The classroom fell silent as Ann-Katrin Zopf entered, her presence commanding immediate attention. Final year students sat straighter, even the ones who thought themselves untouchable. Russian accent thick and deliberate, she surveyed her class with the casual authority of someone born into one of the four great families.
"Before we begin," she said, "we have special entry transfer student."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Special entry students were rare—the school's standards were absolute. No essence, no entry. No exceptions.
Or so they'd thought.
"Silver Pendragon." Ann-Katrin gestured to the doorway. "Enter."
Silver walked in with measured steps, his silver eyes scanning the room with practiced neutrality. Black hair fell just above his shoulders, and he wore the school uniform like it was meant for someone else—too formal, too pristine for someone who supposedly didn't belong here.
He looked... ordinary. Forgettable, even.
That was the point.
"Silver will be joining final year class," Ann-Katrin continued, her tone brooking no argument. "Treat him as you would any classmate. Dismissed until second period."
She left without further explanation, the door closing behind her with quiet finality.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
"Pendragon?" A voice cut through the air, dripping with disdain. "Never heard of that family."
Silver turned to find a young man rising from his seat—red hair like dying embers, blue flames already flickering at his fingertips. The Zopf trademark.
Prince.
"And you are?" Silver asked, keeping his tone neutral.
"Prince Zopf. East territory, second son." Prince crossed his arms, blue flames dancing higher. "Special entry transfer? That means you're either connected or..." His eyes narrowed. "Let me check."
The classroom went still. Even casual conversations died.
Prince extended his senses, reaching for Silver's essence signature.
Nothing.
His eyes widened slightly, then hardened. "You have no essence."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
Silver said nothing.
"This school doesn't accept cripples," Prince said, flames spreading across his arms. "Special entry or not, you don't belong here."
"Prince." A calm voice spoke from the back corner. Mary Black, her dark hair framing a face that held the kind of patience that came from tolerating fools daily. "Ann-Katrin already approved him."
"Then there's been a mistake." Prince's flames burned brighter. "And I'll correct it."
Mary sighed but didn't stand. Not yet. She'd seen this pattern before—Prince escalating, Prince attacking, Prince learning nothing.
From another corner, Milim Grey sat with her eyes closed, face turned deliberately away from the confrontation. She hadn't even looked when Prince started speaking. Attacking someone without essence wasn't just cowardly—it was beneath contempt. A disgrace, especially for someone from the four great families.
She wanted no part of witnessing it.
"First class ends in ten minutes," Prince said, flames coiling around his fists. "After that, we settle this outside. No teachers. Just you and me."
Silver met his gaze. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll assume you're as weak as you look, and I'll make sure everyone knows it." Prince smiled, all teeth and arrogance. "Your choice, Pendragon."
The ten minutes crawled by like hours.
The courtyard behind the main building had seen countless unsanctioned fights. Scorch marks scarred the stone, and the walls bore the evidence of essence-reinforced impacts.
Silver stood in the center, hands loose at his sides. Calm. Too calm for someone about to face a Zopf's blue flames without essence.
Prince cracked his knuckles, flames roaring to life. "Last chance to admit you don't belong here."
"I'm enrolled," Silver said simply. "That's all that matters."
"Wrong answer."
Prince moved.
Blue flames erupted in a wave, scorching the air as they raced toward Silver. The attack was designed to overwhelm, to force a desperate dodge that would leave openings for the follow-up.
Silver stepped left—not quite fast enough.
The edge of the flames caught his shoulder, searing through fabric and skin. He grunted, stumbling back.
Prince smiled. "See? No essence means no defense. You'll burn."
He fired again—three compressed flame bolts in rapid succession, each one tracking different angles.
Silver shifted right, ducked low—one bolt grazed his arm, leaving a angry red burn. He pivoted, barely avoiding the third.
Two hits. One miss.
Lucky. That's what it had to look like.
"Stop moving!" Prince snarled, frustration bleeding into his voice despite landing strikes. The cripple should be down by now. He unleashed a barrage—flames carpeting the courtyard in overlapping waves of blue death.
Silver moved through them, taking glancing blows that singed his uniform and left burns across his ribs, his back, his legs. Each hit carefully calculated—painful enough to be real, placed where they'd look accidental rather than defended.
Never quite where the main impact hit. Never quite fast enough to look superhuman.
Just desperate movement with occasional luck.
At the classroom entrance, barely visible in the shadows, Ada watched with her jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her fingers dug into the doorframe, darkness flickering at the edges of her vision. She could see what Silver was doing—taking hits deliberately, making it look like frantic dodging rather than controlled evasion.
Every burn on his skin made her want to intervene.
But she couldn't.
Not without blowing his cover.
Mary noticed her first—the maid holding herself back with visible effort, the way her essence flickered at the edge of restraint. Then Mary looked back at Silver, really looked at him.
No essence signature. Burns covering his arms and torso. Uniform scorched and smoking.
But he was still standing. Still moving. Still avoiding the fatal strikes while taking everything else.
That was the strange part.
Someone with no essence should have collapsed after the first real hit. The pain alone should have dropped him. But Silver kept moving, kept dodging the killing blows while seemingly getting "lucky" with the rest.
Too lucky.
Prince's flames grew wilder, less controlled. "Just die already!"
A pillar of blue fire erupted directly beneath Silver's feet.
Silver threw himself forward, the flames catching his leg and sending him rolling across the scorched stone. He came up in a crouch, favoring his burned leg, breathing hard—
—and Prince's fist, wreathed in condensed flame, was already swinging toward his head.
A killing blow.
Mary moved.
One moment she was at the edge of the courtyard. The next, her hand caught Prince's wrist mid-swing, stopping the flame-fist inches from Silver's face.
"Enough," Mary said quietly.