Two weeks after Investigator Cayne's visit.
The trial was done.
The results didn't come through Cayne — they came through Duke Austin, who walked into the breakfast room with a face even flatter than usual, dropped an official document next to my breakfast plate, and sat down without saying a word.
I read it while drinking my tea.
Harlen Voss — guilty. Exile to forced labor colonies in the southern islands. Twenty years.
Drost, technician — guilty. Execution. Scheduled end of month.
Ossen, liaison — guilty, with consideration for investigative cooperation. Life imprisonment.
I put the document back on the table.
"Lord Voss?" I asked.
"Cleared of all charges." Duke Austin picked up his teacup. "Not enough evidence for direct involvement."
"But his position?"
"Not reinstated." He drank. "He resigned three days ago. Official reason was health."
Sacrificed but not punished. Pushed out but not imprisoned.
A clean solution to a very messy situation.
"And Felix?"
Duke Austin set his cup down. "Why are you asking about Felix Voss?"
"Because he's Harlen's older brother," I answered. "And because he sent me a letter two weeks ago."
Something in Duke Austin's expression shifted — not surprise, more like a quick reassessment. "What did it say?"
"Small talk. Asking how I was doing. Said he was bored at home." I cut the bread on my plate. "Nothing suspicious."
"But you still remember it in detail."
"I remember all the letters that came in, Father."
Duke Austin looked at me for a few seconds with an expression I couldn't read at all. Then he picked up his fork and started eating, like the conversation was already over.
"Felix Voss is still registered as an active academy student," he said finally, without looking up. "As long as there's no evidence of his involvement, his status doesn't change."
So he's coming back to the academy.
With me.
---
Three days later, the letter from the academy finally arrived.
Not a personal letter — this was an official announcement, sent to all students and their families simultaneously. The paper was thicker than usual, sealed with the academy crest and the Headmaster's signature at the bottom.
Lisa read it out to me while I stood by the window, looking out at the garden that was starting to move into the transitional season — leaves on some of the trees beginning to change color, a mix of green and yellow that felt way too peaceful for what was actually going on.
"Having considered the results of the official investigation into the incident that occurred during the Annual Academy Gala Night, and having confirmed that all additional security procedures have been implemented, the Royal Academy of Alvan will reopen on the twelfth of Sevan month.
All students are required to attend the continuing semester opening ceremony to be held in the Main Hall—"
Lisa stopped reading.
I looked over.
Her expression was careful. "The Main Hall, Young Master. The same hall where—"
"I know." I turned back to the window. "Keep going."
Lisa continued, but I wasn't really paying attention to the technical details anymore — departure dates, lists of what could and couldn't be brought, new rules about personal artifacts having to go through additional screening at the entrance gate.
The only thing I registered was one thing.
Twelfth of Sevan month.
Ten days from now.
---
Nine days before departure, I started training again.
Not because I wanted to. More because this body had gone two months without being used properly and was starting to feel like a machine that had been parked too long — everything was still there, but it needed serious warming up before it could function normally.
The side yard of the Raybak estate had a decent training area — leveled sand, several wooden posts for striking practice, and a weapons rack stored under a small canopy in the corner. On my first morning out there, Richard's personal trainer — a man named Aldous, a former soldier with arms bigger than my head — was already standing there with an expression I couldn't decide was worried or skeptical.
"Young Master," he said. Respectful but guarded. "The doctor said light training only for the first week."
"I know."
"Light means no offensive magic. No full sparring. No—"
"Aldous." I picked up a wooden sword from the rack. "I just want to know where my starting point is right now."
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded.
The starting point turned out to be better than I'd feared and worse than I'd hoped.
Richard's body — regardless of two months in a coma and recovery — stored solid enough muscle memory. The movements were still there, the reflexes still worked, the technical foundation hadn't gone anywhere. But the stamina? Gone. Three rounds of basic drills and I already had to stop to get my breathing under control.
Two months of sleeping isn't free.
What was more interesting was the magic.
From Richard's memories, I knew his specialization was lightning element magic — not the most common, actually pretty rare, and that was a big part of why his name was fairly well known among his academy year. But trying to access that magic now felt like trying to start an old computer that had been sitting unused for too long — the system was still there, but it needed time to boot.
A small spark at the tip of my fingers. Flickered, unstable, then died.
Aldous watched the spark without expression.
"It takes time," he said finally.
"I know," I answered.
But there isn't much of it.
---
Seven days before departure, the letter I'd least expected finally arrived.
Not from a classmate. Not from another noble family. Not from the palace.
From Edric Maren.
Not an ordinary letter — this one was longer than the first, written in tighter handwriting than before, like he'd started and stopped several times before finally deciding to finish it.
---
Richard,
I'm guessing you've already heard about Harlen Voss.
I'm not going to pretend this doesn't change a lot of things. The academy has already changed before we've even gone back to it — I can feel it even from here.
There's something I want to tell you before we go back, and I'd rather say it in a letter than wait and end up never saying it at all.
That night — before the explosion — I saw something.
I didn't report it to the royal investigators. Not because I was hiding it from them. But because what I saw wasn't concrete enough to be used as official testimony, and I didn't want someone's name dragged through the mud over something I wasn't even a hundred percent sure about myself.
But you're different. You were there. You're the one who almost didn't make it out.
I think you deserve to know.
Twenty minutes before the first explosion, I saw Harlen Voss talking to someone in the side corridor of the hall. It wasn't a casual conversation — Harlen looked tense, the other person was talking with rushed gestures. They stopped the moment I walked past.
What I can't get out of my head: the person talking to Harlen that night wasn't a stranger.
I know that face.
But I'm not going to write the name here. Not in a letter that could be read by anyone other than you.
We'll talk when we're back. In person. Just the two of us.
— Edric.
---
I read the letter once, twice, three times, four times.
Then I folded it, and locked it in the desk drawer with the key Lisa had given me on my first day of recovery — the drawer that even Duke Austin didn't have a duplicate key for.
Edric saw something.
And he won't write down the name of who it was.
Two possibilities. First — he genuinely had valid information and was smart enough not to put it on paper that could get lost, stolen, or opened by the wrong person somewhere along the way.
Second — this was a trap. A way to get me to meet him privately, no witnesses, with a reason that sounded perfectly plausible.
Too many possibilities. Too few facts.
The same sentence I'd already thought too many times since waking up in this world.
---
Six days before departure, I was called to Duke Austin's study.
Not for breakfast, not for an investigation update — something a little different. On his desk that usually only held official documents, there was a long wooden box in dark wood with silver hinges.
Duke Austin was standing by the window in his usual posture — straight, hands clasped behind his back, looking out briefly before finally turning when I walked in.
"Sit down."
I sat in the chair in front of his desk. The wooden box was right in front of me.
"Open it."
I opened the silver hinges.
Inside, set into dark blue velvet, was a sword. Not a wooden training sword. Not a ceremonial sword that just looked good on a wall. The blade was slender, slightly shorter than a standard military sword — built for speed, not raw power. The grip was wrapped in black leather, slightly worn and glossy at the palm section, a sign this wasn't a new piece.
I looked at the sword without touching it.
"That sword was mine twenty-three years ago," said Duke Austin. "Before I became Duke. When I was still a field officer under General Harwick's command." He walked toward the desk. "I carried it through every campaign for seven years. Never broke. Never jammed."
I was still looking at the blade. Near the base, there was a small engraving — not a family crest, not a royal symbol. Just two words in old script that had worn slightly with time.
Come home first.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
Something that was very rare on Duke Austin's face — something that felt like a memory — passed briefly across it. "A reminder. That a soldier's goal isn't to die gloriously. The goal is to finish the job and come home."
I finally touched the sword's grip. Cold, solid, weight balanced in my palm.
"Why are you giving me this?"
Duke Austin pulled the chair from the side of his desk and sat — a posture unusual for him, more informal than normal. "Because you're heading back to the academy in ten days. And because whoever put your name on that list that night still hasn't been found." His eyes looked at me directly. "The academy swords they provide are good enough. But good enough is the standard for people who aren't currently on someone's target list."
I lifted the sword out of the box, felt it in my hand.
Balanced. Really balanced.
"Magic in the blade?" I asked.
"Basic resistance to breaking and dulling. Nothing spectacular — I don't believe in weapons that rely too heavily on magic." He leaned back slightly. "What kept that sword going wasn't the magic. It was how it was used."
I set the sword back in its box but didn't close the lid.
"One more thing," said Duke Austin. His tone shifted again — back to Duke mode, not father mode, but this time there was something in between that didn't fully fit either category. "At the academy, you're going to meet a lot of people who already know about the trial. About Harlen Voss. About the Voss family." He paused. "And some of them will try to use that situation to get close to you."
"Close for what reason?"
"Various reasons." He shrugged one shoulder — a gesture that felt unusual for him. "Some want to know how much you know about the investigation. Some want to make sure you don't know too much. Some see the Raybak name as a useful asset in an unstable situation." He looked at me. "And some might genuinely just want to make sure you're alright."
"How do you tell them apart?"
Duke Austin was quiet for a moment. Then, in a tone that for his standards felt almost like dry humor — "You might not always be able to. But you still have to keep trying."
I closed the sword box.
"Alright," I said.
---
The last night before departure.
Lisa had already packed everything that needed to go — two large trunks full of uniforms, textbooks, training gear, and various things I couldn't fully remember when she'd started preparing. Duke Austin's sword box was next to them, separate, with extra securing straps she'd attached without being asked.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at the canopied ceiling that was starting to feel familiar — too quickly, maybe, but that's how it went.
Edric's letter was locked in the drawer.
The name he didn't write was somewhere in the academy I was walking back into tomorrow.
Harlen Voss had been exiled to the southern islands. Drost was waiting for execution. Ossen was in royal prison for the rest of his life — locked away with whatever he knew, which wasn't much, and whatever he didn't know, which was apparently everything that actually mattered.
But the mastermind above all of them was still standing. Still breathing. Still free.
And behind everything, in a background that wasn't fully clear yet but was feeling more real by the day — the Valdres Empire was waiting. Patient. Had been preparing this for years.
When two trees fall, the forest will be ready to be cut down.
One tree still standing — Crown Prince Aldric.
And the other one — me, who was supposed to already be gone — alive either by luck or because someone deliberately let me survive.
For what reason?
That question still didn't have an answer.
I lay back, staring at the cream-gold silk canopy above me, and for the first time since waking up in this world, I really felt the weight of all of it pressing down on my chest.
Not the weight of an endless pile of documents. Not the weight of a boss whose voice was louder than a truck horn.
A different kind of weight. More serious. More real.
Back in my old world, the biggest thing on the line every day was whether the report got done on time or not.
In this world, the stakes were a little different.
Damn it, I thought, closing my eyes.
But at least there's no printer jamming.