The Commoners' first year's class fell into silence when the doors slammed open.
She entered like a storm contained in flesh. A tall woman, sharp-hipped and broad of chest, her presence filling the hall before her voice ever could. Her hair was white as fresh-fallen ash, cascading in a severe braid that glimmered faintly under the weak lantern-light. Her face was beautiful, but in the way a blade is beautiful—ruthless angles, lips fixed in disdain, eyes pale and merciless.
Professor Veyra Caldus did not smile. She did not need to. Her very gaze stripped away illusions.
"First-years," she said, her tone silken but laced with poison. "How quaint. Children dressed in borrowed robes, pretending you matter."
Her eyes moved slowly across the room, pausing only to let discomfort ripen. A few boys straightened their backs under her scrutiny; a girl lowered her gaze, knuckles whitening around her quill.
Veyra's laugh was low, bitter, mocking. "Oh, don't look so stricken. You came here expecting kindness? Fairness?" She leaned against the desk, her posture confident, the curve of her figure striking, but her expression colder than iron. "Let me disabuse you now. This academy is not your friend. It is a knife to your throat, waiting to see if you bleed or sharpen."
Her heels clicked as she prowled between rows, the scent of her perfume sharp and burning like spice.
"In the world beyond these walls, the law is older than any king or creed. The strong devour. The weak are bones in the mud. It is as simple as that. And you, little hopefuls, are about to discover which you are."
She stopped beside a boy in the front row. He had freckles, soft hands, and the nervous posture of someone who had never truly fought. Veyra placed a finger under his chin, tilting his face upward.
"Prey," she said, almost kindly, before shoving his head back down. Laughter rippled cruelly from the back rows.
Veyra ignored it, continuing, her voice rising now.
"In three days' time, you will be tested. Not in your wit. Not in your manners. Tested in strength. Tested in cruelty. From this crop of wide-eyed lambs, I will carve the five strongest. The rest—" she gestured lazily with her hand, "—can crawl back into obscurity where they belong."
Gasps. Murmurs. A ripple of panic and bravado spread through the hall. One arrogant boy in the corner muttered something under his breath about unfairness. Veyra's ears caught it like a hawk.
She turned on him, slow, deliberate.
"Fair?" Her lips curved into a smile at last—sharp, venomous. "Tell me, child, when a wolf tears the throat from a deer, is that fair? When plague steals a village, is that fair? When war crushes men into mud, is that fair?"
She leaned forward, her white braid brushing her shoulder, her bust rising with each deliberate breath as her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"No. The world does not care. The world rewards one thing: power. Everything else is just excuses whispered by corpses."
She spun on her heel, cloak flaring, and scrawled across the chalkboard with a sweep of her hand. The runes burned into the surface, glowing in jagged crimson strokes:
ONLY THE STRONG REMAIN.
The silence that followed was absolute. No quills scratched. No breath dared come too loud. The students sat locked in her gaze, knowing they had not met a professor—they had met a predator.
Veyra's eyes lingered one last time on the room, her sarcasm a velvet dagger as she whispered:
"Don't disappoint me, children. I do so hate wasting my time."
And with that, she swept out of the hall, leaving the air behind her heavy, broken, and cold.
Gareth, sitting in the back, watched her go. Her words echoed in his chest like an old truth he already knew. Only the strong remain.
And he wondered, for the first time, if he was strong enough to survive what came next.
The Mark burned faintly on Gareth's skin.
Far away, beyond sight and beyond stars, a pair of eyes opened.
The void stirred. Shadows curled and folded upon themselves, weaving into a throne that was never built but simply was. Upon it sat Umbrael, the Keeper of the Silent Eclipse, his form shifting, never fixed, always more suggestion than shape.
A whisper passed through the dimension, soft as breath and sharp as a blade.
"The five strongest… law of the jungle… mortals cloak their hunger in philosophy. They devour one another, not from truth, but from fear. Always fear."
Umbrael extended a hand, and the darkness bent outward. Threads of shadow slithered beyond his prison, slipping through cracks unseen. They reached like roots into the waking world.
Through them, Umbrael searched.
He drifted through halls of stone and candlelight, through archives thick with dust, through records mortals thought forgotten. He tasted every word, every seal, every lingering trace of power. And then… he found it.
A fragment. A warning. An echo carved into the marrow of history.
"Ah… so that is why they gather the strong. Not for glory. Not for survival. But for a hunt."
The shadows quivered with silent laughter.
He saw the professors, each cloaked in pride, cruelty, or ambition. He saw the headmaster, eyes that pierced through veils but not his. He even brushed against other presences — vast, watching, waiting. Old as he, though not the same. Rivals. Pretenders.
"They think they are unseen. Fools. I see them all."
For a moment, the darkness pulsed. Knowledge gathered around Umbrael like a crown. He could have spoken it aloud, sent it bleeding into Gareth's mind, revealed the truth of the academy's games and the enemies circling him.
But he did not.
Instead, Umbrael smiled.
"Why spoil the game by telling the pawn the rules?"
He leaned back into his throne of writhing shadow, and the void swallowed his laughter whole.
The echo of Professor Veyra's heels faded into the silence she left behind. The door slammed shut, and for a long breath the Commoners' Hall was still — frozen, as if her presence still prowled unseen between the rows.
Then the whispers began.
"She said five strongest—"
"—cruelty? Did you hear her say cruelty?"
"No one survives her trials—"
"They say she's failed entire classes before—"
The murmur spread like cracks through glass, each voice brittle with fear, excitement, or denial. Faces turned pale. Some students grinned too wide, already convincing themselves they would be chosen. Others stared at their desks as though the wood could swallow them whole.
Gareth sat unmoving at the back, the Mark burning faintly under his sleeve. Veyra's words throbbed in his chest like something long familiar, an old scar reopened: Only the strong remain. He had lived it. He did not need a professor's philosophy to know its truth.
Yet the room was shifting. He could feel it. Bonds of camaraderie that had barely formed were already cracking under the weight of her decree. Friendships, rivalries, ambitions — all sharpened at once.
And then, Cassiel Draemond found him.
The boy moved quietly, slipping between desks until he stood near Gareth's corner. His cloak was missing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as though hiding their trembling. His pale blue eyes darted between the chattering students before settling on Gareth.
He lowered his voice. "She… she meant it. Every word. You saw her. Gods above, she meant it."
His jaw clenched, but the mask didn't hold. There was fear in his eyes — sharp, raw, almost childlike. He tried to force it down, straightening his back, shoulders taut. His lips curled in something that might have been a smile if it weren't so thin.
"We'll be fine," he said, more to himself than to Gareth. "I'll be fine. I'm Draemond blood. I can… I can do this."
The words trembled against the silence. Confidence spoken like a prayer.
Gareth studied him for a moment. Cassiel's fear was not weakness — it was honesty buried under desperation. The boy wanted to believe he was more than prey. Wanted to convince himself that his bloodline, his name, would shield him from a predator like Veyra.
The whispers in the hall grew louder again, swelling around them like a storm. But Gareth's eyes lingered on Cassiel, and for the first time he wondered — not who the five strongest would be, but who among them would shatter first.
And somewhere, far beyond sight, Umbrael watched.
The Mark on Gareth's arm pulsed faintly, as though amused.
The whispers still clung to the classroom like smoke. Some students were already sizing each other up with hungry eyes, others pretending not to hear, and a few clutching their notes as though ink could shield them from steel.
Gareth leaned back in his seat, gaze sliding until it caught Cassiel Draymond.
For once, the noble wasn't smirking. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes unfocused, lips moving just slightly, as though repeating words to himself. Steady… steady… you're a Draemond. You'll be fine.
Gareth's mouth quirked. He tilted his head, voice low but edged with mockery.
"Scared, bro?"
Cassiel jerked, blinking as if pulled from drowning thoughts. Then the mask slammed back on. He laughed—too quickly, too sharp.
"Me? Please. I was just… calculating how many of these sheep I'll have to trample to make it into the top five. Spoiler: most of them."
But his fingers still tapped restlessly on the desk, and Gareth caught the faint tremor beneath the bravado.
It was a good performance. To anyone else, it would've sounded convincing. But Gareth had seen the crack.
He didn't call him out. Didn't strip the mask away. Instead, he reached out, gave Cassiel a firm pat on the shoulder — the kind that said more than words — and turned toward the door.
At the threshold, with the rest of the class watching him leave, Gareth glanced back just once.
"I'll always be there for you."
The words landed heavy, sharp as a blade yet warm as fire.
Cassiel's smirk faltered. For the barest second, his eyes widened, the bravado flickering. Then he scoffed, leaning back with a laugh that rang too loudly.
"Don't get sentimental on me, Valven. Save it for the weaklings who'll need it."
But when Gareth's footsteps faded down the corridor, Cassiel sat in silence, staring at the spot where his friend had stood — and his hand curled tight around his quill, as if holding onto something he didn't quite understand.
The whispers followed Gareth out of the hall, clinging like gnats, but he ignored them. The door shut behind him, sealing away the fear and bravado that had swallowed the first-years whole.
Elsewhere, beyond the stone corridors and candlelit chambers of the Commoners' Hall, another world thrived.
Kael Draven sat among a polished table of noble sons and daughters, silver dishes gleaming beneath the chandeliers. The room was alive with laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of velvet sleeves. Here, no one whispered about survival. Here, power was inherited, not fought for.
One of the young lords at Kael's side leaned in with a jest about the upcoming trials. A lady in silk laughed, brushing Kael's arm with a coy glance.
Kael, usually grim and hard-eyed, allowed himself something rare.
He smiled.
It was small, fleeting, but real—carved into his scarred features like sunlight breaking through a storm.
One of the noble sons raised his cup, boasting of his family's lands. Laughter rang, fine wine sloshed, but Kael only half-listened. His gaze drifted toward the windows, where night pressed against the glass.
For a moment, the noble mask slipped. Quietly, to no one in particular, Kael murmured,
"…I hope Gareth's doing better."
The chatter of the table drowned it, and no one pressed him. The smile lingered faintly on his face as the scene faded into shadow.
Night.
The forest beyond the academy stretched vast and dark, cicadas humming under the pale wash of moonlight. Gareth sat alone beside a fire, the flames painting his features in shifting amber. His eyes were faraway, reflecting on the day's chaos, on Veyra's merciless words, on the weight that never seemed to leave his shoulders.
The solitude suited him.
Or it did—until the crunch of footsteps stirred the silence.
Cassiel Draemond emerged from the shadows, a crooked grin flickering in the firelight. He looked less like the sharp-tongued noble and more like a boy who'd walked too far from home. Without a word, he sat across from Gareth, the flames crackling between them.
"Thanks," he said simply, the bravado stripped away for once. Then, with a flourish, he pulled two freshly caught fish from his satchel.
"Figured I'd save us from your cooking."
Gareth smirked, shaking his head. "You're assuming I was going to share."
"Please," Cassiel snorted, skewering the fish on a branch. "You'd starve without me."
The banter loosened the air, and soon the fire carried their laughter into the night. For a while, the world outside—professors, trials, laws of the jungle—didn't matter.
There was only firelight, the taste of roasted fish, and the strange comfort of knowing that even in a place built on fear, they had found something else.