The morning at Crownspire Academy began like any other. The sun filtered through the tall windows, casting golden beams across the stone walls of the dormitory corridors. Alex stretched as he stepped out of bed, rubbing his eyes, while Toren and Joren were already bickering about who could beat whom in sparring that afternoon. Silsa, as usual, was calmly reviewing his notes, lips moving silently as he memorized strategies from the old parchment pages he had borrowed from the library.
"Come on, Silsa," Alex grinned, patting him on the shoulder. "Books won't save you in a fight."
"They might," Silsa replied without looking up. "If I know how to predict an opponent's movements, I won't need to fight harder—I'll fight smarter."
Toren groaned. "Here we go again, the philosopher of our room…"
They all laughed together, the usual morning banter easing the tension of academy life.
After breakfast in the grand hall, they headed to their classes. The lectures were dense—ancient rune translations, battlefield formations, and more dungeon simulations. The day passed in a blur of chalk against slate, teachers explaining while students scribbled down notes furiously. Alex found himself answering questions more confidently now, his hand shooting up faster each day. Joren and Toren weren't far behind, eager to prove themselves as well. Silsa stayed quieter, but his answers were sharp, logical, and impressed even the strict instructors.
But not everyone was happy about it.
Every time Alex or his friends spoke, Varlen and his three companions—sons of influential families—exchanged glances. Their pride couldn't tolerate being outshone by "nobodies." They whispered among themselves, smirks twisting on their faces whenever the teacher wasn't looking.
After the lecture, when Alex and the others left for their respective clubs, Varlen's group didn't follow. Instead, their eyes settled on Silsa, who was carrying his stack of scrolls. Unlike Toren or Joren, Silsa wasn't physically strong; unlike Alex, he didn't have a loud personality. He walked quietly, often with his head bowed, as if lost in thought. That made him an easy target.
Evening came. The sun dipped lower, painting the academy grounds in shades of amber and crimson. Alex, Toren, and Joren returned to the dorm together, laughing about a ridiculous mistake Joren made during combat drills.
"Who swings a sword backward?" Toren teased, almost choking on laughter.
"It was a feint!" Joren argued, though his grin betrayed him.
They entered the room, still bickering. Silsa wasn't there.
"Strange," Alex muttered, glancing at the empty desk. "He's usually back before us."
"He probably went to the library," Toren shrugged, tossing his bag on his bed.
But Silsa wasn't in the library.
He was in one of the quieter hallways near the outer courtyard, his arms full of scrolls he had borrowed. The corridor was almost empty, the torches flickering against the walls. His footsteps echoed softly—until others joined them.
"Going somewhere, peasant?"
The voice was cold, mocking. Silsa froze. Varlen and his three friends stepped out from the shadows, blocking his way. They wore smug expressions, the kind that came from knowing no teacher was around.
"I—I don't want any trouble," Silsa said quickly, clutching his scrolls tighter.
Varlen smirked. "Oh, but trouble seems to follow you and your… little band of misfits." He stepped closer, forcing Silsa to back against the wall. "Answering questions in class, acting like you belong at the top… Did you forget what you are?"
Silsa's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, but fear held his tongue.
"You should know your place," another boy sneered, shoving Silsa's shoulder. The scrolls tumbled to the floor, parchment scattering. Silsa bent to grab them, but a kick sent them sliding further down the hallway.
The four of them closed in. One of them grabbed Silsa by the collar, slamming him against the wall. His head hit stone with a dull thud, and he winced.
"Don't mistake kindness in the academy for equality," Varlen hissed, his face inches from Silsa's. "Blood matters. You're just a nobody from nowhere. Stay out of our way—or you'll regret it."
A punch drove into Silsa's stomach, knocking the breath from him. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, pain spreading through his chest. They didn't let up—kicks and insults followed, not enough to cripple him, but enough to bruise both body and pride.
When they finally stepped back, Varlen crouched down, gripping Silsa's chin so he was forced to look up.
"Tell your friends this," Varlen whispered, voice sharp as a blade. "We're the top here. If they don't learn their place soon, you'll all suffer worse than this."
They shoved him aside and walked off, their laughter echoing in the corridor.
Silsa lay on the floor, trembling, clutching his side. His scrolls were scattered like broken pieces of dignity. Slowly, painfully, he gathered them again, refusing to let tears fall. His pride screamed louder than his wounds.
As he staggered back toward the dorm, he muttered under his breath, "I'll… I'll tell them. But we won't bow to you."
Back in the dorm, Alex, Toren, and Joren were still joking when the door creaked open. Silsa entered, trying to walk straight, but his steps faltered. His lip was split, his tunic dirtied, and one of his scrolls torn.
The laughter died instantly.
"Silsa?" Alex's voice was sharp with alarm as he rushed forward. "What happened?"
Silsa tried to wave him off, his pride urging him to stay silent. "It's… nothing. I just tripped."
"Tripped?" Joren repeated, eyes narrowing at the bruises forming on Silsa's face. "That's no trip."
Toren clenched his fists, already furious. "Who did this?"
Silsa lowered his gaze, struggling with the weight of the question. He didn't want to sound weak. He didn't want to drag his friends into danger. But Varlen's words echoed in his ears: Tell your friends this…
Finally, with quiet anger, he said, "It was Varlen… and his group. They told me to remind you—know your place."
The room fell into silence, heavy and sharp.
Alex's eyes darkened, fists tightening at his sides. He had never felt anger burn this hot. "They crossed the line," he muttered, voice trembling with restrained rage.
Toren slammed his fist against the wall. "They want us to bow? Over my dead body!"
Even Joren, usually the calmer one, had fire in his eyes. "We're not letting this go."
Silsa managed a faint smile despite his pain. For the first time, he didn't feel weak or alone. He had people who cared—friends who would stand by him.
Alex looked at each of them, determination hardening his expression. "If it's war they want… then it's war they'll get."
The shadows of rivalry had turned into open hostility.
And this was only the beginning.