Chapter 5 — Paper Crowns and Broken Masks

  A pause. A crackle of tension.

  The mana lamps lining the Midring Gate Hall flickered as the officials returned to the raised platform, rune-slates in hand.

  The air was thick now — choked with barely contained whispers and expectation.

  One official, a lean, hawk-faced man with the crimson sash of Examination Authority, stepped forward. His voice boomed across the hall, enhanced by a subtle weave of mana.

  “We will now announce the scores for the Academy Entrance Examination. As tradition dictates, names will be called in descending order of performance.”

  A murmur rippled through the nobles like a shifting tide.

  They were used to this — the parade of excellence, the humiliation of mediocrity.

  The first names rolled off smoothly:

  "Sevrin Malloran — 97%."

  A polite smattering of applause.

  "Caldris Venth — 93%."

  Master Venth straightened proudly in his seat, nodding smugly to nearby lords.

  "Elayne Drevir — 91%."

  Another cluster of applause.

  "Torval Darnell — 89%."

  A low hum of murmured approval.

  "Lysand Venth — 84%."

  The hall shifted.

  The applause faltered. Smiles became strained.

  A few nobles exchanged sharp glances.

  A thin, cutting whisper reached Ilyari's ears:

  "An 84? From the Venth bloodline? Embarrassing."

  Another voice, louder and crueler:

  "Perhaps they breed dullards as easily as they breed horses."

  Master Venth's face tightened. His knuckles whitened on the arms of his seat.

  Lysand — a blond boy seated several rows ahead — flushed a deep, furious red and slouched and exited the hall, as his score was the first to fail.

  No one offered him pity.

  Failure beneath 85% in the noble track was a scar that lingered for life — even if you technically passed by raw score.

  And in a society where perfection was currency, an 84 was worth less than ash. The boy would never rise above his station. In fact, he'd be lucky if he could marry into a duchy somewhere. But more than likely, he'd be someone's advisor as best. A live in servant.

  "Maybe they’ll find him a nice desk job polishing the banners," someone snickered.

  "Or serving tea to the real nobles," another jabbed.

  Ilyari watched, her face blank.

  Not out of cruelty.

  But because she knew — they would be just as merciless to her if they could.

  Probably more.

  She turned her head and caught Tazien's eye. He raised an eyebrow and mouthed:

  “Told you they eat their own.”

  She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

  The next batch of scores continued, but something was off — by the time they'd finished the mid-80s and dipped into the 70s (the "barely acceptable" range), no mention of Ilyari or Tazien had been made.

  Whispers grew louder:

  "Where are the commoners names?"

  "Did they disqualify them?"

  "Have the proctors come to their senses?"

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  A smug laugh from a noble girl in green velvet.

  Ilyari sat perfectly still.

  Waiting.

  Tazien shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably, tapping a rhythm on his thigh, looking around like he was waiting for something amazing.

  And then—

  The hawk-faced proctor’s voice echoed across the tense hall:

  “Second highest score:

  Tazien Aierenbane — 99%.”

  The words fell like a thunderclap.

  Silence.

  Real, stunned, horrified silence.

  All eyes snapped toward Tazien — a wiry, dirt-dusted boy slouching in his chair like he’d just been told his lunch was ready.

  A few nobles visibly recoiled.

  Someone in the back gasped aloud.

  The proctor didn’t pause.

  “Highest score:

  Ilyari Aierenbane — 100%."

  A second silence hit the room — sharper this time. Angrier.

  The insult wasn’t just imagined.

  It was public. It was undeniable.

  And then—

  The nobles erupted.

  "Impossible!"

  "A fix! A manipulation!"

  "There must be corruption at the proctor level!"

  "They failed the first time—there's precedent for disqualification!"

  "Common filth gaming the system!"

  Master Venth was on his feet, his face a deep, furious purple.

  “I DEMAND a recount!” he shouted, his voice cracking slightly.

  Lord Darnell was not far behind:

  “They are slaves by default! They forfeited their rights with their initial failure—!!”

  A dozen nobles surged up, shouting at once, their crests gleaming under the mana lights, their voices blending into a wall of outrage.

  The proctors stood firm, expressionless.

  The hawk-faced man lifted a hand for silence — and slowly, reluctantly, the hall obeyed.

  His voice, when he spoke, was even colder:

  “The examination was overseen by neutral Third-Tier mages. Every rune-slate was triple-verified. No irregularities. No manipulation.”

  Another ripple of disbelief.

  “Furthermore," the proctor continued, "due to direct Imperial Decree, Clause 218 under Special Testing Allowance, their prior disqualification under duress is not admissible as grounds for forfeiture."

  Meaning:

  The Emperor himself had ordered it. And they could not overturn it. Not without going against the Crown.

  For a moment, the nobles looked as if they'd swallowed poison.

  Master Venth shook visibly. Lord Darnell muttered something too low to catch, his eyes darting toward the exits as if planning some other scheme already.

  Ilyari stood when instructed, her chin high, her face carved of stone.

  Tazien sauntered to her side, hands shoved in his pockets, chewing on an invisible reed like he was bored.

  Together, they faced the gallery.

  Unflinching.

  Two dirty orphans from the Lower Zone... who had just crushed every noble scion standing.

  The proctor stepped forward again:

  “By unanimous score verification, both Ilyari and Tazien Aierenbane are offered full Imperial Scholarships to the Royal Academy.

  They are hereby invited to attend the Acceptance Ceremony and Ball to formally join the first year noble cohort. Do you accept Ilyari Aierenbane? Tazien Airenbane?”

  Another stab of silence.

  Ilyari spoke up, "I accept."

  Tazien, sighed and grinned. "I suppose I accept, too."

  Another wound to the pride of the gathered Houses.

  But none of them dared object — not openly, not yet.

  Not with the Emperor’s seal backing the decision.

  Ilyari accepted the engraved silver invitation handed to her with a careful nod.

  Tazien accepted his with a mock salute that made a few of the older lords bristle visibly.

  Then they turned — ignoring the murderous glares — and walked out of the hall together, side by side.

  The heavy doors thudded shut behind them.

  And behind those doors, rage simmered, boiled, and began to plot.

  Because it wasn’t just two orphans anymore.

  It was two threats.

  Tazien couldn't resist. He leaned slightly toward the nearest nobleman — a round-faced lordling whose son had already failed the opening section — and whispered, "Mud Duck beats peacock every time."

  The lordling turned purple.

  Ilyari elbowed Tazien sharply before he could say more, but even she allowed herself the faintest glint of satisfaction behind her composed mask. They bowed before the audience and were released from the testing area, as the others received their invitations also.

  The stone steps outside the Midring Palace were cold against Ilyari's worn boots, but she barely noticed.

  She and Tazien stood together in the empty courtyard, silver invitations clutched tightly in their hands. Above them, the sky churned — heavy, gray, almost warning of the storm to come.

  Tazien exhaled a low, disbelieving whistle.

  "Well," he said. "We either made history... or got ourselves murdered ahead of schedule."

  Ilyari managed a brittle smile. "Both, probably," she muttered.

  For the first time since the announcement, the weight of what they’d done truly sank in.

  They weren’t just surviving anymore. They weren’t just farming under false names. They were stepping into the courts of power.

  She turned the invitation over in her hand.

  Elegant calligraphy — the Emperor’s personal sigil pressed in wax at the bottom.

  No way back now.

  Tazien shouldered his bag more securely. "We should get out of sight before someone changes their mind," he muttered.

  They slipped away into the maze of Lower Midring, threading alleys and side streets until they were well clear of the palace’s reach.

  Only once the city’s noises swallowed them whole did they slow, weaving toward home.

  By the time they stumbled through the cracked doorway of their cottage, the adrenaline had worn off. The fear hadn't.

  Tazien dropped onto the nearest chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut, cradling his head in his hands.

  Ilyari closed the door behind them and bolted it three times out of habit.

  For a long minute, neither of them spoke.

  Then Tazien's voice broke the silence, hoarse and low: "...You think Ma'Ryn knew?"

  Ilyari swallowed past the tightness in her throat. "She knew we’d try," she said. "She left us the key."

  She dug into her belt pouch and withdrew it — the iron key Ma'Ryn had given Brinna to pass on after her death.

  Worn smooth by years of being hidden, but heavy. Important.

  Tazien sat up straighter.

  "What do you think it unlocks?" Ilyari shook her head slowly.

  "I don't know," she said. "But if she saved it... if she trusted it to Brinna... it has to matter."

  They sat on the floor together, cross-legged, the key between them.

  Ilyari turned it over in her hand, studying the faint glyphs etched along the shaft.

  Old glyphs. Not new ones. Glyphs she almost recognized. Primordial glyphs. Their family's dying secret, perhaps.

  Tazien's voice was low, almost reverent. "You think she left us more than just warnings?"

  Ilyari set the key down between them carefully, like a tiny sword in a field of battle.

  "I think," she said quietly, "Ma’Ryn was preparing us for war long before we ever realized it."

  The key gleamed once in the dim candlelight.

  And somewhere far above, the nobles of Kaisulane — and the Emperor himself — plotted how to crush the two young royals who dared rise from the dust.