The morning came too soon.
Juhtmed awoke before the academy bells rang, his mind already alert, the weight of yesterday's events settling over him like a cloak. He had made his first stand, won his first battle—but it was only a skirmish in a larger war. The duel had sent ripples through Kümme Academy, and he doubted Renard would let the matter rest.
As he dressed taking the Academy uniform, the quiet hum of movement filled the dormitory halls. Students murmured to one another as they prepared for the day, and outside his window, he could see the mist curling through the academy grounds, wrapping around the towering spires like spectral fingers.
A knock at his door.
"Juhtmed?" Lian's voice was calm, but there was an urgency beneath it.
He pulled the door open, finding her and Veyla waiting.
"Breakfast first," Veyla announced, arms crossed. "Then we see what kind of torment the academy has planned for us today."
Juhtmed smirked slightly, nodding. "Let's go."
The Grand Hall was a marvel of architecture—vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings, enormous banners displaying the academy's crest, and a great circular table at its heart where the instructors gathered. Hundreds of students filled the hall, dressed in academy robes of varying colors, signifying their status and house affiliations.
Juhtmed, Veyla, and Lian took their seats among the new students, their eyes scanning the room.
Renard was there, of course. He sat with his usual entourage, his expression carefully neutral—but Juhtmed could see the tension in his jaw, the restrained hostility in his gaze. He wasn't used to losing.
At the head of the hall, a tall, imposing figure stood—Master Ardyn Volka, the academy's head instructor. His robes were dark blue, trimmed with silver, and his sharp, gray eyes swept over the gathered students like a hawk surveying prey.
"Welcome," his voice carried through the hall, commanding instant silence. "You stand within the walls of Kümme Academy, an institution than any kingdom you hail from. This is not a place for the weak. It is not a place for the complacent. Here, you will be tested in ways you cannot yet imagine."
His gaze lingered briefly on Juhtmed before continuing.
"You have been granted the privilege of studying among the finest. But privilege is earned, not given. By the year's end, some of you will stand as the academy's finest. Others… will not stand at all."
A murmur rippled through the students.
Veyla leaned over slightly. "Dramatic."
Juhtmed didn't respond, his eyes fixed on Master Volka.
"Your schedules have been assigned. You will find them posted outside this hall. Classes begin immediately. Dismissed."
Just like that, the induction was over.
The combat yard was already alive with activity when they arrived.
Students lined the sparring grounds, wooden weapons in hand, facing off under the sharp eyes of instructors. Some moved with the precision of years of training; others hesitated, their inexperience evident.
"Ah," Veyla said cheerfully. "More fighting."
Juhtmed studied the arena. This was where reputations would be made. Strength alone wouldn't be enough—adaptability, strategy, and control were just as crucial.
A whistle blew, and an instructor strode forward. Instructor Varcus Morn, the same one who had overseen his duel with Renard. His face was lined with scars, his dark eyes sharp and knowing.
"Pair off," Morn ordered. "We'll begin with evaluations."
Juhtmed barely had time to register the command before a voice cut through the crowd.
"I'll take him."
Renard.
Morn's gaze flicked between them before nodding. "Fine."
Juhtmed rolled his shoulders, stepping onto the sparring ground. This wasn't an official duel, but it was just as important. Renard wanted to prove that yesterday's loss was a fluke.
They took their stances.
Morn raised a hand. "Begin."
Renard attacked immediately.
His movements were sharper this time, his strikes more calculated. He wasn't fighting with arrogance anymore—he was fighting to win.
Juhtmed met his assault with steady deflections, feeling out Renard's rhythm. Faster. More aggressive. But still predictable.
A feint to the left. A real strike to the right. Juhtmed sidestepped.
A downward cut meant to force him back. He twisted away.
Frustration flickered in Renard's eyes. He adjusted, changing his tactics, but Juhtmed was already ahead of him.
Then, Renard did something unexpected.
He stepped back.
Juhtmed hesitated for half a second. It was enough.
Renard surged forward again, aiming low, sweeping at Juhtmed's legs. It was a gamble—one that almost worked.
Almost.
Juhtmed twisted mid-air, catching himself before hitting the ground, rolling back to his feet just as Renard pressed forward. But that slight over extension cost Renard his balance.
Juhtmed struck.
A sharp, controlled hit to the ribs. Enough to stagger Renard, force him to his knees.
Silence.
Morn nodded. "Enough."
Renard's hands curled into fists at his sides. His face was carefully blank, but Juhtmed could see the fury simmering beneath it.
He stepped back, offering no words. He didn't need to.
Morn surveyed them both. "Renard. You fight well, but you rely too much on dominance. Adapt."
A pause. Then he turned to Juhtmed. "And you. You're better than you should be." His gaze was assessing, unreadable. "Who trained you?"
Juhtmed met his eyes. "I trained, with my personal knight."
Morn didn't respond immediately. Then, with a short nod, he turned away. "Next pair."
As Juhtmed stepped back toward Lian and Veyla, he felt the weight of another gaze on him.
From the balcony above, Master Volka watched.
And he was smiling.
That night, Juhtmed sat by the fire in the common room, his thoughts heavy.
"You made another enemy today," Lian said quietly.
Juhtmed exhaled. "Renard was already my enemy."
"That's not who I meant."
He glanced at her.
"Varcus Morn is watching you now. So is Master Volka."
Veyla stretched lazily. "And who cares? So what if the instructors take notice?"
Lian's expression darkened. "Because it means Juhtmed is no longer just a student to them."
Juhtmed know what she was meaning behind that.
He had entered this academy expecting enemies among the students. He had prepared for that. But now, the instructors were watching him.
Some with curiosity. Others with intent.
Kümme Academy was not just a place of learning. It was a battlefield, fought with swords, alliances, and secrets.
And Juhtmed had just stepped into the center of it.
As the flames in the common room crackled softly, Juhtmed leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the hearth. Shadows danced across his face, and for a moment, the heat did nothing to warm him. Lian's warning echoed louder now. He hadn't just earned respect—he'd drawn attention. And in Kümme Academy, attention was a double-edged sword.
Veyla broke the silence first, her voice low but firm. "What's the plan, then?"
Juhtmed looked up, startled for a moment by how quickly she cut to the heart of things. "The plan is the same," he said. "We observe. We learn. We make allies...real ones. And we stay ahead of whatever they throw at us."
Lian raised an eyebrow. "Easier said than done."
"I know," he said, voice quiet. "But I didn't come here expecting ease."
There was a knock at the common room door.
Juhtmed stood, exchanging a quick glance with the others before opening it.
A messenger student stood in the hallway, out of breath and holding a sealed letter. The wax bore the mark of the academy.
"Special summons," the student said, eyes flickering uneasily over Juhtmed before handing it over and scurrying off.
Juhtmed cracked the seal.
To Juhtmed of House Valhen.
You are summoned to the Hall of Discourse.
One hour after dusk.
Alone.
— Master Ardyn Volka
Veyla leaned over his shoulder. "Well, that's subtle."
Lian frowned. "Why alone?"
"Because they want him vulnerable," she answered for Juhtmed.
He said nothing at first, rereading the short note. The Hall of Discourse—rarely used, known more for quiet interrogations and political maneuvers than any public ceremony used more frequently by those from Kristallid.
"They want to see who I am when no one's watching," Juhtmed finally said. "They want to see if im a threat."
Veyla's smile was humorless. "Let them be. Just don't let them pin you down."
The Hall of Discourse stood apart from the main towers—tall, narrow, made of dark stone with silver lanterns flickering at its base. The path leading there was quiet, the kind of quiet that made your footsteps feel too loud.
Juhtmed stepped inside.
The hall was circular, its ceiling arching high above. Torches lined the walls in evenly spaced intervals, casting long shadows between the pillars. At the far end stood Master Volka, alone.
He didn't rise as Juhtmed approached.
"Juhtmed," Volka said. "Sit."
A single chair waited across from him. Juhtmed sat, his posture straight.
"I watched your duel with Renard," Volka said without preamble. "And your performance today in the sparring yard."
Juhtmed met his gaze. "And?"
"You don't fight like someone trained in isolation or even had the hand of someone who practiced swordsmanship. You fight like someone who's had to survive."
Juhtmed said nothing. There was no reason to deny it.
Volka studied him for a moment, then continued. "This academy isn't just about refining talent. It's about shaping influence. Power is drawn to those who can wield it without apology."
He leaned forward slightly. "I am giving you a choice."
Juhtmed's jaw tightened. "What kind of choice?"
"You can play the student. Learn quietly. Obey your schedule. Let the politics churn around you like storms on distant seas. Or—" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "You can step into the current. There are factions within this academy, Juhtmed. Instructors who follow different paths. Ambitions that go far beyond curriculum."
He reached into his robes and drew out a small medallion, placing it on the table between them. It bore the symbol of an open eye, half-closed.
"You've already made waves. Whether you like it or not, you are in the current now. If you're smart, you'll swim with those who can teach you to navigate it."
Juhtmed looked down at the medallion. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain unaligned. A piece on the board with no hand guiding it. And pieces like that don't last long."
Juhtmed's fingers brushed the edge of the medallion, but he didn't pick it up. "What would aligning with you mean?"
Volka's eyes narrowed faintly. "It means you'll have access to things others won't. Knowledge. Protection. Influence. And in return… I'll ask for something eventually."
Juhtmed leaned back in his chair, mind racing. This was a test—but also an opening. Volka didn't offer this to everyone. But accepting too quickly would make him a pawn. Refusing outright might paint him as a threat.
So he chose the path in between.
"I'll consider it," he said. "But I won't be anyone's pawn."
Volka's lips twitched into something resembling amusement. "Good. Pawns are boring. I prefer kings who don't know they're kings yet."
He gestured toward the door.
"Return to your dorm. Tomorrow will be harder. Every day from now on will be harder."
Juhtmed stood. As he turned, Volka added, "Be careful who you trust. And beware those who show no interest at all."
Back in the Celestine Wing, Juhtmed found Lian and Veyla waiting. They both looked up as he entered.
"Well?" Veyla asked.
Juhtmed held up the medallion.
They stared.
"He tried to recruit you?" Lian asked, voice hushed.
"Something like that," Juhtmed replied. "He is a Cultist join hand with him will only put us in trouble."
Lian murmured, "if he wants you under his banner, that means other instructors will try the same—or try to take you off the board before you choose."
Veyla's gaze hardened. "Then we make our own banner."
Juhtmed set the medallion down on the table.
"No," he said. "We become the piece that will never move."
He looked out the window, the moon high over the academy spires.
This wasn't just schooling. This was war in the shape of education.
And he wasn't just fighting to win.
He was fighting to survive.