The gates of Veinara Academy towered high. On mornings like this, the gates were usually filled with hundreds of students in blue uniforms running to catch the bell, accompanied by laughter and panicked shouts.

  But this morning, that rhythm was broken.

  A black horse-drawn carriage bearing the royal crest—a silver storm on a blue shield—stops right in front of the main gate. The horses are no ordinary horses; they are Storma breed, their breath emitting steam and their price tag enough to buy land as large as a town.

  Mira stepped down from the royal carriage—a black carriage with the silver storm emblem on its door. As her feet touched the cobblestone, the conversations in the academy courtyard fell silent. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were fixed on her. They did not see Rhea, the Ashart girl. They saw “The Prince's Chosen Woman.” They saw the girl who, according to this morning's rumors, had caused Prince Arlen to berate the Council of Ministers in her defense.

  Mira walked with her back straight. Her ribbon—which Arlen had tied for her that morning—felt a little tight around her neck. She held the strap of her leather bag tightly, resisting the urge to hide her face. Behind her, invisible to the naked eye, Anna stepped lightly, occasionally tripping students who stared at Mira with condescending looks.

  “There she is,” whispered a student from the Aeris dormitory, nudging her friend. “She came on the Prince's train.”

  “I heard she broke the palace crystal chandelier last night because she was angry,” replied her friend in a hushed voice. “And the Prince fired his servant”

  Mira walked straight ahead, her gaze fixed in front of her. She held the strap of her leather bag tightly, her knuckles white. She was no longer Rhea, the principal's daughter who was ignored. She was now the “Prince's Favorite.” A target. A symbol.

  Behind her, unseen by anyone, a male student who intended to stick out his foot to trip Mira suddenly tripped over his own feet and fell flat on the ground. “Damn it! Who pushed me?!” the student shouted in confusion, staring at the empty space behind Mira.

  Mira didn't turn around. She knew Anna was at work. She stepped into the Main Building, heading for the Historia Hall.

  ***

  The room was a magnificent semicircular amphitheater. Its walls were lined with bookshelves that rose ten meters to the ceiling, filled with thousands of volumes of history approved by the kingdom. In the center of the podium, a giant magical map of Asnaven slowly rotated.

  Professor Gery, a hunched old man in a dusty academic robe, stood there. He tapped the map with his pointer.

  “The year 2840 of the Era of Unification,” Gery's voice echoed, hoarse and fanatical. "The Dark Ages. Brother killed brother. Magic ran wild. Famine killed more people than swords."

  Mira sat in the middle row. The seats to her left and right were empty. No one dared to sit near her. She opened her notebook, dipping her quill into the ink.

  “Then,” Gery moved his hand from left to right. The magic map changed color from red to bright blue. “Then came King Stormborn Runerre I. The ancestor of our great Prince Arlen.”

  The large painting on the back wall lit up. It depicted a handsome man holding lightning, standing atop a hill of enemy corpses. His face resembled Arlen's, but his eyes were more cruel.

  "He brought the gift of Pure Blood. He subdued the chaos. He saved the weak races and united them under the banner of the storm."

  “Professor,” Lukas Askagarg's deep voice sounded from the front row. Lukas sat up straight, his shoulders stiff. He did not turn around to look at Mira. "The old textbooks mention the ‘Southeastern Rebellion’ in the year 2840. Is it true that they were massacred?"

  Mira pricked up her ears. Lukas was asking questions. That was strange. Usually, he swallowed all military doctrine whole.

  “Ah, good question, Mr. Askagarg,” Gery smiled condescendingly. "Not massacred. That's the term used by radicals. They were... neutralized. The Southeast People, or the Machima Race, are a defective race. They have no Intian. In this world, they suffer. King Stormborn, in His mercy, moved them to the Fasheart District so they could live peacefully as farmers."

  Mira felt a physical nausea in her stomach. She remembered Princess Arith's blistered hands. She remembered Anne losing control. And she remembered Arlene going to Fasheart—a place called a ‘sanctuary’ but which was actually an industrial waste dump. Mercy? It was a death camp.

  “Rhea Ashart,” Gery called suddenly. His blurry eyes searched for Mira among the sea of students.

  Mira stood up. “Present, Professor.”

  “You live in the palace now. You must have seen the inscription under the statue of King Stormborn at the main gate,” said Gery, his tone testing. “What is the motto of the Runerre Family?”

  Mira took a breath. She knew the answer. Arlen had once said it proudly.

  “Potentia est Ordo,” Mira replied flatly.

  “Meaning?”

  “Power is Order.”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Gery. “Without Stormborn's absolute power, Asnaven would collapse. That is why their bloodline must be preserved. Without blemish. Without stain.”

  Mira sat back down. She stared at her own hands. The hands that Arlen had held that morning. Arlen believed in this history. He believed he was the protector of order. He didn't know that his throne was built on a fabricated destiny. Arlen was a monster who was unaware that he was a monster.

  Mira pressed her pen too hard against the paper. The tip broke. Black ink spilled, spreading like a bloodstain across the clean pages of history.

  ***

  Veinara Library.

  An hour later, during break time. Mira didn't go to the cafeteria. She sneaked into the deepest part of the library, past the shelves of popular magic books, heading for the Economics and Census Archives—the most boring place in the entire academy, and therefore, the quietest.

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  In the darkest corner, which smelled of mold, Ulric was already waiting. The young man with thick glasses sat on the floor, surrounded by piles of dusty books. He looked restless, constantly adjusting his glasses.

  “You're late,” Ulric whispered, his eyes darting left and right paranoidly. “The archive guard almost caught me entering the Restricted Section.”

  “Sorry, Ulric. There was... a commotion in the corridor,” Mira crouched down beside him. “What did you find?”

  Ulric pulled out a large, cracked black leather-bound book. The title was faded: The Great Book of Taxes & Censuses: Years 2820-2860.

  “Look at this,” Ulric opened a marked page. His thin finger pointed to a row of numbers. “Year 2839. Population of the Southeast District (before it became Fasheart): 52,000. The majority are recorded as non-magical farmers (Machima Race).”

  Ulric quickly turned the page. “Year 2840. The Year of the Unification of King Stormborn. Population of the Southeast District: 4,800 people.”

  Mira's eyes widened. “Forty-seven thousand people...” she whispered in horror.

  “Gone in six months,” Ulric continued. “The official record says ‘Labor Relocation to the North’. But Rhea... there were no construction projects in the North that year. The North is just rocky cliffs.”

  “Unless they were used as foundations,” Mira felt a chill run down her spine.

  “There's more,” Ulric took out a piece of paper with a copy of the genealogy. His face grew paler. “This is about the Runerre family itself.”

  “What about them?”

  “I traced the lineage of King Runerre. He had no children until 2818. His wife was barren according to leaked palace medical records,” Ulric pointed to a name on the family tree. “But suddenly, in 2819, an heir appeared. King Stormborn.”

  “An adopted child?”

  “Or a stolen child,” Ulric swallowed hard. “In the same year, an ancient noble family was ‘erased’ on charges of rebellion. The Villings family.”

  Mira frowned. “Villings?” She felt like she had heard that name before, or at least a similar name, but she couldn't remember where. It was a foreign name to her in Asnaven.

  “Who were they?” Mira asked.

  “A family of light and star elemental wizards. Very powerful, almost on par with the royal family,” Ulric explained. “Their house was burned to the ground. All of its members were declared dead. But... the body of their youngest son was never found.”

  Ulric looked at Mira with fearful eyes behind his lenses. “My theory... King Stormborn I stole the baby. He needed a strong heir. He wiped out the Villings family, took the baby, and named him Stormborn II. That explains why Arlen is so powerful... and why their powers are sometimes unstable. Because it's not real Stormborn blood. It's stolen blood.”

  Mira leaned against the bookshelf. A fake family. Arlen wasn't descended from gods. He was descended from a family slaughtered by his own “great-grandfather.” His identity was a complete fabrication.

  “Ulric, this...” Mira massaged her temples. “This could get us hanged.”

  “I know,” Ulric closed the book quickly. “But this explains why they hid the history of the Machima Race. Because the Machima Race might be the only ones who know the truth about the origin of the False King.”

  “Keep this book. Don't let anyone see it,” Mira ordered firmly.

  “Lukas asked me yesterday,” Ulric said, hugging the book tightly. “He asked why you were interested in history. I said you wanted to write a novel. He didn't laugh, Rhea.”

  “Be careful, Ulric.”

  Ulric nodded stiffly, then hurried away, disappearing among the aisles of old books, leaving Mira with the heavy burden of truth.

  ***

  Mira couldn't go straight back to her next class. Her mind was too full. She needed a place where logic and history didn't apply. Her feet carried her to the east tower.

  As soon as she opened the door, the smell of oil paint, wet clay, and chemical solvents assaulted her nose. The room was messy as usual. Canvases were scattered about. Faceless sculptures stood in the corners.

  In the middle of the room, Laich was working. The man was barefoot, his shirt covered in colorful stains. He stood in front of a giant, three-meter canvas. He didn't use a brush. He threw paint directly from the can, then smoothed it out with a large palette knife, or sometimes with his own palm.

  “You're blocking my light,” Laich said without turning his head.

  Mira closed the door. “It's cloudy outside, Laich. There's no light.”

  “Light is everywhere if your eyes aren't blinded by politics,” Laich turned around. His face had blue paint smeared across his cheek. He looked Mira up and down.

  “Your uniform is neat,” Laich commented. "Your hair is styled like royalty. But your aura is like a canvas scribbled on by an angry child."

  Mira walked closer. She looked at Laich's painting. It was abstract. Deep red mixed with cracked gold. In the center, there was a vague shape that looked like a crown, but also looked like a screaming mouth.

  “What are you painting?” asked Mira.

  “A portrait of this kingdom,” replied Laich, wiping his hands on his pants. “Beautiful from afar. Terrifying up close.”

  Laich walked to his messy desk, pouring cold herbal tea into an old jam jar. He handed it to Mira.

  “Drink. You look pale. Did your Handsome Prince forget to feed you?”

  Mira took the glass. Its warmth slightly soothed her cold hands. “He fed me, Laich. He... he's kind.”

  Laich laughed. A dry laugh. “Ah. ‘He's kind’. The most dangerous phrase in the history of romance.” Laich sat on a high stool, staring intently at Mira. "You're starting to like him, aren't you? You're starting to see the man behind the crown."

  Mira looked down, staring at the murky tea. “He doesn't know anything, Laich. He thinks he's protecting his people. He thinks he's doing the right thing. This morning... he tied my tie. His hands were shaking. He's lonely.”

  “And that makes you want to save him?” asked Laich.

  “It makes me want to vomit,” Mira replied honestly. “Because I know... to save the people, I might have to destroy him. And destroying a bad person is easy. But destroying a good person who is lost on the wrong throne... that...”

  “That's art,” Laich interrupted.

  Mira looked up. “What?”

  Laich got up from his chair. He walked over to his giant painting. He picked up a sharp palette knife. “Art isn't about making beautiful things, Rhea. Art is about honesty. And honesty is often brutal.”

  Laich slashed the knife across the center of his still-wet canvas. Destroying the beautiful golden color composition. Creating a gaping wound in the middle of the painting.

  “See?” Laich pointed to the scratch. “Now the painting is more alive. Because there's a wound there. There's conflict.”

  Laich turned to look at Mira, his eyes serious. “You're not a savior, kid. And you're not a killer. You're a Critic. Your job isn't to fix Arlen's painting. Your job is to show him that his canvas is rotten.”

  “Even if it destroys him?”

  “Especially if it destroys him,” Laich leaned closer, patting Mira's shoulder. A red paint stain remained on Mira's expensive blue blazer. “Because humans can only be rebuilt after they've been completely destroyed. If you truly care about him... don't let him live in a beautiful lie. Destroy him with the truth.”

  Mira stared at the red stain on her shoulder. It looked like blood. Her art teacher seemed to know everything, reminding Mira of Kars, only older.

  “Villings,” Mira muttered suddenly.

  “What?” Laich frowned.

  “Ulric said the real family name that was stolen was Villings. Have you ever heard of it?”

  Laich's eyes flicked. There was a flicker of recognition there, very faint, before he covered it with an indifferent smirk. “An ancient name. Long lost. Why?”

  “Just curious,” Mira lied. She knew Laich was hiding something. Everyone in this town was hiding something. It turned out that Laich and Kars were equally bad at hiding things.

  Mira put down her teacup. “Thank you, Laich. You're right. I should be a critic.”

  “Go away,” Laich returned to his painting, picking up a handful of black paint. “Before you ruin my painting mood with your complicated morality.”

  Mira walked out of the Art Building. The evening wind blew strongly, scattering dry leaves across the academy grounds. Arlen was waiting for her at the palace. Waiting with a sincere smile and false hope.

  Mira felt inside her blazer pocket. There was a small note from Ulric about the missing population. It was her scalpel. And tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after... she had to start cutting.

  Anna appeared beside her as she stepped out of the building. “Rhea,” Anna whispered. "There's a letter from Elodie. She's inviting you to meet at a neutral place tonight. Without Arlen."

  Mira narrowed her eyes. “Elodie...” The Princess of Vsnava must know something. She was too calm when she saw the explosion of lights yesterday.

  “We'll accept,” said Mira. “Let's see what cards the Ice Princess is holding.”