The room was dimly lit only by the flicker of candlelight and the faint blue glow of the dragon-heart crystal embedded in the wall behind Daemon. Dust danced in the air as he placed the tattered black leather-bound book upon the old oak desk. Its cover bore the seal of House Hurellion—a black dragon coiled around a burning sword, its edges scorched as if touched by flame itself.
Daemon's hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what he was about to uncover.
He opened the book.
The morning sun crept slowly over the high walls of the stronghold, casting pale golden light through the stained glass windows of the eastern wing. In the grand dining hall, where the scent of oakwood, wax, and roasted meat lingered in the air, Arthur sat alone at a long blackwood table. A faint breeze stirred the deep crimson drapes as the Archduke calmly cut through his bread and eggs, the glint of his silver fork briefly catching the sunlight.
He ate in silence, his mind already racing ahead to the day's objective. The Academy—a place of intrigue, of masks and daggers behind words—awaited. Today, he would walk among them, not as the feared Archduke von Hurellious, but as someone else. Someone forgotten. He had chosen his garb carefully—nothing to distinguish him from the noble brats and common-born talents of the realm. A humble dark wool tunic, worn boots, and a plain traveling cloak, the kind a squire might wear.
He paused mid-bite and turned toward his knight, who stood vigilantly at a distance.
"She isn't up yet?" Arthur asked, his voice clipped, not angry, but expectant.
"No, sire," the knight said, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. "Shall I go and get her?"
Arthur took a sip of his cooled tea and set the cup down gently. "Yes. Do it. If she's not ready in fifteen minutes, tell her to ride behind us. I won't wait."
"At once, sire," the knight replied with a bow and turned on his heel.
Far across the stone halls, the soldier's boots echoed softly as he approached the guest chambers where Aisha had been housed. Outside her door, he rapped his knuckles firmly three times.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Inside, Aisha stirred beneath thick blankets, her head heavy from a restless night. Images of blood and whispers, the sound of steel slicing through skin, the Pope's lifeless body slumped across sacred ground—these plagued her dreams.
Her eyes fluttered open. The room was dim, her mind hazy. The knock came again, sharper this time.
She rose, brushing strands of hair from her face, and trudged barefoot to the door in her linen sleeping tunic. As she cracked it open, the soldier on the other side bowed stiffly.
"Madam," he said respectfully, "it's seven o'clock. The Archduke is preparing to depart for the Academy. I presume you've not forgotten that you're to accompany him?"
Aisha blinked, disoriented. "Seven…?" She glanced at the brass wall clock behind her. Damn. "No—I haven't forgotten. Tell him I'll be ready."
The soldier gave a short nod. "Ten minutes, madam. He'll not wait longer." He pivoted crisply and marched back down the corridor.
Aisha closed the door with a sigh. Her heart was still rattling from the night before. The room was cold. She walked to the basin, splashing water on her face, trying to push away the ghosts in her head. The Pope… the assassins… Arthur slicing that man's throat like it was nothing… And the sigil—Faceless Men. It was a nightmare she hadn't fully woken from.
But there was no time to linger in fear. She moved to the chair where the plain clothes Arthur had chosen for her lay folded neatly. A dark leather jerkin, a plain grey cloak, a blouse, and breeches—clothes for a nobody. A shadow. Not a knight, not a lady, not a soldier of the Empire.
Just a watcher.
In the courtyard, Arthur stood beside his mount—a black stallion with a braided mane and hardened barding beneath the saddle. His knights were already mounted, wearing travel cloaks over their armor. The carriage for the decoys was set to depart from the side gate—a tactic to distract any eyes watching for his movements.
Moments later, Aisha appeared at the gates, dressed exactly as instructed. Her hair was tied into a low knot beneath a dark scarf, her eyes tired but alert. She looked… ordinary. No sword on her hip. No insignia. She might've been mistaken for a merchant's daughter—or someone's runaway maid.
Arthur turned his gaze toward her. "About time."
"I'm ready," she said, catching her breath.
"Mount up. You ride beside me."
Without another word, she climbed atop her mare, a grey-footed steed with a quiet gait. The formation shifted as Arthur gave the signal, and the group began their slow departure from the fortress, heading west toward the horizon where the great marble spires of the Imperial Academy awaited.
As they rode down the slope and into the forested valley beyond, Arthur's expression darkened with thought.
The horses came to a gradual halt as the group reached a quiet fork along a lesser-used road, hidden beneath a curtain of overhanging oaks and shrouded in the gray hush of morning mist. The landscape had shifted from cobbled path to a dirt trail, and ahead stood a worn-down barn, old and forgotten, nestled in the crook of a hill like a buried secret. Moss clung to its sides, and the roof sagged inwards with age. The kind of place no one would give a second glance.
Arthur dismounted with practiced ease, his boots landing soundlessly on the soil. The others followed suit.
Theo, one of the younger knights and a trusted captain of the Black Order, stepped forward and gestured toward the barn door, which hung slightly ajar.
"It's inside, sire," he said quietly. "Everything has been prepared as per your instructions."
Arthur gave a curt nod, then turned to Aisha, who had slipped off her mount and now stood beside him, brushing hay from her cloak.
"What is it?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "Why here?"
Arthur's expression was unreadable as his golden-red eyes pierced through the fog.
"Our commoner clothes," he said simply, then walked forward, pushing the barn door open with a creaking groan. Inside, a few of his knights were already present, laying out garments on a makeshift table—plain wool tunics, scuffed boots, patched cloaks, and satchels. A stack of papers—forged identities—lay at the center.
Arthur paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at her. "We're going in as commoners. Peasants from a far-flung border village no one has ever cared to chart. You're my childhood friend. Your name is Lyria now. You've known me since we were both orphaned during the Great Border Wars and taken in by a forgotten monastery."
He stepped inside, and Aisha followed, the scent of hay, leather, and old wood filling her nostrils. The barn was quiet, save for the rustle of fabric and the distant call of crows beyond the hill.
Arthur walked to the table, lifting a roughspun tunic and examining its stitching. "No one knows my face," he continued. "Not in my court. They know the name Archduke von Hurellious. They fear the title. They obey the sigil. But they've never seen me… only my messengers, my seal, or my masked emissaries."
He turned, his eyes hardening. "Only my Black Knights, a few chosen lords, and my dear brother ever looked me in the eye."
Aisha swallowed, feeling the gravity of what he was saying. "Then… won't they recognize your voice?"
Arthur gave a faint smirk. "Already taken care of."
The horses came to a gradual halt as the group reached a quiet fork along a lesser-used road, hidden beneath a curtain of overhanging oaks and shrouded in the gray hush of morning mist. The landscape had shifted from cobbled path to a dirt trail, and ahead stood a worn-down barn—old and forgotten, nestled in the crook of a hill like a buried secret. Moss clung to its sides, and the roof sagged inwards with age. The kind of place no one would give a second glance.
Arthur dismounted with practiced ease, his boots landing soundlessly on the soil. The others followed suit.
Theo, one of the younger knights and a trusted captain of the Black Order, stepped forward and gestured toward the barn door, which hung slightly ajar.
"It's inside, sire," he said quietly. "Everything has been prepared as per your instructions."
Arthur gave a curt nod, then turned to Aisha, who had slipped off her mount and now stood beside him, brushing hay from her cloak.
"What is it?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "Why here?"
Arthur's expression was unreadable as his golden-red eyes pierced through the fog.
"Our commoner clothes," he said simply, then walked forward, pushing the barn door open with a creaking groan. Inside, a few of his knights were already present, laying out garments on a makeshift table—plain wool tunics, scuffed boots, patched cloaks, and satchels. A stack of papers—forged identities—lay at the center.
Arthur paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at her. "We're going in as commoners. Peasants from a far-flung border village no one has ever cared to chart. You're my childhood friend. Your name is Lyria now. You've known me since we were both orphaned during the Great Border Wars and taken in by a forgotten monastery."
He stepped inside, and Aisha followed, the scent of hay, leather, and old wood filling her nostrils. The barn was quiet, save for the rustle of fabric and the distant call of crows beyond the hill.
Arthur walked to the table, lifting a roughspun tunic and examining its stitching. "No one knows my face," he continued. "Not in my court. They know the name Archduke von Hurellious. They fear the title. They obey the sigil. But they've never seen me… only my messengers, my seal, or my masked emissaries."
He turned, his eyes hardening. "Only my Black Knights, a few chosen lords, and my dead brother ever looked me in the eye."
Aisha swallowed, feeling the gravity of what he was saying. "Then… won't they recognize your voice?"
Arthur gave a faint smirk. "Already taken care of."
He gestured toward a nearby mirror—a rare sight in such a humble setting—and adjusted the way he held his jaw. Then, with a slow breath, he spoke again—but this time his tone was rougher, his words dragging with a rural accent she hadn't heard from him before.
"Ain't no Archduke 'round these parts," he said, now sounding every bit a gruff field laborer. "I'm just Ash. Orphan boy from Dirkenlow. Just tryin' t'get by. Got a scholarship to the Academy 'cause of me head, not me blood."
Then, he shifted back, his posture straightening, voice clean and crisp again. "See?"
Aisha blinked. "That's… uncanny."
Arthur's face darkened. "It has to be. The Academy is full of vipers. Nobles, spymasters, young blades seeking power, heirs of ancient lineages. I can't walk in as Arthur von Hurellious. The moment I do, I become the target. They'll either rally to me—or try to destroy me before I rise."
He moved toward her now, closer than before. The barn felt suddenly smaller, the morning air colder.
"If someone asks you about me," he said slowly, "you will say what Theo and Gareth tell you now. Not a word more, not a word less. If you deviate… if you hesitate… if you reveal who I am, even by accident... it could cost both our lives. Do you understand?"
Aisha's breath caught, but she nodded. "Yes, sire."
He stared at her for a long moment, then looked to Theo.
"Go on."
Theo nodded and stepped up beside Aisha, handing her a folded parchment. "This is your story. Memorize it. You were born in the village of Dirkenlow. You're seventeen. You worked in the tannery for most of your life. You were orphaned during the war. You read and write because Brother Halim taught you when you served at the priory. You met Ash—Arthur—when he was seven. You nursed him after he was wounded by raiders. You've followed him ever since."
Aisha frowned. "That's... oddly detailed."
"It has to be," Gareth said, joining them with a rolled scroll. "The Academy doesn't accept just anyone. Your scholarship was sponsored by the Merchant Guild of Averdan—see here, forged seal, forged ledger entries. You earned the top rank in the peasant entrance exam. Your backstory has already been entered into their archives through sympathetic intermediaries."
Arthur crossed his arms. "In that place, a name is only as strong as the lies behind it."
Aisha looked down at the paper. The girl described here—Lyria of Dirkenlow—wasn't her. But she had to become her. The thought chilled her. What scared her more, though, was how easily Arthur slipped into his roles. How fluidly he discarded one skin for another.
Was he ever truly anyone at all?
Arthur began to unbuckle his armor piece by piece, revealing a cotton shirt beneath. His chest bore deep scars—some old, some newer. A map of battles he never spoke of.
As he stripped away his noble image, piece by piece, it struck Aisha how ordinary he suddenly looked. Not weak. Not small. But no longer divine. No longer mythical. Just a man. A cunning, brutal man who knew exactly what he wanted.
They changed in silence. When she looked up again, Arthur—Ash now—was dressed like a wanderer. A young man with intelligence in his eyes, but no legacy behind him. Just questions.
Theo's voice was calm, but there was a gravity behind it that even the younger knights could feel like a weight upon their chests.
"Remember," he said, placing a gloved hand on Aisha's shoulder, his eyes not unkind but firm like stone, "your sole purpose is to protect His Highness—the Archduke—for the sake of the Empire. From any pen, any blade, any whisper in the dark. That's why you were chosen. If I had been your age, I would've begged to ride at his side. But I cannot. Most of the world already knows my name and face."
Arthur stood silently near the barn door, his coat partially draped over one shoulder, black boots coated in dew. He didn't interrupt, but the faintest flicker passed across his sharp golden-red eyes.
Theo stepped back and gave Arthur a subtle nod.
Then the Archduke finally spoke.
"Watch out for the Nameless Ones," he said, his voice low, yet cutting the morning air like a blade. "They see everything… even what we hide in the shadows. If you see a crow without a shadow, you run. If you see a man who smiles but never blinks, you kill. Do not hesitate."
The knights grew silent. Even Veron, usually so boisterous, had turned cold.
Arthur's gaze swept over each of them, one by one—Gareth, Theo, Veron, Ardan, Merek, and the others. "No one… no one shall know that I am no longer in the castle. Anything that happens in my absence, any political storm, any unrest, shall come to me. It must. I will take the fall. That's the burden I carry."
He stepped back and turned to Gareth. "You. With me."
Gareth immediately followed him around the side of the barn, behind the hay stacks where no ears could pry.
Arthur folded his arms. "Keep an eye on your family. If someone wants to hurt me, they'll go for my blood. And if they can't reach me…" he paused, "they'll go after you. Or Veron. Or Theo. They'll burn the people you love to send a message."
Gareth didn't flinch. "Understood."
"No." Arthur stepped forward. "Don't just understand. Be ready. Sleep with a dagger under your pillow. Lock your doors. Don't trust even your own shadow in this game. The vulture flies low these days."
"I will watch them," Gareth said, bowing. "And if it ever comes to it, I'll die before letting them reach you."
Arthur said nothing. He looked at him for a long second, then placed a hand on Gareth's shoulder—rare from a man like him.
"I'd rather you live," Arthur said finally. "They'll need you if I fall."
At that moment, Aisha, dressed in travel-ready clothes—brown tunic, leather boots, her long braid tied tight—stepped into view with Veron and Theo. Her brows were furrowed slightly as she watched the exchange from a distance, still not sure why she had been chosen for this mission over others more experienced.
Arthur turned to her and said, "Come. It's time."
The horses were already saddled. The cart beside them was filled with straw and some fake merchant cargo. A battered cloak was thrown over Arthur's shoulders. His hair was no longer slicked back—it fell loosely to his shoulders, partially covering his face.
Aisha nodded. "Yes, sire."
Arthur corrected her: "Don't call me sire from now on. I'm ash. Simple name. Forget 'Arthur.' That man no longer exists outside the castle."
Arthur's expression grew firm again. "One last thing. If any of you hear anything—an assassination, a foreign plot, a whisper of war, or that damn church stirring again—you send a message to Theo. He knows how to reach me."
The group nodded solemnly.
Arthur looked at all of them one last time, his gaze lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than usual. Then, without another word, he turned and mounted his horse, a simple brown mare that didn't draw attention.
Aisha mounted beside him, unsure what the next hours held—but certain her life had changed forever.
As the gates of the hidden trail opened behind the barn, Gareth watched them disappear into the forest path and exhaled slowly.
"He mightn't show it," he muttered, "but he truly cares for us."
Theo, arms crossed, nodded. "Yeah. That's why this burden weighs him down more than any crown."
The knights stood still, each feeling the weight of what had just begun.
A small silence passed between them before she gathered the courage to speak again.
"…Will you be alright, Ash?" she asked, almost too softly. "With the way nobles act. Their scorn. Their venom. I've seen how they speak to those they think beneath them… they can be cruel. Tenacious. Unrelenting."
Ash gave a short chuckle—dry, almost humorless. "No, Lyra," he said, "I won't be alright. But not for the reasons you think."
She tilted her head.
"I've lived under their scorn since I was a child," he continued. "They always whispered. That I was born of filth, a bastard child born in secret, fed from shadows, raised in silence. Some thought I was a curse placed upon the Empire. Others thought I was a phantom—something conjured up by the Empress's guilt."
He paused, his voice cold and brittle like frost biting at a leaf.
"And maybe I was. Maybe I am. A shadow the sun refuses to burn away."
She didn't know what to say, so she remained quiet. But she looked at him. Truly looked. Past the name, the armor that had been traded for rough woolen clothes. She saw not just the man of power—but the lonely silhouette beneath, made sharp by memory and pain.
"They called me monster," he said, eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. "They smiled to my face but sharpened their blades behind my back. They feared my blood, feared what I might become. That's why they tried to kill me in the cradle. Twice."
Her eyes widened.
He continued. "And do you know what the nobles hate most?"
"…What?"
"Someone who sees through them. Someone who doesn't want their approval. Someone who remembers."
There was a long silence after that, broken only by the soft clopping of their horses' hooves and the birds beginning to sing in the trees.
Aisha—no, Lyra—finally spoke. "And what is it you remember most?"
Ash turned toward her. His eyes were not angry. Not bitter. But they were burning.
"I remember the first time I realized the throne wasn't meant for justice. It was just meant to be occupied. And I remember the moment I vowed I'd burn it down if it ever tried to own me."
She stared at him.
By the afternoon, the sun cast long golden rays across the sprawling silhouette of the Royal Academy of Eridion—a fortress of knowledge nestled atop the emerald cliffs of Viremont, its ivory towers piercing the sky like the fangs of an ancient beast. Marble gargoyles lined the arches, their stone eyes seeming to follow every visitor that crossed the perimeter. The bell tower rang solemnly, echoing across the valley like a distant call to fate.
Ash and Lyra approached the Academy's hidden rear entrance—one used only by the faculty, nobility, and those who preferred to avoid public attention. A man awaited them there. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, dressed in a black coat bearing the faint sigil of the Crown's seal, though it had been stitched into the inner lining of his sleeve rather than worn proudly across the chest.
The man bowed as they dismounted. His hair was silver and slicked back tightly, and he bore the faint smell of old parchment and alchemical oil. His face was unreadable, lips thin and eyes sharp like a hawk's.
"Archduke," he said with subtle deference, though his voice was barely above a whisper. "The Headmistress awaits you."
Ash gave the slightest nod.
"Welcome," the man continued, "to the Royal Academy of Eridion."
Lyra blinked, still taken by the grandeur of the place. Even the air felt older here—charged with invisible weight. As they followed the man down the winding corridors hidden behind tapestries and ancient portraits, she could feel her skin prickle. This was no ordinary place of learning. No mere school.
This was a battleground of minds and monsters. Of bloodlines and secrets.
They reached a door unlike the others—one without ornament or carving. Just a dark oak slab with silver trim and a single carved rune pulsing faintly on its surface. The silver-haired man placed his palm on the rune.
Click.
The door opened silently.
Ash stepped through first.
Inside, the Headmistress' office was more like a throne chamber stolen from a forgotten age. Candles floated midair, casting blue flames. Shelves of tomes rose as high as the ceiling, some sealed behind shimmering barriers of arcane script. A giant window behind the desk looked out over the Sea of Shattered Stars far in the distance. The floor was obsidian glass, polished to a mirror. One could not walk here without seeing themselves completely—reflected truth and lies alike.
And there she sat.
The Headmistress.
The Witch of the Abyss.
Lady Niverelle Umbra Noctis.
She was seated upon a high-backed chair carved of blackwood and serpent bone, its spines shaped like twisting ivy and human fingers. Her presence was like a vacuum—silencing all noise in the room even though no spell had been cast. She wore a gown of mourning silk, so dark it seemed to swallow light. Her hair flowed like a raven's wing down her shoulders, and her eyes—one violet, the other grey—glimmered with ancient intelligence.
She smiled.
A cruel, knowing smile.
"Ah…" she said softly, her voice a smooth and terrible melody. "So the beast wears flesh once more."
Ash remained standing. "Niverelle."
The Headmistress tilted her head. "You smell like war, Arthur. Even in peasant cloth and dust, you cannot hide what you are."
"I'm not here to hide," he replied. "Only to observe."
She let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a curse.
"And she?" Her gaze flicked to Lyra.
"My shadow," he said simply.
The Witch of the Abyss stared at Aisha for a moment longer than necessary. Something unspoken passed between them—a flicker of judgment, of recognition, or perhaps warning. Then she looked away, uninterested.
"You are late," Niverelle said, rising slowly. "The semester begins tomorrow. The children of the Houses are already here—snakes in silken threads, peacocks drunk on legacy. You will be tested, Arthur. Even here, surrounded by books and bloodlines, you will not go unnoticed."
"I expect nothing less," he said calmly.
"Good. Because the Academy, my Academy, is not the cradle of safety you believe it to be. It is a crucible. One where princes are burned into ash and paupers are reforged into kings… or corpses."
Ash gave a half-smile.
"I've been burned before. I rather enjoy the heat."
Niverelle narrowed her eyes and descended from her dais. As she stepped onto the obsidian floor, the glass shimmered beneath her heels, and ghostly whispers coiled up in her wake. She walked past them both, her fingers trailing across the air like a conductor summoning an unseen orchestra.
"I will introduce you as Ash von Aurion. No title. No record. You are a transfer from the southern borderlands. Your father was a priest. Your mother a gravekeeper. You will reside in the West Wing dormitories—fourth floor, room 49."
Ash nodded. "Understood."
"You will not be shown favoritism," she added sharply, her voice hard now. "If you bleed, you will do so quietly. If you fight, you will do so ruthlessly. And if you kill…"
Her eyes gleamed like moonlight on blades.
"…you will do so in a way that leaves no evidence behind."
Lyra stiffened at those words, but Ash only smiled faintly.
"I've missed your way with students," he said dryly.
Niverelle turned back toward her desk and lifted a small crystal orb. Within it floated a burning sigil—one shaped like a spider devouring its own web.
"This… is your class schedule," she said, handing it to him. "You begin tomorrow morning. Advanced Philosophy of Empire, Bloodline Theory, Forbidden Histories, Arcane Application… and—"
She glanced at Lyra.
"Combat Assessment. With the Blademaster."
Ash raised a brow. "You brought him back?"
"He volunteered," Niverelle said with a dangerous smile. "He said he wanted to see if your flame has dimmed."
Ash chuckled. "He'll be disappointed."
"I hope not," she whispered. "Disappointment leads to survival. I want him to try and kill you."
Then she turned away.
"You may go now. Your rooms are prepared. Try not to start a war on your first day, Arthur."
Ash nodded. "I'll wait until the second."
With that, he turned and led Lyra out of the room, the obsidian doors closing behind them with a whisper like a blade sliding into flesh.
As they walked down the silent corridor, Lyra finally found her voice again.
"She… frightens me."
Ash smirked. "Good. She should. She frightens me, too."
And somewhere, deep in the Academy walls, a spider stirred in its web.
And the game began.
As the sun dipped below the capital's distant walls, casting the chamber in a warm golden hue, Daemon closed the heavy tome with a quiet thud. Dust spiraled in the fading light. His fingers rested on the dragon-emblazoned cover for a moment longer, eyes lingering as if trying to extract more truth from the faded crest.
He stared at the old wood-paneled wall before him, mind racing.
"Why would someone like him—Archduke Arthur—waste time in the Academy?" Daemon muttered under his breath. "He was too clever. Too capable. He already commanded dragons, wielded armies, and shattered kingdoms."
A silence hung thick in the chamber, broken only when the heavy oak door creaked open. A young knight stepped in—still in his riding cloak, dust covering his boots.
"Forgive the intrusion, sire," the knight said, placing his fist across his chest. "We've searched the lower provinces and the outer isles. There's no trace of any others who speak the old tongue."
Daemon's brow furrowed. "No one?"
The knight shook his head solemnly. "The old man we captured… he may have truly been the last. No records, no rumors, not even madmen in the southern wastes. It's as if your ancestor's purge truly erased the bloodline."
Daemon leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "...Then that makes it all the more troubling," he said coldly. "Arthur didn't purge them out of fear. He purged them for control."
He glanced at the sealed book again.
"He went to the Academy to find something... not knowledge—something buried. Something dangerous."
His gaze darkened. "And now I have to find it before someone else does."
HEY GUYS HOW ARE YOU ALL ENJOYING IT TILL NOW, I APLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY IN THE CHAPTERS, AS I HAD BEEN BUSY WITH OTHER STUFF. I HOPE YOU ALL WILL UDNERSTAND AND PELASE DO COMMENT HWO YOU LIKE THE SOTRY AND MY WRITING'S AND DO GIVE THE PRESIOUS FEEDBACK FOR MY NOVEL SO I CAN CREATE IT MORE PERFECTLY.