Dawn broke over Varethia with the hush of a secret.
Mist drifted low across the fields, curling through acres of lilies whose silver-white petals drank in the first light. The air smelled of dew and cold metal from the forges beyond the estate walls—a fragrance that had always felt more honest to Serene Valehart than the roses arranged in her room.
Inside the manor, the bells chimed the hour in delicate succession. Polished marble reflected the early glow, and footsteps of servants whispered through corridors designed for quiet perfection. Every sound here had edges sanded smooth; even grief would have to learn to curtsy before entering.
Serene stood in her chamber, drawing the final strap of her glove. The mirror opposite her returned a flawless image—blue silk trimmed in silver, hair neatly braided, a posture that could have been carved from patience itself. Everything her tutors had spent years refining stared back at her.
She looked every inch a Valehart.
And yet, beneath the folds of her cloak, the sword tied at her hip hummed faintly, its weight pressing against her ribs like a heartbeat that refused to slow.
Her father was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase. Duke Renard Valehart stood as though he had been chiseled from the same marble that lined the hall—tall, controlled, impeccably distant. Light from the stained-glass ceiling spilled across his silver hair and the insignia ring on his hand.
"You understand," he said, voice measured, "you go as a Valehart first, as yourself second. What you do reflects this house."
"I understand," she replied, her tone calm but firm.
"Remember our creed."
"Grace is might unseen."
He nodded once. Approval, cold and perfect, like the click of a sword returning to its sheath.
Her mother descended behind him, pale and poised, carrying the scent of parchment and lilies. Lady Mirielle's eyes softened when they met Serene's; behind that composure lay a tenderness the household pretended not to see.
"You've always had steady hands," her mother said quietly. "Keep them steady still."
Serene managed a small smile. "I will, Mother."
Neither hug nor blessing followed—just silence, dignified and complete. Yet as she turned toward the doors, she caught her mother's reflection in the mirror wall—eyes glistening, lips moving in a prayer she would never speak aloud.
The morning breeze carried a whisper of embers. She paused by the eastern path, where ivy curtains hid the old forge—the one the family insisted existed only for ceremonial blades.
When she slipped inside, the air changed. The scent of soot and steel replaced lilies; sunlight fell in fractured stripes through the high windows. The blacksmith, old Joren, straightened when he saw her.
"Leaving, my lady?"
She nodded.
"Then take this."
He held out a small dagger—simple, unadorned, its hilt bound in white leather. "Forged from the scrap of your first attempt. Figured it deserved another chance."
Serene ran her thumb along the flat of the blade. It was lighter than she expected.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll earn it this time."
Joren chuckled. "You already did, the day you kept hammering after burning your hand."
Outside, the carriage horses pawed impatiently. She tucked the dagger beneath her cloak and walked toward the gate. The lilies bowed in the wind as if bidding her farewell.
The Road to Solis Caelum took three days through valleys and river crossings. Serene traveled mostly in silence, her companion a maid assigned more for appearances than necessity. Through the window, she watched farmers leading oxen through silver-mud fields and children waving with hands dusted in flour.
Every village she passed greeted her carriage with shallow bows—respect paid not to her, but to the Valehart crest painted on the door. For the first time, she wondered if anyone would ever bow to her name without it.
At night, camped near quiet inns, she unstrapped her sword and practiced slow forms behind the carriage. The air there smelled of smoke and pine. Her movements were deliberate, almost meditative: each swing a question, each breath an answer she hadn't yet found.
On the second evening, she whispered her house motto to the stars.
"Grace is might unseen," she repeated. Then she smiled faintly. "Perhaps it's time someone sees it."
By dawn on the third day, Solis Caelum rose from the mist like a dream of marble. White bridges arched over glowing canals; banners in gold and blue rippled from the towers. At the far edge of the city, the cliffs of Aurenheim gleamed in sunlight, crowned by the Royal Knight Academy—a fortress of learning where discipline stood taller than any spire.
As her carriage climbed the stone road to the academy gates, Serene felt her heartbeat settle into that same rhythm she heard in the forge: strike, breathe, shape.
The gates opened. Dozens of young trainees stood beyond—sons of generals, daughters of minor nobles, even a few commoners sponsored by guilds. The air buzzed with anticipation, steel ringing faintly from distant courtyards.
Her carriage stopped. The driver descended first, then opened the door. Serene stepped onto the pale stone, her boots leaving perfect prints in the dust. Every head turned.
Whispers chased her immediately.
"Is that the Valehart girl?"
"The diplomat's daughter?"
"Didn't know she even held a sword."
She ignored them and walked straight to the registrar's table, where a weary clerk dipped his quill in ink.
"Name and House?"
"Serene Valehart. Daughter of Duke Renard Valehart, of Varethia."
The quill froze. The clerk blinked twice. "The… Valehart Valeharts?"
"The same," she said politely.
He scribbled hurriedly, then muttered, "We haven't had one of yours here in—well, ever."
She gave a single nod. "Then it's overdue."
A faint laugh echoed from nearby—dry, not mocking, simply aware.
"If she's here for ceremony, she's at the wrong gate."
Serene turned.
A young man leaned against a pillar by the training courtyard. His hair caught a streak of silver in the sun, and his eyes—grey touched with blue—held a calm she recognized: the kind that comes from discipline, not arrogance.
He was dressed simply, armor pieces buckled over dark training clothes. No crest ring, no family insignia. Just presence.
Someone whispered beside her, "That's Rowen Aster—the General's ward. Top of last year's entrance trials."
Rowen regarded her for a long moment, expression unreadable.
"Diplomat's daughter," he said evenly, "you'll find swords here less forgiving than words."
Serene tilted her head slightly. "Then it's a good thing I speak both."
A flicker—maybe amusement—touched his face. Then he straightened and walked away, leaving the air behind him oddly sharper.
The registrar exhaled. "Welcome to the Academy, Lady Valehart."
Stone courtyards spread across terraces carved into the cliff. Training rings shimmered with heat, and rows of recruits marched in measured rhythm under instructors' shouts. Beyond them, the ocean stretched into mist—a boundary and a promise.
Serene followed the attendant assigned to show her quarters. Every few steps, glances followed her: some curious, some pitying, some hostile. She kept her pace steady, chin level, as her mother had taught her.
The dormitory corridors smelled of oil and steel rather than perfume and parchment. When she opened the door to her assigned room, she found it plain but bright: a narrow bed, a desk, a weapon rack. No mirrors, no vases of lilies. Just space to breathe.
She set her cloak aside, untied her hair, and looked at her reflection in the window glass. The city below glittered like silver dust.
For the first time, she didn't feel wrong.
Evening bells tolled across Aurenheim, deep and resonant. Trainees gathered in the main courtyard where Commander Eira Caldrin—stern, tall, her armor bearing the crest of the Phoenix—addressed them.
"You are here because you chose discipline over comfort," Eira said, voice carrying easily. "Titles end at the gates. Nobility means nothing when your blade dulls. What you earn here, you earn yourself."
Her gaze swept the crowd and paused, just briefly, on Serene. The Commander's eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, before moving on.
"Tomorrow," Eira continued, "you face your first trial. Do not disgrace the steel you carry."
As the assembly dispersed, Serene remained still, staring toward the cliff edge where the sea glimmered beneath sunset. The wind tugged at her braid, scattering strands across her face.
Behind her, Rowen passed by, pausing only long enough to say quietly, "For someone from a house of lilies, you didn't flinch."
She turned, meeting his eyes. "I've never liked wilting."
He studied her for a heartbeat, then nodded once and walked on.
The bells fell silent.
The academy lights flickered to life, one by one, across the terraces.
Serene drew a slow breath, hand brushing the hilt beneath her cloak. Tomorrow would bring steel, sweat, and judgment.
But tonight—standing between the world she left and the one she was about to forge—
she allowed herself a rare smile.
> "Grace is might unseen."
Perhaps, by the time she was done here, they would finally see it.