To celebrate the conclusion of the first trial and to formally announce the new student rankings, the Academy hosted a grand feast. The Grand Auditorium was transformed once again. The tiered seating retracted into the walls, and long, elegantly set tables materialized on the arena floor. The projected sky on the ceiling shifted from day to night, a breathtaking panorama of swirling galaxies and shooting stars. Servants moved in choreographed silence, bearing platters of exotic foods from every region of the continent: roasted fire-lizards from the Emberlands, chilled crystal-fruit from the Cryo-Reach, hearty root-bread from the Verdant Expanse. It was a display of wealth and power designed to awe the new students and reinforce the Academy's prestige.
It was also a battlefield.
The seating was not assigned. Students were free to sit where they pleased, and every choice was a political statement. The Great Houses formed natural clusters, their heirs holding court, surrounded by their vassals and allies. Lesser nobles scurried between tables, trying to attach themselves to a more powerful patron. It was a microcosm of the Imperial court, a brutal game of social chess played with polite smiles and veiled insults.
I navigated this social minefield with deliberate care. My Rank 7 placement had made me a person of interest. I was no longer an ignorable second son. I chose a seat near the middle of the hall, at a table occupied by a mix of students from Blackwood and Stonehaven. It was a position of calculated neutrality—neither seeking the spotlight at the high-profile tables, nor hiding in the obscure corners. I was present, visible, but not central. I was an observer.
From my vantage point, I watched the drama unfold.
At the unofficial "head table," a chaotic cluster dominated by House Pyralis, Isabella was in her element. Having secured the top rank, she was the de facto commander of the first-year class, and she was celebrating with gusto. She was loudly complimenting Elara Glaciem, who had been seated nearby, on her "pretty ice sculpture."
"Truly, Elara, it was gorgeous!" Isabella boomed, her voice carrying across several tables. "So intricate! So delicate! A bit of a shame it had no passion, no fire, but I suppose you can't have everything!"
Elara, who looked as if she would rather be performing calculus in a blizzard, responded without even looking up from her plate. "Thank you, Isabella. Your own display was… voluminous. A reckless and inefficient expenditure of energy, but certainly eye-catching. One must admire its simple, primal quality."
The exchange was a perfect summary of their dynamic. Isabella's insult was wrapped in a loud, cheerful compliment. Elara's was delivered with the cold, precise incision of a surgeon's scalpel. They hated each other, and it was going to be glorious to watch.
A few tables away was the "hero" contingent. Roselle, with her natural warmth, had created a safe harbor for the outcasts and the nervous. She had pulled Kaelen into her group, seating him between herself and the ever-friendly Borin. Kaelen, who was now the subject of intense curiosity and speculation, looked deeply uncomfortable with the attention, but Roselle's presence was a shield, deflecting the probing questions and suspicious stares of other students. She was protecting him, drawing him into her circle, and in doing so, binding him to her with threads of gratitude. It was a masterful, if unintentional, political move.
Elsa Noctis was, as always, a ghost. I couldn't see her, but I knew she was there. Perhaps she was the quiet, unremarkable girl sitting at the end of a table, the one no one was talking to. Perhaps she was a flicker of shadow in the rafters. She was watching, I was certain of it, noting who allied with whom, who drank too much, who was showing their hand too early.
The Imperial siblings held court at the high table on the main dais, seated with the Headmaster and the senior faculty. They were above the petty squabbles of the students, observing the proceedings with regal detachment. But I could feel their eyes, particularly Seraphina's, sweeping the room, missing nothing.
During a lull in the meal, as dessert was being served, it happened. Princess Seraphina rose from the high table and, to the surprise of everyone, began to descend into the student seating area. She moved with her signature, ethereal grace, a goddess descending from Olympus to walk among the mortals. She stopped at a few tables, exchanging pleasantries with the heirs of important Houses, her smile warm and her words charming.
And then, just as her brother had done at the reception, she made a direct line for me.
*Again?* my mind hissed. *First the brother, now the sister. Do I have a sign on my back that says 'Please interrogate the suspicious necromancer'?*
I rose from my seat as she approached, bowing respectfully. The students at my table stared, their eyes wide with shock and awe. The First Princess was gracing our humble, mid-tier table.
"Damon Mournblade," she said, her voice like music. Her golden eyes seemed to shine with their own light, and looking into them was like staring into the sun. "Your demonstration was most… unique. I confess, you gave even me a moment of concern."
"To master Death, one must first become its student, Your Highness," I replied, using another of Damon's memorized, cryptic phrases.
She smiled, a slow, knowing smile. "A poet's answer. My brother mentioned you. He said you were… interesting." She tilted her head, her silver-blonde hair catching the light. "He was not wrong. It is rare to see such stillness in one so young."
This was a different kind of attack from her brother's. Valerius had been a predator, probing for weakness. Seraphina was a cartographer, mapping my emotional terrain. She was trying to get a read on me, to see past the cold facade. Her unique talent, her Emotional Cartography, was a formidable weapon. But it had a weakness. It could only read what was there. And the new me, the fusion of a dead man and a reincarnated soul, was an emotional landscape she had never encountered before. My core was a place of profound, unnatural calm, the stillness of a graveyard where two warring armies had annihilated each other, leaving nothing but silence.
"Stillness is the first lesson taught to a Mournblade," I said, my voice even. "It is the key to our arts."
"Is it?" she murmured, her golden eyes searching mine. "Or is it a cage, to keep something else locked away?"
The question was a dagger, sharp and precise, aimed directly at the truth. She had sensed it. The 'other' in me. The fragment of Azrael, the hidden knowledge, the chaotic potential. She couldn't define it, but she could feel its presence, a discordant note in my soul.
I did not flinch. I met her gaze, my own pale grey eyes as placid and unreadable as a frozen lake. "All souls are cages of a sort, Your Highness. The question is whether we are the prisoner, or the warden."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed her perfect features. She had expected a denial, or confusion. She had not expected a philosophical counter-thrust. For a split second, her mask of serene charm slipped, and I saw the sharp, brilliant mind beneath.
Then she laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Well said, Damon Mournblade. Very well said indeed." She gave me a final, lingering look, a look that said *This is not over*, and then she turned and glided away, leaving me standing in the wake of her passage.
I sat back down. The food on my plate had grown cold. I had just engaged in a battle of wits with the two most powerful siblings on the continent. I had survived. But I had also confirmed my status as a person of intense Imperial interest.
The dinner table was a battlefield, and I had just survived two major skirmishes. But the war was just beginning.