Royal Academy

The Royal Academy's spires pierced the ashen sky above Dravos, their stone facades gleaming under a frail winter sun. Banners of House Vale—crimson cloth traced with a sinuous line evoking the shadow of a dragon—snapped in the wind alongside the Academy's crest, a silver quill crossed with a sword. The air carried a faint tang of frost and iron, as if the city itself braced for war. King Darion Vale strode through the courtyard, his black cloak trailing like a shadow, Kuroketsu's hilt glinting at his waist. Beside him, Halvar Drenn, Guard Commander, scanned the gathered students with a gaze sharp as a blade, his shoulders taut beneath polished armor.The Dean, Belvar, a wiry man with eyes like chipped flint, bowed low. "Your Majesty, welcome to the Historia Hall." His voice echoed as they entered the vast chamber, its vaulted ceiling adorned with faded murals of ancient battles. Rows of students—four hundred strong, clad in Academy gray—knelt in unison, their breaths misting in the chill. Halvar's hand rested on his sword, noting the fervor in their eyes but also the fear. These were youths, not soldiers, yet their resolve stirred something in him—a flicker of hope amid the Empire's ruin.At the hall's far end, three figures knelt before a raised dais, their presence commanding even in submission. Dean Belvar gestured toward them, pride edging his voice. "Your Majesty, allow me to present our finest. First, our top student, Kazuya Katsu, is a brilliant and great warrior with Vessel Orin master."Kazuya rose, a lean figure with jet-black hair tied taut, his eyes burning with quiet intensity. A faint Orin aura shimmered around him, like heat rising from a forge, marking his Vessel rank. Halvar leaned toward Darion, murmuring, "Undefeated, they say. A duelist without peer." Belvar continued, "He is undefeated in the Royal Academy's annual duels, besting even senior challengers across his five years." Kazuya's hand rested on a curved blade, his silence louder than any boast."Next, Benedict Roland, rank two," Belvar said, nodding to a lanky youth with sharp features and a bow slung across his back. "A very well strategist." Benedict's gaze was calm, calculating, his fingers tracing the "Bow of Athena"—an S-grade relic, its wood etched with runes. "He excels in strategic and team battles, tops our academic exams, and earned this bow, once wielded by our founder, for his unmatched skill." Darion's eyes narrowed, impressed by the non-Orin user's poise. Halvar grunted softly, recognizing a mind that could turn tides."And our third, Amelia Foster of Church Crossroads," Belvar declared. "She can control nature with her book." Amelia, her auburn hair braided tightly, clutched the "Book of Life," its leather cover pulsing with faint green light. "A philologist of the Origin, she conjures Orin-like spells through the Church's sacred scripts, a gift few disciples master." As she stood, a breeze stirred the hall, unbidden, leaves swirling at her feet. Darion's grip tightened on Kuroketsu's hilt, sensing power beyond Orin's ranks, tied to Agaranthus's ancient faiths."Arise," Darion commanded, his voice resonant yet heavy with the weight of war. The hall surged to its feet, four hundred students and their juniors filling the chamber with a restless energy. He stepped forward, Kuroketsu's Orin aura casting a faint shadow, and addressed them. "It is very commendable for your bravery. You all are just students who are determined to fight for their kingdom. But this was the moment for which you all joined this academy, right? I know this is soon, but your king needs his kingdom's brightest minds to lend him their hand and fight. You all are very strong and brave, I the king appreciate it. Come with me and let all defeat the enemies of this kingdom."The hall erupted in cheers, fists raised, voices raw with defiance. Kazuya's jaw tightened, his Orin flaring briefly. Benedict's eyes gleamed, already plotting battles. Amelia's book hummed, vines curling at her boots. Halvar stepped forward, his voice cutting through the din. "You'll march under my command," he barked. "Prove your mettle, or you'll answer to me." His gaze swept the room, lingering on a trembling junior, and softened imperceptibly—hope, yes, but tempered by the blood to come.

Meanwhile, in Campnou's shadowed heart, Kaelor Vryn prowled the inn's opulent suite, his Dormin senses straining. The velvet curtains muffled the city's din, but the air reeked of deceit—wine, smoke, and something sharper, like steel drawn in secret. His left hand, calloused but steady, traced the walls, seeking hidden panels or traps. The manager, a sweating shadow in the doorway, watched him warily."We're staying," Kaelor said, his voice low, edged with menace. "Bring the slaves. No delays." His eyes, glinting with Orin-heightened clarity, pinned the manager, who nodded and scurried off. Kaelor's four soldiers stood sentinel, their hands on hilts, but he alone felt the weight of this gamble. Campnou's secrets could arm the Empire—or bury him. He pushed the thought aside, unaware how close his end loomed.In Dravos's palace, Nerith Caen sat by a flickering hearth, cradling Ryven Vael. The infant's eyes, unnaturally bright, followed the flames, a faint Orin pulse stirring in his gaze—Paragon power, dormant but undeniable. Nerith's fingers tightened, her medic's calm masking a growing unease. She whispered, "You'll need strength, little one," unaware of the losses that would forge him.