask of weary sadness, but behind it, his mind was a whirlwind of observation.
The students walked with an easy confidence, the casual arrogance of winners. Most were human, but he saw a few with the pointed ears of elves and the sturdy build of dwarves, all wearing the same uniform. The empire was powerful enough to absorb other races.
The prefect, Valerius, had the same proud set to his jaw as the soldiers in his memories. His name was Bastian. Likely a family of some importance.
The architecture was impressive but severe. Built to last. Built to intimidate.
Every detail was a piece of intelligence. Every whispered comment was a clue.
Finally, the prefect stopped before a heavy oak door. He unlocked it and pushed it open. "Your quarters," he announced, his tone suggesting it was far more than Ronan deserved.
The room was small, but well-appointed. It held two beds, two desks, and two wardrobes, all made of the same dark, polished wood. A large window looked out over a perfectly manicured courtyard. It was a comfortable prison.
A young man was sitting at one of the desks, reading a book. He looked up as they entered, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He had sandy blond hair and a face that would have been handsome if not for the permanent sneer etched onto his lips. He wore his uniform with a tailored precision that spoke of wealth and status.
"Lord Darian," the prefect said, his voice instantly becoming more respectful. "This is your new roommate, Ronan de Altor."
Darian Vex looked Ronan up and down, his eyes lingering on Ronan's simple infirmary clothes. The sneer deepened. "The fallen prince," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I thought you'd be… taller."
Ronan flinched, as if the words were a physical blow. It was a calculated reaction. Show weakness. Show fear.
"Leave him be," the prefect said, though it sounded more like a suggestion than an order. "The Headmaster wants him treated as any other student."
"Of course," Darian said with a smirk that promised the opposite.
The prefect gave Ronan one last, dismissive look and left, closing the door firmly behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place felt final.
Ronan stood awkwardly by the door, not daring to move further into the room. Darian went back to his book, pointedly ignoring him. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
This was another test. A test of dominance. Darian was establishing the hierarchy of the room from the very first moment.
Ronan's strategic mind screamed at him to counter, to find a weakness, to assert himself. The Fool Prince, however, did something else.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, a sound of someone trying to hold back tears. He walked slowly to the empty bed, the one furthest from Darian, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He did not look at Darian. He stared at the floor, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, the very picture of a boy lost in a world of grief.
He stayed that way for a long time.
He felt Darian's eyes on him occasionally, a glance filled with scorn, but Ronan did not react. He was playing a long game. To win a war, you first had to choose your battles. This was not a battle worth fighting. His goal was not to win Darian's respect, but to earn his complete and utter disregard.
A harmless, broken boy was not a threat. A harmless, broken boy would be ignored.
And in the shadows of that ignorance, a prince could begin to sharpen his claws.