The scent of parchment and rain lingered in the air as the ancient gates of Velshyre Academy creaked open for another year. Silver-edged carriages floated above the cobbled courtyard, delivering the scions of empire—children of dukes, warlords, sorcerer-magnates, and exiled royalty.
From the grand arched window of the eastern tower, Alistair Grayson watched them arrive.
He did not wave. He did not smile.
He simply observed—the way one might regard livestock before a fair.
Velshyre was many things: a school, yes—but also a crucible. Here, magic and politics were sharpened like blades, and only the sharpest survived. For most students, this place was a proving ground.
For Alistair, it was a throne room in waiting.
He turned from the window and adjusted the cuff of his tailored midnight-blue uniform. Embroidered silver thread traced the sigil of House Grayson: a lion seated beneath a crescent moon. Quiet power. Controlled aggression.
His chamber reflected the same principles—understated luxury. A single crimson chair sat before a fireplace that had not been lit in months. That was where he liked to sit when delivering bad news. Or good news, if it came at someone else's expense.
Today, he had neither.
Today, he was simply... bored.
A knock came. Three sharp raps. Precision. Edwin.
"Enter," Alistair called, his voice smooth as polished obsidian.
The door opened to reveal a boy with immaculate posture and haunted eyes. Edwin held a scroll in one gloved hand. "The first-year roster, sir. And... there's something unusual."
Alistair took the scroll and let his gaze drift. "Unusual bores me."
"He's... from outside the Twelve Houses."
That made Alistair pause.
Velshyre was built on legacy. Admission was not a matter of aptitude, but pedigree. Outsiders were unheard of.
"What's his name?" Alistair asked.
"Arden Vale." Edwin hesitated. "A scholarship student. Won the Trials of Merit in the Western Reach. He's... gifted. Some say unnaturally so."
Alistair's lip curled slightly. "Gifted," he echoed, as if tasting something sour.
He opened the scroll. Arden's name was there, nestled among those of heirs and heiresses. Common ink among gold.
"Schedule his introduction," Alistair said, handing the scroll back. "The boy and I should meet."
Edwin nodded, but before he left, he asked, "Should I have someone watch him?"
Alistair's eyes glinted like knives. "No."
He walked slowly to the crimson chair and lowered himself into it.
"Let him feel safe first."
Elsewhere, beneath the cracked gargoyle spires of the North Tower, a boy with calloused hands and storm-colored eyes stepped onto Velshyre's soil for the first time.
He carried no sigil. No legacy.
Only ambition.
And Alistair Grayson had just noticed him.