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Darcelle's POV
The training hall was quiet, too quiet for Darcelle's liking. Dust drifted lazily in the beams of sunlight filtering through the high windows, and the polished floorboards reflected the dull gleam of her twin swords. She sat cross-legged, hunched slightly forward as she cleaned the blades with slow, deliberate strokes. The steel shimmered like liquid fire—sharp, deadly, and without mercy.
Her long black hair, tied high in a practical knot, slipped loose in places and clung to her cheeks. Her crimson raider cloak, trimmed with gold embroidery, pooled around her like spilled wine. To anyone watching, she looked every inch the Red Raider she was—disciplined, fierce, and untouchable. But beneath her calm exterior, her jaw clenched with barely restrained fury.
They really chose me.
When the elders had first informed her she'd been selected for the king's suicidal expedition, she laughed bitterly. It wasn't until her own mother—leader of the Red Raider Academy—confirmed it that Darcelle believed. Rage simmered inside her, hotter than the forge that tempered her swords.
"You didn't tell me yourself," Darcelle had accused, voice trembling. "Is this your way of punishing me, Mother? Sending me to an early grave?"
Her mother hadn't answered directly. Instead, she'd tossed a rolled map onto the table.
"The route is different," she said simply, her tone calm as stone.
Darcelle snapped the map open. The ink was fresh, showing a winding trail through uncharted lands. She scoffed. "Different? You mean just another way to die?"
Her mother leaned back into her carved chair, robes cascading like spilled silk, her face unreadable. "This is the king's decree. All academies must send a representative. No excuses, no shadows. You will go. You will bring honor to this house."
Honor. Darcelle's teeth ground together. "And what if I don't come back? What if the beasts, the cursed clans, the madness takes me? What then?"
Her mother's eyes flickered, but her voice remained cold. "The Black Raiders' heir is going. News already spreads that the highest of the Red Raiders' heirs is going as well. You will not be alone."
"I won't go." Darcelle spat the words, her hands trembling as she remembered a conversation from days before—Elisha's cutting voice, mocking her for blind courage. 'Better a coward alive than a brave fool rotting in the dirt.' For once, she found herself agreeing with him.
"I won't be foolish like the rest," she muttered. "I'd rather be that lowly green raider everyone mocks—alive, forgotten, but breathing—than march like a proud fool into a tomb no one returns from."
Before her mother could reply, Darcelle stormed out, swords rattling at her side, fury radiating off her like heat from a forge.
That evening, a mid-ranked green raider arrived at her door. He bowed stiffly, holding a letter.
"It's from your mother," he said.
The letter was short, cold, final: Tomorrow, you will stand before the king. Your name is already given. Bring victory to your family and your academy.
Darcelle crumpled the letter in her fist. She wanted to scream, to break something—but all she felt was a hollow, wasted ache.
---
Paige's Departure – Morning of the King's Audience
At first light, Paige was already awake. She strapped on her polished boots and fastened her deep-blue raider's cloak, the silver trim glinting faintly in the morning sun. Every movement was deliberate, precise — the discipline of a high-ranked blue raider.
Her aunt waited by the doorway, hands folded, worry veiled in her gentle smile. "Don't forget, Paige," she said softly, "strength isn't just in your blade. It's in your choices."
Paige met her gaze, calm and steady. "I know, Aunt. I'll be careful."
Her uncle grunted from the courtyard as he tightened the reins of her horse. "Careful doesn't win the king's favor," he muttered, though there was pride in his tone.
Paige swung into the saddle in one fluid motion, her cloak fluttering. She gave them a final nod. "I'll be back before evening."
With that, she rode toward the castle, composed, unshakable — every inch a blue raider.
Xavier's POV
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the dormitory, but Xavier remained face-down on his bed, snoring softly. His senior, Lucas, barged into the room, yanking the curtains wide.
"Get up, Xavier!"
Xavier groaned, burying his face into the pillow. "Five more minutes…"
Lucas ripped the blanket off him. "Five minutes? It's already past nine! The king's meeting is at ten!"
Xavier blinked drowsily. "Ten? That's early. Does the king not sleep?"
"You're unbelievable," Lucas muttered, shoving a basin of water toward him. "Wash up. Move faster."
But Xavier dragged himself sluggishly, yawning every other second. He splashed water on his face half-heartedly, then took his time dressing, tugging at his boots as if each lace weighed a hundred pounds.
Lucas watched, exasperated. "Why are you so slow today?"
Xavier shrugged. "Why rush to die? I'm not exactly excited about this."
Lucas barked a laugh. "You're not dying today. You're only meeting the king."
"Still," Xavier mumbled, chewing on bread lazily. "I'm not good with… people. Crowds. Words."
Lucas clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "You'll do fine. Trust me."
Xavier's lips quirked. "You think so?"
"I know so," Lucas replied with a knowing grin.
Xavier chuckled softly. Despite his nerves, Lucas's faith sparked a tiny flame of courage in him.
---
Darcelle – Departure
At dawn, Darcelle dressed in her crimson raider uniform, fastening her twin swords to her waist. She descended the stone steps of her academy to where her horse waited. Her mother stood at the gate, arms folded, her face unreadable.
"Be strong. Be courageous. All will be well," her mother said.
Darcelle mounted her horse without a word. If you truly cared, you wouldn't send me, she thought bitterly. Aloud, she only said, "I'll return… if fate doesn't laugh first."
With a sharp tug on the reins, she rode toward the imperial castle.
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Nathan's POV
The Nathaniel Estate was sprawling, golden-roofed, and brimming with wealth. Yet inside its gilded halls, Nathan sat slouched in a chair, eyes glazed with boredom, tuning out his father's endless bickering.
"…this expedition is a chance to prove our strength," his father droned.
Nathan stood abruptly. "You can keep your speeches. I don't need reminders of what I already know."
He strode out of the estate, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. To him, the other academies who had quit were weaklings. He alone would claim the heart. He alone was worthy.
In his mind, not even the king stood above him. The only difference between them was a title.
Nathan climbed into his carriage and ordered the driver, "Ride slow."
As the carriage rolled through the bustling streets, his sharp eyes caught sight of a familiar building—the small restaurant. His lips curved in faint amusement.
"Stop here."
He tossed the doorman a pouch heavy with gold coins. "Get me two of their best wines."
The doorman hurried inside but returned empty-handed, face swollen as if he'd been struck.
Nathan's brows snapped together. "You can't even fetch wine? Useless. What happened?"
"The boy inside… refused. Called me stupid."
Nathan's temper flared. He shoved the man aside and strode inside himself.
The air inside smelled of roasted meat and fresh bread. Behind the counter stood a boy Nathan immediately recognized—Elisha, the insolent servant.
Nathan's voice rang sharp. "Hey, servant boy. Who do you think you are?"
Elisha didn't even look impressed. He glanced up lazily, then smirked. "So you're the one who sent that buffalo in here to call me stupid. Makes sense. Apples don't fall far from their trees—fools are always led by fools."
Nathan's jaw tightened. "Watch your tongue. I asked for wine, nothing more."
Already seething, he unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Elisha.
Elisha raised his brows, feigning surprise. "Why not teach your doorman some manners first? Or does a leader without manners have none to pass down? If you can't order like a reasonable man, get out."
For a moment, Nathan froze, realizing he was being baited. He lowered his blade, forcing calm. "Two wines. Worth two gold coins."
"Don't have any," Elisha replied flatly, his grin mocking.
Nathan snapped. "You're crazy."
"That's exactly what I told your doorman. But he was too stupid to hear. Or maybe he still sees me as a thief. Newsflash—I'm not. I've got a roof over my head now. A job. I don't need your arrogance added to my list of problems."
"You…" Nathan's voice dropped, dangerous. "You're that infamous thief."
"Was," Elisha corrected sharply. "Not anymore. So unless you want me to call you 'arrogant bastard' again, stop wasting my time."
Nathan lunged, slashing his sword—but Elisha twisted, dodging narrowly, laughter spilling from his lips.
"Hell, man," Elisha said, still grinning. "Is that all?"
Nathan froze, sword halfway raised, shame and regret prickling his skin. He sheathed the blade abruptly. "You're pathetic. A weakling."
"At least I'm laughing," Elisha shot back, grin wide. "You're not."
Nathan's lips curled, but he said nothing. He turned sharply, storming out of the restaurant.
Back in his carriage, he clenched his fists, furious with himself. How had a lowly servant boy provoked him into losing control? Worse—why did Elisha's grin still burn in his mind?
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