Every item had its place. Every action, its purpose.

  In the sun-washed quiet of his chambers, Claude Edelyn prepared for the celebration marking his acceptance into the Vusric Academy. His sword was lifted from its velvet-lined case, its blade polished to a mirror finish that reflected his own calm expression.

  He buckled the scabbard at his hip. The click was sharp, precise. Next came the white gloves, smoothed over his fingers until no crease dared remain. One stubborn wrinkle resisted; he exhaled through his nose and corrected it.

  Finally, he checked the uniform: deep navy, silver frogging, the Academy’s crest gleaming at his chest. The high collar framed his jaw. The epaulets squared emphasized his already broad shoulders.

  It was a uniform that demanded excellence, and Claude wore it as if he were born in it.

  He turned to the full-length mirror. Ice-blue eyes surveyed posture, collar, hair—nothing out of place, nothing uncontrolled.

  Good, he told himself. Necessary.

  “You look so handsome.”

  A real smile broke through, softening him. His mother, Mabel, stood in the doorway, years and worries etched gently into her face. She crossed the room and linked arms with him.

  “Oh, my son,” she breathed, gazing at him in the mirror. “Vusric Academy. The best in the world. I am so incredibly proud of you.”

  Before he could respond, a servant appeared and bowed. “My deepest apologies, Young Lord, My Lady. But…a contingent of noble ladies has arrived early.”

  Claude’s smile vanished. The mask slid easily into place.

  The harpies, he thought.

  Mabel fluttered toward the door. “Oh dear, the musicians haven’t even finished rehearsing! I must see to this. I’ll find you at the celebration, love.” And she hurried out.

  Claude exhaled once more and checked the mirror again. Collar straight. Sword angled perfectly. Gloves unwrinkled. Everything in order.

  From the hallway drifted his mother’s lowered voice. “Is Lucon not back yet?”

  Claude resisted the urge to close the door. He’d warned her about speaking private matters near him—his Arisen hearing caught everything.

  Her soft, troubled sigh drifted down the hall.

  “No, my lady,” the servant murmured. “No one has seen the Young Lord since this morning.”

  Claude exhaled—not in frustration, but in simple acknowledgment.

  Lucon’s wastrel habits were so common they’d become part of the household, like an old crack in a wall everyone pretended not to see.

  If only it didn’t trouble Mother so much. If only he would stop giving her false hope like when he pretended to become a monk…

  Claude finally stepped out of his chambers. Light, tittering laughter—paired with his mother’s gentle, flustered voice—drew him toward the main receiving hall. A small cluster of noblewomen, adorned in lavish dresses and perfectly practiced smiles, had already encircled Mabel.

  The harpies had arrived.

  One of them was speaking, her eyes wide with mock sympathy. “...Oh, my dear Mabel, it’s simply admirable how you manage these events. It must be so difficult, having to learn it all from scratch.”

  The subtle jab—a reminder of her common birth—hung in the air. The other women laughed, a sound like jangling, discordant bells. Mabel’s smile remained gracious, but a faint flush of confusion and hurt colored her cheeks. She was not a dull woman, but she lacked the viper’s tongue needed for high-class social jousting.

  They hadn’t spoken to her like that when Father was still the richest man in the land.

  Claude’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He started forward, then stopped. The last time he’d tried to defend her, his mother had reprimanded him. “Don’t be rude,” she’d chided. Later, in private, Mabel had lectured him about upright character—how throwing mud like the rest of them only left everyone dirty.

  As he took a deep breath, his enhanced hearing caught a hushed exchange near a pillared archway—a young servant girl whispering frantically to a guardsman. A faint pulse of Mana spread from Claude as he activated his Mana Sense, an energy imperceptible to anyone but a mage. It allowed him to feel the soldier’s Aura Heart, letting him identify the man even through the helmet.

  “...and Cook says if the suppliers aren’t paid by week’s end, they’ll stop all deliveries,” the servant whispered. “We haven’t received our wages either…”

  “Take it to the steward,” the guardsman replied, keeping his voice low.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “I did,” she said, wringing her hands. “He says he hasn’t been paid for three months.”

  The servant noticed Claude approaching and fell silent at once, bowing so deeply her chin nearly touched her chest. “Young Lord Claude! F-forgive me, milord. I beg your pardon for speaking of such things on your celebration day.”

  The soldier turned. As Claude thought, it was Lieutenant Kaeson.

  Kaeson offered a crisp, formal bow. “Young Lord. Pay no mind. My sister was merely…complaining.”

  “She’s the sister of one of the barony’s elite guards,” Claude said, incredulous, “and she hasn’t been paid?” He shook his head. “I am still the Young Lord. My father raised me to face problems, not to walk past them because they’re inconvenient.”

  He met Kaeson’s gaze through the helm’s eye-slits. “Take me to my father. Now.”

  Kaeson hesitated only for a heartbeat, a silent sigh visible in the faint slump of his armored shoulders. “As you wish, milord.”

  He led Claude away from the glittering gaiety of the hall and down a quieter, more somber corridor toward Lord Auric’s study.

  Kaeson and Claude arrived at the heavy oak door of his father’s study, where two guards stood at attention. One of them was Captain Mavor himself—his armored form the very image of stoic reliability.

  Both men bowed as Claude approached.

  “Young Lord,” Mavor said, his voice as solid as the steel he wore. “I’m afraid you can’t go in just yet. Your father has a guest.”

  Claude’s eyebrows lifted. “More early arrivals?”

  “It’s your potential that draws them here, Claude,” Mavor replied, a rare, paternal warmth slipping into his tone. He leaned back against the wall, falling easily into the familiar rapport between the seasoned soldier and the boy he’d helped train. “I remember the first day I showed you how to feel your Aura. You ignited it in your heart before the hour was out.”

  The Captain chuckled, a deep, good-humored sound. “So, which one are you more of, Claude? Arisen or mage?”

  Claude allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. It was the question everyone asked—and he knew the answer Mavor wanted to hear. “Arisen are the unstoppable vanguard. Mages provide support. A leader stands at the front.”

  Mavor grunted his approval. “Atta boy.” He clapped a gauntleted hand on Claude’s shoulder. “You can leave the estate’s worries to us when you head off to that fancy school. The barony is in good hands.”

  Claude thought of the fallow fields and the unpaid servants. He wanted to believe the Captain’s words.

  “It will be,” Mavor continued, his voice firm with conviction. “We have Lord Auric. And we have Young Lord Lucon.”

  Beside him, Kaeson and the other guard nodded in firm agreement.

  Claude kept a blank expression. The tale of Lucon the mythological hero, facing against four divines of Nimbora in the Wilderwood. A tale as grand as it was absurd.

  His father seemed to have the right of it. Their elite guard caught temporary Wilderwood madness, and hallucinations became history.

  Music drifted up from below—the musicians readying their instruments for later. Through the window, the courtyard was awash in color, decorated with flower wreaths and banners. Once, it had held training equipment. Years ago, two boys had trained there—him and his older brother, a brother who seemed capable of anything.

  “If the Hero’s Party fails, then I’ll grow up and slay the Demon King myself!”

  Claude had looked up to him then, heart swelling with admiration. Lucon had already been training under the original Captain of the elite guard—a living legend in their household who had kept their father alive from when he owned only two coppers to the day he held two-thirds of Teleris’s shops.

  But Lucon had failed to become an Arisen and soon passed the age when it would have been possible.

  There had been nothing he wanted more than that, yet he had settled for trying to become a mage.

  The gods had denied him again.

  No matter how many Mana Crystals they used, the elixirs consumed, or sages consulted, Lucon couldn’t materialize a Mana Pool.

  Claude chased after him, but the race had never really begun.

  He remembered the day he finally succeeded with his own talent—running to his brother with a flicker of flame in one hand and a haze of red Aura around the other, his heart bursting with joy.

  Lucon didn’t smile. A dark expression overtook his face.

  He had shoved Claude away—hard.

  “I don’t care if you become the next Hero! The last one died anyway and took all of Father’s money with him!” Lucon had shouted, envy and pain in every word. “Better to be the heir of House Edelyn than die in demon lands!”

  The memory scattered like dust on the wind at the sound of the study door opening.

  Lord Auric emerged, his face etched with deep weariness. With him was a portly man, thin goatee, balding head barely concealed by an expensive velvet cap. Claude recognized him immediately: Niles Visciro, one of his father’s oldest friends.

  “...Don’t you worry about the repayment schedule, old friend,” Niles said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “The Western Trade Alliance will always be ready to lend House Edelyn whatever it needs.”

  “I never leave a debt unpaid,” Lord Auric replied, his voice strained. “You have my word. I just need to ensure my people are…”

  He trailed off, his tired eyes finding Claude standing in the corridor.

  “Claude!” Niles boomed, his demeanor shifting into effusive charm. He swept a bow that was just a little too deep to be entirely sincere. “The next Named Hero himself! It is an honor.”

  Claude offered a polite smile and a bow. “You honor me, Mister Visciro, but I’m hardly that.”

  “Nonsense! That’s what everyone is saying.” Niles’s eyes gleamed. “In fact, to show our support, the Western Trade Alliance would be delighted to provide you with a new carriage for your journey to Vusric. Ebony wood, gilded trim, pulled by a matched pair of snow-white stallions. I hear first years need to make an entrance, as per tradition.”

  Claude’s heart leapt. The carriage he was meant to take was old, the horses serviceable at best. At a place like Vusric, such a gift could leave an important first impression on the very first day.

  But Lord Auric cut in, his voice firm. “That is a generous offer, Niles, but we cannot accept. You have already done more than enough for this house.”

  “My friend—” Niles began, but Auric shook his head.

  “Please. I must hold to my own principles, especially in front of my son.”

  “Very well. I shall see you both at the celebration, then.” Niles bowed again before sweeping down the hall.

  Claude watched him go, disappointment pricking at his chest—a pang he quickly suppressed.

  “It is best to take only what you can pay back,” his father said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  They began to walk—father and son—with Captain Mavor and the other guards trailing behind.

  Auric asked, “Why did you come to see me, son?”

  Claude nodded, swallowing his frustration. “Yes, Father. I came to speak with you—about the servants. They haven’t been paid.”

  Auric’s expression grew troubled. “I know. It’s already being handled. Niles is helping me restructure the debts.”

  Claude exhaled, tension easing slightly. “Then I’m glad.”

  But his father’s next words caught him off guard.

  “There’s something else,” Lord Auric said, his gaze steady and resolute. “Tonight, I am going to announce you as the next heir of House Edelyn.”