The morning broke gray and cold.

  Lord Grellin’s carriage rolled through the mist-veiled streets like a blade through silk. Vaylen sat beside him, arms crossed, lips thin with tension. Neither man spoke. The stakes were too high for wasted words.

  The carriage wheels creaked to a stop on the cobbled road outside the guardhouse, the morning fog just beginning to lift in long, silvery tendrils. The heavy door was flung open before the driver could descend.

  Lord Henrick Grellin stepped down first, his polished boots striking the stone with purpose. His cloak swept after him like a shadow, lined in silver thread and bearing the faint, glimmering crest of the Academy’s advisory board. His cane rapped once on the curb—sharp, deliberate.

  Vaylen followed more stiffly, tugging his coat straight and brushing road dust from his sleeves. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the ledger he still clutched under one arm.

  “Why do I feel like we’re about to step into a pit of rot?” he muttered, glancing at the heavy doors ahead.

  “Because we are,” Grellin replied without looking at him. “But it’s a rot I intend to excise.”

  Just then, a commotion stirred near the entrance. A squad of guards half-dragged, half-guided a bent, gray-haired man toward the door—robes in disarray, one boot unlaced, scrolls clutched loosely in trembling fingers.

  “That’s the magistrate?” Vaylen whispered incredulously. “He looks like he’d break under a stiff wind.”

  “Not wind,” Grellin said coldly. “Bribes.”

  As they approached, one of the guards spotted them and stiffened. “Lord Grellin—my apologies, we weren’t expecting—”

  “No,” Grellin said curtly. “You weren’t.”

  The magistrate blinked blearily up at them. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his breath smelled faintly of spiced wine.

  “Ah… yes. Quite a mess,” he murmured vaguely. “Very unfortunate. The two young… thieves, yes, yes. Plenty of witness testimony. Evidence. Documents…” He fumbled at his scrolls, as if one would magically leap forward to defend his lies.

  Before he could sputter further, Grellin stepped forward and slapped a folded parchment into the man’s chest.

  “The formal complaint. Filed, sealed, and stamped by the guild. Orlen’s crimes—itemized and witnessed.” His voice was ice. “This is the release order. Executed by my hand. As of this morning, those two children are no longer in your custody.”

  The magistrate paled, scrolls slipping from his fingers like leaves in a breeze.

  “I talked to them yesterday evening. They confessed! —there must be some—surely—some mistake. The guild—”

  “The guild,” Grellin interrupted, “has been thoroughly reviewed. You will be next if you obstruct justice for another moment.”

  “I never spoke to a magistrate!” Ilyari’s voice rang out suddenly from inside. It echoed faintly off the stone. “We’ve been locked in a cage since yesterday! He never came near us!”

  Tazien’s voice followed, cracked but fierce. “He’s lying!”

  The magistrate turned scarlet, stammering. “I—there was a clerical miscommunication—someone else must have—”

  “Enough,” Grellin barked. “Either release them now, or I will name you personally in the Academy’s inquiry.”

  The old man visibly trembled, his composure falling apart like wet parchment. “O-of course, my lord. Immediately. Stars help me… I had no idea…”

  Grellin turned away in disgust. “You had every idea. You just didn’t care until your name was attached.”

  Vaylen stepped closer, voice like gravel. “Open that door. Now.”

  The guards, clearly shaken, rushed to obey. The magistrate floundered behind them, wringing his hands and mumbling about being “appalled someone would manipulate the courts this way.”

  As the door creaked open and the cell keys were retrieved, Grellin turned to Vaylen. “Go in with them. Get them moving. We have a ceremony to catch.”

  Vaylen stared at them—mud-streaked, bruised, and rumpled like laundry from a ditch—and looked aghast.

  “They can’t go like this!” he barked, spinning toward Grellin. “They look like they’ve been hauled out of a brawl with street thugs!”

  “They were hauled out of a cell with street thugs,” Grellin said evenly, crossing his arms. “And they’ll have to go as-is. There’s no time left.”

  “No, no, no.” Vaylen scrubbed his face with both hands, pacing. “The nobles will eat them alive! There must be some decency left in this cursed city—can we not at least—”

  “Ilyari and Tazien must be present for the ceremony’s first bell,” Grellin snapped. “No stops. No delays. They don’t walk in with the rest of the inductees, they don’t get in at all. And that’s not just me talking—that’s law.”

  Vaylen turned to the kids, who stood quiet and stiff, trying not to look at their scuffed shoes or bloodied sleeves.

  With a groan of defeat, Vaylen yanked a fine silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and moved toward them.

  “Here—just—hold still.”

  He dabbed at a splotch of dirt on Ilyari’s cheek, only to smear it into a broader, grimier patch. Then he tried Tazien’s forehead, but the silk simply smeared the crusted blood. His shoulders sagged.

  “Silk was never meant for this,” he muttered. “This is tailoring blasphemy.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Ilyari gave a weak smile. “It’s okay.”

  “It is not okay,” Vaylen snapped. “You deserve better than this—both of you.”

  With a huff, he balled up the silk and shoved it back in his pocket, then led them to the carriage and pointed to a canteen tucked in the footwell.

  “Wash your faces. That’s all I can do for you now. And for the love of stitches, try not to bleed on your shoes.”

  The water was cold, but it helped. They wiped their faces with trembling fingers, rinsing away the worst of the grime, though the bruises and split lip couldn’t be hidden.

  Once done, they climbed into the carriage. Vaylen slammed the door shut behind them and climbed up with a grim face.

  “Go!” Grellin barked to the driver.

  The wheels turned—and the race against the bell began.

  ???????

  The gates of the Royal Academy loomed ahead—tall, gilded, and gleaming in the late afternoon light. Even through the thick carriage glass, the splendor was undeniable. Spires twisted like reaching fingers into the sky, and every wall seemed cut from silver-veined stone, polished to a mirror’s sheen.

  Ilyari and Tazien stared, wide-eyed and silent.

  The carriage wheels clicked over the cobbled courtyard, echoing sharply as they passed through arched gateways where guards in embroidered sashes bowed to their arrival.

  Tazien leaned forward, pressing a hand to the glass. “Stars above…”

  Ilyari didn’t speak. Her fingers clutched her skirts, eyes drinking in every flag, every gold-trimmed window, every noble stepping out of crystal-carved carriages. The Academy glowed like something out of a fairy tale—and they looked like they’d just clawed their way out of a dungeon.

  She lowered her eyes. “We shouldn’t be here like this,” she whispered, voice cracking.

  Tazien sniffed once and blinked quickly, turning his face away, but not fast enough. A single tear streaked down his bruised cheek.

  Vaylen, sitting stiff-backed across from them, gave a long sigh. “Look. I know this is a mess. And it isn’t fair. But you’re not going to let them win by walking in with your heads bowed.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You listen to me. You’re here because you earned it. Not handed. Not gifted. Earned. Every stitch of it. That ceremony is just pomp. But what you two are?” His voice softened slightly. “You’re thunder in silk.”

  Ilyari gave a shaky laugh. “Thunder in silk with black eyes and road dust.”

  Vaylen pulled out a square of blue silk from his breast pocket and held it up like it was a weapon. “Then we’ll make do. Come here.”

  He dabbed gently at Ilyari’s face first—then paused with a grimace.

  “…Silk isn’t exactly made for cleaning.”

  Tazien winced as Vaylen tried wiping his cheek. “Ow.”

  Vaylen sighed again, defeated, and shoved the square back into his pocket. “Right. You both still look like you’ve been dragged through a thresher, but at least your faces are… less smudged.”

  The carriage slowed.

  Vaylen’s tone shifted low and steady. “When you walk in there, do it proud. You don’t owe these people anything. They may see bruises, but you show them steel.”

  Ilyari gave a small nod. Tazien straightened his shoulders.

  The door swung open. Vaylen stepped out first, then helped them down, smoothing their shoulders as they adjusted to the sunlight.

  Beyond the gates, a crowd had already gathered—nobles in gleaming robes, glittering jewelry, long canes and sharper glares. A line of carriages waited to be announced by name at the steps.

  No one announced them.

  They slipped in through the side gate with Grellin, skirting past the polished marble promenade and into the grand hall—a towering room of chandeliers and golden arches, filled with murmuring lords and ladies arranged by tiered prestige.

  Every step echoed too loudly.

  “I think that’s Lord Talvane,” Tazien murmured, nodding toward the middle rows. “And Lady Talvane—she’s not looking at us.”

  Ilyari’s eyes flicked over. Lady Talvane had gone pale, her knuckles white where she clutched her fan. Lord Talvane stared openly, brow furrowed in disbelief.

  “I think she’s embarrassed,” Ilyari whispered.

  “Not of the dress,” Tazien added. “She’s not looking at your work. Just at us.”

  They paused behind a cluster of servants and aides near the hall’s back wall. A servant girl offered a faint, pitying glance—but quickly looked away.

  “Look—over there,” Tazien whispered urgently, nudging her elbow.

  Across the floor, standing with a ring of laughing nobles, were the two old lechers from the cemetery—the ones who’d cornered Ilyari weeks ago. Their eyes caught hers immediately. One grinned. The other licked his lips.

  Ilyari she stared back at them, her face clearly unimpressed and dismissive, then slowly, deliberately turned away.

  “You don’t have to look at them,” Tazien muttered.

  “I want to,” she said flatly. “I want them to see that they didn’t scare me off.”

  Tazien nodded once, eyes narrowed.

  Just then, the booming voice of the herald echoed through the chamber, announcing the latest noble family’s entry.

  The crowd clapped lightly. Then another name was called.

  Ilyari stood straighter. “How many before us?”

  Tazien looked up at the registry banner. “Five left.”

  Ilyari clenched her fists.

  “They’ll call us soon.”

  “They're still watching,” he muttered. “Like vultures.”

  Ilyari straightened her spine. “Let them.”

  And from the dais… one more pair of eyes found them. Vaelen peered at her. He studied Ilyari openly, brow slightly furrowed—not in disgust, but… curiosity. Like he was trying to remember something. Her posture. Her eyes. Her defiance.

  Ilyari caught his gaze for only a second. Just long enough to register his interest—before she looked away, face burning with involuntary color.

  He smirked slightly. Misreading everything.

  Tazien leaned in. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” she hissed, cheeks burning.

  And behind them, the voice of the herald rang clear across the marble floor.

  “Now announcing… Ilyari Aierenbane and Tazien Aierenbane—by decree of His Majesty’s grant of clemency, to stand among the scholarship class of this year’s Acceptance Ceremony!”

  The hall went still. And then—whispers.

  “That can’t be—”

  “Those are the ones?”

  “Gutter rats—dressed like that?”

  But Ilyari stepped forward, her jaw clenched, her eyes hard. Tazien followed, hand steady on her back.

  They walked—slow, sure—down the main aisle, toward the line of nobles.

  ???????

  The final names had been called.

  The golden echo of the Academy Herald’s voice faded into the vaulted ceiling, and the tension in the air briefly uncoiled. Nobles leaned back into their seats, whispering behind fans and glasses of crystal wine. Servants began stepping in with trays, and a fresh draft of perfumed air rolled across the hall.

  Then the Herald raised his staff once more.

  “A half-watch recess has now begun,” he declared. “All initiates must return to the Announcing Hall before the final chime. The Oath of Nobility will begin promptly. Doors will be sealed. Late arrivals will forfeit their right to swear allegiance and be entered into the Academy rolls.”

  His words struck with formality, but the warning was plain.

  Miss it, and you don’t come back.

  ???????

  “Go!” Vaylen hissed the moment the children reached the corridor. “Carriage is already waiting—don’t dawdle, we’ve got half a watch, no more!”

  They sprinted down the polished Academy steps, bruises stiff, clothes clinging. Vaylen shoved open the doors of the waiting carriage and herded them inside with surprising speed for a man his age.

  “Hold tight!”

  The horses, enchanted with wind-bound sigils along their flanks, galloped like silk through the streets—graceful and tireless. The cobblestones blurred beneath them, and the city peeled away.

  Within minutes, they arrived at the shop.

  Vaylen was already pulling open the back door, leading them straight to the small washroom hidden behind a partition.

  The basin glowed faintly, etched with runes that pulsed a soft blue. Steam curled from its surface, and a satchel of crushed herbs floated on the water.

  “I boosted the mana,” Vaylen muttered. “And poured in half my supply of healing tinctures, so don’t waste it.”

  Tazien didn’t hesitate—he stripped off his tattered shirt and eased into the basin with a groan. Cuts mended before their eyes, the swelling around his cheek shrinking like a breath being drawn inward. Ilyari was more hesitant, but Vaylen handed her a clean robe and turned around, grumbling something about dignity and half-grown children.

  When she emerged, scrubbed and robed, the girl who had entered the cell looked like a ghost from a nightmare. This girl—this Ilyari—looked awake again.

  In the carriage once more, Ilyari’s fingers worked quickly. She braided and looped her curls into a woven crown, tiny tendrils tucked behind her ears. Her fingers found her brother’s hair and twisted his dreadlocks quickly, cleaning the edges and tightening the pattern.

  Tazien sniffled once, quietly.

  “You crying?” Ilyari asked gently.

  “No,” he lied.

  “I am,” she admitted, smiling faintly.

  When they rolled up to the Academy’s gates again, the guards barely had time to open the path before the carriage thundered through.

  Vaylen stared at them, open-mouthed.

  “You two—” He swallowed. “—you don’t look like my apprentices.”

  “Do we look like nobles?” Ilyari asked.

  Vaylen shook his head slowly. “You look like royalty.”

  The bell tolled once. Long and low.

  “RUN!”

  They bolted. Up the stairs. Past astonished guards. Down the gilded hall. Their shoes slapped the floor in unison—one-two-one-two. Just as the final chime rang through the air, Tazien yanked open the door to the Announcing Hall and pulled Ilyari through.

  The door slammed shut behind them, the silk of her skirt just missing catching the edge. Barely an inch to spare.

  The Herald—a stooped man with a voice like polished bells—had already turned to announce the next names. He stopped cold at the sight before him. His mouth parted as he blinked once, then again.

  “By the gods…” he breathed.

  “Last,but we made it,” Ilyari said breathlessly, smoothing her braid and making sure the crystals she had placed were still there.

  Tazien grinned and offered his arm to his sister.

  “Ready to stop being a gutter goblin and start being a proper lady?”

  Ilyari scoffed, cheeks pink. “Keep talking and I’ll trip you in front of the Emperor.”

  And as the doors opened, the Aierenbanes stepped into the fire.

  their name gets dragged into the mess. Funny how that works.

  Chef’s kiss. Justice wasn’t elegant—it was late, messy, and full of bruises—but it got there. Shoutout to Vaylen and Grellin for pulling strings, snapping necks (metaphorically), and refusing to let these kids fall through the cracks.