Lucan gave Nick a warm smile that never reached his eyes.

  “From what the recruits have been saying,” he said lightly, “I’m told your dogs may have been barking up the wrong tree, Nickolas.”

  “And how would you know?” Nick snapped.

  Lucan lifted his chin a fraction.

  “I listen. You might try it.”

  Nick’s face flushed. “You don’t understand. They were attacked. Unprovoked.”

  Rob started to speak, but Amelia pinched his arm under the table.

  “Unprovoked?” Lucan repeated, almost thoughtfully. “That isn’t what I was told.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Lucan gave a small, practiced shrug.

  “I’ve been here less than five minutes, and even I’ve already heard the same story from half a dozen recruits.”

  “The word of recruits means nothing,” Nick shot back.

  Jerald looked ready to throttle him.

  Lucan’s smile thinned.

  “Does it?” he said. “Because my father was very clear about how this sort of thing is judged.”

  A brief pause.

  “And he would find it… difficult to believe that a noble who wasn’t even present somehow knows more than the hundred who were.”

  Nick clenched his fist. “It wouldn’t matter if there were a thousand lowborns. My word trumps theirs. Every time.”

  Lucan glanced around the tent, clearly enjoying the attention. When his eyes found Amelia, his smile sharpened, like he was stepping into a role he had practised.

  “Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose that leaves it with you, Ms Fairchild.”

  Amelia flinched.

  Nick let out a short, ugly snort.

  “You’re really going to ask some gutter girl—”

  “Careful,” Lucan said, almost pleasantly.

  He stepped in close and leaned to Nick’s ear.

  Whatever he whispered drained the colour from Nick’s face.

  The smile never left Lucan’s lips.

  Even Jerald looked unsettled.

  I thought I had seen every expression Nick could manage, from casual contempt to open cruelty. I had never seen him speechless.

  Lucan straightened and cleared his throat, like he was resetting himself.

  “So, Ms Fairchild.”

  “Please, sir. Just Amelia.”

  He faltered a fraction, then nodded, as if correcting himself.

  “Right. Amelia.”

  A breath. Measured. Rehearsed.

  “I ask that I hear this directly,” he said, then quickly added, “from you.”

  His gaze flicked briefly to Jerald before returning to her.

  “So… tell me what actually happened.”

  She nodded, braced herself, and then laid it out.

  Every step. Every exchange. Motives. Advances. All in a clean, exact sequence. Codes of conduct ignored. Which rules were broken and by whom. How many warnings were dismissed before the so-called victims were finally put down.

  Lucan listened without interrupting. He kept his face carefully blank, like he had been taught to. Only once did his eyes flick down, as if quietly checking the order of things in his head.

  When she finished, he turned to Nick.

  “My father would consider this matter closed,” Lucan said, a little too quickly.

  “But,” Nick cut in, “these three are disobeying a direct order. They should be locked in their rooms. Curfew. This isn’t right.”

  Lucan blinked, caught off guard.

  “You’re saying,” he said carefully, “that the three of them, here under the Commandant’s direct supervision, isn’t… enough?”

  “It’s… no,” Nick said. He looked like he wanted to add something, but his eyes flicked to Jerald, who was tapping the hilt of his sword.

  Nick glanced around in a brief flash of panic, half turning as if to call for his guards.

  Lucan cleared his throat.

  “So,” he said, “I take it you understand you’re done here?”

  For a moment, Nick looked like he wanted to argue.

  Lucan tilted his head and gave him an unsettling smile.

  “Leave us now,” he said quietly. “Or I’ll make good on my threat.”

  Nick went pale.

  He turned and hurried out of the tent, his guards scrambling after him.

  When the canvas finally fell quiet, Lucan exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Then he stepped forward and stopped a careful distance in front of Jerald.

  He straightened his posture, drew his hands in close to his sides, and dipped his head.

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  “Commandant Hartwyck.”

  Jerald’s title landed hard. I shifted without meaning to.

  “I was… sent to pass something on,” Lucan said. His voice was lighter now. Younger. Less sure.

  Jerald straightened. “By whose favour?”

  “My father’s,” he said, then corrected himself quickly. “Well. My uncle signs it. But the information comes from my father.”

  He glanced at us, then back to Jerald.

  “There’s going to be an announcement tomorrow,” Lucan said, a little too quickly. “The trials are being pushed forward.”

  Shit. My heart jumped a beat.

  “By whose authority?” Jerald demanded.

  Lucan’s eyes flicked to the tent flap Nick had just gone through.

  “The High Council held a vote,” he said, then hesitated, as if checking the words in his head. “It passed.”

  I glanced at Rob and Amelia just as Rob mouthed, what the…

  “That’s… that’s all my father told me to deliver.”

  Jerald began to pace. The strain showed in every step.

  “Who voted?”

  Lucan drew in a breath, like he was reciting something he had been made to memorise.

  “The du Lac family. Lyonesse. Bedivere. Corbenic.”

  He hesitated and glanced at Amelia.

  “And the Fairchilds.”

  Jerald stopped then examined the young noble.

  “But, not your family?”

  “No. We didn’t support it.” Lucan shook his head. “My father believes they’re planning something.”

  Jerald glanced at us then held up a hand to Lucan to stall him.

  “Let me retire these three for the night, and I will accompany you to the capital.”

  Lucan nodded.

  Jerald turned to us.

  “That’s enough for you three,” he said. “The meet and greet is over.”

  He looked at each of us in turn.

  “Report straight back to the Cottage. Do not tarry on the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Amelia said at once. Rob followed a beat later.

  I nodded.

  As we turned to go, I felt it.

  Lucan’s gaze.

  I glanced back.

  He was still watching me.

  Not the group. Just me.

  For a moment longer than I liked.

  When we left the tent, hundreds of eyes followed us as we cut through the sawdust and out into the open. It felt like we had become the resident spectacle in the space of an evening.

  I caught Derry’s face in the crowd. He flashed me a quick thumbs up before I lost him again.

  The moment we slipped past the canvas flap, the low buzz behind us climbed into a restless roar. Boots scraped. Someone laughed too loudly. Then Jerald’s voice cut straight through it, hard and clipped, snapping names and orders into place.

  We did not speak as we started back toward the cottage.

  Our steps fell out of rhythm. Rob kept breaking pace and catching it again. Amelia walked faster than usual, eyes fixed ahead. I could feel the press of the day tightening in my chest, like the air itself had grown thinner.

  Tomorrow was suddenly too close.

  “This makes no sense,” Rob muttered. “Why would they move the dates?”

  Amelia glanced at him. Flat. Tired.

  “It makes perfect sense. Haven’t you heard what the others have been saying for weeks? The noble kids have picked up an obscene amount of power. And for the first time, they’re going to be competing directly with the lower classes.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  She exhaled through her nose.

  “They move the trials forward so people like us have less time to train together. Less time to pool resources. Less time to close the gap before the start line.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “The odds were never fair. Now they’re just making sure they stay that way.”

  Rob nodded slowly.

  “Yeah. That tracks.”

  I thought of what Derry had told to me earlier.

  “If those two were their best,” I said quietly, “then even the barracks are going to have a hard time holding the line.”

  Rob let out a slow breath. “Poor bastards.”

  “Bloody nobles,” Amelia muttered. Her jaw set as she stared down the road ahead. “Seriously. What are they planning?”

  “Nothing good,” Rob said.

  As we neared the cottage, Doyle was just stepping out of the treeline with a large, empty basket hooked over one arm.

  He paused when he saw us.

  Surprise flickered across his face, then softened into something close to relief.

  As he came closer, we saw the mud streaking his boots and climbing halfway up his trousers. His sleeves were rolled and dark with dirt, and his hair had slipped loose from a rough tie that barely held it back.

  “You’re back early,” he said.

  Dark shadows sat under his eyes.

  Rob didn’t waste time.

  He launched straight into what had happened. His version had more shouting, more swearing, and a generous amount of heroic positioning that hadn’t existed in Amelia’s account. Every second sentence came with a colourful flourish that made the fight sound twice as messy and three times as dramatic.

  Doyle scowled more than once.

  So did Amelia.

  When Rob finally ran out of breath, Doyle gave a slow nod and glanced at me.

  “Well. I’m glad none of you are hurt,” he said. Then his gaze drifted across the three of us, sharp and measuring. “But this complicates things.”

  He turned that look over in his head for a moment.

  Then something shifted.

  A spark lit in his eyes.

  “Amelia’s gift will be finished by tonight,” he said. “Rob’s is already done.”

  Rob straightened at that.

  “And I’ve just thought of a rather good use for them.”

  “You’re sending us out, then?” I asked.

  Rob groaned. “What? We’re going to miss the barracks sparring matches tomorrow.”

  Doyle chuckled under his breath.

  “I think where you’re headed will make you forget them.”

  Amelia hesitated. “What about the siblings?”

  “They won’t be back until the day after tomorrow,” Doyle said. “They’re with their father. They have their own training to attend to.”

  He looked at me.

  “Should we tell them now?”

  A smile slipped out before I could stop it.

  “They won’t sleep if we do.”

  Doyle paused, turning that over in his head.

  “Fair enough. Morning, then.”

  I nodded.

  Before Rob could argue, Doyle was already moving into the kitchen. He set a kettle on and began crushing something dark and herbal, the sharp, bitter scent spreading through the cottage and catching at the back of my throat. A night drink, meant to settle nerves and slow a restless mind.

  It barely helped.

  We went to our rooms anyway.

  I lay on my back, staring at the low ceiling, the bitter taste of herbs still clinging to my tongue. The house creaked and shifted as it settled for the night, old wood sighing around me.

  Lucan’s face kept sliding back into my thoughts. The way he had watched me.

  Then Corvin’s crumpled face.

  I could still feel the snap of impact. Hear it. See the look in everyone’s eyes when they finally made me stop.

  My chest tightened.

  The sword hummed softly beside me.

  I turned my head toward it.

  The sound faded, but the feeling didn’t.

  Sleep came late and thin.

  The next morning, three heavy bangs slammed into my door.

  “Sean!” Rob yelled down the corridor. “Oi, get up. Doyle’s got the gifts. He won’t let us touch them till you get your arse downstairs. Move it.”

  I was on my feet before he finished speaking.

  I pulled on my clothes and followed the noise of excited voices downstairs.

  The smell of breakfast hit me the moment I reached the kitchen. Toast. Tea. Something sweet and buttery underneath it all. Doyle was moving between the stove and the table, practically bouncing, a mug in one hand and a plate in the other.

  On the table sat two long bundles wrapped in fine silk.

  One blue.

  One deep purple.

  When he saw me, Doyle’s face lit up.

  “Took you long enough,” Rob said. He looked like he had been awake for hours.

  Amelia sat in her usual place, already halfway through a thick slice of bread. She kept eating, eyes down, but I saw the way they kept sliding back to the bundles.

  I took my seat.

  Doyle smiled.

  “Ready?” Doyle asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well then. You two are very, very lucky,” he said softly. “Not many aspirants receive something like this at your age. Even among nobles.”

  “Wait, seriously?” Rob asked.

  Doyle nodded. “They’ve been reforged. And named.”

  Amelia let out a small, involuntary sound and dropped her bread back onto the plate.

  Doyle smiled and moved to the first bundle. He rested his hand on the blue silk and looked at her.

  “For you, my dear. Stillflow.”

  He drew the silk away.

  Amelia sucked in a breath.

  The small sceptre she had chosen lay before her.

  A clear blue catalyst ran through the heart of the rod, spread along its length like frozen water caught inside metal. An engraved water nymph curved through the shaft, the carving cut deep enough to let the crystal’s glow bleed through the lines.

  When Amelia lifted it, the rod answered her.

  A calm, steady blue light pulsed beneath her fingers.

  Something in her face softened, like a tightness she had carried for years had finally loosened its grip. A slow smile found its way to her lips as the flow of its blessings settled into her.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  Rob and I exchanged a look.

  “So,” Rob said, already leaning forward, “my turn?”

  Doyle nodded and moved to the bundle wrapped in purple silk.

  He lifted it.

  Rob’s broad sword lay beneath it.

  “Here, my boy,” Doyle said proudly. “Riftstride.”

  Like the sceptre the blade had been reforged.

  A deep violet catalyst ran through a narrow channel along the centre of the steel, dark and glassy, with the faint outline of a wyrm carved down the spine. The engraving followed the length of the blade like a living thing caught in metal.

  “Holy crap,” Rob breathed.

  He took it in both hands.

  The sword pulsed like a purple heartbeat, as if it were adjusting to him. His fingers tightened around the grip.

  His hands were shaking.