"Uh… me?" Bram's voice comes out uncharacteristically small. His fingers flex at his sides, then curl into loose fists...
Obinai smirks, nudging him with an elbow. "Yeah, you, dumbass."
Obinai chuckles softly, nudging Bram lightly and taking his plate from him. The push is just enough to get Bram moving. "Go on. Before Lyth changes his mind."
Bram swallows hard, his throat bobbing. For once, the kid who fights without hesitation moves like he's walking on shattered glass. His boots scuff against the polished floor, the sound too loud in the sudden hush.
Lyth watches him approach, lips curved in that infuriating, knowing smile.
"Bram," Lyth begins, "you are, by all accounts, an impossibility."
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
Ok...
Lyth continues, "Born of no notable house. Bearing no crest. And yet—" He spreads his hands, "—you've made a genuine name for yourself at this academy."
Ok...ok...
"The common folk talk of you in the streets," Lyth says, stepping closer. "Your peers all turn their heads to watch your fights. And the nobles?" A pause. "Well. They've been talking ."
Bram's face does something complicated—pride warring with disbelief, then settling into something...vulnerable.
Lyth's hand lands on Bram's shoulder—warm.
"You've upset the natural order, my boy," Lyth murmurs, voice pitched low, for Bram's ears alone. Then, softer—"And I couldn't be more pleased."
Is this actually happening...
The headmaster continues, louder now, letting his words carry to the watching crowd. "But," he says, sighing theatrically, "as much as I'd love to reassess your standing—to let you climb even higher—rules are rules." He shakes his head, the picture of regret. "I cannot allow it."
Bram's face falls. His hands fall to his sides. Damn. Shoulda known.
Then—
Lyth's grip tightens, just slightly. A silent command: Wait.
"However," the headmaster purrs, a sly glint entering his eyes, "I can award you the next best thing."
With deliberate grace, Lyth turns Bram toward the royal dais. The crowd parts like a curtain, revealing the elven queen standing at attention.
She is tall, her robes cascading down her body. In her hands rests a sword—no, not just a sword. A masterpiece.
The blade is slender, its steel so pure it seems to drink in the light, reflecting it back as a faint, shimmering glow. Runes coil along its length, their etched lines pulsing with restrained power. The hilt is wrapped in midnight-blue velvet, each twist secured by sapphires that gleam like captured stars. And at its pommel—
A gemstone.
Not just any gem. A living one.
It breathes, its inner light swelling and fading in time with some unseen heartbeat.
Bram's mouth goes dry.
The elf steps forward, her movements liquid-smooth. Up close, her presence is cold—not unkind, but untouchable. Like winter given form.
"Kneel."
The word slips from Queen Frieden's lips like velvet over steel, soft yet utterly inescapable. Bram's knees hit the marble floor before his mind catches up, the impact sending a jolt through his body. His hands tremble against his thighs...
"I am Her Majesty Queen Frieden," she announces. The ceremonial sword in her hands catches the light, its edge glinting dangerously close to Bram's neck. "Mother to Seraphina, whom I'm certain needs no introduction." Her gaze—heavy as a physical touch—sweeps the assembled nobles before returning to him.
The sword lifts.
Tink.
The flat of the blade taps his left shoulder, cold even through his tunic.
"For courage that borders on madness," she declares, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips, "for perseverance that would shame mountains, and for loyalty that outshines gold..." Another tink on his right shoulder. "I grant you the Right to House."
A murmur ripples through the court. Bram's breath hitches.
"Your kin may now bear a name of your choosing," the queen continues, her voice dropping into something almost...intimate. "A shame the old laws deny you nobility by blood, but—" Her fingers twitch around the sword's hilt. "—what I can offer is a seat among the grounded."
Bram's vision blurs. Mom... I'm— His throat clenches around the sob threatening to escape.
Then—
Warm fingers tilt his chin up.
The queen's face is... wrong. Her usual porcelain composure has cracked—cheeks flushed rose-gold, pupils dilated, lips parted just enough to show the barest glint of teeth. Her thumb strokes his jawline, lingering near the corner of his mouth.
"Such... remarkable vitality," she murmurs, almost to herself. Something wet glistens at the corner of her lips.
Bram's stomach lurches. Is she—?
A drop of saliva lands on his knuckles.
The queen blinks. Straightens. The mask slams back into place so fast Bram wonders if he imagined it.
"Rise," she commands, crisp as shattered glass.
The hall holds its breath.
Bram stands frozen at the center, his chest still rising and falling heavily from exertion. The silence is thick enough to choke on—no whispers, no shifting feet, just the faint creak of the wooden beams overhead. His knuckles throb where they split against an opponent's jaw...
Then—
CLAP.
A single, sharp crack of sound shatters the stillness.
Bram's head snaps toward the noise. There, leaning against the back wall with a shit-eating grin, is Obinai. He claps again, slow and deliberate, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet.
"That's my boy!" Obinai crows, his voice carrying across the room. He raises a half-eaten meat pie in salute, grease dripping onto his sleeve. "Told ya you'd wipe the floor with 'em!"
Bram blinks. Once. Twice. Then—
The dam breaks.
A dwarf in the corner slams his tankard on the table, roaring approval. A cluster of mage apprentices erupt into cheers. Even the stern-faced kitchen matron wipes her hands on her apron and starts applauding, her usual scowl replaced by something almost resembling pride.
The sound builds like a storm—first scattered claps, then full-throated shouts, until the hall shakes with it. Someone whistles through their fingers. A tipsy alchemist starts chanting Bram's name, off-rhythm but enthusiastic.
Bram's face burns. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat soaking his shirt. But then—
A meaty hand claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "Hell of a show, lad!" booms a blacksmith Bram vaguely recognizes from passing the school armory.
Before he can respond, a flood of bodies surrounds him—slaps on the back, offers of ale, a giggling herbalist pressing a poultice into his palm "for the bruises, sweetie." The scent of sweat, roasted meat, and cheap drinks swirls around him as the crowd swallows him whole.
Through the chaos, he catches a glimpse of Obinai slipping toward the door, two overloaded plates balanced precariously in his hands. Their eyes meet.
Obinai winks.
That's all right dude...
...
...
"Ain't no way," Obinai mutters around a mouthful of pie, shaking his head.
He weaves through the banquet hall's dwindling crowd, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine still lingers, mixing with the metallic tang of the dish-collection automatons humming along the back wall.
"Finally," he mutters, dodging a whirring cart stacked with dirty plates. The brass-plated machine chirps at him, its glass eyes flashing amber as it extends a mechanical arm. Obinai grins and deposits his dishes with care. "There you go, you overgrown teapot."
The automaton beeps indignantly, steam puffing from its exhaust valves as it trundles away. Obinai chuckles, rolling his stiff shoulders.
He shakes his head, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he pushes through the grand doors. Cool night air washes over him, carrying the distant chime of the clocktower. Eleven chimes. Later than he thought.
The cobbled path to the dorms glows faintly under floating lumen-orbs, their gaslight flickering behind frosted glass. Obinai hums off-key, his breath visible in the crisp air. His fingers absently trace the embroidery on his waistcoat - the first fancy clothes he's ever owned that weren't borrowed.
At the dormitory entrance, he pauses. Erion's door stands dark, the usual strip of light beneath it conspicuously absent. "Huh." Obinai cocks his head. "Out late, huh Eri?" The nickname feels strange without its recipient. He shrugs. "Probably off charming some noble's daughter."
His own room welcomes him with familiar creaks. The door groans its usual protest as he shoulders it open. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters to the complaining hinges.
Inside, he makes quick work of the suit. The waistcoat buttons resist for a moment before surrendering with a pop. The cravat slithers to the floor like a dying serpent. "Ugh, never wearing one of these again," he grumbles, kicking the offending garment toward his growing pile of discarded finery.
The bedsprings shriek as he flops backward, limbs splayed like a starfish. The thin sheet clings to him as he rolls into his customary nest-like tangle. Through his window, the faint hum of the banquet's music still pulses, mingling with the rhythmic chuff of steam pipes in the walls.
Obinai exhales, long and slow. His muscles unclench one by one - shoulders first, then his jaw...
Just as sleep begins to pull him under, a distant cheer erupts from the banquet hall. Obinai smiles into his pillow. "Damn right," he mumbles, already half-gone. The sheet smells faintly of laundry soap and the citrus cologne he'd splashed on hours ago. His last conscious thought is a vague wonder about whether he's forgoten something or not.
Then - nothing. Just the steady tick of his bedside chronometer and the occasional hiss of steam in the walls. Outside, a lone automaton putters by, its gears clicking a lullaby.
...
...
The dormitory hallway is bathed in the pale blue glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. Then—
Thump. Scuffle. A muffled snort.
Bram stumbles into view, his shoulders bumping against the wall as he tries—and fails—to keep his laughter quiet. His frame shakes with suppressed giggles, his hand clamped over his mouth.
"Shhh—shhh, ya dumb bastard," he hisses to himself, shoulders trembling. A fresh wave of amusement hits him, and he has to lean against the wall, his other hand bracing on his knee as he wheezes. "Ohhhh, gods—that look on Linea's face—"
He straightens, wiping tears from his eyes, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.
The wooden floor creaks under his weight as he pads down the hall, his steps heavy but careful. He pauses outside his dorm room, listening. Obinai better not be awake. Dude'll never let me hear the end of it.
Satisfied there's no movement inside, he continues toward the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him in the small, tiled space. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of soap and damp towels. The mirror above the sink is fogged at the edges, the lone lumacrystal above it casting a dim, golden glow.
Bram braces his hands on the sink, exhaling slowly. His reflection stares back at him—messy black hair sticking up in wild tufts, his light orange skin flushed from laughter and drink. Sweat glistens at his temples, and his sharp teeth gleam as his grin stretches wider.
"Damn," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Look at you."
The memories flood back—the roar of the crowd, the way the arena had shaken under his final strike. His chest swells, pride burning bright beneath his ribs.
Bram braces himself against the sink...
His grin falters.
A cold weight settles in his chest.
No. Not now.
But the memory comes anyway—Mercer's hand, slick with blood, punching straight through his ribs. The sound it made—wet and tearing. The way his vision had gone white, then black, then—
"Fuck—" Bram gasps, stumbling back from the sink. His knees hit the tile hard, the impact rattling his teeth. He doesn't even feel it.
His hands fly to his chest, clawing at his shirt. His lungs burn. His heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Breathe. Breathe, damn it!
But he can't. The bathroom walls press in, the air too thick, too hot. His vision tunnels.
No...
"Mom..." The word slips out. "I almost died..."
A wet, shuddering breath.
"No." His voice cracks. "I did die."
By the the damn Gods...
Tears spill over, carving tracks through the sweat on his face. His body shakes so hard his teeth chatter.
Bram's back hits the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, his legs giving out as he slides to the floor. The air reeks of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of vomit—his own, from when he first stumbled in here after the fight.
"Came back 'cause of some... some fuckin' miracle," he chokes out, the words splintering into a sob. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging deep into his palms until blood wells up in crescent moons.
He doesn't even feel it.
"Ain't—ain't even right..."
His hands fist into the front of his ruined shirt.
"I coulda been gone," he whispers. A fresh wave of sobs hitches in his chest. "Gone... 'fore I ever saved her."
He presses his forehead to his knees, shoulders heaving as the quiet, broken sounds spill out of him. The bathroom's flickering lantern casts his hunched shadow against the wall—a twisted, shuddering thing.
Minutes pass. Or hours. He doesn't know.
Slowly, the sobs dull into hiccuping breaths, his body spent. He slumps sideways, curling into himself like a wounded animal, one arm wrapped around his middle like he's holding his guts in.
That's when it slips free.
A crumpled parchment, edges frayed from being shoved too often into pockets, flutters to the floor beside him. The paper is thick, expensive—out of place on the grimy tiles. A red border frames elegant script:
Voucher for the I.M.P.
Bram doesn't notice. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, staring at nothing. At her face, maybe. At the way the she—
Before he—
A full-body shudder wracks Bram's frame, his muscles seizing before going slack. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears escape anyway...
The sobs don't so much fade as they dissolve, swallowed by the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in the marrow. The pain in his chest isn't sharp anymore. Just... there. A hollowed-out ache, like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered.
His limbs feel like they're made of lead. Too heavy to lift. Too heavy to care. The tiles beneath him are cold, unforgiving, but he can't bring himself to move. Not even when the chill starts seeping into his bones.
His eyelids flutter. Drifting. Slipping.
"What a life..." The words are slurred, barely audible over the drip of a faucet somewhere in the shadows. His throat clicks as he swallows. "What a fuckin'... life..."
Silence.
Then—
A shaky exhale. His fingers twitch against the crumpled voucher beside him.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. Laughter echoes—bright and careless—before fading again. The dorm settles back into its false peace...
His body curls tighter on the floor, knees pulled to his chest like he's trying to physically hold himself together.
Sleep takes him like a thief—swift and unkind.
And for once, he doesn't fight it...