"So," Titos growled several hours later, once we were back at the castle, "can we kill them or not?"
Aerys barely looked up from his plate.
The feast was loud, crude, triumphant. Roasted meat covered the tables, the air thick with grease and smoke. Laughter clashed with raised voices. It was supposed to feel like victory.
It didn't.
Kael was still there.
That alone unsettled Aerys.
The Proctor answered without even glancing at Titos.
"That's not the purpose of the exercise, you oversized primate. So no. You don't slaughter your fellow cadets."
Aerys watched Titos bristle, chest swelling as if insult were fuel.
Kael didn't stop.
"You really understand nothing, do you?" His voice cut cleanly through the noise. "What—did you think we only want you beating each other senseless to see who's strongest?" A pause. "That phase is over."
Lysandra crossed her arms, studying him.
"What are you saying?" she asked. "That we should start showing mercy?"
Kael smiled.
"Oh, no. You must remain ruthless."
Aerys noticed how Titos visibly relaxed at that.
He'd spent the entire day posturing, drawing followers like flies to blood. Some admired him. Others feared him. He shut up around Callius, mocked him behind his back, and treated Kael the same way—testing limits, pushing, probing.
Kael calmly set down a slab of meat.
"Let's be absolutely clear," he said, before this walking pile of muscle charges ahead without thinking. "You must be merciless. If someone dies by accident, you will not be punished. Accidents happen."
Aerys felt a chill pass through the table.
"However," Kael continued, turning slightly toward Lysandra, "you are forbidden from deliberately killing one another. No burning peers alive with spells. No hanging people from the battlements—unless they're already dead."
A few nervous laughs rippled through the hall.
"In case of severe injury, arbiters are standing by. Fast. Efficient. They will intervene or extract you if needed. Most survive."
Most.
Aerys stored the word carefully.
"You need to understand something," Kael said, leaning forward. "The objective of this trial is not killing. That part is irrelevant."
Aerys felt the weight of the words settle.
"You are here to learn how to win."
Silence fell.
"We want Praetors. Imperators," Kael went on. "We want brilliance. Leaders who can command armies, pass judgment, manage supply lines." His gaze swept across them. "Anyone can shove a sword into their neighbor's gut. We want rulers—not thugs."
Aerys agreed.
Killing was simple. Crude. Inefficient.
"So," Kael concluded, "the goal of this exercise is conquest. Not destruction."
He folded his arms.
"Now tell me—when you have seven enemies to subjugate, how do you proceed?"
Titos grinned, as if this were obvious.
"You fight them one by one."
Aerys exhaled quietly.
Kael sighed.
"Wrong, troll."
"Moron," Sevrius added.
Aerys watched the shift.
Titos's followers turned toward Sevrius in unison. Silent. Measured. Sevrius was the smallest among them—maybe in the entire Academy.
They didn't threaten him.
They promised something.
Wordlessly.
Aerys understood then: they weren't stupid. Their athletic builds, their bravado—it disguised calculation.
"Anyone else?" Kael asked.
No one spoke.
So Aerys did.
"You eliminate them by incorporating them," he said. "You enslave them."
The hall went still.
The words felt… correct.
The Empire itself had been built that way. On the backs of the weak. Not cruelty.
Pragmatism.
Kael began to clap. Slowly.
"Magnificent, little prince," he said. "Absolutely magnificent. That reeks of Primus."
The reaction was immediate. Nervous movement. Uneasy glances.
Aerys didn't flinch.
Kael bent down and pulled a long case from beneath the table. He opened it and drew out a spear—tall, elegant—adorned with a banner.
The cloth unfurled.
Aerys understood at once.
This wasn't training anymore.
It was doctrine.
And they were being shaped to carry it.