As soon as the door closed behind Mave, Mork let out a long breath of relief.
The instructor walked past him without slowing down.
"Come on, Lord Mork. Your next trial awaits."
Mork inhaled sharply and followed. The heavy door shut behind them.
Inside was a wide chamber. At the far wall, a massive stone carving of a dragon's face loomed. Its hollow mouth gaped like an open tunnel.
"In this trial," the instructor explained, "a pressurized beam of water will be released through the dragon's mouth. Your task is to pass straight through that torrent and press the button on its forehead. You are forbidden to jump, dodge, or step aside. You must face it directly. Clear?"
"Yes," Mork replied at once.
Finally, an easy trial, he thought. All I have to do is walk through water and press a button. Compared to the last two, this is nothing.
Mork stood in the center of the arena, facing the dragon head-on. The instructor gave a subtle gesture.
A low rumble echoed. Then, with a violent hiss, a powerful jet of water exploded from the dragon's mouth.
It slammed into Mork's chest before he could react.
The impact blasted him off his feet, throwing his small body clear across the chamber. He crashed into the opposite wall with a sickening thud and collapsed to the ground.
Darkness swallowed him.
---
When he opened his eyes again, a guard was standing over him. The instructor was nowhere to be seen.
Mork groaned, pushing himself upright. "What happened?"
"You failed the test, Lord Mork," the guard replied flatly. "Your rank remains 'E' — the lowest."
Mork let out a bitter chuckle. "Very well," he muttered mockingly to himself.
The guard straightened. "I am here to guide you to your new quarters, according to your rank. Follow me."
Head bowed, Mork obeyed.
They left the arena and walked through the Citadel's endless halls. Eventually, they stepped into an open courtyard where the dawn light was breaking over the horizon.
As they passed a large shelter, an ogre boy with jet-black hair emerged, stretching his arms. He froze when he noticed Mork. Mork recognized him at once — the same boy who had defeated the curly-haired trainee in the earlier duel.
"Who is he?" Mork asked.
"A D-ranked trainee," the guard replied. "This is the D-rank shelter."
Mork frowned. "But it looks bigger than the C-rank rooms. How?"
"He doesn't live alone," the guard explained. "All D-rank trainees share a single shelter. Nearly fifty live inside. They have no private rooms."
Fifty crammed together? That sounds miserable, Mork thought.
"Then what about E-rank trainees? Where do they stay?"
The guard halted and pointed forward. "Here."
Mork stepped ahead — and froze.
It was a horse stable.
"Where exactly?" he asked carefully.
The guard's voice was plain. "Inside the stable. And at lower ranks, you are required to perform chores alongside training. As an E-rank trainee, your duty is to care for the horses and clean their stalls."
Mork's jaw dropped. "What? I can't do this! I'm a prince, not a peasant!"
"Forgive me, my lord," the guard said evenly, "but these are the rules. If you refuse, you will be expelled from the Citadel."
Mork's shoulders slumped in defeat. He sighed. "At least… I won't be alone here."
The guard stayed silent.
Suspicion stirred in Mork. He looked up. "There are other E-rank trainees in the stable, right?"
The guard hesitated. "There are not many who ever fall to E-rank. And those who do usually climb back quickly. At present, there is no one else here but you… and the horses."
As if to confirm his words, one of the horses lifted its head and neighed at Mork.
He swallowed hard.
The guard left, but Mork lingered. Finally, with heavy steps, he pushed himself forward and entered.
A rancid stench assaulted him instantly. His nose wrinkled. With his next step, something squished under his boot. He looked down—
Horse dung.
His stomach churned. His face twisted in disgust. He bolted out of the stable and doubled over, vomiting onto the dirt.
When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth, breathing heavily. He turned back to the stable.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself inside again. Covering his nose with one hand, he moved carefully between the stalls. At the far end, he found a dry, empty corner.
He sank down, drawing his knees tight to his chest. His face was pale, his body trembling slightly as he tried to compose himself against the overwhelming disgust.
The prince of ogres, heir of Draganov… reduced to sleeping among horses.