The soft morning light crept through the curtains of the room, dancing over the dark wooden furniture. The sound of the door opening was subtle, but the scent of fresh fruit and warm bread announced the presence before the sweet voice could speak.
"Good morning, young master," said Emylle with a subtle smile. "Your breakfast."
Clint opened his eyes slowly, still lying in bed. He watched her for a moment as she placed the tray on the nightstand.
Emylle kept perfect posture as she served.
"The Duke asked me to inform you that you must leave today."
Clint rubbed his eyes, fully awakening. The news didn't surprise him.
"Very well. Pack my things. We'll leave as soon as possible."
But Emylle interrupted with a slight tilt of her head.
"The Duke gave clear orders not to take anything. Everything you need… will be purchased in Felgrand."
Clint sighed and got up calmly.
"He probably wants me to better understand the place I'll be staying in…" He paused. "Alright… let's go."
He grabbed a fruit from the tray, took a bite, and while chewing, turned to the maid.
"Oh, I forgot to ask… You know how to fight, don't you? But it can't be easy to move in that dress, right?"
Emylle smiled politely.
"It is difficult, yes, young master. However, my mission is not to fight. Only to serve."
Clint observed her more closely.
"And if I order you to fight? Will you disobey me?"
There was a brief hesitation. Emylle clasped her hands in front of her body and replied, slightly anxious:
"Never, my lord. I only meant… it's not proper to wear combat attire while serving."
"I don't care about formalities," Clint shrugged. "Change clothes. I want you ready to act, if necessary."
She nodded immediately—and without any ceremony, began to undo her dress right there in front of him.
Clint instinctively opened his mouth, ready to protest… but stopped. He understood: she simply saw no issue in undressing before him. Her loyalty was such that even her body seemed to belong to the family she served.
The dress slipped slowly from her shoulders and pooled onto the floor.
He looked away—but not quickly enough. He saw the contrast of pale skin and white fabric, the carefully placed lace, the Ravenhart crest proudly embroidered on her underwear—right in the center of the panties, and on both sides of the bra.
"Why do you wear that kind of undergarment?"
The answer came gently, almost affectionately:
"That crest is the most beautiful I've ever seen. Why wouldn't I wear it?"
Clint didn't respond immediately. Part of him found it simply wrong. The other… didn't know what to think.
"Never show that to anyone else."
"Yes, sir."
From beneath the frilly maid's dress, she pulled out a brown outfit and dressed efficiently: short shorts that barely covered half her thighs, an overlapping skirt of the same size, a tight leather vest, and light boots. She looked ready to run, fight… or assassinate someone.
"That outfit's vulgar. Don't you have another?"
"For combat, it's the only one I have, my lord."
Clint closed his eyes for a moment. Then pointed toward the corridor.
"Fine. Tell Gareth to ready the carriage. I don't want any soldiers—just you and him."
She left without question, her steps firm and silent.
---
Clint didn't say goodbye to the Duke. Not out of disrespect—but because he understood the message. From now on, it was his turn to act. Every step taken in Felgrand would be watched, and every word spoken, heard.
The carriage was already waiting at the main gate. Gareth, in simple yet reinforced leather clothing, kept a sharp eye as he organized their departure. The warrior only nodded to Clint. No words were needed.
They didn't take the route through the Karzhul Forest. Clint had chosen a longer but safer road, avoiding the dangerous passage—not out of fear, but strategy. He didn't need any surprises now.
Five days passed through plains, quiet villages, and inns with thin walls. Emylle kept an impeccable routine: she served, cleaned, and organized everything with precision and speed. Gareth remained silent, watching Clint like a loyal hound in wait, ready to bite at any sign of threat.
Clint, during the journey, kept pondering over the information Elara had given him, including what she'd said about Emylle. He knew she had been molded for this: blind loyalty. A silent pawn who would bleed without hesitation if necessary. But he still hadn't decided whether that was a virtue… or madness.
At dawn on the sixth day, the imposing silhouette of the Noblese Academy appeared on the horizon.
Towers of black stone rose like spears against the sky. Gates forged from pure steel. Banners of the kingdoms fluttered arrogantly. The structure was a blend of fortress might and palace elegance.
"War here is fought with words," Clint thought, as the carriage slowed. "And the right words… kill better than blades."
When they stopped at the main entrance, two guard platoons formed perfect columns. At the center, a man stood waiting, firm posture, hands behind his back.
White hair and beard, neatly trimmed. Straight shoulders, chest puffed with authority. A golden brooch on his chest bore the crossed quill and sword, symbol of the Academy.
His eyes, small and sharp as scalpels, scanned Clint from head to toe. Not with disdain, but like one inspecting a rare piece for invisible cracks.
"Clint Ravenhart."
The boy stepped down from the carriage unhurriedly, followed by Emylle and Gareth.
"It is an honor to receive Duke Leonard's heir at our Academy," the man said, voice deep and clear. "Unfortunately, your father never studied here, but we hope… to make up for that absence during your stay."
Clint gave no reply. He only nodded, meeting the man's gaze without fear.
"I am Roderick Malvain. Headmaster of the Noblese Academy."
The name was known. Malvain was a high-level political strategist who had once served as a diplomat between Leona and Kamira. A dangerous man—not for his combat skills, but for the network of influence he carried.
Roderick gestured for them to follow. The guards opened space, and the three walked forward between the perfectly aligned columns.
"Please follow me to my office. I will explain how the Academy operates… and what your responsibilities will be."
Clint kept his posture upright, firm—but his mind was already mapping everything: the number of guards, their weapons, the emblems on their uniforms, the type of stone used in the walls.
He didn't take a single step without understanding the terrain.
For the first time, he crossed the gates of the Noblese Academy.
At his side, a maid with silent eyes.
Behind him, a warrior who moved like a shadow and had sworn to protect him with his life.
Ahead of him, a minefield of alliances and hostilities.
War didn't begin with swords or fists.
It began with doors opening.