"It's from the Academy," Rudious said, looking at the letter's seal.
"Yes, My Lord," Hans replied, visibly curious.
"Let's see." Rudious read through it, then leaned back in his chair.
"My Lord... any news? About Young Master and the other boys from town?" Hans asked.
Rudious looked at him. Then smiled.
"Yes, Hans. Everyone got in."
"What? Really!" Hans's face broke into a wide smile. "I'll go tell everyone right away, My Lord. I'll take my leave."
"Yes, yes — go ahead," Rudious said, waving him off.
Just then, Jorald walked in.
"So, My Lord — why was Hans so happy? Did you give him a bonus this time?" Jorald said, half joking.
Rudious looked at him over the letter — a sharp, cold glance. Then a slow, quiet smile.
He dropped the letter on the desk. "A bonus? He got his news. But if you don't stop talking, I'll send you on the next mission on foot. No horse."
Jorald glanced at the letter. "Oh. Results from the Academy."
"Yes," Rudious said. "Everyone passed. Except a few of the trainees."
"Well — that's fine. We need talented people here too." Jorald settled in. "So how did Young Master Drake do? Top rank, I'd assume. Or at least top five."
"Seventh," Rudious said flatly.
"What!" Jorald straightened.
"Seventh. Overall," Rudious said, folding his hands on the desk.
"Overall? Did he go into magic as well?" Jorald said.
"No. Swordsmanship and martial arts. He also entered the debate ," Rudious answered.
"And he still placed seventh?" Jorald said. "The boy is talented."
"But what about those above him?" Rudious cut in. "They must be something else entirely."
"My Lord — those above him probably only entered swordsmanship. Drake's overall score would have been spread across multiple categories."
"Then shouldn't his score be higher?" Rudious shot back immediately.
Jorald paused. "...You know what, you're right."
"Martial arts and debate have separate points. He placed fifth in martial arts. And in debate..." Rudious trailed off.
"Debate? What was his rank?" Jorald leaned forward.
"Twelv — Velian! Could you bring some tea?" Rudious called toward the door.
"Yes, My Lord!" came the reply from outside.
"Ahem. Well — he passed, that's what matters. No point counting scores now." Rudious gave Jorald a look. "Right, Jorald?"
"Ahem... yes. Quite right, My Lord."
The servant arrived with tea. Both of them took their cups and said nothing more about it.
---
A few days later, things settled back to normal.
Veil missed Drake. Drake had promised to come back every holiday — but the room was quieter without him, and the nights were harder. Rudious and Jorald took turns keeping him company after dinner, teaching him something new each evening so the silence didn't sit too heavily.
Slowly, Veil threw himself into training. New techniques. New lessons. The days filled up again.
Years passed like that.
---
In the last month of spring —
On the training ground, a boy of twelve was sparring with a fully grown soldier. The soldier was taller, heavier, and had the kind of build that came from years of hard work. Both wore leather armor. Both held wooden swords.
*Tak*.*Tak*.
The soldier's strength was overwhelming — Veil couldn't match it directly. So he didn't. He kept shifting his angle, redirecting force instead of blocking it, using the hilt when the blade wasn't enough.
*Bam*.
The soldier blocked it — but barely.
Then Veil stepped back, pivoted, and drove a diagonal strike from a low angle.
*Thwack*.
The soldier's wooden sword cracked and flew from his hand.
The training ground erupted.
"Veil! Veil! Veil won again!"
The soldier stood up, rubbing his hand. "Tricky talent, that one."
"Isn't it?" Veil said, turning with a small smile.
"Yes, Young Master."
One of the younger boys nearby said, "Aerial — what do you think Young Master Veil will awaken? His twelfth birthday is coming up."
Aerial thought for a moment. "Something powerful, probably. Like Young Master Drake."
Then Hans appeared at the edge of the grounds.
"Young Master — come eat. Lunch is ready. All of you."
---
Veil came to the dining hall, freshly changed.
"Good afternoon, Father. Good afternoon, Uncle Jorald."
Both looked up. "Good afternoon, Veil."
"Ahem." Jorald stroked his mustache. "Veil, my boy — you can call me Sir, you know. I'm not quite an uncle." He glanced at Rudious. "Isn't that right, My Lord?"
Rudious looked at Veil.
"Veil."
"Yes, Father?"
"Keep calling him Uncle."
Veil and Rudious both laughed. Jorald made a face and went back to his food.
---
That evening, a carriage rolled through the manor gate.
A young man stepped out. Around seventeen. Tall, fit, with the kind of posture that came from years of real training. He sent his things inside and walked straight to the training hall.
Veil was there — mid-practice with his sword.
He felt it before he heard it. Then the others went quiet, heads lowering.
Veil turned around.
"Brother Drake!" He sprinted forward.
*Whoosh*.
Drake raised a wooden sword and pointed it at him — grinning.
"Same as always. Sword first. Then greetings."
"Fine!" Veil said — and launched himself forward.
*Swoosh. *Tak*.
Their blades met. Drake's eyes lit up. "Oh. Not bad."
Then Veil shifted his position — pivoted, and sent a kick low at Drake's leg.
Drake laughed and dodged. Veil spun in the air and came from the opposite side.
Drake blocked it and drove a straight counter.
*Swoosh. *Whoosh.
Veil jumped back, dodging cleanly.
"You've improved," Drake said, still smiling.
"Have I?" Veil shifted his grip — both hands on the hilt — and swung a heavy, direct strike.
Drake stepped in and drove his knee straight into Veil's chest.
*Bam*.
*Kugh—
Veil was still in the air when the breath left him. Eyes spinning. Then Drake brought the pommel of his sword down against the back of Veil's neck — clean and precise.
Veil hit the ground.
His last thought before he landed —
*Just one hit. I almost had one hit this time.*
---
But the moment his body met the ground — the sounds of the training ground disappeared.
The dirt beneath him was gone.
Veil felt himself sinking — into something deep and red, like an ocean made of blood.
And then —
The sky above him turned crimson. Not clouds — something darker, heavier, soaked through with red from edge to edge.
Before him stood the bone staircase.
And at the top —
The throne.
The nightmare Veil had almost forgotten —
Had come back.
And on that throne sat the same shadow as before.
Waiting.
---
[Chapter 37 — End]