Zane walked out of the Hall of Foundations with the posture of a man who had just been politely mugged by destiny. His steps weren't heavy—no, too obvious. They were calculated. Light. Like a cat pretending not to want your food.
Behind him, the whispers bloomed like mold.
"Vitality? Seriously?"
"Barely lit the damn stone."
"I thought mages were supposed to be strong."
"He's the trash one. The one they let in as a joke."
He kept walking.
He didn't need to know who said what.
He'd remember their faces when they choked on their own opinions later.
The Yard of Names
Outside, the sky stretched wide and stormy again. Not raining yet. Just promising.
The academy courtyard sprawled across black-enameled stone, runes spiraling outward like veins around a central obelisk. Names of those who had fallen in service to Eldryn were carved along its base.
Thousands of them.
Past students.
Past warriors.
Past failures.
And some, Zane noted, had their names chiseled deeper—as if they hadn't just died. They'd done something worth bleeding the stone.
He liked that.
A lot.
Meeting the Loudmouth: Garron Redhook
"You walked like you pissed off a ghost, mate," came a voice from the left. Gruff, but not cruel.
Zane turned.
Garron Redhook.
Elementalist. Earth-type. Six feet of biceps and bravado wrapped in a uniform that looked two stitches away from giving up. The man had a laugh carved from gravel and teeth too white to be natural—either he brushed with enchanted salt or chewed chalk for breakfast.
"I don't piss off ghosts," Zane replied, his voice smooth as an unsent apology. "They piss me off. Poor bastards are stuck reliving their worst moments. Kind of like everyone here."
Garron blinked. Then barked a laugh, hearty and unexpected. "You're the trash mage, right?"
Zane gave him a theatrical bow. "At your service. Garbage-tier with premium packaging."
"I like you," Garron said, slapping him on the back hard enough to shift Zane's spine into a new tax bracket. "Name's Garron Redhook. Elementalist, Earth-aspected. Future Academy champion. And I plan on breaking every last stereotype about dumb muscle."
"Starting by breaking my ribs?" Zane winced.
"Exactly. We're gonna get along just fine."
Zane offered a crooked smirk, one that danced the line between amusement and menace. He didn't trust Garron yet—too loud, too confident. But he liked that the guy didn't flinch at sarcasm laced with venom.
That put him in the 'not an immediate threat' category.
For now.
---
"You're blocking the path, Redhook," came a new voice—dry, clipped, and noble in the way that made you want to trip it down a staircase.
Zane's eyes flicked to the source.
A tall boy with hair too neat to trust, dressed in pristine Academy whites, a silver brooch shaped like a viper curled at his collar.
Rhydian Vale.
Noble lineage. Lightning-aspected. The kind of guy who ironed his socks and probably named his combs. His family funded half of the Academy's research towers, and he had the arrogance to match.
Behind him walked a girl—no, floated, like she'd never dirtied her boots a day in her life. Skin dusky gold, eyes like liquid sapphire. She wore her mage ring on a chain around her neck instead of her finger.
That alone screamed danger. Only prodigies did that.
Zane tilted his head. "And you must be the Academy's official stick collector. You know, for all the ones shoved up arses."
Rhydian narrowed his eyes. "Your tongue will get you in trouble, trash."
"It usually does," Zane said with a grin that could curdle wine. "But it also keeps me entertained. So, who's your floating accessory?"
The girl smiled—gently. Almost kindly. "I am Sereia Lorne. Songmage. Water-aspected."
Zane paused. Songmages were rare. Very rare. Their magic was weaved into melodies, into rhythm and resonance. And they were often considered fragile.
But something in her gaze told him she was anything but.
"I'd offer a bow," Zane said, eyes flicking between the two, "but I left my dignity in my other pants."
Sereia chuckled softly. Rhydian scowled.
Garron whispered, "That's Rhydian Vale. Son of Archduke Vale. Don't antagonize him."
"Oh, I'm counting on him to snap eventually," Zane whispered back. "It'll make a great story."
Their group was gathered now.
About forty students—mages, knights, summoners, swordcasters, and others too obscure to label cleanly. They stood in the Yard of Names, waiting.
Then, with a flicker of spatial distortion, a portal snapped open before the obelisk. Out stepped a man who looked like the ghost of ten wars wrapped in professor's robes.
Long silver hair tied back, his eyes sharp with something beyond age—like time itself owed him favors.
Master Thorne.
Not a title.
His real name.
He didn't speak. Not at first. Just surveyed them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth iron.
"Some of you believe you have arrived."
His eyes swept over Rhydian, then paused on Zane.
"Some of you think you've been thrown here by mistake."
Zane gave the faintest nod.
"Let me assure you… none of you are ready."
The silence that followed was colder than the wind rolling in from the horizon.
"There are three things that matter in this world," Thorne continued, walking slowly around the group. "Power. Perception. And politics."
He stopped in front of Sereia. "You, for instance. Power."
Then Rhydian. "Perception."
Then Zane.
Pause.
Longer pause.
He stared deep into Zane's eyes, and Zane didn't blink.
"…And then there are people like you."
Zane arched a brow. "Convenient lies?"
Thorne smirked. "Wild cards."
He turned. "Welcome to the Core Selection. This week will decide your path. If you survive it."
"Wait," Garron said. "Survive?"
Thorne didn't answer. The portal behind him flared again.
"Tomorrow," he said. "The tests begin. Do not be late. Or dead."
And with that, he vanished.
Later that evening, in the dining hall—a space carved from marble and wood, alive with floating chandeliers—Zane sat alone.
By choice.
He toyed with a loaf of dense bread, using his butter knife to carve a crude little throne into its side.
"Bread throne," he muttered. "Because even carbs deserve royalty."
"You're a strange one," came a voice from behind.
Zane didn't turn. "If you're Rhydian, get bent. If you're Garron, sit down. If you're here to kill me, kindly stab around the spleen area—I've grown oddly fond of it."
A soft laugh.
Then a girl slid into the seat opposite.
Lia Marris.
She had freckles like someone had sprinkled cinnamon on her face, and her red curls bounced like they had better things to do than obey gravity. She was a Knight Branch initiate. Fast with a blade. Faster with insults.
"I watched you in the Hall," she said, pouring herself water. "Vitality affinity, huh?"
"Disappointed?" Zane asked, not bothering to feign pride.
"Curious."
That caught him off guard.
She continued, "Most Vitality-types end up as healers or supporters. But you… you don't look like the supporting kind."
"I'm emotionally supportive," Zane said. "Once told a guy he had potential. Then he died. I take no responsibility."
Lia snorted. "You're either insane, dangerous, or very good at pretending."
Zane leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Yes."
They shared a moment. Not flirtation. Not yet. Just… interest.
And maybe that was more dangerous.
Zane stood outside his assigned quarters later, staring up at the fractured moons above. Two tonight. One pale blue. The other a cracked red crescent that always looked like it was smiling the wrong way.
He whispered to himself.
"I'm not supposed to be here. And yet, here I am."
The S.A.S.S. System blinked in.
> [SYSTEM ALERT: The following is a late-night ego evaluation.]
Finding Fault: Your hairstyle is objectively unlikable.
Appraisal: You are below average in charm but above average in chaos. Congratulations.
Zane rolled his eyes. "Thanks for nothing, toaster."
> [SYSTEM RESPONSE: You're welcome, fleshbag.]
He turned back toward the door.
Tomorrow, the tests would begin.
He didn't know what they'd throw at him.
But he did know this:
Every throne began as a seat.
And sometimes, the dog outside the castle had sharper teeth than the lord within.