The hallway outside the lecture hall filled with noise the moment the bell rang.
Students poured through the doors in waves, conversations overlapping in a dozen directions. The tension that had filled the room during Halvorsen's lecture dissolved quickly into the usual chaos of academy life.
Modred stepped into the corridor beside Taren, stretching his shoulders.
"History class on the first day," he muttered. "That was cruel."
Taren closed his notebook. "You weren't even paying attention."
"I was listening."
"You were staring at the board like you were planning to burn it."
Modred smirked faintly.
"That lecture had a lot of holes."
Taren glanced sideways. "History usually does."
Behind them, Lysara stepped out of the classroom, brushing a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear.
Students were already moving around them, forming small groups as they headed toward the courtyard.
A pair of noble students passed by, their voices deliberately loud.
"Second Tier really gets all kinds now."
"Even Vaynes apparently."
Modred ignored them.
Lysara didn't.
Her gaze followed them for a moment before she looked back toward Modred.
"You're unusually calm about this."
"They're bored," Modred replied. "And bored nobles talk too much."
Taren chuckled quietly.
As they turned the corner toward the central courtyard, a group of first-tier students approached from the opposite side.
Arthur was among them, deep in conversation with another boy from their Rite group.
When he noticed Modred, he lifted a hand casually.
"Second Tier treating you well?"
Modred shrugged.
"I've survived worse."
Arthur grinned.
"That's reassuring."
Several nearby students slowed as they noticed them speaking.
Whispers spread quickly.
"That's the Vayne from the Rite…"
"He survived that final battle…"
"Why is he in Second Tier?"
Modred ignored them again.
Another student approached from behind them.
A boy with sharp noble features.
"Don't waste your time," he said coolly. "Second Tier isn't exactly impressive."
The atmosphere shifted slightly.
Modred turned toward him.
"And you are?"
"Calvin Ardent."
The name carried quiet recognition among nearby students.
A major noble house.
Calvin crossed his arms.
"You survived the Rite, sure. But placement matters."
"First Tier students compete at a different level."
Modred studied him for a moment.
Then shrugged.
"Then I'll just beat them too."
The surrounding students went silent.
Calvin scoffed.
"Confidence without rank is just noise."
He turned and walked away with his friends.
Taren let out a quiet whistle.
"You make friends quickly."
"Not trying to."
By midday, the academy returned to motion.
Students moved through corridors, voices rising again, tension fading into routine.
Modred leaned against a pillar outside the lecture hall. Dante stood nearby, idly spinning a blade. Taren had already opened his notebook. Lysara stood beside them, quiet, watching.
"Modred."
He looked up.
Diane approached.
"You left early."
"Got bored."
"You always do."
Taren glanced between them. "…You know her."
Lysara's voice followed, quieter. "How?"
Diane hesitated.
Just slightly.
Her eyes shifted to Modred.
He didn't answer immediately.
"…She's a special person."
The words were simple.
But they lingered.
Diane stilled, then looked away, a faint flush catching her expression. "…You haven't changed."
Lysara said nothing.
But her gaze didn't move.
The courtyard shifted—not with noise, but with attention. Conversations lowered, movements slowed. A name moved quietly through the crowd.
"Blutjäger."
By the time they appeared, people were already watching.
White and black. Long coats layered over structured uniforms, clean lines reinforced with silver threading. Their movement was precise, controlled, without waste. They didn't force space—space opened for them. On their backs rested a winged insignia beneath a star, encircled in sharp metalwork.
Taren's pen stopped. "…So it's real."
Modred glanced at him. "You've heard of them."
"Enough," Taren said quietly.
At the front, one of the officers stepped forward. "Blutjäger. The Crown's strike division. We are conducting selections. Those who pass will serve."
No explanation followed.
Then another figure stepped forward, separate from the rest.
Devon Pargon.
Silence deepened without effort. His gaze passed once across the courtyard, then stopped—on Modred, on Dante, on Riven, and on Taren further back.
Recognition.
"I've already chosen."
A murmur tried to rise and died immediately.
The officer beside him shifted. "That's not normal protocol —"
"It is."
Devon didn't look at him. "If they fail, they're removed."
His gaze returned forward.
"You four," he said.
No names.
He didn't need them.
"You were not chosen for skill alone."
Dante's expression shifted slightly. Modred didn't move. Riven's posture tightened.
Devon continued, voice even. "You were chosen because of where you come from."
A brief pause.
"To be precise—Pargon."
The word landed clean.
Modred's eyes narrowed slightly. "…No."
Devon didn't react. "You were moved young. Placed in Astrian territory. Records adjusted. Origins erased. You remember Hoened because that is where you were raised. It is not where you began."
Silence pressed in.
"…And you expect us to believe that," Modred said.
"I don't expect anything," Devon replied. "I'm telling you why you were chosen."
His gaze held.
"You are Pargonian. Whether you accept it or not, your existence is tied to what was taken. You can ignore that, or you can act on it."
No pressure. No persuasion. Just fact.
"Report tomorrow."
He turned. The Blutjäger moved with him, leaving as precisely as they had entered.
The courtyard didn't recover immediately. Taren exhaled slowly. "…That explains a lot."
Dante ran a hand through his hair. "…Interesting."
Modred didn't speak.
Lysara looked at him. "You're going."
"Yes."
A pause.
"…Then so am I."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
Evening settled over the academy as the noise faded. The training grounds stood empty beneath dimming light. Modred remained at the edge of the arena.
"You always come here."
He didn't turn as Lysara stepped beside him. "Quiet."
The wind moved lightly across the stone.
"The Blutjäger," she said softly. "They're connected to you."
He didn't answer.
"You're going to chase it."
"Yes."
A pause.
"…And if it's true?"
He took a moment before answering. "…Then I'll deal with it."
Not denial. Not acceptance.
Something in between.
Lysara stepped closer, her shoulder brushing lightly against his. He didn't move away. After a moment, his arm shifted, pulling her in slightly. She rested against him, quiet.
"…Don't shut me out," she said.
"…I won't."
The last light faded beyond the academy walls. And far from the capital, something long buried had begun to move. Devon Pargon hadn't come to recruit.
He had come to reclaim.
And this time, he had found exactly what he needed.