Chapter 15 – Crests and Shadows
The snow had not yet melted from the Trial field. It clung to corpses and blades alike, a shroud over dreams that never had a chance to live.
Auron stepped through the crimson frost without slowing. The stench of blood was thick, copper and iron in the air. Around him, the surviving candidates trudged in silence—each alive, but hollowed. Seventy had entered from the commoners' gate. Only nine still stood.
The nobles watched them from the marble terraces, voices lilting like music. "Look at them," one whispered, "the dogs that survived the kennel. "Another laughed softly. "At least they die beautifully."
Auron didn't look up. He'd stopped expecting "gods" to look kindly on the dying a long time ago.
The gates of Ashford Academy loomed before them,black iron bound with golden wards, its surface carved with names of heroes who had once studied here. The light of dawn hit the runes, making them burn like the eyes of saints. But Auron only saw chains. Every line of gold was a tether.
"Enter," commanded the knight at the head of the procession.
Auron crossed the threshold.
The courtyard beyond was immense,a garden of stone and light. Fountains sprayed mana-infused water into spiraling arcs. Statues of emperors and saints watched from their pedestals. Young nobles in fine cloaks walked the paths like they owned the sky, laughter echoing among pillars lined with blue crystal lamps.
The commoners stood apart, blood-stained, ragged, their presence breaking the symmetry of the academy's perfection. The difference between them and the others was not just in clothes or posture. It was in the eyes,nobles looked upon the world like something that had been built for them. Commoners looked as if it could collapse at any moment.
Lucian was waiting near the central fountain, bandaged arm resting against a marble lion. His cloak bore the silver crest of House Arvel. He looked cleaner, calmer. But when his eyes found Auron, he stiffened.
"You made it."
Auron said nothing. His gaze flicked to Lucian's hand the faint tremor he tried to hide when he spoke. The noble boy who'd survived slaughter and still smiled.
Lucian stepped closer. "I told the instructors you were with me. They… weren't pleased, but I'll make sure you're listed under House Arvel's protection."
"I don't need protection," Auron said flatly.
Lucian hesitated, then exhaled. "Maybe not. But here, everything's a weapon. Even a name."
Auron didn't reply. His eyes swept the courtyard, cataloguing faces.
The new initiates were being sorted by crest and status. Nobles to the east wing, commoners to the dorms behind the training grounds. Auron watched quietly as groups formed: gilded clusters of silk and arrogance, others built from shared desperation.
That was when he saw Kael Draven.
The boy from the Trial broad shoulders, blood still dried along his sleeve, iron cleaver strapped to his back like an executioner's promise.
He stood alone near the edge of the square, ignoring the stares and whispers. His gaze was locked on a banner hanging from the tower walls: a golden lion devouring a serpent.
Auron followed his eyes.
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind Kael's calm—a spark of recognition, maybe rage. Then it was gone.
"Hey, that's the one who gutted 17 kids" someone
muttered."Monster.""Savage."Kael turned his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to catch theirs. The whispers stopped.
Then came the voice that made every commoner flinch.
"Well, well," drawled a youth in fine blue velvet, descending the stairs like a prince born from sunlight. "So these are the survivors?"
His hair was silver-white, eyes pale blue unnervingly cold. On his breast gleamed the emblem of a viper coiled around a chalice. The Voss crest.
Lord Edran Voss.
His presence drew a ripple through the crowd. Even the knights accompanying him bowed slightly. He smiled faintly as his gaze passed over the assembled commoners.
"Such determination," he said, tone rich with mock admiration. "You've earned the right to stand here, to breathe the same air as us—for now."
Auron's jaw tightened. He remembered the laughter from the balconies, the clinking of goblets while children screamed below.
Edran's eyes found him.
"You there." His finger extended lazily toward Auron. "You're the one from the outer provinces, aren't you? The boy with the dull eyes."He smirked. "Tell me, did you crawl over the corpses to make it here, or did they carry you?"
Auron's stare didn't waver. "Does it matter?"
A pause. A single heartbeat where no one breathed.
Edran's smile sharpened. "I suppose not. After all, the worms don't care which corpse they eat first."
Lucian stepped forward, fury flashing across his face. "Lord Voss, you're addressing a student of House Arvel now—"
"Arvel?" Edran interrupted smoothly. "Ah yes. The House of penniless knights. Tell me, how fares your father's spine? Still bowed, I hope."
Lucian's hand went to drawing sigils in the air, but Auron's voice cut through the tension like a blade."Save it. He's not worth wasting mana on."
Edran's smile faltered for half a second then he laughed. "How quaint. The mongrel speaks." His eyes glimmered with something like amusement, but colder. "We'll see how long that mouth lasts once classes begin."
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him as his attendants followed. "Enjoy your stay in the gutter, Arvel dogs."
The nobles laughed as they left.
Lucian cursed under his breath. "You shouldn't have said that."
Auron didn't look at him. "He shouldn't have either."
They fell into step with the other entrants as the instructors began leading groups toward their assigned halls. The air hummed faintly with magic the academy's wards, alive and watchful. Everything in this place felt designed to observe, to measure, to break.
Their dormitory stood at the far end of the training fields: a long, stone building etched with faint runes, smelling faintly of smoke and iron.
Inside, rows of bunks lined the walls, each separated by only a narrow gap. A single lamp burned in the center, casting long, cold shadows.
Auron claimed a corner bed, back to the wall. Lucian, despite his rank, followed him inside. The other commoners whispered—some in awe, some in envy.
"Why's a noble sleeping here?" "He's slumming it for glory." "No, look—he's scared of that dark-haired one. The quiet one."
Auron ignored them. He stripped his torn cloak, washed his hands in the freezing water basin, and sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he simply listened—the scrape of boots, the soft breathing, the murmur of the wind outside.
Lucian sat across from him. "You're not going to sleep?"
auron didn't answer.
Night fell slowly over the academy. The towers glowed with faint magic, stars hidden behind drifting wards. The laughter of nobles echoed from the upper terraces a feast, a celebration of beginning of their academy life .
Auron sat in the darkness, eyes on the faint glint of his bracelet. The lion emblem pulsed once, dimly. He thought of Godfrey's voice again.
The world won't excuse you for being weak.
He closed his eyes.
In the distance, bells tolled midnight. Somewhere in the east wing, a scream rose and was quickly silenced. Auron didn't move.
Tomorrow, training would begin.
And here, training meant war.