The morning sun filtered through the ivy-veiled windows of Willowgrove, casting soft golden lines across the warped wooden floor. The rain had passed in the night, leaving everything outside dewy and fresh—the kind of spring morning that made everything feel briefly possible, if still a little damp.

  Tazien stood at the sewing table, holding up what used to be a school-issued uniform and what now resembled a casual tunic with stylish panels stitched into the side.

  “Well,” he said, squinting at it, “I don’t think they’ll call it formalwear, but at least I don’t look like I escaped a failed curtain factory.”

  Ilyari looped her braid over one shoulder, tying it off with a navy scrap. Her newly constructed vest—made from the mattress sheeting and a clever reworking of an unused pillowcase—fit snug over her blouse. The hem was slightly crooked, but she tugged it straight with practiced grace.

  “We’ll need to finish the second set before tonight,” she said, eyeing the remaining fabric. “If Veska shows up unannounced again, I want to look like someone who owns more than one outfit.”

  Tazien lifted one worn boot and frowned at it. “You think if I polish these hard enough, they’ll remember their former glory?”

  “No,” Ilyari replied without looking. “But if you polish them hard enough, maybe you’ll learn to respect the concept of socks.”

  Tazien grinned and tossed a thread spool at her.

  They worked in easy silence for a time, until Ilyari stepped back and looked herself over in the cracked wall mirror.

  “We’re getting better at this.”

  “We are,” Tazien agreed, flicking a loose thread off her collar. “But I wish we had Vaylen’s basin spell. That enchantment made me feel like I’d just been born in silk.”

  Ilyari nodded thoughtfully. “We should ask him for the spellwork. Or at least the glyph sequence. If we can replicate it, we’ll save a fortune on bathhouse fees.”

  “And avoid the public tub stares,” Tazien muttered.

  There was a beat of silence, and then Ilyari said, more hesitantly, “We also need to fix the bathroom. And the drawing room.”

  Tazien raised a brow. “You mean the mold cavern and the dust crypt?”

  “I’m serious,” she said, folding her arms. “If we’re going to host instructors and get seen as nobles—no matter how exiled—we need to treat the house with the same kind of respect we expect from ourselves.”

  Tazien tilted his head. “Someone’s still brooding about the scolding yesterday.”

  Ilyari flushed and looked away. “I just don’t want to give anyone more excuses to sneer at us. Willowgrove might be old, and haunted, and possibly coded by a mad sorcerer, but it’s ours now. It deserves care.”

  Tazien softened. “You’re right. We clean the drawing room properly today. Maybe tomorrow we start on the bath. If we don’t drown in mystery fungus first.”

  “And we scrub the front parlor again,” she added. “Veska’s boots left a mark in my soul.”

  “I thought that was just her personality.”

  The parlor of Willowgrove no longer looked like the forgotten wing of a ruin.

  The wood-paneled walls had been scrubbed down to reveal faint carvings that spiraled in elegant, ancient glyphs beneath the dust. The threadbare rugs had been beaten clean and weighted at the corners, and while the couch still groaned faintly when pressed, it no longer resembled a place one might catch illness. Tazien had even managed to stitch a new runner for the mantel—navy with silver trim—and Ilyari had coaxed a half-dead potted vine into something resembling polite greenery.

  They were mid-scrub—elbows deep in the effort, sleeves rolled to the elbow—when the knock came.

  Not a knock.

  A rap.

  Sharp. Precise. Arrogant.

  Like someone had chiseled it into the wood with entitlement.

  Ilyari and Tazien locked eyes over the armrest.

  “Here we go again,” Tazien muttered, straightening his collar with the back of his wrist.

  Ilyari wiped her hands on a clean cloth, smoothed her vest, and stepped toward the door with careful grace. She caught her reflection in the darkened windowpane—a tidy braid, a pressed tunic, and eyes that held steel beneath the calm.

  She opened the door.

  The morning sun flared behind her, casting a golden frame around the polished threshold of Willowgrove’s entry.

  “Welcome, Master Veska. Master Lorn,” Ilyari said, voice level, calm. “Please, do come in.”

  The two tutors stood side by side like statues hewn from disapproval.

  Veska’s cloak was stiff with ceremonial stitching, high-collared and belted with iron-thread trim. A pointed traveling cap shaded her face, though not enough to hide the flicker of annoyance at the sight before her. Lorn, broader and older, wore a trimmed hat of velvet and an expression like someone who’d bitten into something sour and refused to spit it out.

  Neither made a move to remove their headwear.

  Ilyari, with a soft and impeccably measured tone, gestured just inside the entry. “May I take your cloaks and headwear for you? We’ve made sure the parlor is much more presentable today.”

  A pause.

  Veska’s eyes narrowed—just slightly. The house was too clean. The siblings were too composed. There was nothing to scold. No visible crack in the performance.

  She handed over nothing.

  “We won’t be staying long,” Veska said coolly, stepping inside without removing a single thread.

  Lorn followed, giving the faintest shrug, as if to say she’s in charge of being unpleasant; I’m just here for the ride.

  Tazien emerged from the parlor, wiping a smudge from the back of his hand. “Did we pass the inspection, or should I bring out the silver polish?”

  “You’ll want to keep that sarcasm leashed at the Academy,” Lorn grumbled, though his tone lacked venom.

  Veska turned sharply. “We’ll be proceeding directly to the carriage. Your city assessment begins now. Miss Aierenbane, I hope you remember which side of the street a noble walks on.”

  “I do,” Ilyari said with a graceful nod. “And I’ll be sure not to walk too fast. Wouldn’t want anyone tripping over expectations.”

  Veska’s lips thinned. “The carriage. Now.”

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  Tazien gave a mock bow toward Ilyari as they stepped into the sunlight. “After you, Duchess of Dusting.”

  “Lord of Laundry,” she whispered back.

  The tutors pretended not to hear.

  The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Willowgrove silent once more—but somehow, just a little prouder.

  The carriage door swung open with a soft click of brass hinges. A footman, clad in the Academy livery, stepped forward to assist the passengers.

  First, Master Veska stepped inside, her robes brushing the cushioned seat as she settled with precise poise. She gave Ilyari a thin, assessing glance before turning to the driver.

  “Forward,” she instructed crisply, her voice low enough that only Ilyari could hear. “And keep your balance—this is no peasant’s jaunt.”

  Next, Ilyari climbed in, smoothing her skirt against the leather bench as she sat at Veska’s side. She offered a small, respectful nod.

  “Thank you for the ride, Master Veska.”

  Veska’s eyes flicked to her with a cool appraisal. “Don’t thank me yet, child.”

  On the opposite bench, Master Lorn entered, smoothing his sash with a grunt. He took the seat at the far end, folding his hands across his lap and fixing Tazien with a half-curious, half-irritated stare.

  Finally, Tazien hopped in beside Lorn, perching at the edge of the cushion. He gave Lorn a brief, tight smile.

  “Good morning, Master Lorn.”

  Lorn merely acknowledged him with a curt nod, eyes already pointed out the window.

  The carriage lurched forward, wood wheels clattering against the cobblestones. The glass windows framed a tapestry of the waking city—shopkeepers raising shutters, horses pulling laden carts, morning mist curling around street lanterns.

  Veska straightened, smoothing her cuff. “Miss Aierenbane, recount for me the proper protocol when encountering a noble of higher station on the street.”

  Ilyari drew a quiet breath. “You step to the side farthest from oncoming traffic, bow from the waist, and address them by full title—‘Your Grace’ or ‘Your Lordship’—unless otherwise specified.”

  Veska inclined her head slightly. “Correct. And should they raise a hand in greeting?”

  Ilyari met her gaze. “You wait for permission to speak.”

  “Excellent.” Veska allowed a faint, approving curl to her lips. “Perhaps you are learning, after all.”

  Across the aisle, Lorn cleared his throat. “Young Aierenbane, can you recite the correct sequence of address for the three ranks above a common knight?”

  Tazien shifted. “Baron, Viscount, Count—each preceded by ‘The Right Honorable.’”

  Lorn’s lips twitched. “Well done. Though in practice, you’ll find those titles slip from the tongue of most nobles as easily as mud from a boot.”

  Tazien raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps they’re wearing the wrong boots.”

  The carriage rolled down a narrower street now, lined with townhouses whose shutters bore the Academy crest. Ilyari caught her brother’s smirk and managed a small smile of her own.

  Veska’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Aierenbane, I advise you curb your levity. Such wit in the presence of your instructors borders on insolence.”

  Tazien inclined his head gravely. “Yes, Master Veska. I’ll save it for the ballroom.”

  Veska said nothing further. For a moment, the carriage was filled only by the steady clip-clop of horses and the distant tolling of a bell.

  Ilyari turned slightly in her seat, watching the lantern-lit streets glide past. “Thank you,” she murmured softly to Veska. “For the guidance.”

  Veska’s expression softened just a fraction—almost as if Ilyari’s earnest tone had cut through her stern veneer. “Attend carefully, and you might survive this term.”

  On the other side, Tazien leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. Lorn studied him with a faint frown, but made no comment. The carriage rattled on toward the Academy gates, each passenger lost in their own preparations for the day ahead—two students bracing for challenge, and two tutors already sharpening their pens.

  The Academy rose around them like a cathedral of logic and legacy—spires glittering with spellsteel caps, banners stitched with gold-threaded emblems, and endless corridors tiled in polished obsidian and pale quartz. Mana-lamps floated overhead like weightless stars, humming faintly with stored enchantment.

  “This is the East Wing,” Veska announced briskly, her heels tapping against the marble floor. “Reserved for administrative council, ceremonial gatherings, and elite-level discourse.”

  Ilyari and Tazien followed closely, their eyes soaking in the grandeur. Every arch was adorned with carved sigils, every window etched with the names of prior scholars. The very air smelled expensive—aged paper, mana resin, and something floral drifting from the open gardens.

  “You will not be permitted here unless summoned,” Veska added, gesturing to an arched hallway cordoned off with silver rope. “Not unless your rank changes.”

  Lorn grunted. “Or the Emperor dies and the sun explodes.”

  Tazien smirked.

  Then they turned a corner into the Grand Courtyard of Scholars—a massive, open chamber that rose like an amphitheater around a central dais. Polished marble stairs tiered down in concentric rings, surrounding an enormous floating orb of crystal-clear mana.

  And there, lounging on a low bench near the center, were two young men draped in silks and status.

  Caedin Kai, Crown Prince of Kaisulane, wore deep imperial red. His gloves rested loosely in one hand, the other twirling a goblet lazily between his fingers. Surrounding him were at least six noble-born girls in pastel veils and glossy curls, all laughing far too loudly at something that wasn’t remotely funny.

  Vaelen Kai, in contrast, leaned against a shaded pillar behind them. His coat was slate-gray, stitched with violet sigils, and half-unfastened at the collar. He seemed more amused than engaged—watching the gathering with cool, unreadable eyes.

  As Ilyari, Tazien, and their tutors stepped into view, the chatter dipped.

  Caedin’s gaze slid toward them.

  And froze.

  “Well,” he drawled, loud enough to carry. “If it isn’t the garden rats dressed in borrowed linen. I thought we had rules about keeping the livestock outside of the ceremonial halls.”

  The girls around him giggled nervously.

  Ilyari stiffened, her hands tightening at her sides.

  Veska’s nostrils flared—but she said nothing.

  Lorn’s jaw twitched.

  Caedin leaned forward, giving them an oily smile. “Tell me, do you still bathe in buckets, or did the Empire spring for a functioning washbasin?”

  Tazien stepped forward, his voice even. “Does your mirror come with a handler, or does it let you admire yourself unsupervised?”

  A faint ripple passed through the circle. One of the girls gasped. Another stifled a laugh.

  Vaelen exhaled a quiet snort.

  Caedin stood, one eyebrow rising—but before he could speak, Vaelen pushed off the pillar and cut in.

  “Enough,” Vaelen said coolly, crossing to the center. “Your charm is embarrassing even by Kai standards, brother.”

  Caedin turned slowly. “Embarrassing?”

  “Yes,” Vaelen said. “And tedious. If you want to peacock, find an audience that hasn’t already seen your feathers.”

  The girls around them went very still.

  Caedin’s lips thinned, but he said nothing. Vaelen’s gaze, meanwhile, slid to Ilyari—and lingered.

  “You wear that better than the last robe,” he said mildly. “Vaylen’s handiwork?”

  Ilyari hesitated, then nodded once.

  “Tell him to reinforce the hems,” Vaelen added, “or they’ll fray under the weight of all this scrutiny.”

  Before Ilyari could respond—

  A new voice cut through the silence.

  Calm. Clear. Icy.

  “I would suggest not dragging your personal insecurities into the grand hall, gentlemen. Some of us are here to learn.”

  Every head turned.

  Saela Rynthar stood at the far entrance, spine arrow-straight, clad in the pale slate gray of House Rynthar. Her boots were polished to a mirror shine. Her badge, a single silver wing over a crossed blade, marked her not only as a prefect—but as an appointed field tactician.

  Caedin raised a brow. “Prefect Rynthar. How lovely of you to interrupt.”

  Saela’s expression didn’t shift. “Crown Prince or not, the halls of learning are not for juvenile displays.”

  She turned to Ilyari and Tazien, eyes sharp but not cruel. “You two—students, correct?”

  “Yes, Prefect,” Ilyari said, straightening.

  “I don’t care if you’re exiled royalty or runaway shoemakers. While you stand in the Academy, you’re under its law—and its law demands effort. Not perfection. Anyone mocking your ignorance reveals their own lack of honor.”

  Ilyari’s breath caught. Even Tazien blinked.

  Veska looked momentarily caught between irritation and silent approval.

  Caedin folded his arms. “How very noble of you.”

  Saela ignored him. “I expect to see both of you in orientation drills. Show up sharp. No excuses.”

  With that, she pivoted and strode off, her cloak slicing through the air behind her like a banner in full wind.

  Vaelen watched her go, then turned back toward the dais.

  “She’s going to rule something one day,” he muttered. “Even if she has to wrestle it into obedience.”

  Caedin huffed, but didn’t argue.

  And as Ilyari and Tazien followed Veska and Lorn deeper into the Academy halls, they felt—for the first time in days—not entirely alone.

  They had seen their first glimpse of power used differently.

  And maybe—just maybe—not every blade in this palace was aimed at their backs

  Chat! ?? New name! Super broody ??, and super straight and narrow ??. Hands up ???♀????♂? on who thinks Tazien is going to run into some trouble here! ??

  Tell me, what do you think he’s going to get in trouble for saying!? ??????