The fireplace in Draven's private study crackled, but the warmth did not reach him. He sat at his desk, the golden Cinderwisp Ring heavy on his finger, staring at a stack of state reports that had become meaningless. His mind was a loop of black eyes and a polite, chillingly formal curtsey.
"Darius," Draven called out, his voice echoing in the hollow room. "The results from the Aetherbind entrance exams. Bring them to me. Now."
Darius and Elarion entered the study moments later. Usually, they were quick to offer a witty remark or a strategic update, but tonight, their expressions were uneasy—haunted, even. Darius placed a single, thick parchment on the desk with a hand that slightly trembled.
Draven scanned the document, and for a long moment, he forgot how to breathe.
"This... this must be a mistake," Draven whispered.
"It is no mistake, Your Highness," Darius replied, his voice low. "The history of the Empire has never seen a score like this. It is beyond excellent. She didn't just pass; she dismantled every metric the Academy has."
Draven's eyes raced over the marks. Written Theory: 100%. Verbal Lore: 100%. Strategic Analysis: 100%. It was a perfect sweep.
But it was the physical evaluations that stopped his heart.
"The mana measurement," Draven noted, his finger tracing the ink. "The section is marked 'Incalculable.' Why?"
"Because there is no longer a globe to measure it with," Elarion chimed in, stepping forward. "When the instructors asked her to channel her core into the glass, the globe didn't just glow, Your Highness. It exploded. The sheer concentration of her mana was so dense the glass couldn't contain the pressure. Shards flew everywhere."
Draven's eyes widened. "Was she hurt?"
"Not a scratch," Darius said, a faint, dry laugh escaping him. "She stood there in the middle of the glass rain, completely unfazed. She simply looked at the Headmaster and said, ' Iapologize for damaging Academy property. Please send the bill to the Obsidian Keep.'
She was more concerned about the paperwork than the fact that she had just displayed enough power to level a tower."
Draven huffed, a sound that was half-amusement and half-disbelief. He could almost see her—the tiny, polite Sovereign making excuses for her own terrifying strength.
"That sounds like her mother," he muttered, though the pride in his chest felt like a hot coal.
"There is more," Elarion added, his face turning grave. "The Test of Blades. She refused the wooden training sword and asked for a dulled steel rapier.
They put her against Sir Kaelen—an elite knight of the third rank."
Draven leaned forward. "And?"
"Seven minutes," Elarion said. "She didn't use brute force. She used speed and pure, cold calculation. She baited Kaelen into a lunge, parried with a force that shouldn't be possible for a child, and drew blood by nicking his forearm before the instructors could even call a halt."
"She didn't celebrate, Your Highness . She didn't even smile. She just sheathed her blade as if she were finishing a hobby or a chore."
Draven leaned back in his chair, the parchment crinkling under his grip.
He had wanted a strong heir. He had wanted a legacy that would make the Emberclaw name immortal. He had been given exactly what he asked for—a genius, a warrior, a prodigy of the highest order.
And she wasn't his. Not really. She was a masterpiece created in his absence, a weapon forged in the shadows of the Keep.
"She is a monster," Draven whispered, though there was no malice in the word—only a terrifying, heartbroken awe.
"No, Highness," Darius corrected him softly. "She is a Sovereign. And she is just getting started."