The Imperial Palace, Nightfall

  The Emperor’s study was a cavern of maps and muttered curses.

  Sulan-Kai of Kaisulane stood hunched over the great obsidian table, one hand braced among scattered reports, the other tracing the bleeding edge of his borders on a mana-illuminated map. His black and crimson robes whispered as he moved, the heavy fur mantle thrown back carelessly. Sleeplessness etched deeper lines across his battle-scarred face.

  He barely heard the muffled conversation outside the double doors. His attention was fixed on the creeping tendrils of enemy red spreading across once-loyal territory.

  Avernon.

  The vultures who had once knelt beside him during the Nyameji Conquest now bared their teeth.

  He stabbed a thick finger against the parchment, tearing a hole through the mark of Fort Kessan — one of the many outer strongholds already lost. His jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack.

  "Traitors," he hissed under his breath.

  He reached for a quill to scribble a new strategy —and the palace shook.

  A deep, low tremor rolled through the floor beneath him. The chandelier swayed. Scrolls slid off the desk in a slow, scraping whisper.

  Sulan-Kai straightened sharply, spinning toward the nearest window.

  Outside, the heart of Kaisulane’s capital burned in its usual haze of golden lights — except...

  Half the city had gone dark.

  No — not just the city.

  The darkness blanketed the Lower Array.

  The Emperor’s face darkened with it.

  He didn’t need reports. He didn’t need excuses.

  He could feel it.

  Old magic.

  Rotten magic.

  The kind that once fueled Nyameji’s cursed bloodlines and that he had sworn to purge from the world stood in the way of the new order in which he was going to bring about. His master would not be pleased.

  He strode to the heavy bronze summoning bell chained near the door and slammed it with a clenched fist. The clang echoed through the stone halls like a war drum.

  Within moments, three of the elite Blackthorn Guards appeared, clad in lacquered armor, kneeling at the threshold.

  "Seal the palace. Double the wards," Sulan-Kai barked, voice like a whip crack. "Dispatch a perimeter sweep to the Lower Array. Find the source. Tear apart every home if you must."

  The captain of the Blackthorns saluted with a fist to his heart. "By your command, Emperor."

  "And bring me a full report before the next bell."

  He turned back to the darkened window, jaw tight.

  He gripped the ledge hard enough that the stone groaned under his fingers.

  This stench — this unnatural pulse — it was too similar to the old wars. Too much like the chaos that Nyameji's cursed Code Knights used to breed before they were wiped from the earth.

  Or so he had believed. Had one survived? There were signs that pointed to escaped prisoners, but they had hunted them.

  His hand drifted unconsciously toward his ruined left hand — the one no healer could ever truly heal — the scar where Sir Kalven’s curse still whispered against his blood like a forgotten tree shaped brand.

  If it was happening again...No. He didn't allow the thought to continue. He would crush it.

  Whatever was rising would be buried again.

  And if it was the last lingering remnants of that dead kingdom, then he would wipe them out root and branch.

  The door creaked again.

  Not the Blackthorn Guards returning.

  This time, it was someone far less obedient.

  Sulan-Kai didn't turn immediately. He already knew who it was.

  The voice that spoke was calm, deep, and uninvited.

  "Still brooding over broken maps, Father?"

  The Emperor exhaled slowly, forcing his temper into a tighter coil.

  "Come in, Vaelen," he said, voice like ground stone.

  Vaelen, his eldest — the bastard son. The shameful stain that had refused to fade, no matter how many victories Sulan-Kai stacked on his empire’s broken bones.

  And perhaps — the only son who would survive what was coming.

  Vaelen approached the massive obsidian map-table, his gaze sweeping over the flickering projections.

  "You’re losing more ground than the generals will admit," he said bluntly, crossing his arms.

  Sulan-Kai grunted. "They admit nothing unless it's soaked in failure."

  A crimson swath pulsed along the southern border — Fort Kessan, Fort Bravich, several key farming provinces — all marked now under Avernonian control.

  Once allies. Now predators.

  "The vultures smelled blood the moment Nyameji fell," Vaelen continued. "It just took them longer to circle than you expected."

  Sulan-Kai’s hand curled into a fist atop the table. "I expected loyalty bought by blood and coin."

  "You bought obedience," Vaelen said, voice mild. "Not loyalty."

  A muscle ticked in the Emperor’s jaw.

  Vaelen, ever the strategist, didn’t flinch. He reached down and touched the map, expanding the projection of Avernon's growing territories.

  "They’ve bled you twice," Vaelen said. "First by helping you crush Nyameji. Then by using the weakened troops to take your land."

  Sulan-Kai let out a low, humorless chuckle.

  "Maybe I should let them overreach," he muttered. "Let their greed make them soft, bloated. Easier to kill in the next purge."

  Vaelen arched a brow. "A clever plan. Provided you have the soldiers left to pull it off."

  That stung. Sulan-Kai turned away, crossing the room toward the massive arched window overlooking the darkened city.

  "I built this empire from corpses and ruins," he said quietly. "Not for it to rot at the edges."

  "You need stronger soldiers," Vaelen said simply. "Not the pampered sons the nobles are throwing at the Academy."

  The Emperor said nothing. He didn’t need to. The truth was too bitter to deny.

  The Academy — once the forge of Kaisulane’s greatest heroes — had become a breeding ground for political alliances, not strength. Sons of noble houses bought favor, not discipline. Weakness walked his halls disguised in silks and crests.

  And now, with Avernon pushing harder every year, that weakness was bleeding through the walls of his empire.

  Vaelen leaned casually against the edge of the map table, studying the Emperor’s silhouette.

  "You’re thinking about conscription again," he said.

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  Sulan-Kai’s eyes narrowed slightly. "It would cull the weak."

  "And terrify the nobles," Vaelen added. "Especially if a few commoners outperform their precious heirs."

  Silence.

  Then, quietly, the Emperor spoke: "There was a time when strength, not lineage, crowned a man."

  "And yet here we are," Vaelen said, no bitterness in his tone. Only fact. Bound by laws. Bound by bloodlines.

  The Emperor's hands gripped the windowsill tighter.

  Bound by promises he had been forced to make to an Empress who had given him legitimacy — and shackles — all in one.

  Vaelen’s gray eyes softened slightly.

  "You built this empire, Father," he said. "But if you want to keep it... you’ll need wolves again. Not lapdogs."

  Sulan-Kai turned back toward him, the faintest gleam of something dangerous lighting his eyes.

  "Wolves..." he repeated.

  He thought briefly — fleetingly — of two wolf cubs hidden among the Lower Array’s filth.

  Exiles born of dead kings.

  Forgotten heirs.

  Ghosts of Nyameji.

  He said nothing. But the thought twisted in his chest like an old blade.

  If they were truly stirring...

  They might be useful before the end.

  Or they might have to be culled after all, but by their own devices. He may not be able to go against them, but that doesn't mean they couldn't destroy themselves. Perhaps putting them in the front lines once they graduate from the academy.

  He straightened, brushing dust from his sleeves and changed the subject.

  "The city’s half-dark because of a pulse no one can explain," Sulan-Kai said, voice low. "My Blackthorns will find the source."

  Vaelen gave a thin smile. "And if it’s not one of ours?"

  "Then it's a reminder," the Emperor said, "that ghosts don’t stay buried. And I am the man who will find a way to bury them a second time."

  An hour later there was a knock at the door.

  The thick iron doors of the Emperor’s study swung open with a groaning creak.

  The air shifted. Sulan-Kai didn’t need to look up to recognize the heavy tread of his Blackthorn Guard.

  "Report," he barked, eyes still locked on the darkened city.

  The captain — black-plated armor dusted with ash from the Lower Zone — knelt on one knee before the map table, his fist to his chest.

  "By your command, my Emperor," the Captain said, voice low but clear. "We swept the Lower Array. Full perimeter. No active mana relics. No sign of a caster or device large enough to generate the pulse."

  "And the citizens?" Sulan-Kai said, voice dangerously soft.

  "Frightened, but alive," the Captain replied. "The mana fields are destabilized. Several corrupted beasts were destroyed, seemingly mid-attack. Most homes blacked out. Some minimal rune damage."

  Sulan-Kai’s eyes narrowed. "No casters. No relics. No survivors with visible marks."

  "Nothing suspicious, my Emperor," the Captain said quickly. "There was, however... one anomaly."

  Sulan-Kai finally turned to face him fully.

  The Captain swallowed.

  "The epicenter was near a known district... Sector 4C. The village where the two monitored subjects reside."

  The words hung in the air like smoke.

  Vaelen, standing to the side with arms crossed, arched a brow but said nothing.

  Sulan-Kai let the silence stretch until the Captain shifted uneasily on his knees.

  "And what did you find there?" the Emperor asked.

  The Captain hesitated.

  The Emperor’s voice dropped to a growl: "Speak."

  The Captain coughed once into his gauntlet, trying to mask the absurdity of what he was about to say.

  "Upon inspection, the two were found inside their residence... arguing over the construction of a wooden automaton. A ‘doll.’"

  Silence. Vaelen smirked faintly.

  The Emperor’s lip curled, a thin line of contempt.

  "Arguing over toys," Sulan-Kai muttered. "While the empire trembles."

  The Captain remained kneeling, wisely silent.

  "They continue to prepare for the Academy entrance trials," he added after a beat. "The girl was reported to have narrowly failed previously due to interruption and the boy had a perfect score on the practice test. Their scores... were otherwise predicted to be unusually high."

  The Emperor leaned heavily against the map table, gazing out again into the fractured lights of his city.

  Two orphaned ghosts. Two sparks of a dead kingdom. Testing into his Academy, as if ambition alone could wipe away the blood on their names.

  He gave a humorless chuckle — no joy in it.

  "Let them," he said at last.

  Vaelen shifted slightly. A shadow passed behind his gray eyes.

  "You’ll allow them to rise?" he asked carefully.

  "I'll allow them to crawl," Sulan-Kai said coldly. "The higher they climb, the harder they fall. And when they break, there will be no doubt... no rumors... no sympathy."

  The Emperor straightened, eyes glittering with cold certainty.

  "You know that if they pass they cannot be regular nobles here. You'll have to acknowledge that they are war criminals from a fallen kingdom and admit they are royalty. Something you've hidden for more than a decade. Are you willing to really do that?" he asked carefully.

  "If Nyameji's final heirs wish to grovel at my feet for a place in my empire," he said, "then let them learn first-hand what happens to ghosts that reach for crowns."

  The Emperor's jaw tightened, but he nodded to his capitan. "Leave us."

  The room cleared. Only the he and Vaelen remained. Vaelen continued to say nothing.

  The Emperor walked past him, voice lower now. "Avernon—they've taken a fifth of our land. They helped me burn Nyameji to the ground, and now they return with hands out and their teeth bared. And I need soldiers. Not symbols. Not politicians. Fighters. That pulse could have been a spy trying to reach those brats to pull them to their side. Find me fifty loyal wolves. Train them and then bring them to me. As far as the brats are concerned, let the test sort the weak from the worthy."

  ???????????

  Three days later, Ilyari and Tazien stood at the gates of Solaraeth's Midring Palace.

  Inside the Midring Gate Hall, the air was thick with incense and the low murmur of disapproval.

  Rows of raised stone benches curved along the walls, already filled with nobles wrapped in fine cloaks, their family crests stitched in gold thread across their chests. Their polished boots gleamed against the marble floor, a sharp contrast to the muddy footprints trailing behind Ilyari and Tazien.

  Whispers followed them like smoke.

  "Lower scum—"

  "Look at the girl’s boots—"

  "Disgraceful they even allowed them inside."

  Ilyari held her head high, refusing to flinch. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she masked it under a stare as cold and polished as steel.

  Tazien, for once, stayed quiet at her side, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  At the far end of the hall, a dais stood, flanked by banners bearing the imperial sigil — the Thorned Crown. Beneath it, three robed officials waited, rune-slates in hand, faces impassive.

  A voice boomed through the chamber, amplified by mana-weave.

  "Candidates for Academy Admission: step forward when your name is called. Present your credentials. You will sit for the written examination first."

  Names were called, one after another.

  Polished and prim, polished with ruffles, polished with some shiny substance— noble scions moving like bored royalty through the motions of obedience.

  Ilyari rolled her eyes at the extravagance. The Emperor allowed this mess into his academy and then wondered why there was always trouble in the cities.

  Then—

  "Ilyari Airenbane.

  Tazien Airenbane."

  The hall quieted.

  The officials glanced up, surprised, as if seeing the names for the first time.

  Nobles whispered again.

  Airenbane — not their real name, of course. A name borrowed from Ma'Ryn’s records, forged years ago to shield them.

  Ilyari marched forward, chin high, Tazien half a step behind.

  Their satchels were inspected.

  Their rune-slates scanned and approved — barely. A sneer from the proctor confirmed what they already knew: one misplaced blot of mud, and they’d have been turned away.

  "You will sit there," the proctor said, pointing them to desks set apart — not with the commoners at the back, and not with the noble-born.

  Alone.

  Suspicious.

  Isolated.

  Perfect.

  Ilyari slid into her seat, feeling the eyes of the hall rake across her back like a physical thing.

  Tazien dropped into his seat two rows behind her, wriggling in place like he was itching for a fight.

  The tests materialized on the rune-slates in front of them.

  Mana Application and Theory.

  History of the Realm.

  Military Engineering and Combat Strategy.

  Ilyari exhaled slowly, she was satisfied with the topics. They would be easy as she and Tazien had memorized these subjects years ago.

  Focus. Prove them wrong. Crush them by their own rules.

  Ilyari bent over her slate, fingers flying.

  The questions were brutal — layered theoretical scenarios designed to catch even the best-trained minds.

  Mana ratios in unstable leyfields. Rapid glyph sequencing under combat conditions. Rune-weaving under field duress.

  But she saw the Primordial Glyphs beneath the text.

  She didn’t need to guess the right answers.

  She could feel them.

  Line by line, she dismantled the problems, rebuilt them faster and cleaner than the test designers had ever intended.

  Halfway through, she caught the flicker of movement behind her.

  Tazien — leaning back in his chair, stylus spinning lazily between his fingers.

  He had already finished his first section.

  Show-off.

  Ilyari resisted the urge to glare at him.

  Instead, she pressed harder, answering the sections in rapid sequence, her mind a sharpened blade.

  From the elevated seating, the nobles began to murmur again.

  "Impossible," someone hissed.

  "They're peasant-born," sneered another. "They should be struggling with basic glyph conjugation, not—"

  "Watch their fingers. The girl’s barely blinking."

  "—And the boy! Already turning in his first scroll, this has to be a joke, do you think that he can read or maybe he is just pretending to write—"

  Eyes narrowed across the gallery. Some scribbled notes furiously. Others whispered to the record-keepers in outrage, Lord Darnell and Master Venth watched from the gallery, waiting to swoop in once it was determined that they had failed.

  This wasn’t just a curiosity anymore. It was a threat.

  The examination proctors whispered among themselves as well, uncomfortable.

  Still, they did not interrupt.

  The Emperor’s decree had been clear: Observe. Do not interfere.

  Tazien finished first.

  He stood from his seat, dropped his rune-slate into the submission box with a thud that echoed far louder than necessary, and flopped back into his chair with a smirk.

  Ilyari finished five minutes later.

  Neat. Efficient. Perfect.

  She checked every answer once.

  Twice.

  Then stood, hands steady, peeked into the box and smirked and submitted her slate.

  She didn’t look up at the nobles.

  Not yet.

  But she could feel their eyes drilling into her.

  Their disgust. Their confusion.

  And most delicious of all — their fear.

  As they were escorted out of the hall for the test grading, Tazien sidled up beside her, grinning like a fox.

  "I think I broke their brains," he whispered.

  "You think?" she said dryly.

  "I finished first," he said proudly.

  "You missed one," she replied smoothly.

  Tazien’s grin faltered. "I did not."

  "You did. You answered the theory behind Leypoint Corruption instead of its practical application."

  He stared at her.

  "But my answer was technically right!"

  She raised an eyebrow. "But it wasn’t what they asked."

  Tazien groaned, slouching against the pillar as they waited in the side corridor.

  "I hate trick questions," he muttered.

  "You'll survive."

  "I demand a recount."

  "You'll survive as normal, in second place, to the smartest sibling."

  He snorted, but fell silent as the heavy doors creaked open again. And they filed into the hall standing in rows, Ilyari and Tazien several steps to the side away from the nobles.

  A robed official stepped forward, holding a glowing rune-slate aloft.

  The hall fell into expectant silence.

  "The scores for the candidates shall be read. If you have failed you are excused. Those with passing scores of 85% or higher will stay."