He had never been dressed by other people before.
It was an uncomfortable experience. Three maids arrived at his door before sunrise, arms full of fabric in colours he did not have names for, and proceeded to treat him like a problem that needed solving. He stood in the centre of the room with his arms slightly out and said nothing while they worked.
The shirt alone felt like it cost more than the village had owned collectively.
"This is too much," he said.
" lord Vex prefers his guests well-presented," the nearest maid said pleasantly, adjusting his collar with the calm authority of someone who had dressed resistant people before.
"Where does he get the money for all of this."
She looked at him the way people look at someone who has said something genuinely surprising.
" Lord controls the three Diamond Mines of the Northern Reach," she said, as if reciting something a child should already know. "And the Silk Forest — all of it, the entire eastern grove. Every trade route between the Iron Wall and the Ashen Plains runs through his territory and pays his toll." She moved to his cuffs. "His personal cavalry numbers eighty thousand. Thirty thousand ground soldiers.-five thousand battle mages under his direct command."
Aren stared at her.
"His annual income," she added, with just a trace of something that might have been pride, "exceeds that of most marquesses. Several rival dukes have stopped trying to calculate it."
She stepped back. Looked him over. Adjusted one final button.
"Breakfast is ready, my lord."
The dining table was long enough to feel like a statement.
Markus was already seated at the far end with a cup of something hot and a newspaper he was reading with the focused attention of a man who genuinely enjoys mornings. He looked up when Aren entered, looked him over once, and nodded with mild approval.
"Better. Sit. Eat."
Aren sat. He looked at the table.
Then he ate.
He ate with the focused, systematic efficiency of someone who had spent fourteen years never being entirely sure when the next meal was coming. Course after course arrived and disappeared. The maids exchanged glances. Markus refilled his own cup and turned a page and said nothing, which Aren appreciated more than he could express.
When the table was finally, thoroughly defeated, Markus folded his newspaper.
"Let's talk."
Aren sat back. Waiting.
"You use magic." Markus said it plainly, no ceremony. "Three elements in one night, under exhaustion, at fourteen. That's not common. That's not even uncommon. That simply does not happen." He turned his cup slowly. "You need training that I cannot give you. I know a sword. That's all. What you are requires something more."
"Selvinina," Aren said.
Markus raised an eyebrow.
"The Royal Academy." Aren's voice was flat. "I've heard of it. It's where they train nobles. Mages, sword masters, commanders. The empire's next generation." He looked at Markus directly. "I don't qualify. Power or not. It's noble blood only and I have none."
"Aren," Markus said, "you're correct."
A pause.
"Aren Vex, however, is my heir."
The room was quiet except for the fire.
"I had a son," Markus said slowly. "By a commoner woman. I kept it quiet — it's common enough in the empire, no real scandal in it. The boy was hidden. Raised away from court. And now, for whatever reason, I've decided to bring him in and legitimise him." Markus looked at Aren steadily. "That's the story."
"Is it believable?"
Markus smiled over the rim of his cup. "I am one of the wealthiest men in the empire and I have never once done what anyone expected me to." He set the cup down. "It's entirely believable. No one will question it who matters, and the ones who question it don't matter."
Aren was quiet for a moment.
"Three months," Markus continued. "That's what we have before the next enrollment. I will teach you manners — how to stand, how to speak in court, how to eat at a table without frightening the staff—" he glanced pointedly at the devastated remains of breakfast "—and how to carry yourself like a noble's son. It is mostly performance. You will be fine."
Aren looked at the falcon crest on Markus's coat. Then back up.
"And then?"
"And then you walk into the finest military academy in the empire. You learn everything they know. You make yourself into exactly what you need to be." Markus picked up his cup again. "And one day, when the time comes, you use every single thing they taught you against them."
The fire crackled.
Aren said nothing for a long moment.
"Goodnight, Aren Vex," Markus said, standing, straightening his coat. "First lesson tomorrow. Dawn. Don't be late — I am patient about most things, but not that."
He walked out.
Aren sat alone at the long table in the expensive clothes in the enormous room and turned his new name over quietly in his mind.
Aren Vex.
It fit like a blade finding its sheath.
He was almost at the door when he asked it.
"Why don't you just march?"
Markus looked up from his desk. Papers spread around him, a glass of amber at his elbow, the pipe resting in its stand. He had the expression of a man settling in for a long evening of comfortable work.
"What?"
"Your army." Aren stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. "Eighty thousand cavalry. Thirty thousand soldiers. Forty-five thousand mages. All loyal to you directly." His blue eyes were flat and honest. "Why plan in secret? Why wait? Why smuggle me into an academy?" A pause. "Why not just march on the capital?"
Markus looked at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
Not mockingly. Genuinely — the deep laugh of a man who finds something both funny and painful at the same time. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with one hand.
"Sit down, Aren."
Aren sat.
Markus refilled his glass. He did not offer one this time. This was a different kind of conversation. He laced his fingers together and looked at the boy across the desk with the steady eyes of someone preparing to show a child how large the ocean actually is.
"Tell me what you think an empire is."
Aren said nothing. Waiting.
"The Royal Army of Raum," Markus began, "stands at three hundred and fifty thousand front-line soldiers. Trained, blooded, and equipped from the imperial treasury." He let the number sit. "Alongside them — two hundred and fifty thousand Aura Knights. Ranked tenth to fifth. Each one capable of killing a hundred common soldiers before breakfast."
Something behind Aren's eyes shifted slightly.
"Two hundred thousand mages. First to fifth circle, organised into standing legions." Markus tapped the desk once. "Four hundred thousand cavalry. And twenty Imperial Vanguards — fourth-tier fighters, each one a small army in human shape."
The fire crackled.
"The empire does not end there." Markus stood. He moved to the window, looking out at the dark northern landscape, his reflection faint in the glass. "Four Dukes. Four directions. Each commanding absolute loyalty to the throne. Each with their own forces."
He spoke without turning.
"The West Duchy. Duke Calik Rastin — the Cruel Blade. One of five Sword Masters in the empire. His personal forces: a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers. Eighty thousand Aura Knights. Three hundred thousand cavalry. Forty thousand mages."
Aren's hands were still on his knees.
"The East Duchy. Duchess Kiril Forsa — the High Sovereign. The only eighth-circle Archmage in the empire. Possibly in the world. Her forces: a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers. Eighty thousand Aura Knights. A hundred thousand cavalry. A hundred thousand mages."
He turned slightly.
"The North Duchy. Duke Zehrail Viken— the Frost Blade, , and another of the five Sword Masters. Fifty thousand soldiers. A hundred and fifty thousand Aura Knights. A hundred thousand cavalry. Forty thousand mages."
He paused.
"The South Duchy. Duke Watreg Thrn — the Crimson Blade. Third of the five Sword Masters. His duchy alone fields three hundred thousand soldiers. A hundred thousand Aura Knights. A hundred thousand cavalry. Fifty thousand mages."
Markus turned fully. Leaned against the windowsill with his arms crossed.
"And that is before we reach the Pillars."
Aren said nothing. His jaw had gone slightly tight.
"Court Mage Willam Rhe — the Ancient Sovereign. Seventh-circle Supreme Mage. One of only three in the empire." Markus raised a finger. "Brakous Agmi — the Stone Sovereign. Seventh circle. Second of three." Another finger. "High Lady Carnia, second princess of the empire — the Royal Sovereign. Seventh circle. Third of three."
He kept going.
"First Prince Fyoman — the Golden Blade. Fourth of the five Sword Masters. Vice Commander of the Royal Army." A pause. "Mizes Rook — the Loyal Blade. Fifth Sword Master. The Emperor's personal guard. The Man who does not sleep."
He met Aren's eyes directly.
"And above all of them — Thane Bleckge. The Silent Blade. Grand Master. The only one in the empire. A tier not seen in three generations. Supreme Commander of every force Raum possesses."
Silence.
"Below these," Markus continued, quieter now, "fifteen Sword Saints. Nine sixth-circle Grand Mages. Sixty Imperial Vanguards."
He picked up his glass. Drank slowly.
"I am a Sword Saint, Aren. Third tier. I have spent twenty years building something most men cannot reach in a lifetime." He set the glass down. "Against that empire, I am a candle in a storm."
Aren stared at the surface of the desk. Something in his face had gone very still — not defeated, but recalibrating. Processing. The way a general studies a map he did not expect.
"So." Markus sat back down. Looked at the boy across from him with calm, honest eyes. "Now you understand why we do not march. Why we move carefully and quietly, and why I need you to walk into that academy and become something the empire itself forged." He leaned forward slightly. "We are not fighting an army, Aren. We are fighting a machine that has been running for centuries. You don't destroy a machine by throwing yourself at it."
The fire had burned low. The room was very quiet.
"You take it apart," Aren said. "Piece by piece."
Markus looked at him for a long moment.
"Get some sleep," he said. "Dawn. Manners. Don't be late."
Aren stood. Moved to the door.
He stopped without turning.
"I will be stronger than all of them."
Not a promise. Not a boast. A statement of fact, delivered in the flat, cold tone of someone reading a map and already calculating the route.
"I know," Markus said quietly.
Aren walked out.
Markus sat alone in the low firelight. He refilled his glass. Stared at nothing for a long time.
Then, very quietly, he smiled.
— End of Chapter 3 —