The wide stone corridors of the palace were quiet except for the soft, hurried steps of the servant leading the way. Jacob and Arthur followed closely behind, their gazes flickering over the tall arched ceilings and finely painted walls, though neither of them truly registered the grandeur anymore.

The silence between them stretched long, broken only by the occasional rustle of fine fabrics or the distant murmur of guards stationed in corners. Soon, they reached a tall wooden door inlaid with gold trims, the entry to the audience hall where their mentors were to be assigned.

Standing just beside the door, his back to the wall, was Abel. His arms were folded tightly across his chest and his head was bowed, though his eyes remained half-lidded and alert. As they approached, he glanced up, scoffed faintly under his breath, and walked towards the door without a word.

His appearance hadn't changed, translucent skin with an almost corpse-like pallor, sharp blue hair that fell in jagged strands, and those empty white eyes that gave the impression he was staring at something far beyond them.

Jacob said nothing as he took his place beside him. Arthur trailed behind, still straightening his robe and tugging at a loose thread near the hem, clearly more nervous than either of the other two.

The servant turned to face them. He cleared his throat with a quiet cough and looked each of them over, his tone turning formal and firm. "The moment you step inside, you are to kneel and greet the royal family. You must not raise your voice or show disrespect, no matter what is said or done. If they insult you, you accept it in silence. Do you understand?"

His eyes landed squarely on Abel.

"You are not to display familiarity with any member of the royal family," he continued, his gaze shifting to Jacob. "Even if you once knew them personally. That includes childhood friends."

Jacob gave a slow nod. He hadn't planned on being familiar with Castor anyway.

The servant's expression shifted as he looked at Arthur. His voice dropped slightly, the tone now more warning than instruction. "And you... must not, under any circumstance, show hostility. No glare, no anger, no muttered words. Your life depends on it. I'm not exaggerating. Consider this your first and only warning."

Arthur's face fell, and for once, the usual smile was gone. He nodded deeply, his voice soft and sincere. "Thank you... I understand."

Satisfied, the servant sighed, turned, and pushed open the large doors with a practiced grace. He stepped aside and bowed, allowing them passage.

Abel entered first, his posture straight and confident, chin held high with the air of someone who didn't know how to bow to anyone but was doing it anyway. Jacob followed behind, walking with neither pride nor hesitation, just calm purpose. Arthur took a deep breath before stepping forward, shoulders tight, his steps hesitant but steady.

They crossed the polished marble floor and came to a halt before the thrones. Without hesitation, all three dropped to one knee, heads lowered in perfect sync.

"We greet the royal family," they said in unison.

There was a long pause, just a few seconds, but it felt far longer. The silence hung heavy in the air until finally a calm, pleasant voice spoke from one of the thrones.

"Congratulations on your wonderful aspects. You may rise."

Jacob stood quickly, his eyes scanning the figures before him. Seven thrones stood in a line, each occupied by a member of the royal family. Golden-haired and green-eyed, their features were regal and sharp, their posture relaxed yet perfectly composed. Royalty was not just in their blood it showed in the way they breathed, in how they held themselves.

The two highest thrones, raised slightly above the others, were occupied by King Theodore and Queen Helen. The king was lean, dressed simply, and though he lacked muscle or an imposing frame, his eyes sparkled with calm intelligence and easy confidence. He looked like a man who led not with force, but with insight.

Queen Helen was the only one without the family's trademark coloring. Her black hair was pulled back, her matching black eyes cool and unreadable. She didn't smile, didn't frown, just sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap like she was observing a chessboard that extended far beyond the walls of the room.

To their left sat the first prince, Paul, a short man with a solid build and a thick golden beard that made him look more like a craftsman than a noble. Jacob had heard he was a blacksmith by trade, an unusual path for someone so high in the line of succession.

Beside him sat the second prince, Peter, a broad-shouldered man clad in white armor, long hair tied behind his head. His eyes were sharp, and he reminded Jacob strikingly of Alex, both in build and bearing. There was a shared stoicism between them that was impossible to miss.

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Jacob deliberately skipped over the third throne. He wasn't ready to meet the eyes of its occupant. Instead, he focused on Castor, the fourth prince and his former friend. Castor looked just as he remembered: lean, lightly muscular, with a worn sword strapped to his side and rough calloused hands resting casually on his knees. When he noticed Jacob's glance, he made a small gesture with his hand, something like a subtle wave.

Jacob didn't respond.

Next to Castor sat the princess Leah. She was poised, elegant, her posture flawless, her features as refined as the sculptures in the palace gardens. She looked young, maybe a year younger than Jacob, but there was something sharp in her eyes, something composed and calculating. She smiled gently at Jacob. Again, he offered nothing in return.

His eyes drifted one final time to the king, until he noticed the figure standing quietly behind the royal seats.

An old man, tall despite his age, with long grey hair and a beard that reached past his chest. He wore a deep violet robe, and his presence, though still and quiet, commanded attention in a way none of the royals did. His face was kind, but unreadable, and his eyes, though half-closed, seemed to see everything.

Jacob's heart skipped. 'Lazarus.'

As Jacob turned his head, he realized he wasn't the only one distracted, both Abel and Arthur were also staring at Lazarus, utterly absorbed, as if the rest of the room had vanished entirely. Not a single one of them spared a glance for the seven thrones or the royal family seated upon them. They were all too focused on the old scholar standing quietly behind the line of royals, his long silver beard flowing over his robe, his presence serene and quietly commanding.

Lazarus noticed, of course. He gave a light cough, more amused than reprimanding, and spoke in a warm, measured tone. "It's good to see such promising youths. I can sense your excitement. But I do believe the king has not finished speaking."

That snapped them out of it.

All three boys blinked, straightened slightly, and turned their attention back to the front. The king didn't seem offended. In fact, he looked rather amused, his lips twitching before he broke into a soft laugh.

"Haha. You lot aren't exactly subtle," King Theodore said, his tone casual, almost teasing. "I take it you're eager to see who Lazarus chooses, hmm?"

None of them responded. Protocol still demanded silence, and no matter how relaxed the king might sound, they weren't about to break decorum. The king nodded thoughtfully, as if he appreciated the restraint.

"I won't keep you waiting," he continued with a shrug. "Honestly, this whole tradition of parading Grade 1 holders before the royal family feels pointless to me. Outdated ceremony. So, let's skip ahead. You want to know your mentors, right?"

He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on one hand as he surveyed them closely. His gaze settled on each of them in turn, Abel, then Jacob, and finally Arthur. When his eyes lingered on the last, there was no notable change in expression, but Arthur stiffened, a small twitch betraying his discomfort.

"Well," the king said, a slight grin playing at his lips, "the Grand Scholar Lazarus, in all his wisdom... and perhaps his infamous indecision, has decided to take all three of you as his students."

There was a pause.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Jacob forgot where he was. All thoughts of ceremony and posture vanished. Shock filled him, Lazarus had chosen all of them? Not just one? The realization struck like lightning, and then came the rush of joy, sharp, overwhelming, impossible to contain. He would be learning under Lazarus, the grand scholar, the man who had written half the books in his father's study. It was, without question, one of the greatest moments of his life.

Until, of course, someone had to ruin it.

"What a wondrous occasion," came a smooth, almost theatrical voice. "I look forward to seeing your future exploits."

The moment Jacob heard that voice, the joy curdled in his chest. Rage bubbled up, raw and sudden, flooding through him with such intensity that for a second, he couldn't even think. A cool sensation swept over him, the potion trying to calm him but it failed entirely. The fury remained.

Slowly, Jacob turned toward the fifth throne.

Seated there, with a wide smile stretched across his face, was Samuel the third prince. His glasses were perched neatly on his nose, and a small leather-bound book rested in one hand, thumb casually marking the page. He looked completely at ease, as if the whole event bored him, as if he were only here to enjoy a bit of sport.

Jacob clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe. He couldn't afford to lose control here. Not in a room like this, not in front of these people. One slip, one outburst, and everyone would know. His feelings would be exposed like a wound, and that would be dangerous. So he focused on staying still, on not speaking.

But Samuel wasn't done.

"A few years ago," the prince continued, voice light, eyes scanning the hall before settling directly on Jacob, "we had another talented young mage. A Grade 1, like you. Full of promise. Brilliant, even. But he met a rather unfortunate end... due to ambition. A shame, truly. I do hope none of you fall into the same trap."

That smile didn't falter. Not for a second.

Jacob's teeth ground together with a sharp sound that echoed faintly through the silent hall. His jaw trembled. He couldn't even pretend to misunderstand, Samuel was looking right at him, each word aimed with surgical precision.

He knew who the prince was talking about.

His brother.

The weight of it pressed down on him, and all he wanted, more than anything was to strike back, to yell, to say something, anything. But he couldn't. Not here. Not now. So he stayed rooted to the spot, fists shaking at his sides, vision swimming red.

And then a loud crack rang out through the chamber.

Everyone turned just in time to see Castor, fourth prince, knight, Jacob's old friend standing over Samuel's throne, his fist extended, Samuel's head tilted slightly to the side. Blood streamed from the prince's nose. His glasses were shattered, hanging crookedly on his face.

Castor lowered his hand and turned to the rest of the hall with a slow bow. "Apologies," he said coolly. "His words brought back unpleasant memories."

Without waiting for a response, he returned to his seat and sat down as if nothing had happened. Just before he did, he glanced in Jacob's direction and gave the smallest, almost imperceptible thumbs-up.

Jacob exhaled, the tension in his chest slowly loosening. A bitter laugh caught in his throat, though he didn't let it out. Instead, he shook his head, still watching Castor with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude.

'Still the same old fool,' he thought. 'Reckless. Stupid. But caring.'

He looked at Castor again and mouthed the word without sound.

"Thanks."

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