The carriage clattered over cobbled streets as morning haze peeled away from the city’s rooftops. Inside, Ilyari sat upright, her gloves freshly pressed, her braid pinned precisely at the nape of her neck. Across from her, Tazien leaned his forehead against the window, watching buildings slide past with half-lidded eyes.

  Ilyari sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes trained on the window, but her mind still replaying the vision of the corrupted fountain. Tazien, across from her, tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee. His boots were freshly cleaned, but the scent of garden mold still lingered faintly in the seams of his coat.

  Master Veska and Master Lorn sat with rigid postures, their gazes forward and their mouths tight. The silence wasn’t accidental. It was calculated.

  “So,” Veska said at last, her voice a blade slicing the hush, “you’ve been very busy, haven’t you?”

  Ilyari didn’t flinch. “We’ve kept productive.”

  “In plumbing, architecture, and... herb foraging?” Veska’s tone was as flat as the gray sky beyond the glass.

  “Willowgrove is in poor condition,” Tazien said, voice even. “We’re trying to make it livable.”

  Lorn gave a soft grunt. “Living is a relative term when surrounded by decay.”

  “And by laws,” Veska added, turning her head just slightly to look at them. “You’re not permitted to alter the grounds of an Imperial structure without clearance. Did you submit a restoration request to the district governor?”

  “No,” Ilyari said calmly. “But we received written consent from a noble patron. Lord Thorne is overseeing all efforts, and he’s a licensed guild artisan. And I do politely remind you that we are also imperial. Though I have tolerated your demeaning tone because you have been an excellent teacher. I would like to remind you that the home was deeded to us to do as we will with it.”

  Veska’s eyes narrowed. “And what about the glyphwork?” She tilted her head. “You have been using glyphs. Haven’t you?”

  Tazien didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “If you mean chalk wards to stabilize the floor, those were done by Lord Thorne himself.”

  “Hmm,” Veska murmured. “But the fountain. What of the glyphs beneath it?”

  Ilyari didn’t respond at first, then she squinted. “What glyph work exactly? Is that what that was on the piping that was poisoning our garden?”

  Lorn’s gaze sharpened. “It’s illegal to tamper with Imperial glyphwork—especially when it borders sacrilege.”

  Tazien leaned forward. “That fountain is poisoning the garden. We only dug up to find the problem. Though you seem to know a lot about it Master Veska.”

  “Blasphemy,” Veska whispered.

  “Survival,” Ilyari corrected, still composed. “We weren’t invoking Royal Code. We were removing dangerous corruption.”

  The carriage jolted as it turned sharply down a stone-paved lane. The Academy gates loomed ahead.

  Veska spoke without turning. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”

  Tazien stilled. “Proving what?”

  “That you’ve been learning through proper means,” she said smoothly. “We’ve arranged a small exercise for you—today.”

  “You’ll be visiting the East Library archives today,” Veska said without looking up. “A minor assessment. Reading comprehension. Noble protocol. Symbolic analysis.”

  “And?” Ilyari asked.

  Veska finally met her gaze. “And social observation. How you respond to hierarchy, propriety… temptation.”

  Tazien blinked. “Temptation?”

  “Some books should not be opened,” Lorn added.

  Ilyari narrowed her eyes. “Are you warning us?”

  “No,” Veska said. “We’re giving you a fair chance. Nobility offers such things... on occasion.”

  The carriage slowed. The Academy East Annex loomed ahead—an older building, less polished than the central towers, its stone dark with time and ivy, its doors tall and solemn.

  Veska stepped out first. Lorn followed.

  Ilyari touched Tazien’s wrist gently. “They’re trying to bait us.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know with what.”

  They exited into the misty courtyard, where a handful of students—lower classmen by their rougher cloaks and plainer pins—stood waiting in the shadows of the tall stone archways. The moment the siblings passed, whispers began.

  “That’s them…”

  “The street royals…”

  “Didn’t even have forks at the tea…”

  “…cheated on the entrance trial…”

  The sting was real. But neither Ilyari nor Tazien slowed.

  Veska led them into the East Annex, through a long corridor lined with forgotten portraits—former instructors, lesser nobles, saints of a defunct order. The air grew cooler. The torches flickered low.

  Veska gave a sharp nod to the driver. “The west amphitheater. You’ll be observed. Quietly.”

  The door opened with a click.

  Ilyari and Tazien stepped out onto polished obsidian tiles, flanked by columns etched with Academy script. They were already being watched. Several students lingered near the stairs, many in plain robes of brown or blue-gray—lesser nobles, common scholars, one or two merchant-borns.

  Most turned away upon seeing them. Some whispered.

  Ilyari whispered to her brother, “This isn’t a lesson. It’s bait.”

  Tazien whispered back, “Then let’s not bite.”

  Veska’s voice followed behind them like a falling curtain. “Remember—your conduct reflects the Empire. Even silence speaks.”

  Rows of books were laid out on carved podiums. Each one glowing faintly with containment glyphs. Some were sealed in glass. Others bore red-threaded bookmarks—warnings of a different sort.

  “Each of these texts was chosen carefully,” Veska said, her tone silky. “Some are part of your assessment. Some are not.”

  Ilyari’s gaze swept the room. She recognized several titles from the recommended reading lists.

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  And one she didn’t.

  Tazien saw it, too—a leatherbound tome at the far end, embossed with a symbol they knew too well.

  The broken glyph. One of the original Royal Code scripts.

  “Oh stars,” Tazien whispered.

  Veska’s voice followed behind like a whisper at the ear. “You may begin reading. We’ll return in one hour.”

  They turned back. The doors shut behind them. And the test began.

  The hour passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional turn of a page or the muted shuffle of Tazien repositioning a stool.

  They read with purpose—three books assigned for noble protocol, two for symbolic warfare, and another on mana-bound diplomatic customs. Ilyari made subtle notes on the inner cuffs of her gloves. Tazien tracked patterns on a spare scrap of ribbon inked with mnemonic markers. All standard.

  Until only three books remained.

  One bore a spine etched in metallic ink—Treatise on Imperial Conduct in Historical Conquests.

  The second: The Order of Saint Vareth and the Language of Sacrifice.

  And the third… was the one they had avoided until now.

  The book with the broken glyph on its cover.

  Its leather was old—stitched in a pattern neither of them had seen in any Academy text. The glyph shimmered faintly, like it was trying to sink beneath the surface and hide.

  Tazien exhaled. “You sure?”

  Ilyari gave a single nod. “We need to know what they’re after.”

  They opened it together.

  The pages weren’t filled with instructions. Not overt ones, anyway. Instead, the text used metaphor—a tree with roots that glowed in the dark, a kingdom where the bones of the land could speak, a forbidden song hidden in numbers.

  But to them, it was clear: this was Royal Code. Not named. Not framed as spellwork. But the principles were there. If you knew how to see it.

  Tazien whispered, “They’re watching for who can read this. Who flinches. Who imitates.”

  Ilyari’s fingers hovered over one phrase. “He who rewrites the breath of the land rewrites the fate of kings.”

  “Sounds like something Veska would call treason in a heartbeat.”

  “We need to memorize just enough,” Ilyari said, closing the book gently. “So we can steer away from it later. So we know what they’ve baited us with.”

  Tazien tucked the volume neatly beneath the other two. “And if they ask?”

  “We say it was above our level. Too obscure. The metaphors lost us.” She met his eyes. “We play the part they expect.”

  He grinned faintly. “Na?ve, bumbling peasants?”

  “Exactly.”

  Just then, the heavy doors creaked open.

  Veska and Lorn stepped in, hands clasped behind their backs.

  “Finished?” Veska asked smoothly.

  Ilyari gestured to the stack. “Most of them, yes. But a few… were difficult.”

  “Ah?” Veska raised an eyebrow.

  Veska and Lorn didn’t let them leave.

  Instead, the moment the test chamber door shut, the masters called them to the central desk.

  “No written responses today,” Veska said coolly, arranging her gloves on the table. “We prefer verbal review for… clarity.”

  Ilyari and Tazien stood side-by-side, posture perfect, hands folded.

  Lorn opened a slim ledger. “Begin with The Language of Noble Conduct. Page seventy-two—summarize the expectations of a third-tier heir during dinner at an imperial gathering.”

  Ilyari didn’t blink. “Remain silent until addressed. Speak only in formal tone. Defer to any first- or second-tier bloodlines. Initiate no toasts. Always rise when addressed by a seated noble of higher tier.”

  Lorn nodded once. “Correct.”

  Veska shifted her weight. “The Codes of Symbolic Warfare. Define the significance of the violet falcon insignia during the Tarsen Uprising.”

  Tazien lifted his chin. “It signaled surrender when inverted, but false surrender when scratched on the left wing—used to bait opposing troops into ambushes.”

  “Good,” Veska said, her tone unreadable.

  More questions followed—mana ethics, glyph containment law, historical etiquette during mourning years. The siblings answered them all swiftly, flawlessly.

  Until Veska set her hand atop the last three books.

  Ilyari’s spine went rigid.

  Tazien didn’t react.

  Veska tapped one of them lightly. “Treatise on Imperial Conduct in Historical Conquests. What was the metaphor used to describe leadership and land stewardship during the Jhalen Fold?”

  Ilyari tilted her head and delivered the preplanned answer.

  “Something about turnip fields?” she said, feigning a slight wince. “That leadership was… like planting root crops? You have to dig deep and rotate harvests?” She looked uncertain. “I think?”

  Veska’s mouth twitched.

  “Turnips,” she repeated flatly.

  Tazien jumped in helpfully. “Also something about overwatering ambition and causing mildew.”

  Lorn scribbled a note. “Incorrect, but creative.”

  Veska slid her finger to the second questionable book. “The Order of Saint Vareth and the Language of Sacrifice. What ritual was performed annually to cleanse ancestral debt?”

  Tazien scratched his temple. “Was that the one where… a noble gave up their shoes?”

  “Shoes,” Veska echoed.

  “For humility,” Ilyari added quickly. “Like… walking barefoot across hard truths?”

  Lorn did not look up from his notes. “Marked.”

  Finally, Veska’s fingers rested on the third book—the one with the broken glyph.

  She looked up slowly. “And this one?”

  Tazien squinted. “I think it was poetry?”

  “Something abstract,” Ilyari said. “A lot of metaphors. Rivers, roots, the language of rocks. Didn’t really track, to be honest.”

  For a flicker of a moment, Veska’s eyes sharpened.

  Lorn’s expression, however, remained unreadable.

  “Very well,” Veska said. “We’ll review your reflections tomorrow.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel.

  Lorn gave them one long look. “Some books,” he said quietly, “aren’t meant to be understood.”

  Then the door shut once more.

  Tazien let out a breath. “Think they bought it?”

  Ilyari watched the glyph glow faintly under the stack.

  “I think,” she said, “we just passed our first real exam.”

  The chamber door clicked shut behind the Masters, their footsteps clipping down the polished corridor.

  Veska suddenly stopped and stood perfectly still, one gloved hand pressed to to her chest trying to contain her anger. Her jaw tightened.

  “That little witch,” she said flatly.

  Lorn didn’t lift his head from the ledger and examined the scores. “They played us.”

  “No,” Veska snapped. “They studied us. Observed us. Calculated what we wanted them to do, and then did exactly the opposite.”

  She turned sharply, her cloak flaring with the motion. “They knew that glyph book wasn’t for study. They knew what it was.”

  Lorn’s expression was unreadable. “And yet, they never said its name. Never invoked a single string of active code. Not even curiosity.”

  “Which is more incriminating,” Veska hissed, pacing now. “They were cautious. Intentional. That book is restricted to Class-Two Clerical Order only. Not even instructors in other departments have clearance to touch it. And they handled it like seasoned contraband smugglers.”

  “Or,” Lorn murmured, “like children who’ve seen it before.”

  Veska stopped pacing.

  Her lips thinned. “We gave them rope. And they didn’t hang themselves. They made a leash out of it and walked right out of our trap.”

  She turned toward the doorway and began striding down the corridor.

  Lorn followed, calm as ever. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s still one test they fail every time,” she said coldly. “And if we only have six days left to see them undone, every failure will count.”

  Lorn raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to test her again? We already know her results—her dining scores are improving.”

  “I don’t care about the forks,” Veska snapped. “The boy’s stomach was growling loud enough to rattle the windows. That house is a corpse in noble silk. No servants. No coin. No meals unless she stitches a favor into a dress.”

  Lorn sighed. “So you’ll punish them for poverty now?”

  “I’ll exploit what I can,” Veska said flatly. “Let’s see how clever she is with an empty stomach and a cold spoon. Let’s see if she can still recite her pretty proverbs when the dinner bell rings… and she has nothing but pride to swallow.”

  Lorn said nothing.

  But as Veska’s boots echoed down the stone hall and her silhouette disappeared beyond the hall heading toward the dining hall, he looked back toward the sealed door to the archive.

  And for the first time that day, his fingers tightened around the ledger.