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I stared at the elaborate spread before me, food worth more than what most people in the outer ring would see in a month. The dining area of father's mansion stretched out like a grand hall, fancy chairs lining the long table. Only me, sitting alone at one end, the emptiness of the room making the clink of my silverware sound unnaturally loud.
"Lord Atherwind," Hans said, standing rigidly by the wall. His tone carried the same measured authority he'd used when correcting my posture as a child, tempered now by the careful distance father had instructed him to maintain. "Today is your Academy entrance test day. You should finish your meal."
I prodded at the eggs with my fork, watching the yolk break and run across the plate. Something seems to twist my stomach today. Maybe reminder of a broken promise, of a distance life that was left behind.
"I'm not hungry, Hans," I muttered, pushing the plate away slightly.
"Your father would insist on proper nutrition before such an important day, my lord."
My father would insist on a lot of things. Ever since he'd dragged mother and me from Elnor to this mansion of marble and expectations, it had been nothing but lessons, training, and endless reminders of what it meant to be an Atherwind. "Could you face your mother with that half-baked effort?" he'd said whenever I faltered. "The Atherwind name cannot show weakness. Our house descends from royalty itself."
I glanced around at the ostentatious dining room with its crystal chandelier and portraits of long-dead Atherwinds watching with painted disapproval. The Academy test was my chance—perhaps my only chance—to prove myself on my own terms, not as my father's son.
"Fine," I conceded, pulling the plate back and forcing down another bite. I could taste nothing. Four years had passed since we'd left Elnor, but some days it felt like just yesterday. Mother had been different after we arrived in Lona. Something vital had faded from her with each passing season until...
"My lord, your carriage will depart in twenty minutes," Hans said, interrupting my thoughts.
I nodded silently. Mother wouldn't have wanted me to dwell in the past. Not today.
"Be the finest self you can be, Kein," her voice echoed in my memory, soft and gentle like always. Even on her deathbed, she'd smiled at me. "Become the best you were meant to be. I'll forever be with you."
Was it truly her dying wish? Or had I been too consumed by grief to hear something else in her words? In the two years since her passing, I'd buried myself in training, becoming the perfect noble son my father demanded. Sword strikes until my hands blistered. Etiquette lessons that stripped away any trace of my former self. I'd excelled at them all.
For what? For whom?
I pushed away from the table, the chair scraping against marble floors. Hans didn't comment on my barely-touched meal.
"Is there anything else you require before departure, Lord Atherwind?"
"No, Hans. Thank you."
The weight of the approaching test drove me to the window, where I could see the Academy's distant spires piercing the morning haze. Today should have been different. Today was supposed to be the fulfillment of a promise made years ago in a dusty square in Elnor. Vel, Celia, and I would attend the Academy together.
But what was the point now? Mother would never see me graduate. Never see what I'd become.
I drew myself up straight, adjusted my ceremonial sword. Weakness wasn't permitted—not for an Atherwind. Perhaps not for me either, anymore.
One day, when I saw Mother again, I wanted no regrets. No failures to explain. Only achievements worthy of her memory.
The carriage stopped before the Academy's iron-wrought gates. I stepped out, my polished boots meeting the cobblestones with practiced authority.
The Academy rose before me—spires piercing the morning sky, ancient stonework weathered by centuries of ambition. This was where futures crystallized or shattered.
Family's expectations pressed at my mind. Not Kein from Elnor who played with village children, but Lord Kein Atherwind, heir to one of Lona's most distinguished noble houses.
"Young master, shall I wait?" the driver asked, standing beside the carriage door.
"No. Return for me at dusk," I replied, keeping my voice measured and cool.
I turned toward the Academy entrance. Mediocrity wasn't an option. What was the point of all that suffering if I settled for anything less than excellence?
Mother wouldn't be pleased, wherever she was now.
As I walked through the gates, the whispers began immediately.
"That's Lord Atherwind's son..."
"I heard he's a prodigy with light magic..."
"My father says his family has direct ties to the royal court..."
Their voices drifted through the air in overlapping whispers, and I dismissed them with the cold detachment I'd cultivated. Eyes followed my every step, but this attention was familiar now. My reality since leaving Elnor—to be watched, judged, measured against the Atherwind standard.
I wouldn't fail. Not today.
I leaned against the marble fountain, the cool stone at my back a welcome contrast to the morning heat. The murmur of conversations filled the courtyard as applicants arrived in waves, clutching their tokens and whispering about the trials ahead.
"Name?" a severe-looking woman asked.
"Velarian Novalance," someone replied. "Lady Halen's scholarship."
That name. That voice.
My fingers tightened around my own token as the name resonated through four years of buried memories. I found my gaze drawn to the speaker despite every instinct screaming to look away. Older, taller, but unmistakable. And beside him—Celia? Four years collapsed in an instant.
The woman consulted her list, made a notation, and handed him a bronze token. "Proceed to the main courtyard."
My pulse hammered against my ribs as I fought to keep my expression neutral. Two familiar figures stood there, scanning the courtyard with the cautious curiosity of outsiders.
Strange, I should be excited to see them, maybe I am, but my trained demeanor kept me grounded. Father's voice echoed in my mind: "An Atherwind betrays no emotion in public."
"Kein!" Celia's voice reached me, cutting through the ambient chatter of the courtyard. "I can't believe you're here too!"
The familiarity of that forgotten voice calling my old name sent a jolt of recognition through me before I could stop it. My spine went rigid, years of noble training kicking in as an automatic defense against the warmth threatening to break through. I turned slowly, my gaze finding them with the cold control of Lord Atherwind, not the eager recognition of the boy who'd once answered to that name.
It's really them. Celia, fully grown into a lady. And then there's Vel, standing beside her. I hadn't thought the Academy doors would open to someone of his status. Yet here he is—and worse, he isn't afraid.
He stood with quiet assurance, scanning the courtyard like he belonged here. No trace of nervousness for someone of his background facing the most prestigious academy in the kingdom.
"Kein?" Vel said again, softer this time, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
The boy who was always weaker when we sparred as kids, who I always defeated. He had talent, sure, but nothing that should have placed him in an Academy full of prodigies.
I had to prove myself among nobles who sneered at me for my common birth. I survived by becoming someone stronger, colder, better. "A relationship between a noble and commoner only goes one way," they'd whisper among themselves. "They either want something from us, or they just drag us down." At least that's what nobles talk about when they think no one's listening.
Even if I wanted to acknowledge them, father's orders had been clear—I was forbidden to return to Elnor, not even one letter sent. Reconnecting with them now... that would be dangerous. Admirers aside, there are envious eyes watching, waiting for every opportunity to attack the Atherwind name, spreading rumors. I can't afford to let that happen. Not after everything I've sacrificed to get here.
The sight of their hopeful faces, unchanged despite the years, sent a knife of longing through my chest. For just a heartbeat, I wanted to smile, to call their names, to ask how they'd been.
But I couldn't. Not here. Not now.
A well-dressed peer beside me glanced over curiously. "You know them, Lord Atherwind?"
"No," I replied without hesitation, my voice carrying clearly across the space. "I don't."
I turned and walked away with my companion, who muttered something about commoners knowing their place when addressing nobility. Every step felt like a betrayal of my own heart, but my mind was already turning to the trials ahead—the test, the careful navigation of Academy politics, the endless stream of introductions and evaluations. Even my companion's words barely registered through the noise of what lay before me.
"Kein Atherwind."
The examiner's voice carried across the testing grounds, and the murmur of conversations died away. This was the moment I'd rehearsed dozens of times in father's private study. Every step toward the crystal was measured, every movement calibrated to project the confidence expected of an Atherwind heir.
I approached unhurried, aware that every applicant's attention had shifted to me. From my peripheral vision, I caught sight of Vel and Celia watching—their expressions a mix of curiosity and what looked like recognition.
I placed my palm against the crystal's cool surface.
The crystal responded instantly. Golden light poured from the artifact, bright enough to illuminate the entire testing field. Students throughout the grounds turned to stare, some raising hands to shield their eyes. Pure white threads spiraled through the gold, forming intricate, shifting patterns.
"Light affinity with holy specialization," the examiner announced, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of reverence. "Exceptional purity and strength. One of the strongest readings we've recorded in years."
I kept my expression carefully neutral despite the satisfaction building in my chest. The faculty members' excited whispers weren't a surprise. Even Severin Thornwood—that arrogant noble—looked genuinely impressed, his usual smugness replaced by something approaching respect.
The truth? This was nothing but theater. Father had arranged for preliminary readings weeks ago, ensuring the Academy would recognize the "exceptional" Atherwind talent. We'd practiced with similar crystals in our manor, fine-tuning my approach to maximize the display.
"That intensity," one of the senior mages murmured. "The crystal's practically humming."
I nodded slightly in acknowledgment, playing my part perfectly. As I turned to rejoin the elite candidates, my gaze found Vel's across the field.
The difference between us was obvious—me standing in the crystal's golden glow, celebrated as a prodigy, while Vel remained among those barely deemed worthy of training.
But only I knew how many hours of conditioning it had taken to achieve this "natural talent."
I faced Kolrak Etemir across the training circle. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a fire affinity that had flashed impressively during the crystal reading. Kolrak's overconfident smirk and the way he spun his practice sword in a useless flourish told me everything I needed to know. Students around the circle leaned forward, anticipating the match.
"Begin when ready," Instructor Morana announced, stepping back from the circle.
I didn't move immediately. I had learned the value of patience, unlike the younger me who would have charged in recklessly. Kolrak shifted his weight, eager to begin. He wanted this over quickly.
"What's wrong, Atherwind?" Kolrak taunted. "Afraid to get that pretty uniform dirty?"
I remained silent, which only irritated him further. His lunge was a textbook error—a standard thrust followed by a wide, sweeping arc. He might as well have announced his strategy.
Instead of retreating, I sidestepped, allowing his momentum to carry him past. My counterattack was measured, controlled. I wanted to see what he could do first.
Three exchanges later, I understood his style completely. Kolrak favored power over finesse—similar to my own sword style, but crude and unrefined. My training had taught me to temper raw strength with precision. Each attack came harder than the last, his frustration mounting with every miss.
"Stop dancing and fight!" he growled, sweat beading on his forehead.
I smiled then, the first genuine expression I'd allowed myself since entering the Academy. Now to show them what an Atherwind could do.
I closed the distance, my blade a blur of calculated strikes that forced him onto the back foot. He was reacting, not thinking. The opening I needed.
When he attempted a counterattack—a predictable overhead swing—I didn't just evade; I moved into position for my finishing technique.
I channeled my light affinity into my blade. The steel began to glow, casting white light that would mask my next movements. The precise stances and footwork had burned into my muscle memory through countless hours of practice. Light trails followed the sword's path, designed to confuse and disorient.
"Cross Flash!" I called out, executing two rapid slashes that created intersecting paths of light.
Kolrak almost reacted to the incoming strikes, but the blinding light trails forced him to cover his eyes instinctively. The technique struck him cleanly while he was defenseless, intersecting slashes creating a burst of concentrated light. He stumbled backward and fell, the protective charm around him glowing bright red to signal my victory.
The sound of sword clashes nearby drew my attention away from my own victory. In the standard candidates' area, another duel was underway. The fighter's stance made me freeze.
Celia.
She moved nothing like the village girl I remembered. Gone was the awkward stance and practice sword. This Celia wielded an elegant rapier with the confidence of someone who'd received proper training. Her posture was poised, intimidating—completely transformed.
Even from this distance, I recognized quality craftsmanship. Growing up surrounded by noble house treasures and ornamental weapons had trained my eye for such details. That rapier wasn't standard Academy issue—it was expensive, the kind that required influential connections.
Celia? Connected to people in high places? That was unexpected.
I watched her face her opponent with remarkable composure. One step forward, one step back, her rapier held in her dominant hand but pointed downward behind her—an invitation for her opponent to strike first.
A faint smile crossed my lips as I recognized the tactic. That's exactly what she did when we sparred back in Elnor. Always baiting, making her opponent overcommit before striking.
Celia's first exchange shattered my expectations. Despite witnessing countless duels from Lona's finest, her technique caught me off guard.
Celia's movements were perfectly economical—no wasted energy, no excessive steps. She side-stepped and back-stepped with perfect timing, as if merely toying with her opponent despite their spear's superior reach. Every movement seemed calculated, deliberate and measured.
The spear-wielder lunged forward with what should have been a decisive thrust. But Celia simply wasn't there when the weapon arrived. She had shifted just enough to let it pass harmlessly before executing a flawless feint followed by a lightning-fast counter-thrust.
"Point!" the examiner called.
First to two points would win in the standard class—unlike our elite matches where only decisive victory mattered. The difference felt arbitrary now, watching her skill.
Her opponent reset, frustration evident in their stance. Celia immediately shifted to offensive pressure, her rapier becoming a silver blur. The spear-wielder struggled to track her movements, barely blocking each thrust as they steadily gave ground.
Then, unexpectedly, Celia halted her advance mid-attack. Her opponent stumbled backward, thrown off balance by the sudden cessation. Celia simply stood still, creating distance, her rapier momentarily lowered.
Then Celia raised her rapier to her shoulder, holding it horizontally across her body. The audience gasped, but I felt my pulse quicken for a different reason. That stance—I knew it from the advanced combat treatises my tutors had made me study.
Trinity Volt.
My chest tightened. That technique was on par with my Cross Flash—something I'd spent years perfecting under the best tutors money could buy. How had she mastered something equivalent while living as an orphan? The distance I thought I'd gained through my noble training... and she'd somehow kept pace.
Three successive thrusts came so rapidly they appeared simultaneous. Blue-white energy crackled along her blade, connecting the three impact points in a triangle of lightning. When the dark smoke cleared, her opponent knelt on the ground, the Academy's protective charm glowing as it absorbed the excess energy.
"Impressive," I whispered, surprised to hear the admission escape my lips.
I stepped closer to the railing.
If things had been different... if I had made different choices when I returned to Lona... I might have leveraged my position with him, found a way to bring Celia with me. Perhaps as my retainer—a position that would have given her proper training.
But would she have wanted that? Would she have left Vel behind?
Celia moved to help her opponent up with respectful courtesy.
There must have been someone skilled in Elnor who trained them both. That would explain how Vel made it here too—they'd both learned from the same master.
As she walked off the practice field, her gaze swept the audience. Nothing in her demeanor suggested pride or showmanship. For a moment, I tensed, wondering if she would see me watching. I wasn't sure what I would do if our eyes met—acknowledge her skill? Pretend indifference?
But Celia didn't bother to look my way, her eyes scanning the unstable section instead.
I stepped back from the railing, disturbed by how intently I'd been watching. Celia had become someone I no longer knew—powerful, connected, dangerous. The village girl from my memories felt like a stranger now. Perhaps that was fitting. After all, I was no longer the boy she'd known either.
Heated voices from the courtyard interrupted my post-exam review. I was heading toward the elite section when one voice stopped me cold.
Celia.
Against my better judgment, I changed direction, moving toward the gathering. Students shifted aside as they recognized me, creating a path to the center of the conflict.
"—completely wrong about the fundamentals." Lysithea Fairwind was saying, her copper-blonde braids catching the midday light. "Academy texts are quite clear—unstable rifts form from elemental imbalance."
"Your textbooks are wrong," Celia replied, voice tight. "Guild expeditions have documented rifts in perfectly balanced areas."
Without changing my expression, I observed Lysithea Fairwind—daughter of Count Fairwind, whose family had dined at Father's estate twice last season. Her wind affinity had placed her in the standard group, but her family's political connections made her act as though she belonged among the elite.
"Guild reports? Written by common adventurers who barely understand what they're seeing?" Lysithea scoffed.
I noted how Celia's hands clenched at her sides. This was rapidly becoming more than a post-examination debate.
"Those adventurers died getting that information—all so your 'scholars' could research it safely from their libraries."
"How quaint. Did the orphanage teach you to worship sellswords as experts?" Lysithea's smile was razor-sharp.
"Not worshipping. But at least show some respect for people who died for that knowledge. I thought it was well taught among nobility."
The courtyard went quiet. Even students who had been chatting among themselves turned to watch.
"You expect to teach me about respect and manners? Know your place, orphan."
I should walk away. The old man would expect me to avoid entanglements with lower-class students. But my feet wouldn't move as Lysithea stepped closer to Celia, crowding her space with deliberate intimidation.
Her hand rose, clearly intending to slap. Celia's hand shot up, catching Lysithea's wrist mid-swing.
"How dare you! Your sister chose to play hero instead of being careful. Maybe if she'd valued her life more than glory, she'd still be here to fight her own battles."
Celia's free hand cracked against Lysithea's cheek. The sound echoed across the suddenly silent courtyard.
This was going too far. Striking a noble meant expulsion. Across the courtyard, Instructor Caldwen's purposeful stride gave them seconds to resolve this.
"I dare because you're wrong. My sister didn't die for glory—she died trying to save people. And her sacrifice gave us the truth about rifts, not your precious textbook theories."
"Clara Freznoria. Platinum rank. She documented seven unstable rifts before the eighth one killed her. Her research is Guild standard now."
Clara. The name stopped my breath. Clara Freznoria—who had crouched beside a ten-year-old boy in Elnor, patiently adjusting his grip on a practice sword. The first person to teach me swordplay without calculating political advantage.
Dead.
"Striking a noble is a serious offense. The Academy doesn't tolerate such behavior, especially from low class students."
I stepped forward into the circle. The remaining murmurs stopped.
"And assaulting fellow students isn't permitted for anyone," I said.
"Lord Atherwind," Lysithea acknowledged, her demeanor shifting immediately to one of deference. "Thank goodness you're here. This common class student struck me—a clear violation of Academy protocol. Surely you agree such behavior cannot be tolerated?"
I looked between them. Celia first, then Lysithea.
"Knowledge is the Academy's second pillar. That includes accepting correction gracefully—and understanding that violence is beneath proper breeding."
Lysithea flushed deeper, but she nodded slightly. "Of course, Lord Atherwind. I was merely—"
Caldwen was almost here. We had seconds before this became a formal disciplinary matter.
Keeping my voice low, "It would be unfortunate if this incident required formal disciplinary action, wouldn't it?"
Lysithea understood immediately. "A simple academic disagreement that got heated. Nothing worth the instructor's time."
I turned to Celia, our eyes meeting directly for the first time since I'd arrived in Lona. "I trust you're of the same mind?"
After a moment's hesitation, she inclined her head. "Just a difference of interpretation. Nothing more."
I stepped back as Instructor Caldwen arrived.
"Is there a problem here?" he asked, scanning the scene with sharp eyes.
"Not at all, Instructor. Just some spirited debate about rift theory. We were discussing how practical field research sometimes challenges traditional academic understanding."
As Caldwen dispersed the crowd, I turned away. Seven rifts documented... It could be an interesting read. The least I could do to honor the person who taught me swordplay.
I stood in the shadows of the southern archway, watching students pour out of the Academy doors. Different badges and insignias caught the light—markers of the hierarchy I now stood near the top of.
I spotted Vel then, stepping between Thornwood and that unstable attunement student—Tomas, I think. Even from this distance, I could read the tension in their postures, see how Vel inserted himself with that same quiet confidence he'd shown since arriving at the Academy.
"Academic curiosity, nothing more," Thornwood's voice carried, though his smirk told a different story as he walked away.
I leaned against the cool stone, keeping myself hidden. Another encounter with them would mean more of this exhausting charade.
From the western building, a familiar figure emerged. Celia in her duelist uniform strode toward Vel. My hands clenched involuntarily as Vel's expression brightened at the sight of her.
"There you are!" she called. "How was class?"
"Fascinating actually. Lyvenna covered magic circle theory and—" Vel started, his hands already moving to illustrate some concept.
They fell into conversation so easily, continuing that same comfortable rhythm they'd always had. Back in Elnor, it had been the three of us—sparring in that dusty clearing, arguing about techniques, laughing when Celia would inevitably best me with some clever maneuver.
"Not without me," Celia declared firmly, linking her arm through his. "I want to see what kind of clothes you pick for your 'servant'."
The way she linked her arm with his twisted something in my chest. Why? Was there something I regretted? It was ridiculous. I was Kein Atherwind now, heir to House Atherwind. What business did I have with two commoners from a smaller town?
But they looked happy. Free.
Even Landre had become a Saint. Everyone from Elnor seemed to have found their path while I...
"Lord Atherwind," a voice interrupted my thoughts. My driver bowed stiffly. "Your carriage awaits. Your father expects you for dinner with the Fairwinds tonight."
The familiar weight of duty settled back over me. Time to be the heir again.
"Very well," I replied.
As I walked toward the waiting carriage, one last glance back. They were laughing now, heading toward the gates together.
I had chosen my path—reclaimed my birthright, secured my future. I had everything anyone would ever want.
So why did it feel so hollow?