Cracks

The days that followed his meeting with Aiden Sybil Edith passed without ceremony—but not without purpose.

The Academy's official entrance ceremony was still two weeks away. Two weeks of breathing room, two weeks of preparation, two weeks to make sure that when Alex entered the sanctum of Arcana Celestalis, he did so not as a clueless royal hopeful but as someone already threading influence through its roots.

Alex wasn't one to waste time.

The very next morning, before breakfast had finished being overcomplicated by five-star magical chefs, he summoned his royal guards, his personal attendant, and every servant currently stationed within his temporary Courtyard residence.

With the calm clarity of someone who had just spoken to a man who could unravel history like yarn, he stepped into the drawing room and addressed the gathering.

"We have two weeks," he began, voice steady. "Two weeks before I walk through the gates of Arcana Celestalis Sanctum. And when I do, I don't want to be a guest—I want to be a ghost the walls already whisper about."

He turned to his two royal guards. "I want full security profiles on every major House represented at the Academy. Past duels, assassinations, partnerships—anything that reeks of power. Use noble records, hidden ledgers, informants if needed."

The guards exchanged a glance. One gave a sharp nod, the other pulled out a small notebook and began writing instantly.

To the head servant, he added, "Speak with the local suppliers. Every deliveryman, butcher, florist—anyone who steps into Academy property. They notice things. Who orders what, when tension rises in the kitchens, where extra guards show up. Follow the breadcrumbs."

The servant bowed. "At once, Your Highness."

His personal attendant stepped forward. "And me, sire?"

Alex smiled faintly. "You get the most boring job: find the real curriculum. Course lists, study materials, entrance exam breakdowns. I want the truth, not the propaganda. Ask current students if you must—use gold, charm, veiled threats, I trust your creativity."

"Consider it done," the attendant replied with a twinkle of ambition.

He turned to the room once more. "We'll meet every evening. I want verbal debriefs and physical documentation. Anything suspicious, highlight it. Anything repeated, cross-reference it. And if anyone tries to mislead you, find out who they're working for—and why."

The room snapped into motion like a well-oiled war machine.

—

Over the next several days, a quiet operation began to unfold behind the colorful curtain of Arcana. With direct access to the Academy itself strictly off-limits to non-students, Alex's people shifted focus outward—toward the city's periphery, where valuable information still flowed like loose wine at a noble banquet.

The guards and attendants dispersed strategically across Arcana's thriving knowledge hubs: training institutes, combat dojos, independent research enclaves, and specialized preparatory schools that circled the Academy like moons orbiting a very pretentious planet.

One of the royal guards enrolled in a weeklong 'observational course' at a competitive dojo, where overambitious nobles sparred in front of flexing instructors and underpaid medics. He quietly recorded every mention of "Academy factions," noting who trained under which House technique and which dojo was unofficially aligned with which political power.

The other guard posed as an escort for a junior noble attending a prestigious private tutor. In the lounge, he gleaned whispered advice about which instructors accepted bribes, who could "make grades disappear," and which department head was rumored to favor pyromancers with tragic backstories.

Meanwhile, Alex's head servant moved between elite external libraries and scholarly salons—exclusive gathering spots where students and alumni boasted between sips of magically chilled mint wine. With the charm of a well-read gossip and the subtlety of a spy, the servant compiled detailed notes on instructors' eccentricities, rumored feuds between academic disciplines, and even which magical creatures were used as unauthorized cheating tools during exams.

Another servant mapped the Academy's delivery routes, befriended an old baker who supplied the east wing, and discovered that a certain House's order of calming teas spiked every time a particular professor announced a grading cycle.

Alex's attendant roamed taverns, striking conversations with senior students, buying them rounds in exchange for "survival tips" which quickly spiraled into panicked oversharing. From there came banned reading lists, secret House-sponsored tutors, and one unforgettable tale involving an illusion instructor and three enchanted frogs.

Equally vital was intel on the city's economic power players. Several attendants tracked down prominent companies—especially those known for magical tech, alchemical supplies, or arcane energy innovations. Their goal: uncover corporate backings, House investments, and whether any enterprises were functioning as quiet arms of Academy politics.

One such report returned with a fascinating diagram linking AetherTech Laboratories directly to two influential Academy professors and a semi-defunct House known for its 'research accidents.' Another flagged a quiet but powerful enchantment firm with suspiciously generous donations to one of the Arcana city councils. That council, of course, had recently been lobbying for an expansion of the Academy's private wing.

All of it—every whisper, every note, every scrap of knowledge—was brought to Alex's study.

But one report in particular made him pause.

It was a slim dossier, almost overlooked in the stack. The name at the top wasn't unfamiliar—Prince Ervian, a junior royal from his mother's generation. An old family footnote. Alex remembered him vaguely from formal gatherings: reserved, soft-spoken, someone who always seemed to be reading even when no book was in sight.

The report described Ervian as still active in Arcana—barely. A lone figure entrenched in deeply controversial magical research, currently locked in conflict with multiple academic departments over funding and access to restricted archives. He had no noble faction behind him, no major House support, and very few allies.

His work focused on something curiously labeled 'foundational weft resonance instability'—a phrase that meant very little to the average reader, but was highlighted three times by Alex's attendant.

Worse still, the report noted that several companies tied to enchanted materials had quietly blacklisted him, possibly under pressure from unnamed parties. But what truly raised Alex's eyebrows was the eerie silence from the Empire itself. Prince Ervian, despite being of royal blood and technically still part of the extended imperial lineage, had received no public support. No formal statements. Not even a vague gesture of acknowledgment. In court, even polite frowns were used as political shields—Ervian hadn't even gotten that.

It was unnatural. Suspicious.

Why had the Empire—his own family—allowed one of its own to be quietly strangled by academia and corporate interests without so much as a word?

That question alone began to itch at the back of Alex's mind.

Alex leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. This wasn't just an abandoned scholar. This was family. Someone close enough to matter—and isolated enough to be in danger.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought echoed:

'If even a prince can be buried in silence, then what chance does anyone else have without allies?'

There, he pored through it all. Annotated it. Memorized names and affiliations. Drew diagrams and power maps, filling a wall with an interconnected web of politics, personalities, and petty feuds.

He stood at the window again one night, listening to the muffled sounds of Arcana's nightlife, the rustle of papers at his back.

'Let them think I'm preparing for classes,' he thought. 'They won't see me preparing for them.'

He turned back to the final few pages spread across his desk. His gaze drifted again to the report on Prince Ervian—silent, buried brilliance. And suddenly, it wasn't enough.

He summoned his attendant with a sharp tap of the bell.

"I want more," Alex said, his tone firm. "Find me everyone like Ervian. The outliers. The marginalized. The ones who had potential but were pushed to the edge or forgotten. Not just the ones with noble blood—the ones with real skill and no backing. The ones that didn't 'fit.'"

His attendant gave a slow nod, clearly recognizing the shift in directive. "As you command, Your Highness. Any specific traits?"

Alex considered it, then shook his head. "No filters. Not yet. Geniuses get silenced, yes—but some never become geniuses because they're silenced before they can be. I want a list of the overlooked. The quiet ones. The unfunded ones. Anyone who didn't make the right friends or failed the right test."

"Understood."

As the attendant vanished into the night, Alex stared down at his notes again.

The Academy had its Houses, its champions, its prized pupils.

He wanted to see the cracks between them.