The Sovereign Table sat like a row of monarchs on the stage above the atrium, overlooking a thousand students arranged with near-military precision.
From business mogul brats to ministerial legacies to budding assassins dressed like Vogue cover girls, every house was represented in full regalia.
In the center—rising above them all—stood the Sovereign platform, polished obsidian and etched in silver.
Carmen Alviero adjusted her collar, fingers trailing the edge of her earpiece as she stepped forward first.
"Welcome back," she said, voice ringing out like a blade drawn slow.
No cheering. No clapping. Only listening.
"Legacy does not entitle you. It assigns you a debt."
Behind her stood Ajax, Betty, and Calum—each silent, each sharp, each carrying their own weight in quiet authority.
Betty added a few words about upcoming national events. Calum gave a briefing on surveillance protocol and what not to hack unless you liked waking up in the forest with no memory.
Ajax spoke last. Effortlessly.
"Your titles mean nothing here," he finished. "Only your ranking does. Adjust accordingly."
---
By noon, most students had filtered into their schedules—debates, black-market economics, weapon calibration. But Carmen?
She stayed in the main library, tucked between corridors lined with portraits of dead legacies and older scandals.
She'd been scanning archives on Dualism—cross-house operatives, if they'd ever existed. But the records were thin. Fragmented. Vague. She found whispers of students who had flared brilliantly and disappeared. Names blacked out. Notes removed.
No concrete data.
Just enough to suggest:
Alia Revias wasn't the first.
But if so… why hide it?
Was it shameful? Dangerous? Forbidden?
Or powerful?
Her phone pinged.
FENCING – 14:00
Arena 3, South Pavilion. Instructor: Madame Virelli
She stood, gathered her things, slid on her gloves, and left.
---
The fencing arena shimmered with polished marble and steel, sunlight spilling in from above through stained-glass skylights. The students stood in rows, white masks tucked under their arms, gear crisp and intimidating.
Carmen entered—neither early nor late.
And there was Alia.
Already suited. Sword glinting.
Smirking.
"Fight me," Alia said, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Unless you're scared of losing your rep to a first-yearer."
Carmen said nothing. She merely slid on her mask.
They took their positions.
Swords lifted. The coach barked:
"Engage!"
It was fast.
Like lightning in silk.
Alia was wild—too fast, too fluid, like she'd trained on instinct and rebellion.
Carmen? Precision. Surgical strikes. Calculated steps. She didn't chase. She cornered.
And then—
Mid-lunge, Alia faltered.
Just for a second. Her body stiffened, breath snagged, eyes lost focus like the roof had collapsed in her chest.
Carmen saw it too late. But her blade moved anyway.
Ting. The sound was delicate. Almost shy.
Then came the sting.
The coach snapped:
"Touché!"
Alia gasped, stumbling back, fingers flying to her face.
A clean, shallow cut bloomed across her cheekbone. Not deep. But it bled.
The white mask hit the floor with a clang.
Blood against porcelain.
Artistic.
Gasps rippled through the room. A few students snickered.
"Serves her right," someone whispered. "Always acting like she's someone."
"She challenged Carmen, for gods' sake."
"Should've stuck to shopping sprees."
Alia ignored it all.
She pressed a cloth to her cheek, nodded once at the coach, and turned.
"Nurse's office," she muttered. "I'm fine."
She was halfway out the door when she heard it:
Clatter. Carmen's sword hitting the floor.
A beat later, footsteps followed.
---
At the infirmary, Alia sat upright, legs swinging slightly while the nurse gently patched the gash with a stingless sealant.
Carmen stood nearby. Hands folded behind her back. Her expression unreadable.
"She your roommate?" the nurse asked ignorantly.
"Subordinate," Carmen corrected smoothly.
Alia rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
The nurse left them alone, muttering about file updates.
For a moment, silence.
Then—
Alia turned, eyebrow raised.
"You didn't have to come."
Carmen didn't answer.
"Seriously. It's not like you do bedside visits. Pretty sure I'm not on your Save List."
Still nothing.
Alia looked away.
Her voice softened—just enough to sting.
"Was it on purpose? The hit?"
Carmen blinked.
"No. You flinched. I followed through."
Alia's lips curled, but not into a smile.
"Hah. I did flinch, didn't I?"
A beat.
"I hate that."
Still silence.
Alia stood, grabbing her hoodie from the chair.
"Anyway, thanks for... hovering, I guess. Try not to let the others think you care. Your image might crack."
She turned to leave—
"Cazzo" Carmen murmured.
Alia paused. "What?"
Carmen blinked once, then shook her head.
"Nothing."
"No, what did you say?"
"Just… it's not your business."
Alia narrowed her eyes. "What does it mean?"
Carmen's mouth twitched, like something almost wanted to smile.
"Maybe I'll tell you the next time you challenge me."
Alia huffed, looping her bag over her shoulder.
"Guess I'll just have to make sure you don't cut my face next time."
"Try not to flinch then."
Their eyes met.
And for one second, Carmen saw it—
The cheek still tinged red, the Vantaire cuff still glinting, the lips pressed into defiance…
And Alia thought, clearly, and with sharp certainty:
"Damn. She's badass."
---
"Clearance: Dualist Alpha"
By 15:07, Alia had peeled off her hoodie and reapplied lip gloss with the air of someone who did not just bleed all over a fencing floor.
The cut on her cheek had already faded to something elegant. She looked like she got into a fight with a diamond and won emotionally. She tapped her Vantaire cuff against the scanner in the west courtyard—two taps, one long press. It blinked green.
Calum Callahan was waiting near the obelisk in front of the lower courtyard. Dressed in black on black, eyes flicking across his wrist console like the universe bored him and he planned to redesign it anyway.
"You're late," he said.
"I got stabbed. Hi."
"Should've dodged."
"You're a warm ray of sunlight, Cal."
He turned without replying, gesturing for her to follow. They moved past the marble fountain and toward a restricted corridor, lined with black steel and energy veins.
"Your authorization?" he said, still not looking at her.
Alia lifted her cuff. From her blazer pocket, she retrieved a second pass—sleek, metallic, and glowing faintly violet.
"Clearance: Dualist Alpha. Reivas, Alia. Authorized by House Vantaire. Restricted to Arbiter supervision."
Calum scanned it. It chimed.
Doors hissed open.
Behind them was a hidden annex of glass and humming machines. Cool air buzzed with code. On the far side: a narrow stairwell leading down into what looked like the spinal cord of the academy.
"Follow me," Calum said.
---
They entered a small, dim-lit room that smelled like polished metal and memory. Inside was a table, two chairs, and a holo-display shaped like a dome above the desk. Everything buzzed quietly. Tech alive and listening.
Waiting.
Seated across the desk was a man.
Black gloves. Square glasses. Hair greying at the sides, but face sharp like he carved himself from steel.
Instructor Alder Vos.
A ghost. A rumor. A former sovereign of Argentum, ex-intel for an underground syndicate that no longer had a name. And now? Alia's private mentor.
He didn't smile.
"You're the Dualist?" he asked, voice low.
"I'm the problem. Hi."
"You're late."
"I bled. People clapped."
"Good. You'll need thicker skin."
Calum handed Vos a tablet, then moved to the wall where a surveillance panel blinked. He began typing without speaking.
"You're Vantaire and Noctis," Vos said. "Two houses that rarely intersect, and never collaborate. You understand what that means?"
"It means I like chaos and I'm good at lying."
He nodded once. "Dualism is a sanctioned anomaly. It exists quietly. If you are discovered, you will be disqualified from both houses. Stripped of ranking. Possibly expelled. In older years, Dualists vanished."
"Yeah," Alia muttered. "I got the vibe."
Vos looked at her then. Really looked.
"Do you know why you were approved?"
"Because I'm charming."
"Because your brother's too brilliant to silence and too political to risk rebellion. You're leverage. But you're also a wildcard. And wildcards are useful—until they're not."
That shut her up.
Calum turned, finally speaking:
"You'll be assigned protocols from both houses. You'll train with me on encryption, infiltration, and ghost-writing. Vos will oversee psychological warfare, identity control, and shadow politics."
"So… therapy?" she quipped.
"No," Calum said flatly. "Rewiring."
She shivered. And maybe smiled a little.
---
16:22.
The session ended with a retinal scan and a fingerprint burn. Vos dismissed her with a curt nod, while Calum handed her a drive the size of a rice grain.
"Put it in your tooth," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Molar. Right side. Holds your daily protocols. No one will detect it."
She blinked. "That's actually kinda hot."
"Please never say that again."
---
As she stepped back into the sunlight, the Vantaire cuff glinting anew, the air felt different.
Not heavier.
Just… sharper. Like she'd stepped fully into something no one else could see.
Like she wasn't just walking a tightrope anymore.
She was dancing on it.
And somewhere across the grounds, Carmen Alviero was no doubt training with a sword and thinking about blood and betrayal and whatever the hell "Cazzo" meant.
Alia grinned.
This semester was going to be fun.
---