Lemuel’s smile lingered, sharper than the finest blade, before he even stepped fully into the hall. Brown eyes gleamed, assessing, calculating, teasing.

  “Perfect,” he said lightly, eyes passing over Rufus before settling deliberately on Veylan. “If it isn’t today’s lesson plan.”

  Nearby nobles turned. The air shifted. Murmurs threaded through the crowd like ripples across a still pond. Someone nudged their neighbour, eyes flicking toward the baronial corner. Chairs creaked under shifting weight. Skirts whispered across polished saplings.

  “Shame on your Empress’ ash, boy,” one murmured, voice low but sharp. “Pathetic, really,” another added, lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

  Rufus stiffened, every muscle coiled for observation. Veylan’s fingers tightened once around his cup, posture calm, composed—an anchor in the swirl of attention.

  Lemuel tilted his head, mock-considering. “I hear the Academy’s running practical demonstrations now. Very… progressive.” His gaze flicked back to Rufus. “Tell me—did it sting?”

  “Sting?” Rufus said, coolly.

  “Oh, come now.” Lemuel chuckled, light but edged with sharp amusement. “Measured. Reduced. Quantified. I’d have thought Embergarde blood earned at least a margin of dignity.” He looked to Veylan.

  A ripple of quiet amusement passed through the nobles. One voice, low and teasing: “Someone should lose a continent by now, Empress take ’em.” Another muttered, “I hear you, mate, mate.”

  A few snickered outright. Others let restrained laughter thread through the hall like silver filaments. Every chuckle acknowledged Lemuel’s jibe—and Rufus’ visible tension.

  Veylan’s gaze flicked to him. Voice calm, precise: “Accuracy is not a matter of birthright.”

  A ripple of quiet laughter followed—quick, careful, cruel. Heat crawled up Rufus’ spine.

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  Lemuel’s brown eyes gleamed. “The girl didn’t even raise her voice, did she? Just… adjusted him. Like a faulty framework.” He smiled, delighted. “Ashes take me, that sort of audacity—I almost admire it.”

  The crowd’s laughter rose fractionally, restrained but unmistakable. Murmurs threaded like low waves, approval and amusement mingled.

  Rufus stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the polished saplings. “Say what you mean.”

  Lemuel raised his brows, faux-innocent. “I am. I mean it’s fascinating. All that lineage. All that polish. And still—thirty-two seconds.” A pause. “I’d be furious, if it were me.”

  Silence.

  Someone muttered, half-amused, half-wary: “By the Empress’ will, someone’s courting a broken jaw.”

  The insult landed. Rufus felt it snap—not loud, not crude—precisely placed, like a pin slipped between ribs. His mana stirred, a faint gutter of fire tracing his knuckles, warmth coiling beneath control. He breathed in rhythm with it, letting the crowd thin naturally. Chairs slid back, creating a widening stage for confrontation.

  Excitement crackled through the hall. Nobles leaned forward, shoulders tense, murmurs threading through the ranks. Fight. Show us. The far-right corner, once unnoticed, became a crucible of spectacle. Stakes? Temporary. Reputation? Irrelevant. Social suicide? A risk none of them calculated. They were teenagers. Competitors. And for Rufus, that was enough.

  “Well?” Lemuel prompted lightly, tilting his head. “Surely you won’t let that stand.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the onlookers, muffled but unmistakable. Some leaned closer, eager. Whispers threaded like wind through treetops: “He’s puffed up. Too loud.” “Bet he bites himself in thirty seconds.” “Do it! Do it now!”

  Rufus’ grin sharpened. Mana pulsed faintly beneath his skin—a subtle, controlled ripple, like a bowstring drawn tight. He felt the crowd pressing, expecting spectacle. He didn’t care. Social suicide wasn’t part of the calculation. Only humiliation in front of Lemuel mattered. Not now. Not ever.

  Veylan’s gaze flicked briefly to him, cool, measured. A slight tightening of lips, the faintest hesitation. Just enough. Rufus caught it, noted it, and stepped fully into the spotlight, letting the theatre swell around him.

  “I won’t,” he said pleasantly. “By Embergarde custom, I challenge you. First blood or submission. Witnessed.”

  Silence. Then a collective breath—not fear. Anticipation.

  Whispers ran through the room like wildfire: “Combat Grove. First years. This will be… unforgettable.”

  Rufus turned without waiting for acceptance. He didn’t need it. The challenge had already taken root.

  As he walked, posture perfect, every step measured, the eyes of the Academy settled on his back. He welcomed them.

  He did not notice the way Veylan stayed behind, a silent sentinel.

  Or how Hearthwood, patient and impartial, recorded everything.