The great lecture hall of the Imperial Academy was built to impress. Marble pillars rose like sentinels. Stained-glass windows bathed the floor in a mosaic of morning light. The ceiling soared, carved with names of scholars, generals, and emperors past.
But no one looked up today.
They looked at me.
The silence wasn't reverent—it was uncertain. These were the finest young minds of the Empire, or so they believed. The heirs to power. Some had crossed oceans, ridden through five provinces, or pulled favors to secure a seat here.
And now they stared at a man in black, blindfolded in white.
I walked to the center of the room, alone. No books. No assistants. No scrolls.
I carried only a silver-tipped cane and a name they all knew: Aren Von Ashenlance, the man the Emperor trusted more than any general or noble. The man who lost his sight but not his vision. The Blind Bureaucrat. And, starting today, their Head Instructor.
"Sit," I said.
The command cut through the room. The benches creaked as students obeyed—reluctantly, awkwardly. No one had introduced me. No ceremony. No class title.
Only authority.
A boy in the second row didn't sit. He stood with arms crossed, trying to look taller than he was. Polished boots. A sapphire pin on his collar. Smelled faintly of myrrh and wine. Noble-born, and too used to being the smartest person in the room.
"You're not wearing a seal," he said. "You're no professor."
"No," I replied calmly. "I'm your replacement for everything they taught you to respect."
Murmurs stirred around the room. The boy smirked, sensing a challenge. "Do you know who I am?"
"No," I said. "But I know your father's grain contracts were adjusted last quarter to avoid paying drought relief levies. House Terval."
The smirk vanished.
"That was sealed—"
"Not from me," I said. "And certainly not from the Emperor."
I took a single step closer, tapping my cane lightly on the marble floor. The sound echoed—sharp, final.
"Let me be clear. You are not here because you are clever. You are here because your families paid, bribed, or bled to put you in this room. I am not here to teach you arithmetic, or etiquette, or sword forms. I am here to teach you how not to die stupid."
The room fell still.
"I will teach you how to navigate power, wield information, and destroy an enemy without lifting a weapon. I will teach you how this Empire truly runs—not with swords, but with ledgers. Not with titles, but with silence. And I will begin with this—"
I turned and paced slowly across the floor.
"Lesson one: every institution rots."
Some flinched. Some frowned.
"Over time, strength becomes pride. Pride becomes decay. Decay becomes collapse. It is the same with cities, councils, bloodlines, and yes—academies."
I stopped at the front row, where a girl sat perfectly still, her uniform pressed, her ink untouched. Her breath was steady, but the slight shift in her shoulder told me she was tense.
"You. Your name."
"Lilia of House Caelwyn, my lord."
"Explain to me the purpose of your family's position."
She hesitated. "We manage river crossings along the Eastern Vale. Trade and licensing for the region's three bridges."
"Good. And what happens if your tolls rise by two copper per wagon?"
"We increase revenue."
"And if that increase encourages merchants to bypass the crossing?"
"We… lose revenue?"
"And if smugglers undercut your tolls entirely, forcing your guards to retaliate?"
A pause.
"Then we lose power."
I smiled faintly.
"You learn fast."
I turned to the class.
"This is the real education. You will not memorize dates. You will analyze scenarios. You will draft treaties, economic sabotage plans, and case studies on the fall of noble houses. You will learn how to kill an enemy's name without drawing blood."
"But I thought this was political theory—" someone began from the back.
I raised a hand. "This is survival theory."
I moved toward the lectern—a raised stone platform inscribed with the Imperial Crest. The sunlight made my blindfold almost glow.
"Next week, you will submit a written assessment of your house's strengths, weaknesses, and the fastest legal method to destroy it."
A dozen students gasped. One dropped his ink pot.
"You will not be graded on optimism," I said. "You will be graded on accuracy."
"You want us to plan our own family's downfall?" a girl asked in disbelief.
"I want you to understand how fragile your power is," I replied. "Only then will you understand how to preserve it."
The bell rang. Four long tolls.
"Class dismissed."
No one moved right away.
○ ○
○
By the time I returned to my office in the east spire, the whispers had already begun. Staff watched me with sideways glances. Students scattered ahead of me in the corridors. I didn't mind.
My steps were silent on the polished stone. The Academy had not yet adjusted to me.
But it would.
I sat at my desk, removed my gloves, and placed my hand on a stack of reports. I could feel the tension in the paper—creases from panicked fingers, ink smudged in haste. A courier's breath had trembled delivering it.
A letter lay on top. Unmarked, but with a familiar scent—spiced ink from the Emperor's personal scriptorium.
I opened it slowly.
> "The Academy will resist you. Let them.
Those who survive your lessons will be the backbone of my future court.
Break them as war broke you—and rebuild them better."
I folded the letter and set it aside.
My next class would be in three days.
The Academy thought I came to teach.
They would soon understand—
I came to reform.