The gates of the Academy slammed shut with a sound like iron breaking against stone. The echo lingered in the air, swallowing the last trace of the outside world. For many of the cadets, it was the first time they felt cut off from the cities of the Imperium, from family and privilege. For Nael Crimson, it was not isolation he felt—but return.
The Academy was a fortress-city within itself, a monument of black stone and crimson banners, every corridor lined with statues of Executioners past. The very walls bled history, whispering of those who had marched through these halls to claim glory or die forgotten. And now, Nael was once again among them—though none of his peers could imagine that his spirit carried decades of victories and betrayals within it.
After the oath was sworn in the courtyard, the cadets were herded into their temporary barracks. The massive doors creaked open, revealing long rows of steel bunks, a floor polished to a mirror-like shine, and banners stitched with the sigil of the Crimson Imperium: the downward-pointing sword, wreathed in crimson laurels, piercing a sun of blood.
The room was cold, the air heavy with discipline. Already, cadets bickered over bunks, boasting of noble bloodlines, while others stood in silence, too wary to show weakness.
Nael walked in without hesitation, his crimson eyes scanning the chamber. He had lived this once before. He remembered the faces of some of those who would rise and those who would break. This time, he would choose differently.
A shadow loomed over him.
"You're small," a deep voice said, carrying the weight of amusement rather than insult.
Nael turned. Standing before him was a giant of a boy—no, a mountain in human form. He had to be nearly two heads taller than the rest, his arms like iron beams, his chest broad enough to look like armor even in the standard cadet's black tunic. His hair was dark, cropped short, and his eyes were a sharp gray, almost metallic.
Nael met his gaze without flinching. "And you're large."
The giant blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. He extended his hand, the size of a gauntlet. "Rome Varrax."
Nael clasped it, his smaller hand dwarfed but his grip firm. "Nael Crimson."
The name made some of the nearby cadets go silent. Crimson carried weight—it was the bloodline of the Imperator himself. Rome, however, did not bow or stiffen. He only nodded once, as though Nael's name was simply one more fact to file away.
"You don't strike me as soft," Rome said. "That's good. I hate soft."
Nael smirked faintly. "Then we'll get along."
As the two exchanged their first words, a ripple of murmurs spread through the barracks. On the far side, a group of cadets argued in sharp tones, clustered around a slim figure seated calmly on her bunk. Unlike the others, she didn't raise her voice or gesture wildly. Instead, she sat with her hands folded, her black hair falling neatly to her shoulders, her golden eyes unblinking as she dismantled every argument leveled at her.
"You've misunderstood the principle of formation depth," she said to a red-faced boy who had been bragging about his noble family's military history. Her voice was even, precise, but cutting. "You think greater numbers always ensure stability, but tell me—when your front line collapses under concentrated artillery, what use are your reserves if they cannot reposition before the enemy's charge? You've lost before the second horn is sounded."
The boy stammered. She continued, merciless.
"War is not a parade of bloodlines. It is a theater of inevitability. Those who see further win. Those who don't, die. It's that simple."
Silence fell. The boy flushed with shame and turned away. The slim figure didn't smile at her victory. She only lowered her eyes to a small, leather-bound notebook and began scribbling with deliberate strokes.
Rome leaned toward Nael, muttering, "She's terrifying."
Nael watched her carefully. He knew her. Not by name—he had never spoken to her before in his past life—but by reputation. A brilliant tactician who would one day stand at his side, reshaping the art of war itself. The histories had called her cold, calculating, merciless in her strategies.
Nael approached.
"You don't waste words," he said.
The girl looked up, her golden eyes sharp as blades. "And you are?"
"Nael Crimson."
Her gaze lingered on him longer than most dared. Finally, she gave the smallest nod. "Selene Daevaris."
The name stirred recognition. Selene the Veil of Knives. That was what history had called her. Second only to him in tactical brilliance, feared by enemies who never saw her traps until it was too late.
Rome lumbered closer, folding his arms across his chest. "Rome Varrax. Don't suppose you're planning on cutting me up with words, too?"
Selene's lips twitched, almost a smile. "I don't waste knives on shields. Shields are… useful."
Rome laughed, the sound booming across the barracks. "I like her!"
The three of them—Nael, Rome, and Selene—had drawn the attention of nearly everyone else in the room. Some cadets whispered enviously, others scowled, already seeing rivals where alliances were forming.
That night, after the barracks settled into uneasy silence, Nael lay awake in his bunk. Rome snored like thunder nearby, while Selene wrote quietly in her notebook by the dim light of a flickering lamp.
Nael's eyes drifted to the crimson sigil stitched onto his chest—the downward sword piercing the blood sun. His fingers brushed the fabric, and the memory of the House Creed whispered in his mind:
By the blade we judge.By the blood we bind.From the crimson sun, none escape.We are the hand, we are the blade,We are House Crimson eternal.
This time, he would not fight alone. This time, he had allies—one a shield of unbreakable will, the other a mind that cut sharper than any blade.
Together with Nael, they would one day form the trinity of conquest:the Sword, the Shield, and the Shadow.
And the galaxy would drown in crimson.