Days passed in the Academy's cold rhythm.

  The bruises from soup and humiliation had faded, but the sting of Kuro's cruelty lingered. Shiro carried it like a shadow, heavier than the mud stains on his charts.

  Professor Kael and Professor Harken presided over the Astral Alignment class, their voices dry as parchment, their robes heavy with embroidered constellations. The marble hall smelled faintly of chalk dust and ink. Kuro sat near the front, posture perfect, storm grey eyes gleaming with aristocratic boredom. His stylus tapped against the desk, carving faint lines that mocked the constellations Kael droned about.

  Shiro, seated further back, tried to focus on the lecture. But Kuro's voice cut through, smooth and cruel. "Careful with your notes, cousin Malkor," Kuro said loudly enough for the class to hear. "Wouldn't want you to confuse Polaris with a gutter lantern again." Laughter rippled. Shiro's jaw tightened. He forced himself to keep writing, amber eyes fixed on the parchment.

  Professor Kael's drone was a background hum to the spectacle. "The precession of the equinoxes," he intoned, "It is approximately twenty six thousand cycles. A slow wobble that rewrites the celestial throne."

  Kuro's stylus stopped tapping. He didn't turn, but his voice, smooth and carrying, slid across the rows. "A fascinating concept for those who think in millennia, Professor. For others, more practical matters might be elusive. Like the difference between arcseconds and arcminutes on a basic chart." He let the implication hang, a needle aimed at Shiro's known struggles with the finer instruments. "Some minds are better suited to crude estimations."

  The jab was precise, academic, and drew quiet snickers. It never touched the slums, never mentioned the gutter. It was a cruelty of class, not of origin. Shiro felt his cheeks burn. He focused on his parchment, the numbers blurring.

  Then another voice, calm and steady. "Enough, Kuro. Let him work."

  Reo.

  His tone was firm, but his words carried no name. Shiro glanced at him, puzzled. They barely knew each other but the defence mattered. Shiro gave a small nod of thanks, which Reo acknowledged with a faint tilt of his head before returning to his notes.

  "Lord Kuro," Professor Kael said, a note of weary correction in his tone. "Focus on the precession, not your peer's progress."

  Kuro gave a slight, elegant shrug, a prince accepting mild chastisement. But as he turned his head just enough to glance back, Shiro saw it, the tightness in his jaw, the almost imperceptible clench of his hand before it relaxed. The cruelty in his voice didn't match the flat, almost vacant look in his storm grey eyes. It was as if he were reciting lines.

  Shiro couldn't take it. He raised a hand, his voice small but clear in the marble hall. "Professor Kael? Could you... clarify the axial tilt's effect on the declination tables? I'm struggling to align the formula."

  It was a blatant attempt to redirect, to summon authority as a shield. Kael looked at him, then at Kuro, his expression unreadable. "A pertinent question, Malkor. One that requires an understanding of the foundational spherical trigonometry we covered yesterday. Did you master those proofs I sent to your room yesterday?"

  The trap snapped shut. Shiro hadn't. He saw Kuro's shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second, not in triumph, but in something that looked like frustration. He set that up, Shiro realized. He knew Kael would do that.

  "I... I need to review them, sir," Shiro admitted, humiliation complete.

  "See that you do," Kael said dismissively. "The stars do not forgive a shaky foundation."

  The lesson plodded onward, leaving Shiro with the silent, unsettling calculus of Kuro's attack. It had been designed not just to wound, but to provoke a specific, failing response. It was strategy. And the brief, frustrated flicker in Kuro's eyes when it worked suggested the actor hated the play.

  Later, Shiro approached the faculty department, his voice hesitant. "Do you know when Valeria will return?"

  The clerks exchanged puzzled glances. "We don't know," one said. "But she will be back soon. Why do you ask?"

  Shiro shifted uncomfortably. "She's my sponsor. I just... wanted to know."

  Another clerk frowned. "Strange. Kuro asked the same question earlier."

  Suspicion flickered in their eyes, but it faded quickly. "It makes sense," they said. "She sponsors you both. Of course you'd ask."

  Shiro left unsettled. Why had Kuro asked?

  The faculty annex was a labyrinth of small, dusty offices. After Shiro's retreating footsteps faded, the two clerks leaned across their shared desk.

  "The Malkor boy," the first, a woman with ink stained fingers, whispered.

  "And the Crown Prince asking after the same woman on the same day," the second, a balding man, finished, his voice hushed with awe and anxiety.

  He shuffled parchments. "Valeria Malkor. Diplomatic envoy to the western holds, the writ says."

  "Sponsoring a minor Malkor cousin and minding the heir to the throne," the woman mused, tapping a stylus. "It's a volatile portfolio. House Malkor walks a tightrope as it is. Why add the weight of a distant kinsman?"

  "Unless the kinsman isn't the point," the man said, his eyes narrowing. "Think. Prince Kuro Oji never asks after anyone. His life is schedules and guards. Yet he wants to know when his minder returns. And this Shiro Malkor arrives with her sponsorship, but he's... rough. Unpolished. Not like the other highborn pups."

  "You think the boy is a... a project for the Prince?" the woman asked, sceptical. "A charity case to polish?"

  "Or a shield," the man countered, dropping his voice further. "A distraction. Something to draw attention while Valeria tends to... other business with the Prince. Or a test for the Prince himself, see if he can manage having a lesser shadow without causing an incident." He shook his head. "Or I've read too many conspiracy scrolls. The boy's just a poorly prepared noble. The Prince is just bored."

  "But they both asked," the woman insisted, filing Shiro's slip. "The Crown Prince and an obscure Malkor. That's a connection, however thin. We'll note it. In this court, even the thinnest threads have been known to strangle people."

  They fell silent, the air now charged with unspoken significance. To them, Shiro was no longer just a name. He was a node in a network that included the heir to the Butcher King, a dangerous place to be, even in a clerk's ledger.

  The training yard rang with steel. Stratoria, of a branch family of House Veyne, stood at the centre. Barely twenty five, she was already renowned for her swordsmanship. Her voice carried authority. "Today we test your level. Pairs. Sparring."

  Shiro's stomach tightened when she paired him with Reo.

  Reo was second only to Kuro in skill from what he could see in the rankings Stratoria showed him.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Reo smiled faintly. "No need to spar. I'll teach you a few stances, Malkor. Save you the embarrassment."

  Shiro remembered Klaus, Old Cedric's son, who had taught him before leaving for war. The unorthodox stance, guard raised above his head at an angle, was etched into his bones.

  Reo gave a graceful, almost pitying bow. "First stance: the Falcon's Reach. Watch the footwork." He shifted, his form textbook perfect. Shiro mirrored him, but his own feet fell into the wider, more rooted stance Klaus had drilled into him.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Reo's face. "No. Like this." He demonstrated again, slower.

  "I understand it," Shiro said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let's spar."

  Reo sighed, as if humouring a child. "As you wish." He assumed the opening guard of the academy's standard curriculum, blade held at a forty five degree angle, body turned sideways. Elegant. But predictable.

  Shiro raised his practice sword. He didn't bring it to the standard guard. He lifted it high, both hands on the hilt, the blunt tip pointing skyward at a sharp angle, his body squared toward Reo. It was a guard for someone expecting an overhead blow from a larger opponent, or for creating a deflecting roof. In a one on one duel, it looked absurd, it left his entire torso open. A snicker came from the crowd.

  Reo's lips twitched into a condescending smile. "An... inventive guard, Malkor." He didn't wait. He lunged, a straight, clean thrust aimed at Shiro's exposed midsection, the obvious but correct move.

  Shiro didn't try to parry sideways. He simply brought his high blade down in a short, vicious chop. Not at Reo's blade, but at his hands. The wooden swords met with a loud crack just above Reo's guard, the force numbing his fingers.

  Reo's thrust went wide, his balance tipping forward for a split second. That was all Shiro needed. He'd seen the pattern in Reo's warm up strikes, the slight preference to recover to the right. As Reo's momentum carried him forward, Shiro was already moving, not back, but in. He dropped his shoulder and drove it into Reo's chest, using the noble's own forward lunge against him. At the same time, his foot hooked behind Reo's leading ankle.

  Reo didn't fall gracefully. He crashed to the hard packed dirt of the yard with a heavy, ungainly thud, his practice sword skittering away. The entire exchange had taken less than five seconds. The condescending smile was gone, wiped away by shock, then by a hot, rushing humiliation.

  Stratoria's amazed "I've never seen that guard!" floated over the sudden, absolute silence.

  Reo scrambled up, his face a storm of scarlet humiliation. The kind mask was obliterated. "You fight like a common street brawler!" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. There was no mentorship left, only seething entitlement wounded.

  "It worked though," Shiro said, the adrenaline making him blunt.

  Reo took a step forward, his eyes blazing. "You think this is a victory? This is a disgrace. To the yard, to the forms, to me." He leaned in, his whisper a venomous hiss. "You're a crude tool in a hall of precision. Don't look to me for help again. You've shown exactly what you are." He turned and stormed off, shoving past a gawking student who muttered, "Jeez, he's worse than when he loses to Prince Kuro."

  Shiro opened his mouth to call after him, to offer thanks despite the bitterness. But Reo was already gone, his retreat rigid and final. The words died in Shiro's throat, leaving only the sting of silence.

  Another student nodded. "Yeah, at least the Prince beats him clean. Fifteen to nothing, and Reo just gets quiet and icy. This? This is a tantrum. Shows his 'kindness' is just paint."

  A student clapped Shiro's shoulder. "Don't mind him. He's a bad loser. He'll come around. But that was incredible, how did you do that?"

  Others crowded around, voices buzzing. Shiro blushed, overwhelmed.

  Stratoria laughed. "Let the boy breathe! You must be Val's new sponsor. Interesting. That puts you in the higher class. You can join Kuro over there."

  The buzz of the crowd was a physical pressure. "Incredible! Where did you learn that? You made Reo of House Veyne look a fool!"

  "He's no fool," Shiro muttered, watching Reo's rigid retreat. The friendly guide was dead, replaced by a spiteful enemy.

  "He's a proud fool," another student sneered. "Can't stand losing unless it's to Prince Kuro, and even then, he stews for days. They've sparred fifteen times. Score's fifteen to zero. Reo never gets closer, just gets colder and more 'noble' about it after. This? Seeing himself flattened by a... by a Malkor?" The student shook his head with gleeful contempt.

  Stratoria called the yard back to order, but the dynamic had shattered. Shiro was now a marked variable, an unknown element that had humiliated an established talent. The glances weren't just curious; they were recalculating.

  Across the yard, Kuro had finished his own flawless, solitary drills. He stood, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, his storm grey eyes scanning the dispersing students. His gaze passed over Shiro. There was no mockery, no approval. It was a brief, chillingly neutral assessment, a strategist noting a sudden, unexpected shift in the board's geometry. Then he turned away, his expression closing off into its usual remote, unreadable cast, as if the entire spectacle were beneath his continued notice.

  Shiro glanced at Kuro. The prince wasn't watching the crowd. His storm grey eyes were fixed on the sky, distant, unreadable.

  The lesson resumed, but focus was a ragged thing. Shiro was trying to mimic Stratoria's demonstration of a disengagement when a low voice spoke at his shoulder.

  "Don't let it go to your head."

  Shiro didn't turn. He knew the voice. Kuro stood beside him, not looking at him, his storm grey eyes fixed on Stratoria as if he were following along.

  "What?" Shiro muttered, his grip tightening on the practice sword.

  "Beating Reo. It's nothing."

  Shiro's chest tightened. He wanted to believe the boy from the shack still existed, the one who had laughed at crooked swans and pressed a carved star into his palm as a gift. But every word Kuro spoke now was a blade cutting that memory apart. Was the warmth real, or just another mask? His mind spun, torn between clinging to the fragile hope of friendship and recoiling from the cruelty of the prince before him.

  "He's pathetic. He hides behind that polished, kind hearted lordling act, but it's just lacquer over a rotten core." Kuro's voice was a bare whisper, stripped of its theatrical cruelty, leaving something flat and analytical. "But you didn't hear that from me, of course."

  Shiro finally turned to face him, a surge of anger cutting through his confusion. "And what do you hide behind, Kuro? At least his act has consistency. You've been more real with me in the last five seconds than you have since I got here. What happened to my brother?"

  Kuro's expression didn't change. He finally met Shiro's gaze, and the flatness there was more unnerving than any smirk. "He was a fantasy. A moment of weakness. This is the real me. The one you need to see if you want to survive this place. The one who doesn't care about your crooked stars or your feelings."

  "Lord Kuro! Shiro!" Stratoria's sharp voice cut across the yard. She planted her hands on her hips. "Would you like to share your insights with the class? Or are you two forging a beautiful friendship over there?"

  Kuro's mask snapped back into place so fast it was audible. He turned to her, the brittle, theatrical smirk blooming on his lips. "Just admiring my cousin's... unorthodox form, Instructor. It's like watching a bear try to waltz. Fascinating, in a tragic way."

  "You're a brat, you know that?" Stratoria said, her tone more weary than angry. "You're very lucky your mother isn't here to see this. She'd have your ear."

  At the mention of his aunt, a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch passed through Kuro's shoulders. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, but Shiro caught it.

  A crack.

  Kuro recovered with a dismissive wave. "That old hag? Please. She's probably halfway across the continent, bossing around some other poor soul."

  "It's exhausting, you know," Stratoria pressed, her eyes narrowing. "This constant performance. Why can't you just be like you are when she's here? Annoying, but manageable. Right now, you're just a nuisance. I will tell her everything, you know. Every snide comment, every act of petty cruelty."

  Shiro's pulse raced. Every mention of Valeria seemed to shake Kuro's mask, if only for a heartbeat. It left Shiro wondering if the cruel prince was the act, and the brother from the shack the truth, or if both were lies, masks layered so deep even Kuro no longer knew which face was real.

  Kuro's laugh was sharp, too loud, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Do it. Why would I be scared? She's not my keeper." But the defiance rang hollow. The way his eyes flicked toward the academy gates for a split second betrayed him. It was the look of a boy waiting for a storm to hit shore, pretending he wasn't building a shelter.

  Stratoria just shook her head in disgust and turned back to the class. Kuro's smirk stayed plastered on, but the light had gone out of his eyes. He gave Shiro one last, unreadable glance, a mix of warning and something that looked like desperation, before stalking back to his isolated position.

  Shiro stood rooted, his mind a war zone. Which one is real? The boy who spoke of stars with pain in his voice, who carved a token and called it freedom? Or this brittle, cruel lordling who seemed to be playing a part so deep even he was getting lost in it? The shack felt a million miles away, and the only thing clear was that Kuro was the most dangerous constellation in the sky, because you never knew which star was the fixed point, and which was the lie.

  Training resumed. Stratoria demonstrated stances, but Shiro's mind wandered. Kuro ignored the lesson, staring upward as if the heavens themselves mocked him. Shiro's thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the library. Valeria had told him it held truths about Nyxarion, about star and that was all the confirmation he needed.

  As dusk fell, Shiro slipped away, charts tucked under his arm, heart pounding with anticipation. The library awaited. But in the shadows of the courtyard a pair of storm grey eyes followed.

  Kuro moved silently, his mask unreadable, trailing Shiro into the night.