The Villain’s Education

Three years passed.

The visions never returned.

Not in the same way.

But something inside Raizel had shifted since that night. His dreams no longer belonged solely to him. Sometimes they came in pieces—faces he didn't know, screams in languages he hadn't yet learned. The smell of smoke. The feel of ash in his mouth. A girl's voice whispering his name, but never finishing the sentence.

He never told anyone. Not even his father.

Kael Valthorr assumed his son had simply matured. Hardened. Perhaps he was right.

By the time Raizel turned sixteen, he had become more than a prince. He was a symbol—whispered in noble courts, feared in border kingdoms, studied by warlocks as a case study in cold genius.

Which is why, when the imperial summons came, it didn't surprise him.

"The Crown has decreed it. You will attend Blackspire Academy."

Raizel read the letter once. Then he folded it silently and burned it.

Blackspire Academy—a monument to cruelty veiled in tradition.

Built into the mountain spine that divided the Empire's heartland, the Academy trained the nobility's most promising heirs—aristocrats, generals-in-training, mages with unholy bloodlines.

It was prestige wrapped in blood.

Every student had power.

Every student had secrets.

And most of them would not survive until graduation.

Raizel arrived alone, refusing the procession his father had offered. No banners, no carriage, no guards. Just a black horse, a single bag, and silence.

He wore no crest. He carried no weapon.

But when he passed through the Academy gates, everyone stopped to look.

Not because he was loud.

Because they had all heard the stories.

On his first day, Raizel was assigned to House Umbravell, one of the Academy's four noble divisions.

Umbravell bred tacticians. Spymasters. Monsters with manners.

The house's banner was a silver serpent coiled around a dagger, and its motto: "Strike where they do not see."

Perfect.

His new quarters were more prison than dormitory—black stone, thick air, shelves stacked with books that murmured when touched. But Raizel didn't mind. He liked stone. It didn't pretend to be soft.

The first to greet him was the House Prefect, a girl with silver eyes and a voice like velvet laced with venom.

"You're him," she said.

Raizel didn't answer.

"I'm Vanya Drae. If you don't cause trouble, you'll live longer."

"I don't cause trouble," he replied flatly. "I just finish it."

She smirked.

"Then you'll fit right in."

Classes began with blood.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

On the second day, the First Bell rang—and the students were marched to the dueling arena. Thirty noble heirs were lined up and ordered to fight.

There were no rules.

Only one instruction: "Prove you belong."

The first few fights were clumsy, arrogant. Fireballs flung without aim. Summons that collapsed under pressure. Screams.

But Raizel watched it all with a cold, calm eye.

He learned more in one hour of combat than he had in years of theory.

When his name was called, there was a pause. The crowd quieted.

"Raizel Valthorr," the instructor announced. "Versus Darius Valein."

That name made the arena buzz.

Darius.

The Crown Prince.

Firstborn of the Emperor. Touted as the strongest heir the Valein bloodline had produced in a century. Golden-haired, golden-eyed, golden-skinned—dripping with charm and lethal pride.

He stepped into the circle with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"So, the Dark Lord's little ghost finally shows up."

Raizel stared at him.

"Do you always talk before losing, or is this special?"

The smile faded.

The duel began.

Darius struck first—lightning-fast. A blade of light, curved like a crescent moon, aimed straight at Raizel's throat.

Raizel didn't move.

He absorbed it.

The energy fizzled into his palm, drawn into a black sigil that pulsed on the back of his hand.

Gasps filled the arena.

Darius hesitated.

That was all Raizel needed.

A whisper. A flick of his fingers.

The ground beneath Darius cracked, sprouting thorns of obsidian that wrapped around his feet, yanking him down. Then—

Silence.

Raizel stood above him, unblinking.

His palm hovered inches from Darius's chest, a sphere of shadow swirling within it.

"You've lost."

"You wouldn't dare," Darius hissed.

Raizel leaned closer.

"No. Not here."

He dispersed the spell.

The vines withered.

He turned and walked away without waiting for applause.

But the message was clear:

He didn't need the Emperor's favor.

He could take what he wanted.

After the duel, the Academy changed.

Some hated him instantly. Others courted him with subtle gifts and offers. Tutors watched him with growing anxiety. Students whispered his name like a curse or a prayer.

Raizel ignored it all.

He had come here for one reason: to measure the Empire from the inside.

To find its weaknesses.

To understand its players.

And to prepare.

Because whatever power had spoken to him at thirteen… it wasn't finished.

He still heard its voice sometimes, just behind his left ear, whispering in forgotten tongues.

It wasn't madness.

It was a reminder.

Weeks passed.

He learned faster than anyone.

He mastered war theory, ancient enchantment, and even the art of assassination. Not because he liked the blade—but because he respected silence.

He knew how to end a life without leaving a stain.

He made alliances sparingly. Chose three people to tolerate:

• Vanya, who shared his gift for quiet cruelty.

• Korrin, a mute boy who spoke only through blood-runes.

• And Silas, a half-blood seer who owed Raizel a life-debt.

They weren't friends.

They were assets.

And Raizel never confused the two.

But peace never lasted long.

One night, while returning from a restricted wing of the library, Raizel noticed something strange.

His door was open.

No one should have entered. The wards would have fried them instantly.

Except someone had disabled them.

He stepped inside.

The room was dark. Still. Silent.

Until—

A blade pressed against his throat.

And a voice he'd never heard before spoke calmly:

"If you scream, you die."

Raizel didn't blink.

"Then kill me quickly. Or put the knife away and explain yourself."

A pause.

The blade withdrew.

From the shadows emerged a girl—dressed in gray, eyes like frost, and a strange, haunting aura that prickled his skin.

Not magical. Not physical.

Something else.

"Who are you?" Raizel asked.

"Your wife," she said.

Raizel's expression didn't change.

"I don't recall a wedding."

"You will," she said. "Because the court wants you dead. And I'm the only reason you'll live long enough to kill them first."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

"My name is Elyssia."

And then she was gone.