First Day Fractures

The first full day of study dawned cold and unyielding, frost tracing delicate runes across stone railings and ancient windows. The bells of the Royal Academy rang out, a dozen bronze tongues calling scholars, nobles, and the unwanted alike to halls older than living memory.

Arthur stepped from his chamber, Fenrix at his side, the Grimoire tucked safely beneath his cloak. His heart beat steady, though he felt the tension winding through every corridor: whispers born in shadow, eyes that weighed him not as a student, but as threat, tool—or both.

By the time he reached the Hall of Wards, students had gathered in knots: scions of ancient houses, each bearing their house sigils on tailored robes; a scattering of lesser-born scholars marked by simpler dress; and, apart, a circle of those whose names were whispered only when torches burned low—the truly dangerous few.

Arthur's arrival broke a brief silence, heads turning. Some gazes held open curiosity; more carried the brittle edge of disdain.

He took his place near the center, Fenrix settling with a low rumble that scattered those too close. No one dared speak to him—yet.

---

The magister entered, robes embroidered with silver wards that shimmered faintly under torchlight. His voice was calm, but carried iron beneath the velvet.

"Magic, like power, is shaped by intent," he began. "A ward cast in hatred guards nothing. A shield cast in arrogance cracks at the first blow."

Arthur listened, though his gaze flickered over his peers: nobles who smirked behind raised brows, whispering as the lesson wore on. The words drifted just far enough to reach him:

"Cecilia's bastard… they let him sit among us?"

"…dangerous, like mother, like son…"

"…should've ended him before he set foot in these halls…"

Fenrix's ears twitched, low growl rumbling in his chest. Arthur rested a calming hand on the wolf's shoulder, eyes narrowing but words unsaid.

The magister's lecture ended, and students were paired for practice: to shape protective wards in real time, countering attacks cast by their partner.

Arthur's name was called—and beside it, Lord Edrin of House Vael, heir to an ancient line as proud as it was merciless.

---

Edrin stepped forward, robes marked with silver thread, every movement dripping with practiced grace. His eyes—pale grey and cold as old marble—met Arthur's without flinching.

"A duel of wards," the magister instructed. "One attacks, the other defends. Switch roles on my word."

Edrin drew up his sleeve, revealing a bracelet of bone and steel, each link carved with ancestral sigils. Arthur felt the stir of magic, heavy with history and hate.

Edrin raised a hand, palm open, mana coiling into a spear of light edged with shimmering razor lines.

Arthur's fingers traced the Grimoire's cover through his cloak. He forced his breathing calm, pulse slowing to a measured drumbeat.

The magister's hand fell. "Begin."

---

The spear of light flew, faster than thought.

Arthur spoke a word not of healing, but of breaking: his curse curling into a barrier of black-violet smoke. The spear struck, splintering against the ward. Crackles of energy danced in the air, the clash throwing shadows across the walls.

Gasps rose among the watching students. Edrin's lips curled into a thin, cruel smile.

"Impressive… for bastard blood," he sneered. "Now watch how true lineage wards its own."

On the magister's signal, Arthur switched to attack. He reached deep into the Grimoire's memory, pulling forth a curse coiled to rot only the magic it touched, not flesh or bone.

The air shimmered as the spell struck.

Edrin's ward—cast in arrogance, born of blood alone—shattered under the curse's bite, mana splintering like glass under hammer.

A second gasp swept the hall. Edrin staggered, pride cracking along with his spell.

Before Arthur could speak, Edrin snarled, voice shaking. "Enough! I won't be humbled by cursed scum."

He lashed out, summoning a second spell, raw and uncontrolled—a spear meant not for practice, but to wound.

Arthur moved by instinct. Fenrix lunged, interposing himself between master and magic. The spear struck the wolf's shoulder, dissipating in a flare of sparks and the smell of burned fur.

Fenrix growled low, lips peeled back, yet held his ground. Arthur stepped forward, anger coiling cold and sharp in his chest.

"Control yourself, Lord Vael," Arthur warned, voice low. "Or I'll show you what a true curse can do."

---

The magister intervened, voice cutting through rising shouts. "Enough! This hall is for learning, not blood-feud."

But the fracture had formed, deep and visible as a crack in marble.

As students dispersed, some whispered with newfound respect; others glared with doubled hate.

Edrin spoke softly as he passed, words like venom in Arthur's ear. "You'll find noble memory runs deep—and noble knives deeper still."

Arthur did not answer. But Fenrix growled low, eyes never leaving Edrin's back.

---

Later, in the quiet of the library, Lilith found Arthur at a secluded table, Fenrix dozing beside him. Sunlight caught in drifting dust, painting the Grimoire's worn cover in gold.

"I heard," she said softly.

"Let them talk," Arthur replied, though his jaw stayed tight. "I came to learn, not to bend knee."

"And what if they force you to choose?"

Arthur met her gaze. "Then I'll choose truth. Even if it means standing alone."

Lilith laid a gloved hand over his. "You won't be alone."

Their hands rested together, silent testament against the cold weight of tradition.

---

That night, Arthur walked the Academy walls, moonlight silvering stone and snow alike. Below, the city stretched outward, lights flickering in darkened streets.

Fenrix walked beside him, silent shadow made flesh.

Arthur's breath misted in the cold air. "They see only bloodlines," he murmured. "Not choices. Not truth."

The wolf pressed against his leg, a wordless reminder of loyalty given, not inherited.

Above, stars burned in winter's sky—uncaring, eternal, yet witness to all.

Arthur spoke into the hush, vow carried on frost-laden wind: "Then let them see what blood cannot make—and cannot break."

And far below, unseen yet stirring, seeds of rebellion felt the promise in his words—and remembered.

**To be continued...**