Silence hung thick in the workshop—broken only by the sharp, uneven sound of Tazien’s breathing and the occasional clink of glass underfoot.

  The room looked like a battlefield.

  Glittering shards of crystal and tray glass littered the floor like fallen stars. Scorched herbs clung to the shelves, and the faint scent of something burned wrong—neither smoke nor flame—curled in the corners of the air.

  Everyone stood frozen.

  Until Brinna moved.

  She dropped to her knees beside Tazien without hesitation, arms wrapping gently around his shaking frame. He didn’t resist. He leaned into her like a child, burying his face into her shoulder with quiet, crumpled sobs.

  Ilyari was still standing, her mind racing, throat dry.

  She finally broke the tension with a single sentence—calm, practiced, precise.

  “I didn’t know falconers could use mana to corrupt beasts.”

  Brinna looked up, confused. “They can’t.”

  “Well, this one did,” Ilyari said, voice sharp enough to sting. “And it turned on him. We’re all lucky to be alive.”

  Gorred crouched near the back, sweeping glass into a small pile, his hands trembling. Elen stood by the broken window, eyes scanning the trees in the distance like the falcon might return at any moment.

  Tazien didn’t say a word. Just curled tighter.

  Eventually, Brinna led him back to the house, guiding him up the stairs with one hand on his back and the other cradling the remains of the broken tray—Laileeih’s final shards.

  By the time the night watch arrived to take the report, the first hints of dawn were staining the horizon pale gold.

  Two guards in green-and-gray livery stepped into the ruined workshop—one tall and bored, the other younger, scribbling with more energy than accuracy. They gave the damage a once-over and began their routine questioning with the tone of men already halfway through their shift.

  “Attempted theft?” the older one asked, barely glancing up.

  “Magical assault?” the younger echoed, frowning at a spot on the floor where the falcon had scorched a sigil into the boards.

  “There were no sigils on the man’s cloak,” Ilyari offered, trying to remain composed despite the glass still crunching underfoot.

  The older guard clicked his tongue. “Hooded type, glass dagger, summon-trained bird… not exactly subtle.”

  Tazien sat on the bench near the door, staring at his hands. He hadn’t spoken since they carried him from the wreckage.

  “You’ll be sending someone to investigate?” Brinna asked.

  The younger guard hesitated. “Well… for noble property, we forward a notice to the higher precinct. They’ll assign an official.”

  “Eventually,” the older added.

  Brinna stepped forward, arms crossed. “You do realize this was a magical assault, on registered guild traders, on land under noble grant?”

  The older one’s lip twitched. “We’ll pass it along.”

  Then the younger one leaned toward his partner and muttered something low—something meant to be unheard.

  But Tazien heard it.

  “…probably a stunt. Desperate Zone kids scrambling for coin. Wouldn’t be the first time someone paid a bird-handler to stage a break-in for sympathy.”

  Ilyari’s stomach dropped.

  The accusation lingered in the air like a sour spell.

  Brinna’s voice came sharp as a drawn blade. “You think one of our own did this?”

  The younger guard straightened. “We didn’t say that.”

  “No,” Brinna said, stepping between them and the workshop table. “You didn’t. But let’s be clear. These kids—these merchants—have their own coin. Their own contracts. Their own name. And if they wanted attention or pity, they wouldn’t have let their most delicate crop be destroyed for it.”

  The guards exchanged a look.

  Still, the older one just scratched something half-heartedly onto his report tablet and muttered, “We’ll include that.”

  “You’ll include that a Guild-licensed estate was attacked in the night,” Ilyari said coldly. “With mana interference and potential political ties.”

  He didn’t respond. He just gave a tight nod.

  Then, with all the urgency of a man going back to a warm cot, the lead guard said, “You’ll be contacted. Eventually. Someone from the magistrate’s office.”

  “Eventually,” the younger echoed, already turning away.

  They left just as the sun began to warm the windowsills.

  It wasn’t comforting.

  It was infuriating.

  And it was the first time Ilyari truly understood how easily silence could be weaponized by the wrong people.

  An hour later, Ilyari and Tazien stood on the garden path, both dressed—but barely.

  Ilyari’s braid was loose, her tunic fastened slightly off-center. Tazien’s eyes were swollen and red, and he held the tonic box from Esha like it might be the only thing holding him together.

  The herbal cart rolled into view, drawn by Bougan and steered carefully by Eiggin, who waved enthusiastically as he approached—until he saw their faces.

  He pulled the reins and jumped down. “What happened?”

  “There was a break-in,” Ilyari said softly, climbing into the cart. “The workshop. Someone smashed the flower trays. Tried to flee with a falcon.”

  Eiggin blinked. “Did he get away?”

  “No,” Tazien said flatly, climbing in beside her.

  Ilyari continued. “The falcon turned on him. It attacked everyone in the room. And then it flew off. The night watch thinks he escaped. But nothing’s certain.”

  Eiggin sat frozen for a moment, reins slack in his hands. “That’s… Are you okay?”

  “No,” Tazien said, staring ahead.

  “But we’ll get there,” Ilyari added quickly.

  She leaned back, closing her eyes for just a moment as the cart began to roll forward.

  Behind them, the windows of Willowgrove glinted in the light of a new day—but none of them felt like celebrating.

  The cart rumbled along the polished stone path, the great golden spires of the Royal Academy of Kaisulane rising ahead like the teeth of a polished crown. Ivy wound its way across high archways, and banners of crimson, ivory, and dusk-blue fluttered in the rising breeze.

  But Ilyari barely noticed any of it.

  She sat quiet in the back of the cart, hands clasped tightly in her lap, the scent of scorched herbs and broken glass still clinging to her sleeves.

  Tazien hadn’t spoken since they left Willowgrove. He hadn’t even looked at her.

  Eiggin drove in silence until the outer courtyard came into view. The main gate—wide, majestic, and flanked by two towering guards—was bustling with carriages, footmen, and noble families lining up for check-in.

  As the herbal cart drew closer, eyes turned toward them.

  Some curious.

  Some amused.

  A few openly sneering.

  And then—before they could pass through—the taller of the two gate guards stepped forward, hand raised.

  “Servants and deliveries go to the east gate,” he barked. “Off the main path. This entrance is reserved for noble registrants and their escorts.”

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  Eiggin hesitated, reins tightening in his hands. “We—uh—”

  Before he could finish, Tazien stood up in the cart, fists clenched at his sides.

  “I said,” the guard snapped, “off the path.”

  “Stand down,” Tazien growled.

  The words crackled like a struck match.

  “I am Prince Tazien Aierenbane of Nyameji—descendant of the Royal Line, Academy-bound, and under protection of guild and noble contract. If you touch this cart or try to redirect us again, I will report you for breach of protocol, disrespect to a foreign royal, and unlawful obstruction of entry.”

  His voice hit like thunder in the courtyard.

  The guard flinched.

  Whispers rippled across the plaza as nearby nobles paused to stare.

  From the guardhouse, a higher-ranking officer came running—a man with silver-threaded armor and a crest of flame pinned to his collar. He approached quickly, eyes wide.

  “My deepest apologies, Your Highness,” he said, bowing low. “The confusion is mine. The standard instructions for carts do not usually apply to…” He trailed off, bowing again. “To royalty.”

  He turned to the stunned line of guards. “Allow Prince Tazien and Princess Ilyari through immediately.”

  He stepped aside, gesturing them forward with a crisp salute.

  Tazien sat slowly, face stone-set, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say another word.

  Ilyari, cheeks flushed with heat, reached out instinctively to place a hand on his arm—something, anything to steady the spiral.

  But he turned slightly, and her hand hovered awkwardly in the space between them before falling away.

  Eiggin, who hadn’t spoken once since the outburst, swallowed hard and quietly guided the cart forward through the open gate.

  No one spoke.

  Once through the gates, Eiggin steered the cart toward the servant unloading station where a flurry of robed attendants bustled between arriving carriages and luggage crates. The grand entry courtyard buzzed with voices, banners, and the rhythmic clack of polished boots against tile.

  Tazien jumped down first, lifting his satchel without a word. Ilyari followed more slowly, her hand still tingling from where he’d pulled away.

  Eiggin hopped off the cart and began helping them unload their cases—boxes of books, wrapped bundles of cloth, potion chests, and carefully labeled herb trays.

  Around them, the whispers were already spreading like wildfire.

  “That’s him—the one who shouted at the gate.”

  “Did you hear? A prince, they said. Foreign blood.”

  “Guild-bought titles, I bet. Look at those clothes.”

  “Imagine making a scene before the welcome speech—”

  Eiggin worked in silence for a few minutes, jaw tight. Then, when he caught Ilyari alone near the trunk of tea leaves, he leaned close and whispered, “Is he going to be okay?”

  Ilyari looked toward her brother—who was standing stiffly, arms crossed once more, jaw clenched against the tide of stares.

  “He will be,” she said quietly. “He just needs space.”

  Eiggin nodded, not entirely convinced, but said nothing more.

  “I’ll see you the day of the Autumnal Festival, then,” he said. “First break. I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you again,” Ilyari said, managing a tired smile. “For the ride… and everything else.”

  Eiggin tipped an imaginary hat, then gently nudged the cart around and disappeared into the departing crowd.

  The Assembly Hall loomed ahead—vast and domed, its marble floor polished to a mirror sheen. Rows upon rows of Academy seats stretched up in tiers, already filling with older students, staff, and nobles here to observe the first-year induction.

  Ilyari and Tazien made their way to the front row, where a sign marked Distinguished Entrants gleamed in gold-etched script. They took the first two seats—dead center, fully exposed.

  The room buzzed with murmurs.

  “That’s them.”

  “Those are the Willowgrove orphans?”

  “Not orphans anymore. Did you see the pins? Licensed traders and nobility?”

  Tazien said nothing. His eyes locked forward, spine straight as a blade.

  Ilyari’s gaze swept the crowd—spotting nobles from the Mid-Circle, senior students whispering behind elegant fans, and a pair of instructors casting long looks their way.

  Then a hush rippled through the room.

  At the far end of the hall, a pair of towering bronze doors opened—and in stepped Emperor Sulan-Kai himself.

  The air changed.

  He wore a high-collared imperial robe in storm-gray and crimson, embroidered with the imperial seal and a circle of stylized glyphs—more ceremonial than functional. A long mantle swept behind him, edged in black velvet. His crown, a subtle circlet of dark metal studded with red quartz, caught the light with every step.

  At his flanks: six elite guards, stone-faced and silent.

  The Emperor moved with measured weight, the kind of practiced gravity that said, I am the world’s center, and you orbit me.

  Seated among the fourth and fifth-year students, Crown Prince Caedin and Prince Vaelen Kai rose from their chairs in the distinguished tier and offered crisp bows as their father ascended the dais.

  “All students—first through seventh year—stand for the Imperial Address,” a herald called out.

  The entire hall rose in unison.

  Then the Emperor raised a single hand, and silence fell like a dropped blade.

  “Welcome to a new year at the Kaisulane Royal Academy, the vanguard of this Empire’s future.”

  His voice was cold, deliberate—each word cut and placed like a sword laid on marble.

  “In past years, I allowed this institution a measure of leniency. Students explored. Instructors indulged. Rivalries turned to games. But those days… are over.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the rows.

  “I will not allow this Academy to become soft while the world sharpens its blades. There are whispers of unrest across the eastern borders. We must not be caught unready.”

  His gaze swept the crowd—pausing, unmistakably, on Ilyari and Tazien.

  “This year will be different. Lax enforcement is no longer acceptable. Infractions will be punished. Disrespect will be noted. And anyone—anyone—caught undermining this institution’s purpose will be removed.”

  He raised his hand again, and banners above the assembly hall began to shift—replaced by a new crest: a blazing sun rising behind a wall of disciplined soldiers, their heads bowed, weapons held to their chests.

  The Emperor’s voice rang out:

  “Our new motto is simple. Strength. Obedience. Unity.

  Let the weak fall away. Let the worthy rise.”

  Then he turned, descending the dais without another word.

  The applause was scattered and uneasy—but none dared to remain silent.

  As the rest of the first years were dismissed to their assigned dormitories—escorted away in neat lines by instructors in silver robes—Ilyari and Tazien were quietly approached by a page bearing the royal seal.

  “The Emperor demands your audience.”

  They didn’t protest.

  They couldn’t.

  The page led them through the inner halls of the Academy, past marble arches and stained-glass corridors until they reached a smaller, heavily guarded chamber dressed in crimson banners and flanked by flame-braziers.

  It was not the official court, but a makeshift throne room, hastily prepared in the upper Assembly wing.

  Waiting inside, seated beneath a raised imperial crest, was Emperor Sulan-Kai himself—stern, impassive, and already reviewing a spread of unrolled scrolls laid across a long blackwood table.

  What chilled Ilyari more than the man himself was what lay beside him.

  Their belongings.

  Every trunk, satchel, and supply case that should’ve gone to their dorms was instead piled in a neat row near the wall, opened and rifled through.

  Tazien’s hands curled into fists. Ilyari instinctively placed a hand over her chest.

  The Emperor didn’t look up.

  “These are detailed accounts,” he said evenly, tapping one of the scrolls. “Surveillance gathered over the past year. Someone has been following you. And according to these records, you’ve used your household’s products to funnel coin to spies. To foreign powers.”

  Tazien snapped upright. “That’s not true! We didn’t even know—”

  The Emperor raised a hand—just slightly—and the room fell silent again.

  Tazien took a step forward. “Whoever that falconer was—the one who broke into our home and tried to kill us—he’s still at large. Because the night watch didn’t care. They would rather believe their prejudice than investigate a real crime.”

  For a moment, the Emperor said nothing. His expression was unreadable—like a statue carved from scorched bone.

  “You are bold,” he said finally. “And emotional. Not unlike your father.”

  Ilyari’s breath caught, but Tazien pressed on.

  “I have every right to be emotional,” he said, voice breaking slightly. “We were attacked in the middle of the night. Our only link to Laileeih destroyed. And now you’re accusing us of treason?”

  He took another step forward, tears burning at the edges of his eyes.

  “Someone wants us dead. We did nothing wrong—and someone still wants us dead.”

  The room held its breath.

  Then the Emperor finally stood.

  He took a long moment to smooth his robe, then spoke in a tone that made even the guards stiffen.

  “The falconer was mine.”

  The world tilted.

  “But,” he continued, “I ordered no attack. He was sent to observe. Nothing more.”

  Tazien was trembling now. “Then he disobeyed—”

  “No,” Sulan-Kai said. “He acted as one of faith. As any man of our sacred order would, when faced with something that should not exist.”

  He turned his full gaze upon them—heavy, condemning, ancient.

  “You are a living contradiction. Your presence is an abomination to our faith. Your birth an insult to our god. But I am merciful.”

  Ilyari stepped forward, fast.

  She placed a steady hand on her brother’s arm, squeezing hard enough to stop him from shouting again.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” she said softly, eyes downcast, “the emotional toll of last night’s attack has… affected my brother more than he will admit. I beg your forgiveness.”

  She took a breath, then looked up.

  “And thank you… for remembering your promise.”

  The Emperor’s expression didn’t change—but there was a subtle tick at his jaw.

  He didn’t answer her directly.

  Instead, he waved a dismissive hand.

  “You will not be permitted to remain at the Academy while these accusations are under investigation. You are to return to your estate—Willowgrove—and remain there. Until summoned.”

  Ilyari bowed. “We understand.”

  Tazien said nothing. His shoulders were still shaking as she guided him out of the room.

  As the guards opened the doors and they stepped into the long, echoing hallway, Ilyari whispered, “We’re going home.”

  Tazien didn’t look at her.

  As the doors closed behind Ilyari and Tazien, the chamber fell into a heavy stillness.

  Behind the imperial throne, two shadows stepped forward from the alcove veiled in velvet—having observed everything in silence.

  Prince Vaelen Kai moved first, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable beneath his elegant cloak. Beside him, Crown Prince Caedin stood tall and rigid, his jaw clenched with restrained tension.

  Emperor Sulan-Kai did not turn to greet them. He simply spoke.

  “Well?”

  Vaelen’s voice was cool and measured. “I used detection glyphs layered with truth-thread. Both spoke clearly. I sensed no signs of falsehood in either.”

  Caedin's eyes narrowed. “My falconer wouldn’t lie.”

  The Emperor finally stood, his back straightening like a tower reforged.

  “Then where is your falconer, Caedin?” he asked, voice quiet—but laced with menace.

  “He was to report at the north gate this morning. He never arrived.”

  The silence that followed was sharper than steel.

  Sulan-Kai turned then, slowly, to face his sons. The storm in his gaze was barely contained.

  “If you hired a falconer to observe and test them—and he broke orders… if he acted without sanction, caused harm to guests of the court, and endangered an investigation under my seal—you will answer for it.”

  Caedin flinched, then bowed stiffly. “I will find him.”

  “You will find him,” the Emperor echoed, stepping down from the dais. “And if this falconer acted in your name, Caedin, you will be held accountable. Even you are not above reparation.”

  Vaelen’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.

  Caedin caught it.

  Fury bloomed in his eyes, but he said nothing more—turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, his boots echoing like the beat of a war drum.

  When the door closed again, the Emperor did not move.

  He simply asked, “Anything else?”

  Vaelen tilted his head. “No deceit. Just sadness. Shock. Rage. Grief. The boy’s mana was unstable, but not weaponized with intent. It reacted like a cornered animal.”

  He paused.

  “May I ask, Father… why do you care whether they live or die? You called them an abomination to the State and the Faith. And yet you’ve allowed them to exist. Even protected them. Why?”

  A long beat passed.

  Then Sulan-Kai turned his head slightly, just enough to fix his son with a dark, flickering stare.

  “Get out.”

  Vaelen didn’t flinch. But he bowed—graceful and silent.

  “Assist your brother,” Sulan-Kai said, his tone brokering no argument. “Find the falconer. Before I decide both of you are too compromised to lead anything at all.”

  Vaelen straightened, all elegance and poison. “Of course.”

  He vanished like a shadow behind the curtain.

  And the Emperor stood alone in his temporary court, hands clasped behind his back.

  “We did nothing wrong… and someone still wants us dead.”

  And Sulan-Kai? He plays the long game—one where mercy has a motive.