The lower halls of the Umbrelspire didn't feel like the same academy.
Up above: carved stone, marble windowsills, floating orbs of warm light drifting through velvet-draped corridors.
Down here? Mold. Cracked tiles. The faint smell of old paper and failed spells that had scorched their shame into the walls.
Dormitory 13C wasn't marked on the official student map.
Virel had to count corridors, pace turns, and measure stairwells by memory to find it again the next morning.
The door creaked when she pushed it open.
Inside, seven beds. Five filled.
None of the students looked up when she entered.
One boy snored on his side with a ragged robe clutched to his chest. Another—tall, thin, face gaunt as a blade's edge—stood motionless near the back wall, muttering lines of spell theory under his breath with no magic in his hands.
A girl at the far end of the room watched Virel with narrowed eyes. Dark curls, sharp cheekbones, and a walking stick resting beside her bed like a weapon.
"New mouse," the girl said, without smiling. "They keep sending us new mice. Maybe this one bites."
Virel didn't reply. She took the empty bed beside the wall and began laying out her books.
The girl tapped her cane once against the stone.
"Jessa Tormin," she said. "Threadless three years. Watch the laundry girls. They steal ink."
"I don't use much ink," Virel said softly.
"You will," Jessa replied. "If you plan to survive."
Later that morning, they walked together toward the classroom arcades. Jessa moved faster than expected for someone with a limp.
"This place," she said, gesturing to the towers above, "was built to make people like us invisible. Not kill us. Not expel us. Just… not matter."
"Why not expel?" Virel asked.
"Because we're useful. House Veyrant can keep a spare cousin down here to shame the rest. House Elowen throws in a disappointment every few years to remind their heirs what happens if you don't get your bloodline gift by thirteen."
Jessa looked at her sidelong. "What's your excuse?"
Virel smiled thinly. "I'm here for the food."
Jessa stared for a beat—then barked a single, sharp laugh.
"All right, mouse," she said. "You might last."
As they crossed under the colonnade into the eastern lecture wing, voices from the upper court echoed above them. Names. Rankings. Duel challenges. House sigils stitched into cloak linings like silent threats.
Jessa didn't look up.
Virel did. Just once.
Maelion Calverrex was standing near the sun-drenched stairwell, surrounded by highbloods, golden hair caught in the wind.
He didn't see her.
Yet.
The eastern lecture hall was a shell of opulence.
Vaulted ceiling, sunbeam windows, and enchanted banners hovering just above the dais, each bearing a stylized House crest. But the benches were divided not just by House but by tier—and Threadless students were seated last, furthest from the lecturing circle.
Virel took her seat at the far end of the lowest row. Alone.
Until he sat down beside her.
She noticed him first by the scent—sandalwood and ink. Then the silence. He didn't shift, didn't murmur, didn't fidget like the others. He simply lowered himself onto the bench with careful grace and rested one arm across the back.
Selvine Aerthandor.
She'd seen him twice before: once in the ranking court, once speaking to a professor with a strange kind of reverence. House Aerthandor was small, but their heir was not forgettable.
Jet-black hair, short and even. One eye silver and artificial. The other so pale it almost glowed.
"You sit quietly," he said without looking at her.
"I don't speak unless I'm paid."
He gave a soft hum of amusement. "Spoken like a merchant. But you're no merchant's daughter."
"Of course not," she said. "They wouldn't let one in."
Selvine finally turned to her. His gaze was… unnerving. Not piercing. Tethering. Like he was tying her to something invisible and watching how she resisted.
"No magic," he murmured. "No bloodline. No records prior to this year. You smell like a ghost."
"Then don't breathe so close."
Another small smile touched the edge of his mouth. "Threadless girls usually try to be invisible."
"I am invisible."
"No," he said. "You're not."
The professor entered. Discussion began: magical limitations in noble bloodline inheritance. Students raised hands. Named dates, theories, ancestral spells. Selvine raised nothing.
He just sat back and studied Virel like she was more relevant than the text.
At one point, when the professor posed a rhetorical question—"What does power owe to legacy?"—Selvine whispered, just loud enough for her to hear:
"Do ghosts bleed?"
Virel didn't respond.
But the thread of attention between them tightened.
When class ended, he stood before she did.
As he turned to go, he paused beside her ear.
"You hide very well, Threadless. But not from me."
Then he left.
Virel sat still long after the others had gone.
She'd planned on moving unnoticed for at least three weeks.
Selvine had ruined that in one hour.
The name came again that night.
Whispered in the laundry corridor. Scribbled on the corner of a discarded spell-note. Hissed between two Threadless boys during dinner when they thought no one was listening.
Grave Gardeners.
Virel didn't ask. She simply watched.
When she returned to her room, the slip of parchment was already there—folded into her ledger, inked in a script not taught by the Academy.
Midnight. Greenhouse Three. Come alone.
It wasn't a request.
She arrived just before the bell tolled the final hour.
Greenhouse Three was behind the eastern chapel, its stained glass long broken, its plants overgrown and tangled into strange shapes. The door was unlocked—but resisted her push, like the vines themselves were reluctant to let her enter.
Inside, four figures waited in the shadows, faces obscured by hoods stitched with dust.
The tallest stepped forward. His voice was dry and crisp. "Name?"
"Virel Nocten."
"Not real," another said.
"Doesn't matter," said a third. A girl's voice. "She came."
They circled her like wolves too curious to bite.
"You heard our name," the tall one said. "Now you want something."
"No," Virel replied. "I want everything."
That stopped them. For half a second.
Then the girl laughed. "She's arrogant."
"Dangerous," another muttered.
"Fake."
"Useful," the tall one finished.
They tested her with questions—about spell theory, about noble etiquette, about the professors and their secrets.
She answered only when she wanted to.
When asked why she wanted to join them, she didn't answer at all. Instead, she asked a question of her own:
"How long has Hestel Roan been sneaking love letters to Professor Nael?"
The group fell silent.
Virel looked at the girl. "And how long until someone finds out your brother's not sick—just spell-broken?"
The girl's eyes narrowed. The taller boy chuckled.
"Well then," he said. "Mouse has teeth."
"Teeth are cheap," Virel replied. "I have threads."
That sealed it.
The tall one stepped forward, hand outstretched.
"Welcome to the roots," he said.
"Where no one sees what we grow."
Two days later, the accusation arrived folded in red wax.
Virel opened it without surprise.
The message was short, written in formal script: You are hereby summoned to account for academic dishonesty in Rhetoric Tier I, with immediate faculty review.
She read it twice. Then folded it calmly and tucked it into her ledger.
The disciplinary chamber was a cold, narrow room with high windows and no chairs. Just a dais at the center, where Professor Keln stood, arms folded, flanked by two assistant scribes.
Her accuser stood to the left.
Darin Wesk. Minor noble. House Wesk specialized in rumor spells and "documental augmentation"—noble words for magical forgery and curated gossip.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
"Miss Nocten," Keln said without looking up, "you are accused of falsifying spell-readings during a live exercise. In your words: 'emotional projection rooted in rhetorical theory.' Do you contest the charge?"
"I do," Virel replied.
"Do you wish to explain?"
"I'd rather demonstrate."
That made Keln pause.
He tilted his head slightly. "Proceed."
Virel stepped forward, slowly, and stood beside Darin.
Close enough to feel the tremble in his breath.
He was nervous. She'd counted on that. Not because she was dangerous—but because she wasn't.
Threadless. Unmagicked. Worthless.
And that made her the perfect scapegoat.
She closed her eyes.
There. That pulse—tight and rapid—like a plucked string deep behind his sternum.
Fear.
She visualized the thread, silver and coiled, hidden behind layers of pride and pressure.
And then, gently, she tugged.
Darin's shoulders stiffened.
Then he spoke—too fast, too high.
"I didn't mean—she didn't actually cheat, I just—Professor, it was a joke, I only said it because—because she—" he stuttered, eyes wide. "Because no one was supposed to listen!"
He stopped breathing for a second.
Then covered his face with his hands.
The silence in the chamber was absolute.
One of the scribes coughed. Keln didn't move.
Then, finally, the professor nodded once.
"Accuser recants. Complaint withdrawn. Record will be sealed."
Virel bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, Professor."
Keln's eyes met hers for the first time.
"You weave more than theory, Miss Nocten."
She didn't reply.
He didn't smile.
But the door was open when she turned to leave.
Outside, the wind had shifted. The banners over the east towers blew in the opposite direction.
She walked slowly back toward 13C.
The second thread had been pulled.
Many more were waiting.
Every seventh day, the student body gathered in the Glass Rotunda, a domed gallery veined with light-spelled lines and floating crest-lanterns. It was where favor became law.
Where ranks were redrawn.
Each house cast votes for provisional promotions—tactical appointments, scholarly prizes, duel exemptions. It wasn't official policy. But it may as well have been imperial decree.
Virel stood at the edge, silent as ever, ignored by all.
On the dais stood Archivist Rennel, a thin man with foggy spectacles and a voice like melting wax. He read names with slow reverence, each one causing a ripple of movement in the crowd:
"Maelion Calverrex, ranked first overall."
A murmur of bored respect.
"Aurelle Velthain, ranked second."
A touch of applause.
It continued downward. A parade of power. Dozens of names.
Not hers.
Not even her alias.
No Threadless names ever appeared.
They were not permitted to vote.
They were not considered for ranking.
They were decorative obstacles—placed in the system as reminders of how deep the empire's roots ran.
Then, as Rennel read out the final tier slots, a voice cut through the quiet.
"I would like to sponsor a new name."
Aurelle.
She stood near the center aisle, posture graceful, her robe of sea-glass silk trimmed with starlight thread. Her eyes—so gently pitying—met Virel's.
"I believe it is important that even those without traditional heritage are seen," Aurelle said, softly enough to sound noble and loudly enough to sound good.
"I nominate Virel Nocten for consideration."
A hush fell.
Then a few scattered titters.
Even Tarnus managed to chuckle aloud.
Virel stepped forward slowly. She inclined her head.
"Thank you," she said, voice even.
Then, louder: "But I decline."
The laughter choked off, confused.
Aurelle blinked, head tilted. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," Virel said. "I do not require a charity rank."
She let the words linger. Not cruel. Not sharp.
But absolutely clear.
"I will earn mine—when the time comes."
Archivist Rennel said nothing. He scribbled something in a side margin. Maelion raised an eyebrow. Selvine, from the corner, smirked without amusement.
Virel returned to the edge of the crowd, her face unreadable.
Later, back in 13C, Jessa kicked her foot lightly under the table.
"You just told the queen of soft power to keep her pity."
Virel didn't look up from her notes.
"She offered a leash," she murmured. "Not a hand."
Jessa grinned. "I think I like you, Nocten."
"You won't," Virel replied.
"But you might be useful."
By dawn, the gossip had already shifted.
A whispered rumor spread across Umbrelspire like fire through parchment: Loras Veyn, heir of House Veyn, had contracted a degenerative magical fever—spell-borne, shameful, and potentially inherited.
The claim was false.
Which made it all the more believable.
Because real scandals were rare in a place so carefully curated. But whispers—whispers were currency.
Jessa had planted it, of course. But Virel had scripted it—timing, phrasing, tone.
And now House Veyn was scrambling to answer questions no one had asked before yesterday.
Loras lost his duel that morning—not from illness, but from nerves.
One mistake. One hesitation. One noble heir now demoted two full ranks in public standing.
No one said Virel's name.
But more than a few looked in her direction during afternoon lecture.
Even Tarnus paused as she passed him in the corridor.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
Later that evening, Virel stood in the south library. Alone, she thought, until she turned and saw Selvine perched on the upper balcony railing like a statue deciding whether to speak.
He did.
"I wondered how long it would take," he said. "To move a name without lifting a hand."
She met his gaze without flinching.
"You'll find," she said, "that hands are rarely required."
He tilted his head.
"No magic. No crest. No public standing. And already they flinch."
Virel walked past him, down the stairwell, toward the exit.
He didn't follow.
But as she vanished from view, he whispered to no one:
"She doesn't fight. She spins."