The Imperial Academy was less of a school and more of a living monument. Built upon a suspended island high above the capital, its towers shimmered with mana, and the very stones whispered with enchantments old as the Empire.
Cain's boots tapped softly across the ivory-tiled halls. His cane didn't click—not because he needed it, but because he refused to draw unnecessary attention. A blind man moving with absolute precision drew enough whispers already.
"Professor Crestrion?" a voice called.
Soft, melodic—educated, but not overly formal. A woman.
Cain turned slightly, orienting by her presence. Her mana was sharp and disciplined, like a well-forged blade. Not just a teacher. A combat mage.
"I am," Cain replied. "And you are?"
"Professor Lira Elowen. Applied Magic and Combat Arts. You're the new hire from the Emperor's decree." Her tone held restrained curiosity. "The whole staff is… talking."
"I imagined they would," Cain said calmly.
Lira stepped beside him, her heels barely making a sound. He could feel the wariness in her posture, hidden behind polite professionalism. She was trying to assess him. Whether he was a joke—or a threat.
"Are you lost?" she asked after a beat.
"Not entirely," Cain said. "But I would appreciate directions to the Dean's office. I have yet to be properly briefed on my duties."
Lira hesitated—then relented. "This way. Try not to get stabbed."
Cain lifted a brow. "I wasn't aware the position was that competitive."
She laughed, a short, surprised sound. "Oh, it's not. But you're walking into a nest of prideful peacocks with a blindfold on. They smell blood."
Cain followed, the corners of his mouth turning up faintly. "Then I'll remind them that I bite."
Dean's Office
The air changed when Cain stepped through the arched threshold. Warmer. Still. He could feel it—not just temperature, but atmosphere. Authority lingered in every brick of the room.
Dean Seraphina Valecourt sat behind her desk, quill paused mid-signature. Her presence was like a calm storm: self-contained, powerful, unwavering.
"Professor Crestrion," she said, setting the quill down. "Or should I say… Count Crestrion."
Cain inclined his head. "I prefer Cain."
"You always did," she murmured.
A beat of silence stretched.
Cain straightened slightly. "You know who I am."
"Of course I do," the Dean said simply. "I was a commanding strategist during the Siege of Ardholm. I read the after-action reports. I know exactly what you did to end the war."
Her voice was neither reverent nor cold—just honest.
Cain let out a breath. "And yet, here I am. A teacher."
"The Emperor said you requested a quiet position," she replied. "And I know better than to question a man who walked blind out of the Riftlands with a burning tower collapsing behind him."
Another pause. Then: "Will the other faculty know?"
"No," she said. "Only myself. And a few in the palace. That was part of the Emperor's order—and yours, I assume."
Cain nodded. "Let my past speak for itself. Eventually."
"Very well," said Dean Valecourt, rising. "You'll be teaching Advanced Magical Theory. Lecture twice a week, seminar once. You've been assigned a private office in the eastern wing, near the Arcanum Vault. Your first class is tomorrow."
She stepped around the desk and offered her hand.
Cain didn't need to see it. He reached out and took it.
"Welcome to the Academy, Professor Cain Von Crestrion."
---
To be Continued...