The manor did not echo.
It absorbed.
Footsteps softened before they could announce themselves. Conversations thinned into the walls. Even the rain outside — steady, patient — sounded restrained, as if the estate had decided that nothing within it should ever feel unstable.
Beyond the tall windows, the sky hung low and iron-heavy.
The supernatural world was never bright.
Clouds layered thick overhead — not natural clouds, but woven ones. Spell-threaded. Sustained. A barrier laced by witches to filter sunlight into something survivable. Most days the sky bruised itself in charcoal and dull violet. The light that reached the ground felt strained, as though it had passed through too many hands before arriving.
Sometimes the barrier thinned.
Sometimes sunlight broke through in molten sheets.
Those rare days were called Sun Vacations.
Everything paused when that happened.
Today was not one of those days.
The sky was dense. Pressing.
And Mars had made a decision.
Succession had not been declared.
But it had been implied.
And implication carried teeth.
He did not belong here by blood.
Did not share their biology. Their instincts. Their inherited advantages.
If he remained as he was, he would be ornamental at best.
Disposable at worst.
So he chose the only thing he could control.
If he could not belong—
He would become necessary.
He turned and walked toward the library.
The library smelled of leather bindings, old ink, and faint ozone — magic aging in paper.
Mira stood halfway up the rolling ladder, fingers grazing spines without looking down.
"You've been outside the door long enough to change your mind twice," she said mildly.
"I wasn't going to change my mind, it's already made up."
"No?" She slid a book free and descended. "Then what were you doing?"
"Deciding how to say it."
"And?" she replied.
Mars cleared his throat
"I need you to teach me."
She stepped off the ladder and studied him properly now.
"Teach you what, exactly? Etiquette? Diplomacy? How not to look like you're plotting something during dinner?"
A faint edge of dry humor.
Mars scoffed a little, acknowledging her attempt of a joke
"The world," he said. "The real structure. The things people don't explain."
Her gaze sharpened.
"This about what Master David implied at the meeting last night?"
"It's about not being weak."
Silence settled between them — not cold, not warm. Evaluating.
"If I teach you," she said slowly, "I will also teach you how to fend for yourself, information along won't make you capable"
"Good, I was hoping you would teach me combat too actually"
"If I train you, you will bleed."
He held her stare. "Then I'll bleed."
A pause.
"You adapt disturbingly fast," she murmured.
"i have no choice but to adapt quickly."
That almost — almost — looked like approval.
"Tonight," she said. "Underground hall. Wear something you won't miss."
In the evening, The Hall
The underground training hall was carved into the manor's oldest stone.
No decoration.
Just function.
Stone floors worn smooth. Iron sconces burning low blue flame. The air thick with oil, sweat, metal.
Mars expected privacy.
He got an audience.
Four figures waited inside.
Staff.
But the manor did not hire ordinary staff.
A tall werewolf guard leaned against the far wall, pale hair tied back tight. Relaxed posture. Alert eyes.
A skimpy looking shapeshifter rolled one shoulder slowly, skin rippling faintly under torchlight like something fluid lived beneath it.
Two senior maids stood near the weapon rack, sleeves rolled, expressions composed.
And near them—
Her.
Dark-haired. Compact build. Stillness that wasn't calm — more like restraint.
Mira stepped into the center.
"No one goes easy," she said.
The shapeshifter huffed lightly. "Wasn't planning to."
Mars inhaled once.
"Begin."
Humbling
The werewolf moved first.
No warning. No theatrics.
Just speed.
Mars lifted the wooden blade too late. It spun from his hand. A controlled palm struck his chest. The stone floor met his back hard enough to knock breath from his lungs.
He stared at the ceiling, lungs refusing cooperation.
"Up," Mira said.
He got up.
The shapeshifter followed — heavier hits, shifting angles, her small build somehow was not a disadvantage, she hit fast, and somehow hit just as hard as the werewolf. A feint left became impact right. Pain bloomed across his ribs.
He hit the ground again.
A senior maid stepped in next. Smaller. Faster. She twisted his wrist, swept his ankle, and he was down before he processed the transition.
No one laughed.
That was worse.
They weren't humiliating him.
They were measuring him.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Sweat stung his eyes. His knuckles split. The stone floor grew less forgiving with each impact.
Three seconds.
Five.
Seven.
Then the dark-haired maid stepped forward.
He forced air into his lungs. "You don't have to go easy."
Her eyes lifted slowly.
"That's not a concern."
She moved.
Clean. Direct. No wasted motion.
He lasted longer with her.
Long enough to think.
Then she caught his shoulder, pivoted, and pressed her forearm to his throat, pinning him.
Her breathing was steady.
"You hesitate," she said quietly. "Right before you commit."
"You overextend when you think you've won," he replied.
That earned him the smallest flicker of surprise.
She released him.
They reset.
She beat him again.
But something had shifted.
Recognition.
Her name surfaced a week later.
"Elara," Mira called sharply across the hall. "Reset your stance."
Elara.
It fit her.
She trained like someone who had clawed her way into the manor's ranks.
Not born into prestige.
Not legacy.
Newer.
Unsettled.
He recognized it.
Their spars became quieter.
Sharper.
"You think too much," she muttered one evening, blocking his strike.
"You move like you're expecting to leave," he shot back, breath tight.
Her jaw ticked.
They went again.
She still won.
But he began lasting longer.
The Structure
Mornings belonged to the library.
Evenings to the hall.
Mira didn't drown him in politics.
She handed him frameworks.
Territory maps spread across oak tables. Not stories — leverage.
Bloodline charts. Not gossip — influence.
"The world isn't chaos," she said once, tapping a marked region. "It's managed tension. Learn who benefits, and you'll understand why decisions are made."
He absorbed it quietly.
The barrier above their world required constant recalibration. Witches maintained layered enchantments within the clouds, filtering sunlight into something tolerable.
When magic thinned—
Sunlight descended fully.
Sun Vacations.
Certain species retreated indoors. Work halted. Schools closed. The world waited for dusk.
"Think of it like rain in the human world," Mira said. "Temporary. Necessary."
He memorized what mattered.
Not because he loved politics.
Because ignorance was vulnerability.
Progress
Training found rhythm.
Three nights a week.
Sometimes four.
The werewolf, Steven , grounded him.
"Stop fighting from your shoulders," he muttered once, shoving Mars back. "Power starts lower."
The shapeshifter, her name was Jessy, forced unpredictability.
"You expect patterns. Stop that."
The senior maids refined precision.
"You blink when pressured."
"You breathe too high."
"You tense before impact."
Mars bled.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His body hardened. Balance sharpened. Reflexes tightened.
He stopped flinching.
He learned to fall without panic.
To take a hit without unraveling.
Elara became his consistent partner.
"You're slower," she said once, circling him.
"I know."
"But you're less predictable now."
"That's the goal."
She smirked faintly.
That was new.
Months blurred.
Losses turned into exchanges.
Exchanges into strategy.
One night, beneath the low hum of barrier magic overhead, he disarmed her cleanly.
The wooden blade clattered across stone.
They both froze.
She looked at the weapon.
Then at him.
"Don't get proud."
He exhaled slowly. "Wasn't planning to."
"Good," she said, stepping back into stance. "Because I'm about to fix that."
She hit harder.
And he held.
It happened mid-summer.
The clouds shimmered strangely at dawn.
By noon, gold fractured the sky.
A Sun Vacation.
The manor shifted instantly. Some staff withdrew indoors. Transport paused. The air felt thinner — exposed.
Light streamed through iron grates in the training hall, turning dust into drifting constellations.
Elara squinted upward. "I hate this."
"You're not sun-sensitive."
"That's not the point."
They sparred anyway.
Sweat warmed differently under true light.
Under that rare brightness—
He pinned her.
Forearm steady at her collarbone.
Breath controlled.
She stared up at him for a long second.
Then shoved him off.
"Again."
But there was no dismissal in her voice.
Only acknowledgment.
Three Years
Time accumulated quietly.
Mars grew into his height.
His movements became economical.
He no longer moved through the manor like he was borrowing space.
Staff still bowed.
But some watched him differently now.
Measured.
One night, after he held his ground against the werewolf guard far longer than expected—
Mira said only, "Good."
From her, that meant everything.
--------
Rain pressed heavy against the windows the afternoon it arrived.
Thick parchment. Dark wax. The academy crest sealed deep.
Mars held it longer than necessary.
Lyra leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely. Watching with nervous excitement.
Astrid stood near the staircase, expression sharp with interest.
Mira waited by the fireplace.
"Well?" Lyra said lightly. "You going to stare at it until it opens itself?"
"Tempting," he muttered, breaking the seal.
He read.
Accepted.
First human admitted under royal initiative.
Academic readiness cited.
Combat competency noted.
Strategic recommendation attached.
Signed.
David Issac III Vesper.
He looked up slowly.
"You guys did this."
"We recommended you," she corrected.
Lyra's brows lifted slightly. "Months ago, I'm guessing."
Mira didn't deny it.
"Why?" Mars asked.
Mira's gaze didn't soften.
"Because you won't embarrass this house."
A beat.
"And because you're prepared."
Astrid exhaled slowly. "About time."
Lyra pushed off the doorway. "Try not to start a war on your first day." she said, brushing against him as she left
"No promises," he replied with a smile.
That earned him the faintest smirk.
Three years.
Bruises.
Discipline.
Study.
Not wasted.
The Last Night
The hall was quiet.
Just him and Mira.
No staff.
No Elara.
No witnesses.
She attacked without warning.
Sharper than usual.
Testing.
He adjusted.
Not chasing openings.
Creating them.
Wood clashed.
Breath steady.
He pivoted early.
Redirected.
Disarmed.
Held the blade steady at her shoulder.
Still.
Controlled.
"You're still human," she said.
"I know."
"You won't be the strongest there."
"I know."
"You won't be the fastest."
"I know."
A faint exhale escaped her.
"For now," she said, stepping back, "that's enough."
Morning came, birds chirping, a rare occasion, it's usually just crows crying all day, must be the universe on his side
Ah, never mind, spoke too soon
Rain again.
The barrier hummed faintly overhead.
Lyra and Astrid waited by the car in academy uniforms.
They weren't moving away.
No dormitories.
They would commute daily from the manor through enchanted routes into academy grounds.
Home remained here.
Mars adjusted his jacket.
The crest rested over his chest.
Not decoration.
Responsibility.
Mira approached him quietly.
"One last thing."
He waited.
"Don't try to prove you belong."
He tilted his head slightly. "Then what?"
"Observe," she said. "Learn the room before you move in it."
A pause.
"Strike later."
The gates opened slowly.
The engine hummed.
Clouds shifted faintly above, barrier steady.
Under an endless dark sky stitched together by magic and discipline—
The first human drove toward the most prestigious supernatural academy in the world.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an experiment.
But as someone who had chosen—
Deliberately—
To become necessary.