The Academy of the Empire loomed like a fortress carved into the heart of the capital. Its towers pierced the morning sky, banners snapping in the wind, each bearing the crest of the founding houses. Behind its gates, every heir, every prodigy, every serpent-in-disguise gathered to sharpen themselves into weapons for the empire's future.
To Lucian, it was familiar ground and foreign all at once.
The wolves' den…
He remembered its halls filled with laughter at his expense, the whispers of nobles who mocked him as a failure. He remembered bowing his head, forcing smiles, believing he had no choice but to endure. Those memories coiled in his stomach like poison.
Not this time.
This time, he would not enter as prey.
The sorting hall was vast, filled with rows of students—young nobles in fine clothes, commoners in simple uniforms, each waiting as their names were called and their seats assigned. A panel of instructors sat on a raised dais, their gazes sharp as hawks.
Lucian stood among them, cloak draped across his shoulders, expression carefully calm.
"Renard, Calvus," the herald called.
A boy strode forward, tall and golden-haired, his sword at his side. Lucian recognized him instantly. Calvus Renard. Prodigy, arrogant, and in his past life, a thorn that had dug deep.
"Class A," the herald declared.
Cheers rose from the crowd. Calvus smirked, basking in it.
Lucian's lips curved faintly. Enjoy your moment. I'll decide when it ends.
Names echoed through the hall, each noble heir receiving their seat. Class A for the prodigies, B for the competent, C for the rest. Whispers grew with every announcement, each student measuring themselves against the others.
Finally, the herald's voice rang again.
"Ardelion, Lucian."
The hall stilled.
Every eye turned. Whispers crackled like sparks.
The crownless heir.The boy who barely got his letter.Didn't he shame Deyros in a duel?
Lucian walked forward with unhurried steps, his boots echoing on the marble floor. His chin lifted slightly, gaze steady on the panel above him.
One instructor—a hawk-nosed man with piercing eyes—studied him coldly before murmuring something to the herald.
The herald's lips curled as he announced:
"Class D. The lowest seat."
Gasps rippled. A few students laughed outright.
Lucian felt the weight of their mockery pressing down like chains. In his first life, that weight had crushed him, branding him a failure before he could even draw breath.
This time, he bowed slightly, voice calm as stone.
"As the Academy wills."
The laughter faltered, replaced by puzzled silence.
Lucian turned, cloak sweeping behind him, and walked to the row of seats marked for Class D.
Class D. The lowest of the low. Outcasts, failures, those nobles sent only as tokens, commoners permitted by scholarship, and the unwanted children of great houses.
Lucian took his seat among them, his expression unreadable. Inside, his thoughts burned with cold clarity.
They think they've buried me at the bottom. Good. Wolves don't waste their fangs on runts—until the runt learns to bite back.
Beside him, a girl shifted. She had dark hair cut unevenly, her uniform slightly worn, ink stains on her fingers. Her eyes flicked to him, wary and sharp.
"You're the Ardelion."
Lucian inclined his head. "And you are?"
"Seren Veyra," she said flatly. "Commoner. Scholarship. Before you ask, yes, I know I don't belong here."
Her tone was edged, defensive.
Lucian studied her a moment. The sneer others might expect never touched his lips. Instead, he gave a slight smile.
"On the contrary. You may belong here more than most."
Her brows furrowed. "…You're strange."
"So I've been told."
A faint flicker of amusement touched her eyes before she looked away.
The sorting ended. The instructors gave their speeches—words of pride, of tradition, of survival. Then the students were dismissed to their quarters.
Lucian walked with Class D, listening to the jeers hurled from passing nobles of Class A and B.
"Enjoy the bottom, crownless.""Don't trip over your own sword again.""Ardelion in D? Proof that blood doesn't buy talent."
Lucian's stride never faltered. But his mind noted every voice, every insult. Names and faces filed into the growing web.
When they reached their dormitory, a small, drafty hall at the far edge of the grounds, Seren muttered under her breath, "They'll keep testing you. The noble-born can't resist when they smell weakness."
Lucian glanced at her, his smile faint and cold. "Then let them test. I need only one chance to show them teeth."
Night fell.
Lucian sat at the desk in his quarters, parchment spread before him. His map of names grew with each stroke of the quill.
Calvus Renard → Class A → Prodigy. Rival.
Dorian Marrow → Loud, arrogant, fool. Tool to be used.
Seren Veyra → Outsider. Sharp mind. Possible ally.
Malrik Veynar → Enemy Above All.
He set the quill down, leaning back in his chair.
The parchment looked like a web now, threads crossing and spreading. In his past life, he had stumbled blindly into it, caught and strangled.
This time, he was the spider.
He whispered to the empty room:
"Lowest seat? No. The lowest seat is the seat they will regret giving me."
The candlelight flickered across his face, illuminating the cold smile that curved his lips.
In the Academy of Wolves, the runt had bared his fangs.
And soon, the pack would bleed.