Leira

  I’ve never seen anything like it.

  The courtyard felt like fire and pain, stones cracked where lightning had bitten and Aura had slammed. The ward shimmer was gone, but its memory still prickled across my skin, as if the air itself hadn’t decided to loosen yet.

  And all around me—seniors lay scattered like broken dolls.

  These were elites. Friends of my brother. Sons of senators, knights, and warmen. Talents who had received the greatest resources and training since birth. Men filled with pride and accomplishment, months away from graduating and becoming something more to the society around them.

  What were they now?

  Broken. Groaning. Clutching ribs. Burned, bruised, humiliated. One boy’s arm bent the wrong way. Another’s uniform still smoked where lightning had kissed his chest. Many were passed out—either from pain, embarrassment, or the Aura lightning that had covered the Transfer.

  I couldn’t make myself move.

  Not until he walked past.

  The transfer.

  Cale Arcanus.

  His gait was steady, without an ounce of concern or hesitation. He didn’t look ruffled, let alone distressed by the destruction he caused. The only sign that he had even been in a fight was the casting-aid bracer on his wrist, still humming faintly with fading glyphs. His stride remained unhurried, like what had just happened was nothing more than a walk through rain.

  But then he turned.

  His eyes found me.

  Really found me.

  It was like I was a fish and he was the world’s biggest shark.

  The crowd’s noise fell away—or maybe my ears stopped working. I expected a sneer or gesture. I got neither there was only his gaze. He was far enough away that we couldn’t have a polite conversation, but I still saw his eyes.

  I saw death in them a blood red crimson....

  Then, I watched, fascinated and horrified, as they changed from that red burning crimson, the red that looked wrong and sharp and hot, back to Stormglass violet.

  He stared at me for a moment and in that moment I saw nothing...

  It was like looking into the eyes of a Grim Reaper.

  Cale blinked once, turned, and walked away.

  I collapsed.

  My knees hit stone. My throat closed. Fear burned under my skin, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t breathe. For one horrifying second, I thought I might piss myself like a terrified child.

  No one else seemed to notice what I’d seen. Or maybe they had, and none of them wanted to admit it.

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  He had looked at me. Me. And stared at me like a demon ready to collect my soul.

  “Leira!”

  Alessa’s voice snapped me back. She was at my side, eyes wide. Brin hovered just behind her, pale for once, his bulk no shield against what we’d just witnessed.

  I forced myself up, clutching Alessa’s arm, trying to find words.

  “Lucien.”

  We ran.

  He was still conscious when we reached him—barely. His cores flickered in and out of control, fire guttering at his fingertips, Aura cracking like a broken bell. Blood ran from his lip, down his chin, and his hand looked fried, a clean hole burned through the palm.

  I nearly threw up.

  “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, but his hand shook when he tried to push me away.

  Alessa and Brin helped anyway, dragging him upright, half-carrying him toward the infirmary. Other seniors groaned and staggered in the same direction. None of them spoke.

  Suddenly there were people everywhere—teachers, administrators—and I watched in real time as they spun the story, something I had seen dozens of times when we or someone like us caused a ruckus. Now… now it was for the school and the seniors to save face.

  The story was already decided.

  This wasn't an incident it was a training accident with spell backlash and unfortunately there was a bit of Ward collapse.

  Tragic yes, but everything is fine...the children are all fine. All of it was fine.

  It was so not fine.

  The school would say anything but the truth.

  I didn't have time to question before we were rushed. The Healers’ Sanctum reeked of antiseptic herbs, the air heavy with Sanatio. Beds filled fast, healers muttering stabilization chants, casting minor Sanatio until more experienced and powerful practitioners could attend. All of them wondered how so many were injured with such a dense application of Aura and Elementa Arcanum during a “training accident.”

  None of the seniors who were conscious talked.

  Not even Lucien.

  Our parents arrived with assistants, guards, and administrators.

  That was when everything changed.

  Mother swept in first, silks trailing, hair pinned like a crown. Her heels cracked against stone like war drums. Father followed—taller, broader—the weight of the Veylan name heavy on his cloak. Their presence bent the room sharper than any spell.

  Mother took in the groaning bodies, the scorched uniforms, the way Lucien slumped against the bed frame. Her lips curved—not in pity, but in calculation.

  Father’s voice was low, almost bored. “What the hell happened?”

  Lucien swallowed, then rasped, “Transfer student. Harassing Leira.”

  The silence was like a guillotine dropping.

  Then Mother laughed softly; the sound sharp and cutting.

  “You’re telling me a transfer student did all this?” she asked. “Did you pick a fight with a Martial House's lead disciple, or was it that little tramp—the daughter of the Yamato Sword Clan? I heard she was returning from Ussia, but that isn’t supposed to be until next month.”

  Lucien shook his head. “No. A scholarship student. Arcanus.”

  She gave me a sharp look.

  “Arcanus? That girl you told me about.”

  I nodded. “Her brother, actually—though I suspect she hired someone. She didn’t have a brother a week ago.”

  Mother narrowed her eyes. “So either the girl hired a mercenary, or we have a scholarship brat’s brother who thinks himself a lion.”

  I hesitated. I wanted to speak—to warn them about the eyes, the pressure, the way I’d felt like a bug under glass—but the words stuck. If I said it out loud, it would become real.

  Father leaned against the bedpost, gaze sweeping the room like it was full of pawns. “Domination is the language of this world. If you are weak, you are ruled. If you are strong, you rule. You, son, and these seniors—” He gestured to the rows of broken bodies. “—forgot that truth.”

  His eyes hardened. “But we will not.”

  Mother pulled out a communication device. “This will have to be handled. We cannot allow this insult to stand—or let your father’s political rivals get wind of it.”

  She looked at Lucien, then at me. “You two are not victims. You are lessons. And you will be casualties if you do not learn from this. Weakness cannot be tolerated in any form.”

  Father’s smile was cold. “We’ll start with the sister. The scholarship one. We will make an example of all of them.”

  Ellara.

  I opened my mouth, but Lucien’s hand caught my wrist. His grip trembled, but his grin returned—sharp and hungry.

  “I’ll handle it. I have someone who owes me a favor.”

  Mother brushed his hair back from his forehead, a parody of tenderness. “Good. That’s what heirs do.”

  Their voices wove together—doctrine I had heard my whole life. Domination wasn’t cruelty. Domination was order. If you could press someone down, it meant you deserved to stand above them.

  That was how Veylans were raised. That was how Veylans ruled.

  But all I could see were red eyes, burning—

  Watching me.