The carriage that delivered Lyren von Ettal to the gates of the Imperial Valtessan Academy was far too nice for someone of his supposed status. Polished wood, velvet cushions, subtle runes etched into the wheels—not a single speck of grime on the white-paneled exterior. It looked like a noble's bridal transport. Which was why Lyren lounged in it like a homeless prince, one leg over the other, sipping cheap tea from a chipped tin cup he'd insisted on bringing.
He stared out the window as the spires of the academy came into view—white and gold towers that scraped the sky, banners flowing like rivers of velvet, enchanted lights glinting like starfall above the marble courtyards.
It was the most beautiful prison he'd ever seen.
Ashkar sat across from him, fingers laced, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Gaerth was outside, somewhere, presumably intimidating the local wildlife.
"You don't have to slouch like a drunk court jester," Ashkar muttered.
Lyren sipped his tea. "You're just upset I'm prettier than you in the moonlight."
Ashkar didn't rise to it. "Do you remember the name you're using?"
"Of course." Lyren's voice changed mid-sentence—crisper, colder, smoother. "Lyren of House Caelthorn. Minor Valtessan offshoot family. Recently legitimized. Politically irrelevant but wealthy enough to demand a seat."
Ashkar blinked.
Lyren grinned. "I do my homework, Uncle Pigeon."
"You've never been more punchable," Ashkar muttered, massaging his temples. "And for the love of saints, don't antagonize the princess."
"Oh? There's a princess? I do love imperial delicacies. Are we talking poisonous orchid or war-bred rose?"
"Lyren."
"I'll be good."
He wasn't.
—
The main gates of the academy loomed like cathedral doors—twenty feet high, forged from blessed obsidian and engraved with a thousand stories. Every inch told a tale of glory, sacrifice, blood, and brilliance. Lyren didn't look at them. He was more interested in the way the guards twitched when they saw him.
His presence didn't fit. He was dressed properly—charcoal uniform, silver insignia, hair tied back with a clasp of polished bone—but something in his stride, in the way his eyes moved, made people uncomfortable.
He wasn't trying to be threatening. That was the worst part.
He simply didn't belong.
And the world felt it.
—
Registration was handled by a stiff-backed clerk with a ledger larger than Lyren's torso.
"Name?" she asked.
"Lyren Caelthorn," he said smoothly. "Here on behalf of my late uncle's estate in the northern territories."
She didn't question it. The seal had already been provided. Cult-forged. Perfect.
"Dormitory assignment: East Hall, Tower C. Class schedule begins tomorrow at sixth bell."
Lyren accepted the brass key with a bow and smile. "May the stars forget my sins."
The clerk blinked. "Pardon?"
He waved her off. "Just a family saying."
—
Tower C was far too luxurious for a false noble. Polished stone floors, velvet curtains, furniture made from real oak and not illusion-enchanted bark. Lyren ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, eyes distant.
He was used to damp walls and rotting wood. To cold alley winds and the scent of frying blood sausage.
Now he was in the heart of the empire's most elite institution, surrounded by children who'd never seen a broken finger, let alone earned one.
He chuckled.
Then, in the dim reflection of the mirror, his face shifted—hair darkened, eyes dulled to green, star pupils gone. His real face vanished beneath a carefully constructed illusion.
He tied the academy pin to his collar.
The mask fit perfectly.
And tomorrow, he'd wear it to war.