The Academy felt different by midday.

It wasn't louder—it was quieter in the way a forest goes quiet before a predator steps into view. Conversations hushed the moment Soren entered a hall. Students peeled out of his path without realizing they were doing it. Acolytes bowed—bowed—to him, confused but instinctive.

Only Mira seemed unchanged, clinging to his sleeve like an angry, anxious burr.

"Do not look at anyone for too long," she muttered. "Do not talk to anyone. And if any House envoy approaches you, you tell them you're fasting, mute, sick, or dead—preferably all four."

Soren didn't slow.

"They're just watching."

"That's exactly what terrifies me."

They turned the corner into the North Cloister—and walked straight into three House banners hanging from the archway.

House banners that categorically did not hang there two hours ago.

Silver Hallowmere.

Green Caladwen.

Red Estrix.

The political vultures had landed.

Mira's face drained. "Oh good. A welcoming committee. Soren, I'm begging you—don't antagonize any—"

The first envoy stepped forward.

A tall woman in silver-trimmed robes, House Hallowmere's crest shining at her shoulder. Her hair was braided with thin crystal threads; her expression was cool, calm, annoyingly elegant.

"Soren Vale," she said smoothly.

Mira choked. "Coren—his name is Coren Vale—for the love of every god, please—"

But the envoy continued unfazed.

"Hallowmere extends commendation for your victory this morning. Our House appreciates discipline over spectacle, and you demonstrated admirable restraint. Lady Arilyn has requested your presence—"

"No," Soren said.

The envoy blinked once. "Pardon?"

"No," he repeated. "I'm not meeting anyone right now."

Mira pinched the bridge of her nose so hard she nearly bent bone.

The envoy hesitated, composure straining. "This is an honor, Cor—Vale. Lady Arilyn does not extend invitations lightly."

"I'm not available."

The woman drew a slow, incredulous breath—but stepped back.

House Caladwen moved next.

Their envoy, a younger man with bright green braids and too many rings, gave a sweeping bow that nearly smacked his forehead against his knees.

"Coren Vale! Caladwen sends warm greetings and wishes to offer—"

"No."

The man froze mid-bow.

Mira whispered a prayer.

Caladwen's envoy straightened stiffly, color blotching his cheeks. "We intended merely to open a conversation regarding your potential—"

"I'm not interested."

The envoy sputtered, humiliated, and retreated behind the banners.

Which left Estrix.

Their envoy didn't bow.

He didn't smile.

He didn't posture.

He simply stepped forward with the heavy, cold dignity of a House that had ruled by iron for centuries.

"Vale," he said, voice clipped. "Lord Vaelor requests your presence this evening. He expects—"

"No," Soren said.

Mira made a strangled noise. "Soren—"

But Soren kept his gaze on the envoy.

"He expects compliance," the envoy said frostily. "Declining is not—advisable."

Soren finally moved.

Just a step closer.

Not threatening—just close enough that the envoy felt the cold weight of something he didn't understand.

"I already fought his son today," Soren said quietly. "I'm not giving him anything else."

For the first time, Estrix's envoy faltered.

He stepped back without meaning to.

Soren walked past him.

Mira had to jog to keep up. "You—are—INSANE. Soren, they're going to skin me alive for letting you say all that."

He didn't look at her. "I'm not playing their games."

"THEY INVENTED the games."

"If they want me," Soren said, "they can come themselves."

Mira opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, then threw both hands up.

"Fine! Fantastic! Wonderful! I can't wait to die of stress at fourteen!"

They made it halfway through the cloister before the next problem arrived.

This one wasn't House colors.

This one was familiar boots stomping too fast, too purposefully.

Atrius.

He marched toward them like a storm with a purpose, hair wind-tossed, expression grim.

The moment he reached Soren, he spoke without preamble.

"You're coming with me."

Mira flinched. "Is he expelled? He's expelled, isn't he? I told him—"

"No." Atrius grabbed Soren's arm—not gently. "But every House in the Academy wants a piece of you now, and I'm not letting them swarm you like bargaining crows."

He turned sharply.

"Training hall. Now."

Soren followed without resistance.

Valenna's cold whisper slid down his spine.

Good. Atrius will temper you. 'Steel hardens faster under pressure.'

Soren walked beside his mentor, steps steady.

Behind them, Mira trailed muttering, "I'm too young for this. I was supposed to have a normal week."

Atrius didn't speak again until the doors of the private training hall slammed shut behind them.

He rounded on Soren.

"What in the frozen hells do you think you're doing?"

Soren met his eyes. "Refusing them."

"Yes," Atrius snapped. "I gathered that. Care to explain why?"

"They're trying to measure me."

Atrius's jaw clenched. "…Correct."

"And I'm not letting them."

Atrius stared at him a long, assessing moment. Then—

A low breath, half frustration, half reluctant approval.

"One duel," Atrius said, rubbing a hand over his face, "and the Houses are already circling like wolves. And instead of bowing your head, you bare your teeth."

"That's what wolves respect," Soren said.

Atrius looked at him sharply.

And for just a moment—

Just a sliver—

He almost smiled.

Almost.

"You're going to train," Atrius said. "More than usual."

"I know."

"No," Atrius said, stepping closer. "You don't. You want to survive the political war you just walked into? Then the strength you showed today has to be the weakest you'll ever be again."

Valenna hummed with quiet approval.

Atrius continued, voice low, urgent.

"From this moment forward, Soren—you sharpen. Every day. Every hour. Because House Estrix doesn't make second challenges. They make replacements."

Soren nodded once.

"I'm ready."

Atrius turned toward the weapon rack, grabbed two practice blades, and tossed one to him.

"Good. Then let's find out," he said, "if the boy who beat an Estrix heir can stand against someone who trained the last three."

Soren lifted the blade.

Valenna's voice whispered like frost over steel.

This is the beginning, Soren. The Houses move. Now you move faster.

Soren stepped forward.

And Atrius attacked.

Atrius didn't ease him in.

The moment Soren braced his stance, Atrius's blade was already cutting through the air—no warning, no courtesy, no attempt at restraint. A downward stroke sharp enough to shear bone if it had been steel. Soren barely angled his practice sword in time.

The impact rattled up his arms.

Atrius did not stop.

"Too slow," the instructor barked.

A second strike came from the side, faster. Soren caught it—barely—and Atrius twisted his wrist on contact, disarming technique hidden inside the blow. Soren wrenched free and stepped back, boots skidding across sanded stone.

Valenna murmured coolly. A teacher who does not hold back is a gift. Take it.

Atrius pressed forward, relentless.

His footwork was economy distilled—no flourish, no wasted motion. Everything was intent.

Soren blocked another strike, then another, then Atrius dipped low and tried to sweep his legs.

Soren jumped.

Good, Valenna whispered. Use less height. Don't give him vertical time.

Atrius came up with a rising slash that Soren slipped under, turning the dodge into an advancing step. He countered—quick jab to Atrius's ribs.

Atrius knocked it aside with the back of his wrist, pivoted, and slammed his shoulder into Soren's chest.

The world lurched.

Soren hit the floor hard.

Mira winced in the corner. "Soren, for the love of gods—block with your body, not just your sword!"

Soren rolled, pushed to his feet, lungs burning. Atrius waited—not patiently, just precisely—like a statue that might strike at any second.

"You fought Estrix like you had something to prove," Atrius said, "but you're fighting me like you think you can predict me."

"I'm not," Soren said.

"You're trying. That's worse."

Atrius advanced again.

Soren forced himself not to retreat.

He met the next blow head-on, steel to steel—no, wood to wood—but the force behind Atrius's swing felt like a falling tree. Soren didn't let it drive him back. He redirected, circled around the strike, and struck low toward the knee.

Atrius moved his foot a finger's breadth.

Just enough.

"Better," Atrius said, and came down with a blow so fast Soren barely got his blade up.

The clash sparked pain through his wrist.

Valenna whispered: He's testing endurance now. Not skill. Don't give him breath—steal his tempo.

Soren shifted.

Just slightly.

Enough that Atrius's next attack hit not squarely against Soren's guard, but off-angle—absorbed, not collided.

Atrius's eyes flicked. Approval. Brief.

Then he changed style entirely.

One moment he was using Academy form—structured, technical. The next he switched to something brutal, sweeping, a style built to break bones, not score marks. Soren recognized it.

Field combat.

Real fighting.

His heartbeat steadied.

The duel with Rivan had been calculation.

This—this was hunger.

Atrius feinted left, spun right, and thrust for Soren's hip. Soren caught the blade, twisted, closed distance—

And Atrius's free hand snapped forward.

A palm strike slammed into Soren's sternum.

He stumbled back, breath punched out of him.

"Again," Atrius said.

Soren raised his blade.

The next exchange was uglier.

Less elegant, more vicious. Blade-to-blade, elbow-to-shoulder, wrist against wrist. Atrius drove him across the hall, forcing him to meet raw power with technique, technique with instinct.

Mira watched with her hand over her mouth. "I'm starting to think Atrius is trying to kill you."

"He is not," Valenna said through Soren's pulse. 'He is stripping him down to see what remains.'

Finally—finally—Atrius overextended, even if by intention.

Soren slipped under the strike, swept Atrius's arm aside, stepped in, and set the tip of his practice blade against the instructor's ribs.

Both froze.

Atrius looked down at the point pressing lightly against him.

Then up at Soren.

Then back down.

He exhaled.

"Good."

Soren stayed still.

Atrius took hold of the practice blade, lowered it gently, and stepped back.

"You'll survive the Houses," he said. "If you stay like this."

Mira slumped in relief on the bench. "Thank the gods."

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