Ilyari sat cross-legged on the worktable, a half-sewn cuff draped over her lap, fingers nimbly threading stitches. Her sleeves were rolled, her braid looped messily over one shoulder, eyes narrowed in focus.
Across from her, Tazien measured the hem of one robe against another, then sighed and tossed both aside.
“You measured that wrong?” Ilyari asked without looking up.
“No,” he muttered.
“Cut it wrong?”
“No.”
She glanced up. “Then what?”
Tazien hesitated, then said, “I heard something weird. Earlier. When you were out on the delivery.”
Ilyari stilled.
“Three noblewomen came in,” he continued. “Dripping perfume and secrets. And they started talking. About Lady Talvane.”
That caught her attention. She set the cuff down. “Go on.”
“They said… she isn’t a real noble. That she was ‘declared’ one when she was a teenager, with no background, no family name, nothing. And that she married Lord Talvane practically overnight. From across the sea, no less.”
Ilyari blinked. “That’s not nothing.”
“That’s not all,” he added grimly. “They said Lord Talvane’s been… unfaithful. That the maid is pregnant. That their marriage is falling apart.”
The room was silent for a moment.
Then Ilyari leaned back, eyes sharp. “So the woman who looked ready to faint when she saw us at the Academy is now being whispered about as a fraud and a seductress?”
Tazien nodded once.
“Too convenient,” she said.
“Too calculated,” he agreed.
Ilyari’s eyes drifted to the back window, where the garden beyond shimmered faintly in the moonlight. “If she really was declared noble… who did it? And why?”
“And why marry her into a family that close to the Emperor?” Tazien added.
They sat in silence again, the candle casting dancing shadows across the half-tailored uniforms between them.
“Let’s not ask around the Academy yet,” Ilyari said quietly. “No allies. No cover. We don’t know who’s loyal to who.”
Tazien nodded. “Then we watch. We listen. We keep sewing like everything’s normal.”
“It’s getting late and I’m tired of looking at these troublesome uniforms. Lets call it a night.” Ilyari said tossing a scrap of cloth aside.
“I’m glad you said that. Now to go lie down in Tazien’s wonderful luxurious mana infused mattress. Cool all the time no matter where you lay.”
“Oh, we touching code now?” Ilyari teased as they went upstairs.
“Not a lot, just little stuff. I’m not as good at it as you and I don’t want my mattress to blow up or anything, or get up and start walking off.”
“Mhm.” Ilyari yawned. “Good night.”
Outside, the wind stirred the vines across the window.
And in the quiet hush of Willowgrove, something unseen shifted in the walls. A glyph blinked faintly in the wood near the fireplace—just once—before fading.
The dream began with the creak of stairs—wooden, warped, groaning with the weight of footsteps that didn’t echo.
Ilyari stood at the top of a staircase she didn’t recognize. The walls were stone, the mortar pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat. The stairs twisted downward, tighter and tighter, impossibly narrow, slick with something that clung to her boots.
She shouldn’t go down.
But she did.
Each step brought a cold that bit deeper into her skin. The air smelled like wet earth and old iron. The light—if it was light at all—bled from somewhere behind the stones. Glyphs flickered in and out of view, not silver or blue this time, but a sickly green, then a bruised purple, pulsing irregularly like something was wrong with the rhythm of the world.
Then she heard it.
“Ilyari...”
A voice. Soft. Female. Familiar.
Her heart pounded.
“Ilyari... come.”
It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a command. It was gentle—and somehow, that was worse.
She kept descending.
The walls began to close in. The glyphs writhed now, rearranging themselves as if aware of her presence. The stone beneath her feet whispered her name with every step. Her name—again and again—but never in the same voice twice.
Then came the breath.
Not hers.
A slow, low exhale behind her ear.
She turned.
No one.
But there—at the bottom of the stairs—stood a woman in shadow.
Ma’Ryn?
Ilyari’s throat closed. “Mama?”
The woman turned slightly. A smile just visible—thin, sad.
She lifted her hand… and it dissolved into lines of code.
Gold and violet strands pulled apart like a tapestry being unraveled by invisible fingers.
And then—
The hand reached through her.
Ilyari gasped.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Everything behind her went black. The stairs, the stone, the glyphs—they shattered like glass.
She fell.
Fell through cold light and broken memories and static and code and—
and—
???????????
She jerked awake, sweat-drenched and shaking.
Her heart thundered in her ears. Her blanket clung to her chest like a second skin.
The room was quiet—too quiet. And there—in the corner—
A figure. Tall. Still. Watching.
She sat bolt upright, breath caught in her throat.
The figure didn’t move.
She reached, blindly, pulling the covers up around her.
Then—she blinked. It wasn’t a figure.
It was the twisted shadow of the willow outside her window—its branches bending just so in the morning light, casting a shape across the wall that wasn’t there the night before.
Just a shadow. Just a tree. Her fingers trembled as she lowered the blanket.
But she didn’t look away for a long, long time.
She let out a shaking breath and wiped a cold sheen of sweat from her neck. “Just the tree,” she whispered aloud. But she didn’t fully believe it. Not yet.
She sat still for a while, wrapped in her blanket, watching the light shift the shape back into harmless angles.
When she finally stepped into the hallway, Tazien was already up, a cup of mint tea in hand, sleeves rolled. He raised an eyebrow as she passed.
“You look like you fought a ghost.”
Ilyari paused.
Then she said softly, “I might’ve.”
He blinked, serious now. “Dream?”
She nodded once. “Staircase. Voice. A woman’s hand…”
She didn’t say mother. She didn’t have to.
Tazien handed her his tea without another word.
Rain threatened on the horizon—thick clouds curling over the city like dark wool. The sky had that heavy, greenish tint that meant a proper storm was brooding.
Tazien leaned against the front window, arms crossed as he squinted toward the treetops. “Definitely gonna rain later.”
“I can see that,” Ilyari muttered, kneeling over a half-stitched vest panel on the floor fighting disinterest and the disappointment that she wasn’t going to be able to go into the garden. “No need to narrate the storm of the day.”
He smirked. “Wasn’t planning on it. Thought we could work on the new WynData layouts and codes.”
Ilyari paused, pinning a fold. “Good idea. That framework’s a mess since we tried to integrate the glyph layering system. Still crashing?”
“Only when I think too hard,” he said brightly.
They set to work in the front parlor, reorganizing and recalibrating the codebase on the shared slate. Ilyari’s fingers danced across the crystal interface with smooth precision, her expression taut with focus. Tazien shifted between logical structuring and playful spellcasting glyphs, nudging lines of magic like puzzle pieces.
But barely an hour into their progress—the knock came.
It wasn’t polite.
It wasn’t hesitant.
It was three sharp raps. Confident. Authoritative.
Tazien sighed. “Either the Emperor’s here to kill us, or someone thinks we owe them something.”
Ilyari rose, brushing off her hands. “Or your plant that you spared has learned to walk and is hungry before the rains.”
The door creaked open to reveal two figures standing on the moss-dusted steps.
One was tall and angular, dressed in a narrow-cut overcoat that glimmered faintly with spell-stitching along the seams. Her nose was sharp, her eyes sharper.
The other was broader, older, and wore a sash that had been pressed so hard it practically groaned.
“Good morning,” said the woman crisply. “We are the Academic Liaisons assigned to your noble induction progression. I am Master Liora Veska.” She nodded to the man. “And this is Master Paetri Lorn .”
Ilyari straightened. “You’re here to prepare us for the ceremony.”
“Among other things,” Veska said, already stepping inside without invitation. “The Emperor’s grace does not exclude the need for refinement.”
Tazien stepped aside just in time as Master Lorn swept in, sniffing at the worn rugs and faint scent of wild herbs. “Charming,” he muttered.
“Separate instruction,” Veska added. “You’ll each be assessed for knowledge, cultural comportment, ritual etiquette, and rank fluency. And yes”—she gave a tight smile—“you’ll be graded.”
“Lovely,” Ilyari said through her teeth. “Which one of us are you here for?”
“Ilyari,” Veska said. “You’re with me. Drawing room, please. Master Lorn, the boy is yours.”
Tazien rolled his eyes. “The boy has a name, you know.”
“I’m sure it’s listed on your paperwork,” Lorn replied without missing a beat.
They split.
???????????
Ilyari hadn’t really cleaned the drawing room yet and hurriedly opened the windows for fresh air and threw off the cloths that covered the furniture from dust. She managed to clean it to a satisfactory level in a few minutes. However Master Veska was not pleased.
“The next time I come, this room should be thoroughly spotless. You will not have guests in a space like this again without it being cleaned. That as a hostess is your duty. Now on to the actual lesson.” Veska started.
Veska pulled a scroll from her satchel and began immediately. “Repeat after me: I, child of the Court, swear to uphold the tenets of Kaisulane, in thought, word, and deed—”
“I, child of the Court,” Ilyari repeated, voice tight, “swear to uphold the tenets…”
For three hours, Veska drilled her. Phrases in High Kaisulan. Postures. Historical quotes. The meaning of ceremonial gestures.
Every time Ilyari slipped—mispronounced a vowel, turned her chin too far right—Veska snapped her fan shut with a sound like a guillotine.
Again.
Again.
Again.
And Ilyari took it. With poise. With precision. With her jaw locked and her spine straight.
When Veska finally rolled up the parchment, she gave the smallest nod. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll return. We’ll walk the city. Then ride to the Academy for formal terrain testing.”
Ilyari’s muscles ached as she nodded. “Understood.”
Tazien’s session was… different.
Master Lorn didn’t ask. He commanded.
“When you enter a room, you bow.”
“Even if I hate the person?”
“Especially then.”
They went over posture, title-correcting, proper address for noble ranks, and how to gesture with a mana ring.
But Tazien was clearly losing patience.
“So,” he said at one point, “if a noble heir and a war hero walk into a banquet, who gets precedence?”
“The noble,” Lorn answered flatly. “Blood over service. Always.”
Tazien narrowed his eyes. “Even if the war hero saved a hundred lives?”
“Yes.”
“What about a prince from another land?”
“Depends on the treaties and whether the land still stands.”
“So… a fallen prince?”
Lorn hesitated. “That’s… complicated.”
Tazien leaned forward. “Let’s say hypothetically—very hypothetically—there was a crowned prince. From an exiled house. Would he outrank a tutor?”
Lorn’s nostrils flared.
“Careful,” he said. “That kind of talk borders on arrogance.”
“No,” Tazien said, voice quieter now. “It borders on truth. And I’m not here to play noble. I’m here to learn. But I know when someone’s teaching me bias instead of facts.”
A long pause.
Then Lorn shifted.
“You’re clever,” he muttered. “Annoying, but clever. Fine. We’ll do this properly. But if you correct me again mid-lesson, I’ll walk out.”
Tazien grinned. “Deal.”
The sun had dropped behind the high towers of the Academy, and the golden slant of daylight stretched long and thin through the dusty windows. Ilyari sat ramrod straight on the edge of the parlor bench, posture still perfect from hours of drilling. Her fingers trembled faintly in her lap, but she would never admit it.
Master Veska’s tone hadn’t wavered once. Polished steel, wrapped in velvet menace.
“I will return tomorrow before first bell,” she said crisply, scrolls tucked neatly back into her lacquered case. “Ensure you’ve memorized the remainder of Volume Three of Ceremonial Law and Historical Oaths. Pages 142 through 190.”
Ilyari nodded once, already dreading the word oaths.
Beside her, Tazien slumped against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable as Lorn handed him a slim leatherbound booklet.
“Rhetorical Forms of the Upper Peerage,” Lorn said. “Recite one example per speech type by tomorrow. And no creative liberties.”
Tazien gave a lazy salute. “Of course, Master Lorn. I’ll make sure every syllable is soaked in propriety.”
Lorn narrowed his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait.
Veska, however, smiled. Thin. Cold.
“Ilyari, you did better than I expected,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet. “But don’t relax. The Academy tests precision. Nobility tests… presentation. Tomorrow’s exercise will test both.”
With a final nod to each other, the tutors swept out the door like twin knives sheathed in velvet.
The moment they were gone, Tazien exhaled hard. “Stars. I thought etiquette was supposed to be boring, not bloodsport.”
Ilyari didn’t answer right away. She was already unfolding the next scroll.
“Page 142,” she murmured. “Laws of Peerage Entry.”
“You’re seriously studying more?”
“I have to be perfect, Tazien,” she said quietly. “She’s looking for cracks.”
Tazien dropped his voice, moving beside her. “They’re planning something.”
Ilyari didn’t look up. “I know.”
He hesitated. “You want to quit for the night? Just for a little while?”
She flipped the page. “No.”
“…We’re not going to let her win.”
Ilyari’s lips tightened, but her eyes burned. “She’s waiting. She’s smiling about it. You are only that confident when you are withholding information. I’m wondering if these scrolls were omitting anything.”
Tazien folded his arms, staring toward the door where the tutors had disappeared. “And Lorn?”
“He wants to win,” Ilyari murmured. “But not the same way. He’s not cruel—just… bitter. If you prove him wrong, he’ll double down. But if you beat him at his own game... he might respect that.”
Tazien raised a brow. “You're analyzing them like chess pieces.”
“No,” she said, setting down the scroll with deliberate calm. “I’m analyzing them like opponents. Because that’s what they are.”
He nodded slowly.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance—low and restless.
Inside, the fire crackled.
Ilyari picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and returned to her studies without another word.
And across the city, Veska’s carriage rolled through the rain-slick streets toward the Academy.
“She’s good,” Veska said to Lorn, folding her gloves. “But not good enough. I’ll see to that.”
Lorn grunted. “The boy’s a cocky brat. Smart, though. Push him too hard, he’ll push back. He has the temperament of lightning in a bottle.”
“Let him.” Veska’s lips curled. “We’ll show them both that clever tongues and perfect posture don’t erase legacy. Or exile.”
Lorn glanced sidelong at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
She gave no answer.
Only the soft clack of rain on the carriage roof answered back.
are they being pushed so hard? And what kind of test is really waiting for them?
Drop them below before the next lesson begins ????????