By Sword or Scroll
The decree arrived as dawn spilled across Caledonia's spires, its parchment sealed with wax pressed deep by the King's signet. Arthur knew, even before breaking it open, that it would change everything.
In the silence of his chamber, with Fenrix at his feet and the Grimoire laid open beside him, Arthur read the words aloud:
> "By order of His Majesty, and with counsel of the Crown, Arthur, son of Cecilia, is hereby commanded to enroll at the Royal Academy of Caledonia, to study the ways of magic, strategy, and statecraft."
A single line, written in ink as dark as fresh sorrow, and beneath it, the signatures of men who would see him crowned—and men who would see him dead.
Arthur lowered the parchment, breath steady despite the weight pressing against his chest. Fenrix lifted his great head, eyes searching his master's face for meaning.
"I suppose we're going back to the world," Arthur murmured, scratching the wolf's fur. "By sword or scroll, they'll try to bind me to them."
Fenrix huffed, the sound halfway between a growl and resigned acceptance.
---
Lilith came to him before midday, her footsteps brisk on marble worn smooth by centuries of power. She carried her own copy of the decree, though the seal had already been broken.
"You expected this," she said.
"I did," Arthur replied. "But expecting doesn't make it welcome."
She hesitated, glancing past him to the Grimoire resting on his table. "The Academy will be different from the court. Fewer masks, perhaps—but sharper knives."
"And more curious eyes," Arthur added. "They'll want to see what the 'Anti-Healer' can really do."
She stepped closer, the scent of winter roses and ink clinging to her. "It could be an opportunity, Arthur. To show them you're more than rumor and curse."
"Or to prove their fears true," he countered.
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the distant toll of bells filled the air between them.
"I will walk this road," Arthur said at last. "But not as a chained beast."
Lilith's gaze softened, though the shadows in her eyes did not lift. "Then walk it your way. And know you won't be alone."
---
Preparations consumed the palace that day: scribes drafted orders, tailors summoned for measurements, and armored knights posted at every hall. Arthur moved through it all as if within a dream, the noise and urgency rolling off him like rain from slate.
At dusk, in the Hall of Tapestries, the King himself awaited. Shadows painted his lined face in deeper regret, but his posture remained sovereign.
"You know why this is necessary," the King began, voice gravelled by age and remorse.
Arthur inclined his head but did not bow. "To keep me close. To teach me to be useful—or to fail where all can watch."
A flicker of something, almost approval, crossed the King's gaze. "Your mother refused the Academy. You will not."
"I am not her," Arthur said quietly. "And yet I am."
The King closed his eyes a moment. "By sword or scroll, you will find your place, Arthur. Make it yours—or others will."
---
The morning of departure dawned bitter and grey. Snow dusted the city's roofs, softening the scars of age and siege. Arthur stood by the gates, a satchel over one shoulder, Fenrix close by, the Grimoire hidden safely inside his cloak.
Lilith arrived wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue, a silver clasp catching pale light. "I've arranged quarters near mine," she said, almost shyly. "It will be easier… to talk."
"You mean easier to watch me," Arthur teased, though gently.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "Both can be true."
Draven rode at the column's head, eyes cold as frozen steel when they met Arthur's. Around them, guards formed a protective—and watchful—ring.
Arthur felt the weight of unseen gazes from the city: merchants leaning from balconies, servants pausing in doorways, children clutching mothers' hands. *The traitor's son rides to the Academy,* they whispered. *Will he return as savior… or executioner?*
The gates creaked open, centuries-old iron giving way to the path beyond.
And so they rode.
---
The road to the Academy wound through winter fields and villages that seemed to shrink as Arthur approached. At each stop, rumors galloped ahead of them: some claimed his magic could kill with a glance; others swore he'd healed a dying child in the woods. Truth was a fragile thing, easily bent by distance and fear.
Fenrix drew as much attention as his master—children pointed, mothers pulled them back, and old men crossed themselves. But some offered cautious greetings, and Arthur met each with nod or quiet word, seeds of something that might one day become trust.
Lilith rode often at his side, voice soft when distance allowed. "They will test you, Arthur. Professors, students, and the Academy's quiet watchers."
"I welcome the honest blades," Arthur said. "It's the hidden ones that concern me."
Her gaze dropped. "Some will never see you beyond your mother's shadow."
"Then let them," he answered. "I carry her shadow gladly."
---
On the third night, the towers of the Royal Academy rose into view: pale stone crowned with frost, banners snapping in the wind. Beyond the walls, lanterns burned against the coming dark, and ancient wards shimmered faintly, magic laid into stone by founders long dead.
Arthur dismounted, boots crunching on gravel. Fenrix sniffed the air, ears pricked, hackles half-raised.
Draven watched him, expression unreadable. "Don't mistake this for safety," he warned. "The Academy is no less deadly than the court."
"I'd expect nothing less," Arthur replied.
They passed beneath the arched gate, the old motto carved overhead: *Veritas et Virtus* — Truth and Valor.
*Let's see which they value more,* Arthur thought.
---
In the Grand Hall, lined with statues of past archmages and heroes, a hush fell as Arthur entered. Hundreds of eyes turned: students in robes of midnight and silver, professors in heavier cloaks marked with runes of office.
At the hall's center stood the Headmaster: an old man draped in deep crimson, staff in hand, gaze sharp enough to see through skin and bone.
"Arthur, son of Cecilia," the Headmaster intoned. "By decree of crown and council, you are entered into these halls, bound to learn, to serve, and to prove your worth—by sword or scroll."
Arthur stepped forward, voice calm. "I accept the charge."
His words echoed, swallowed by stone and silence alike.
---
That night, in a chamber sparsely furnished but warm against the cold, Arthur sat by candlelight, Grimoire open before him. Fenrix curled at the hearth, breath slow, fur rising and falling like waves.
From the window, the Academy's towers rose dark against a star-strewn sky. Somewhere below, Lilith settled into her own chambers; somewhere further, Draven sharpened steel and suspicion alike.
Arthur traced a sigil inked by his mother's hand, memory stirring like embers in ash. Her voice returned, soft as dusk wind: *Learn what they teach, Arthur. But never forget who you are.*
Outside, snow began to fall, cloaking stone and soil alike in quiet white.
Within, Arthur swore silently: *By sword or scroll, I will find the truth they fear—and make it my own.*
**To be continued...**