The Dirrium kingdom act 2
The heavy oak doors of Class 1-A remained shut long after the morning bell had ceased its toll. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the self-importance of the Dirrium elite.
Prince Kaelen sat at the head of the tiered classroom, his boots resting on the mahogany desk. Around him, a circle of sycophants laughed as he held court.
"Did you see them yesterday? All that posturing at the gate," Kaelen sneered, tossing a silver coin into the air and catching it. "The 'White Devil' and his little blue-haired shadow are probably hiding in their room. Wealth doesn't give you the stomach for a Northern winter. They've likely realized that in this Academy, gold can't buy you a seat at the table if you're too scared to show up."
Professor Harlon, a man whose spine had been curved by decades of bowing to royalty, cleared his throat nervously. He looked at the two empty seats in the front row—prime positions reserved for the highest donors. "Perhaps... perhaps Lord Leornars is unwell? The climate shift is quite drastic."
"He's a coward, Professor," Kaelen barked, his voice echoing. "A merchant prince who thinks he can buy his way into our culture. He's probably halfway back to the South by now, crying for his beach."
Five Miles Away: The Northern Docks
While the Prince was busy inflating his ego, the subjects of his scorn were standing on a windswept pier, miles from the classroom.
Leornars was staring at a massive, iron-clad cargo vessel, his crimson eyes scanning a holographic manifest that hovered in the air. His white hair was whipped by the salt spray, but his expression was one of cold, industrial focus.
"The current route around the Cape of Sorrow adds six days to the transit," Leornars said, his voice barely a whisper against the crashing waves. "The fuel costs alone for the Golem-engines are a 12% drain on the net margin. It's inefficient, Stacian. It's an insult to mathematics."
Stacian, her white skirt fluttering in the gale, tapped a fountain pen against a map. "If we purchase the sovereign rights to the 'Dead Man's Strait' from the local Barons—who are currently starving, I might add—we can cut the route by half. I've already sent the offer. They have ten minutes to sign before I lower the price by half again."
"Do it," Leornars replied, his eyes glowing brighter. "And buy that fleet of three ice-breakers. I want the Northern trade routes locked down before the first snowfall. If I control the speed of the cargo, I control the heartbeat of this kingdom."
"Consider it done, My Lord. The funds are already moving through the shadow-ledgers."
Suddenly, the sound of iron boots clattered against the wooden pier. A Royal Knight, sent by the Academy to find the missing "International Student," skidded to a halt, gasping for air.
"You! Lord Leornars!" the knight shouted, his hand on his sword. "The Headmaster is furious! You are nearly an hour late for your first lecture! You are to return to the Academy walls at once! This is a breach of—"
Leornars didn't even turn around. He closed the holographic map with a flick of his fingers.
"Stacian, what is the penalty for interrupting a private trade negotiation?"
"Usually? Immediate termination," Stacian said, her cyan eyes flashing with a cold, blue light as she looked at the knight. "But since we are 'students' today... shall we show him the benefit of high-speed transit?"
The knight blinked. One moment, the two youths were standing by the edge of the pier. In the next, there was a violent ripple in the air—a sound like a vacuum being filled.
They vanished.
The knight stumbled forward, clutching at the empty air where they had been. "What... where did they..."
"...and that is why the South will always be subservient to the North's martial—" Kaelen was interrupted by a thunderous CRACK.
The air in the center of the classroom folded in on itself. A shockwave of pure magical pressure sent the Prince's silver coin flying across the room.
When the light faded, Leornars and Stacian were sitting in their respective seats. Leornars was leaning back, one hand supporting his chin, his ashen skin pale against the blue blazer. Stacian was already opening a notebook, her pen poised as if she had been there the entire time.
The classroom fell into a deafening silence. Professor Harlon dropped his chalk.
Leornars looked up, his crimson eyes locking onto the stunned Prince.
"You were saying, Prince Kaelen?" Leornars asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "Something about the South being subservient? Please, continue. I'm fascinated by fiction."
Stacian leaned over, whispering just loud enough for the front row to hear. "Apologies for the delay, Professor. We were just finalizing the purchase of the ships that will be delivering your salary this evening. Please, don't let us interrupt the... 'lesson'."
Kaelen's face turned a deep, humiliated red. He opened his mouth to shout, but the sheer weight of Leornars' gaze seemed to pin him to his seat.
"Logic, Prince," Leornars said, a small, predatory smile tugging at his lips. "While you were talking, I was working. While you were bragging about your bloodline, I was buying the ocean your kingdom depends on. Now... sit down. I'd like to see if this Academy has anything to teach me that I haven't already calculated."
On the outskirts of the Dirrium capital, the massive iron-bound wagons bearing the seal of the Avangard Kingdom groaned under the weight of precious grain and medicinal salts. Sahara and Sasha, Leornars' elite delivery duo, pulled the lead carriage to a halt.
"Delivery complete," Sasha muttered, wiping a smudge of grease from her cheek. "The merchant's signature is on the scroll. The North lives to eat another day."
"Don't get comfortable," Sahara replied, her hand tightening on the hilt of her massive greatsword. "The Lord's orders were specific. Deliver the goods... then wait for the 'storm.'"
They didn't have to wait long.
From the rooftops of the nearby district, two figures descended like falling stars. Bellian, a mountain of a man, hit the cobblestones with enough force to crack the foundation of the nearest warehouse. He was dressed in the jagged, dark armor of a nameless mercenary, his face obscured. Beside him, Zhyelena moved like a flicker of moonlight, her attire sleek and foreign.
Without a word, Bellian unsheathed a blackened greatsword that hummed with destructive mana.
"Who goes there?" Sahara roared, drawing her own massive blade.
The clash was instantaneous. When Sahara and Bellian's swords met, the resulting shockwave didn't just rattle windows—it leveled the entire front of a stone tavern. The sound was like a mountain splitting in half. CRACK. The buildings groaned as the pressure of their mana ripped through the street, turning the "mercy grain" into golden dust.
"You're destroying the cargo!" Sasha screamed, leaping back as Zhyelena launched a volley of dark-matter needles that turned a wagon into splinters.
"That," Zhyelena whispered, her eyes cold, "is exactly the point."
The lecture on "Northern Sovereignty" was droning on when a subtle shift occurred. A shadow flickered at the edge of the classroom's stained-glass window—a specific, rhythmic movement.
Leornars, leaning back in his seat with his ashen white skin glowing faintly in the dim light, caught the signal. Zhyelena was back. The "attack" was a success.
He leaned slightly toward Stacian. "Act 2 is done," he whispered, his crimson eyes fixed on the Professor.
Stacian's cyan eyes didn't move from her notes, but a small, sharp smile played on her lips. "The reports are already reaching the city guards, My Lord. Panic is a very fast traveler."
A few minutes later, the classroom doors burst open. A messenger, pale and trembling, stumbled in. "Headmaster! Prince Kaelen! The Avangard trade caravan... it's been decimated! A group of high-level terrorists attacked the gates! The grain is gone! The city is in an uproar!"
The classroom erupted in chaos. Prince Kaelen stood up, his face pale. "An attack? On Leornars' goods? In our territory?"
Leornars didn't move. He sat in the middle of the panic like a statue of white marble.
Later: The Private Embassy
As the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, Leornars and Stacian stood on the balcony of his rapidly constructed residence. Below, the city was a hive of flickering torches and screaming sirens.
"Explain the logic to me once more, My Lord," Stacian said, pouring him a glass of chilled nectar. "You destroyed five million gold coins worth of your own supplies."
"Five million gold is a cheap price for a crown, Stacian," Leornars replied, taking the glass. He gestured to the city below. "The citizens of Dirrium were just told that I came to save them, and that 'unknown forces' attacked my charity on their soil. To the public, it looks like a declaration of war against me—their only benefactor."
He turned, his white hair catching the moonlight.
"The King of Dirrium is now in an impossible position. He failed to protect the goods of a sovereign who holds his debt. If he doesn't answer for this personally, the world sees him as complicit or incompetent. Either way, he can no longer send a Duke to talk to me."
"He has to invite you to the Throne Room," Stacian realized, her eyes widening.
"Exactly," Leornars said, his voice dropping to a chilling, low register. "I have bypassed the Academy, the Ministers, and the Dukes. By attacking myself, I've forced a 'Meeting of Kings.' I'm not here to be a student, Stacian. I'm here to tell the King exactly how he is going to hand over his country."
He took a sip of the drink, his crimson eyes reflecting the fires in the city.
"Panic creates a vacuum, and I am the only one with the power to fill it. Tell the others to lay low. They played their parts perfectly. Now, prepare my formal midnight coat. I believe I have an invitation to the Palace coming within the hour."