Aren's Offer

The notification ping was soft but insistent, dragging Orion from the threshold of sleep. A flickering window pulsed against the corner of his wrist-com.

He groaned, swiping it open, expecting a ranking update or maybe a call from his sister. Instead, a multi-window projection bloomed into view, illuminating his dim quarters in soft blue light.

Isolde's face took up the central pane, framed by the outlines of other active feeds — Juno reclined against a chair, Felix in a training room still coated in sweat, and Darius pacing somewhere that looked like the academy dorm.

"What is this about?" Orion mumbled, raking a hand through his hair. "I thought we weren't doing live calls unless someone died."

"Someone did. About sixty of them," Juno said.

"That was epic," Felix said, his tone somewhere between amused and impressed.

Isolde pulled up a few screens without looking at him. "We're expanding," she said.

Orion blinked. "Why the rush?" he asked, more curious than concerned.

"You've become a symbol," Isolde said, turning the display his way. "Might as well use it."

"Hold on—" Orion leaned forward as his own name filled the center, followed by a scrolling list of applications. His eyes narrowed as two names jumped out at him.

Ingrid Reyes, and right beneath her — Leonidas Lunev.

He sat up straighter. "Wait. Ingrid applied? Leonidas?" he asked, like he was trying to make sure he'd seen it right.

"We double-checked. It's real," Felix said. "Her message was short. Just said she wanted to fight under someone worthy. Leonidas didn't say anything — just applied and tossed in a duel request."

Juno shrugged and said, "You beat sixty people. That kind of thing carries more weight than any speech or incentive right now."

Orion's mind reeled. Ingrid and Leonidas weren't just strong — they were both part of that rare stratum of students who didn't throw their weight around. If they were aligning with him… then this was bigger than a faction.

Then, a strange thought struck him.

"Surprisingly enough," he said slowly, scrolling through the latest rankings, "I haven't seen Renata anywhere in the rankings. Or Ingrid fore that matter. They have not even been in the top thousand once. Same for the Virellian and Zey'ran heirs."

The call fell into momentary silence.

"Yeah, I noticed that too," Darius said. "You'd think with all the backing they've got, they'd be topping the board by now."

"Are they hiding their true strength?" Felix said, keeping his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity.

"It's a possibility," Isolde said. "But it could also be political."

She swiped across her interface, bringing up charts detailing the Academy's resources and access distribution over the next two years.

"Anyways, you know what the two-year gap between First and Second Trial really is?" she said. "It's the only window the less fortunate get to level the playing field. For most of the common cadets, getting through the First Trial isn't about just passing it — it's about benefits they get after that by staying here. At the Academy. With full access to combat simulators, aug-labs, nutrition programs. The whole infrastructure."

"So they come, knowing they might never make it past the second phase," Felix said.

"Most don't," Isolde said. "But they want to taste this life even if it kills them. That's why we should build a training track — one that mirrors the elite curriculum but uses the available academy's resources for anyone willing to show up every day and grind."

The words sank into him, heavier than he expected. All this time, he'd been measuring people by raw skill, expecting everyone to play the same game. What he'd missed was the unseen battle — the constant struggle just to keep going, to survive in a system that chewed people up and spit them out. For some, making it this far was the real achievement. It wasn't about winning; it was about staying in the fight long enough to matter.

 Although Orion had been born into an Archon family, he often felt like an outsider. His past life lingered in his mind, memories of days spent scavenging for scraps of food, of hunger gnawing at his stomach until he thought he might collapse. He couldn't help but see the nobility as pretentious, living in luxury and playing by a set of rules that felt alien to someone who'd once had to fight just to survive. There was a distance he couldn't quite bridge, no matter how many titles or privileges he was granted in this new life.

"Alright," he said, "If this place gives them a fighting chance, then do it."

"We'll be ready," Juno said, finishing his thought with a grin.

The screen blinked once — a fresh wave of applications.

The academy's central courtyard was quiet after the rankings had been revealed. Most of the cadets had scattered, already heading to their quarters, nursing their bruised egos or basking in the fleeting glory of their new ranks.

Orion turned to check the soft sound of footsteps behind him.

Orion was surprised to notice who it was.

Aren Zoltan, the academy's vice director and one of the most feared spear-wielders in the Confederacy, approached with a purposeful stride. His silver hair was tied back, his sharp eyes piercing as always. Despite his position, Aren never carried the air of superiority that most would expect from someone of his rank.

Orion didn't say anything as Aren stood next to him, silent for a moment. 

Finally, Aren spoke, his voice a low murmur.

"You've done well, Orion."

Orion turned to face him, a slight nod in acknowledgment. "Thanks."

"You're the inheritor of Yonatan's style," Aren said, his voice growing more intense. "Do you understand what that means?"

Orion hesitated. Yonatan had been his grandmaster technically, the last master of the Wraith style. 

"I never asked for it, though, old man," Orion muttered, looking away.

Aren's lips quirked into a small smile, though it held no humor. "You don't get to choose these things."

Aren stepped closer, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Orion feel small in comparison. "I can guide you. Teach you how to master the art of Wraith. Don't waste that opportunity."

Orion's throat tightened. He had heard the stories of Aren and Yonatan—rivals, comrades, brothers in arms. 

"But I already have a master," Orion said quietly, his voice almost hesitant. It was the truth, but the words felt foreign on his tongue.

Aren's eyes softened for a moment, but there was no mistaking the determination in his voice. "You think I don't know that?" he asked.

Aren paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "I'm offering you something rare. Not just as the vice director of this academy, but as someone who once stood alongside Yonatan."

Finally, he looked up, meeting Aren's gaze. "What do you want in exchange?"

Aren didn't smile, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes. "I will teach you everything I have noticed from Yonatan fighting beside me. And I will teach you my own methods—the methods that made me second only to him. In exchange, I ask for one thing. When the time comes, and you're ready... you will owe me one favor. A single request. No questions asked."

Orion stared at him, feeling the weight of the offer pressing against him. Was it worth it? A teacher like Aren was a rare thing—someone who could help him push beyond his limits. But what did that favor mean? What would it cost?

"I can't promise that if I don't know what the favor is." Orion said, his voice steady but unsure. 

For a long moment, Orion stood silent, his thoughts spinning. He hadn't come here to be anyone's student. But Aren wasn't offering something ordinary. He was offering a chance to unlock his full potential. A chance to understand what Yonatan had left behind.

Finally, Orion exhaled, the decision clear.

"I'll accept," Orion said, his voice low but firm. "But on one condition."

Aren raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"You don't get to treat me like a child. "Orion said, his tone sharp.

Aren chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Deal."