The lion didn't roar.
He smiled.
That's how you knew danger in noble courts. Screaming was for amateurs. Professionals killed you with compliments and a glass of imported wine.
Cael stepped into Lysandor Vale's strategy salon expecting poison. He wore a neutral face and the same midnight Academy coat everyone else had. Nothing to distinguish him except a single silver ring — the only piece he'd allowed himself from his past life.
"Velren," said Lysandor, voice velvet smooth. "The bastard hero of the southern dueling pit."
Cael bowed. "At your service."
That was a lie.
Lysandor Vale was the crown prince's favorite for two reasons: he was obedient and merciless. Trained in sword, spell, and etiquette since age six. His house, Vale of the Lionheart, controlled four border provinces and the largest standing private army in the kingdom.
His idea of a strategy salon was a war room with wine.
Six students sat around a polished obsidian table, maps glowing with enchantment between their goblets. These were the elite of the elite — no commoners, no Scions, just Blooded. And now, Cael.
The tension was a dagger wrapped in silk.
"You're probably wondering why you're here," Lysandor said.
Cael kept his voice light. "To be flayed alive in front of an audience?"
Laughter. Sharp, too short. Testing.
"No," said Lysandor, smiling. "You're here because we want to know what kind of bastard you really are."
He clapped his hands. Two attendants brought in a crystal orb and a sealed scroll. A magical contract and a lie detector, both disguised as study tools.
"You'll answer our questions," Lysandor said. "If the orb flares red, you're lying. If you lie three times…" He gestured vaguely. "You'll be asked to leave. Through the window."
The salon was on the seventh floor.
The questions started.
"Why did you challenge Tavin Morlen?""To prove I belonged."Blue glow. Truth.
"Are you seeking noble patronage?""Yes."Blue. Truth.
"Have you ever conspired against a royal?""No."The orb flared red.
Lysandor's smile sharpened. "Interesting."
Cael didn't blink. "Define conspire."
That earned him a second flare.
The other nobles leaned forward. Sensing blood. The third flare would get him thrown out — or worse.
Cael tapped his fingers. Let his heart race. Then said:
"I lied because I don't want to admit I don't matter enough to conspire. Yet."
The orb glowed blue.
The room laughed again. Tension cracked. Just a little.
He'd gambled. He'd survived.
Round one: Cael.
The "test" ended, but the true trial was just beginning.
Lysandor offered him a drink.
He refused.
Poison was a statement in noble circles — but so was refusing it. It meant you didn't trust your host. Cael didn't care.
Better to insult a lion than die respecting one.
"I admire your paranoia," Lysandor said, sipping his own wine. "You'll go far. If you don't get gutted."
The group dispersed after that, but Cael knew better — every step back through the Academy was watched. Shadows moved where they shouldn't. Spells buzzed against his skin like insects.
By the time he returned to his dorm, someone had ransacked it.
He smiled.
That was fast.
That night, he lit a candle and began writing letters.
Not real ones. Traps.
Fake correspondence to a non-existent noble benefactor, riddled with half-truths and forbidden phrases. He enchanted each to leave a magical trace if opened.
Bait.
And someone took it.
The next morning, he followed the magical thread to the eastern observatory. A favorite haunt of Vale's inner ring.
Inside, he found Orielle.
She stood by the telescope, pale hair glowing like mist. Her robes shimmered with starlight enchantments — a sign of a diviner. The kind who didn't need to touch the stars to see your future.
"You dropped something," she said, holding his fake letter.
Cael took it slowly. "Did you read it?"
"I did," she said. "It was very convincing. Except for one thing."
"Oh?"
"You wrote it for me."
She wasn't wrong.
Cael leaned against the balustrade. "I wanted to see who would take the bait."
"And now you've seen," Orielle said.
She turned to face him fully. Her eyes were lavender — rare, even among mages. Rumored to be touched by prophecy.
"You're not from Southlight," she said softly. "And your mana signature is… older than it should be."
Cael didn't respond.
She stepped closer. "Are you a ghost, Velren?"
He smiled. "Aren't we all, in here?"
She stared for a long moment. Then said, "The lion thinks he's tamed you. But I've seen his end."
"Is it bloody?"
"It's yours, too," she said.
Then she walked away.
Later that week, Cael received his first real test from Vale's circle:
A loyalty mission.
He was told to break into a professor's private sanctum and retrieve a forbidden ledger — the kind used to blackmail officials.
Simple on paper. Fatal in practice.
Cael didn't flinch. He broke in at dawn. Dodged three death wards. Disarmed two glyphs. And when he found the ledger, he added a second copy — forged perfectly, with one key difference.
A hidden spell. One only he could activate.
If Vale used the blackmail, Cael would know. If he tried to frame someone else… the ledger would burn.
This wasn't sabotage.
It was leverage.
The next time Vale saw him, he clapped Cael on the back like an old friend.
"You're ruthless," he said. "I like that."
"I'm obedient," Cael replied. "That's all."
Another lie. Another test.
The orb wasn't present this time.
Back in his quarters, Cael sat by the window, watching the Academy lights flicker across the towers.
He was in.
Officially. Deep enough to learn, but not deep enough to be seen as a threat.
The wolves thought he was wearing sheep's clothing.
They didn't know he was already sharpening their bones into blades.
The next week brought news from the outer court: a royal envoy was arriving.
And among them, traveling in secrecy…
Was High Consul Derian.
The man who signed Cael's death warrant in his past life.
The man who called him a "liability to the crown."
The man who would soon wish Cael had stayed dead.