They shut behind him with a deep, final thud.

"Coren Vale," Thayne said, his voice precise, "step forward."

Soren stepped.

"Further."

He did.

Close enough that he could see the thin ink-stains on the Inquisitor's fingers.

Close enough that he could feel the weight of evaluation.

"State your name for the record," Thayne said.

"Coren Vale," he answered easily—no hitch, no hesitation.

"And your origin?"

"Border provinces. West fringe."

True enough that it didn't sound rehearsed. He'd practiced this identity until it was muscle.

Thayne watched him like a specimen on a table. "We've received a report."

Kaelor stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Renn continued, "Multiple reports, actually. Regarding your… elevation." Her gaze flickered—not hostile, not friendly, assessing. "Instructor Lysandra's personal endorsement is not a trivial event."

Soren said nothing. Speaking would only open doors they would pry into.

Solher leaned forward. "You understand the implications of being chosen by her."

"I understand she trains whoever she deems worthy," Soren said.

Murmurs rippled.

Not disagreement.

Interest.

Renn's lips twitched, the tiniest smile. "And do you consider yourself worthy?"

"Yes."

There was a beat of silence—sharp, cutting.

Thayne looked up fully now, eyes narrowing. "You answer without humility."

"I answer truthfully."

Another ripple.

Valenna murmured faintly across his mind, Good. Never shrink.

Solher tapped the arm of his chair. "Direct. Confident. Possibly dangerous."

Kaelor finally spoke—voice steady, neutral. "He has followed every order given. Every protocol. There has been no misconduct."

"That's not what concerns us," Thayne said smoothly. "Competence attracts attention. Attention attracts… investment."

Soren internally locked into stillness.

Here it comes.

Renn tilted her head. "House Merrow has expressed interest in you."

He didn't react.

Not even a blink.

That silence made Renn's eyes gleam. They wanted reaction. He refused to give it.

"An interest," Solher added, "that predates today's revelations."

Kaelor's jaw flexed. Barely.

Soren finally spoke, voice even: "I serve the Academy."

"A safe answer," Thayne murmured. "But perhaps not an honest one."

Soren met his gaze. "It's both."

The room shifted—quiet, subtle approval from some, irritation from others.

Renn steepled her fingers. "Do you know why Merrow wants you?"

"No."

"Would you accept their patronage?"

"I accept the Academy's orders."

Not the same answer.

Deliberately not.

Thayne caught it instantly. "He avoids the question."

Renn exhaled, not annoyed—delighted. "Of course he avoids it. He's not foolish."

A pause.

Then she leaned back. "Last question, Coren Vale."

The room's air tightened.

"If a Great House attempts to claim you—through offers, power, coercion, or threat—what will you do?"

Soren didn't look at Kaelor. Didn't look away, either.

"I'll do as I'm ordered," he said. "By the Academy. Not by them."

A long, long silence.

Then Renn smiled, slow and sharp.

"Good."

Kaelor shut his eyes for the briefest fraction of a second—relief masked as nothing.

Thayne scribbled something on parchment. Solher grunted, vaguely satisfied.

Renn lifted her hand.

"You are dismissed."

He turned. Walked. Didn't hurry.

The doors closed behind him.

Only then, only when he was alone in the hallway's cold echo, did Valenna speak—quiet as breath:

'They see you now, Soren. Not the alias. You.'

He didn't answer.

He just kept walking—down the corridor, through the outer hall, past the banners fluttering in torchlight—each step heavier with the knowledge:

Whatever came next, the Academy was no longer simply watching him.

It was choosing sides.

And deciding what to do with him.

Soren hadn't made it twenty steps from the Council chamber before he knew someone was waiting for him.

Not a threat.

Not an assassin.

Worse:

A political envoy.

She stood at the intersection of two high corridors—where the light fell cleanest through the arched windows, highlighting her on purpose. Young. Well-dressed in House colors he recognized instantly: frost-blue, silver-threaded, embroidered with the Merrow crest.

Her eyes found him as if she'd memorized his gait.

"Coren Vale," she said, voice smooth, trained. "Good. I hoped to catch you before you fled."

Soren stopped. Not close. Not far. Enough distance to draw if he had to.

"What do you want?" he asked.

A flicker of amusement crossed her face—small, sharp. "Direct. Predictable. A relief, honestly."

She approached with a sort of calculated grace that screamed political grooming since childhood.

Not a warrior.

Not an Arcanist.

A negotiator.

A weapon of a different sort.

"My name is Lysa Merrow. House-appointed liaison."

He said nothing.

"You're wondering why I'm here," she continued lightly, as if discussing the weather. "After all, our circles shouldn't overlap. Not yet."

Soren didn't answer.

She didn't mind.

"We saw your performance in the Yard this morning."

He locked still.

So that had reached them.

Of course it had. It always would.

Lysa clasped her hands behind her. "You impressed people who do not impress easily. Instructor Lysandra. Kaelor. Others."

Her gaze sharpened—not warm, not cold. Just precise.

"And that makes you valuable."

Soren's jaw tightened just enough that Valenna whispered a warning in his blood:

Careful.

"What's your point?" Soren asked.

Lysa Merrow stepped closer—still outside striking distance, but only barely.

"My House wants to invest in you. Discreetly. Substantially."

A beat.

"Immediately."

There it was.

She watched him for a reaction. He gave her none.

Her smile widened—thin, impressed. "You hide yourself well."

Soren kept his voice flat. "I'm not interested."

"Not interested," she echoed, "or not allowed?"

His silence was answer enough.

Lysa's expression softened into something like empathy—but the kind used by people who think they already own you.

"Coren… you're alone here."

Her voice dipped, quieter.

"Students like you don't survive without backing."

Students like you.

Not "talented."

Not "promising."

Alone. Unconnected. Vulnerable.

A weapon looking for a hand to wield it.

Soren didn't move.

Lysa took a slow breath. "Let me be absolutely clear. You are at the beginning of something… significant. And you have two options." She held up a finger. "Fight the Houses."

A second finger.

"Or join one."

Valenna whispered sharply in his head:

She's trying to box you in. Don't step into her frame.

Soren stared Lysa down. "I've already given my answer."

Lysa nodded once. Not angry—intrigued.

"Then expect a formal invitation. Soon."

She stepped back—finally giving him space.

"And Coren?" she added over her shoulder.

"Declining once is allowed. Twice is considered disrespect."

He didn't watch her leave, but he heard the confidence in her steps.

Only when the hall was empty did Valenna speak again:

'They've marked you. All of them. The Houses don't recruit—they claim. And they think you're claimable.'

Soren started walking again, slow, controlled.

"I can handle it," he muttered under his breath.

I know you can, Valenna replied. But you're not dealing with blades now. You're dealing with people who kill reputations, futures, and allegiances, long before they ever draw steel.

He reached the lower courtyard stairs. Students passed by—talking, laughing, gossiping.

He felt none of it.

Only the weight of what had just begun.

Valenna's voice softened—not warning, just truth:

'You've entered the political war whether you wanted to or not. And this one won't wait for your sword to catch up.'

Soren exhaled, long and slow.

He'd survived ambushes, missions, assassins, and failed cities.

But this?

This was a battlefield where he couldn't cut his way through.

He descended the stairs, jaw set, eyes forward.

If they wanted to claim him—

they'd find out he wasn't something they could own.

The courtyard had thinned out by the time Soren crossed it, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Too many eyes tracked him now—subtle, sideways, pretending not to. Whisper trails flickered like the thin steam rising off the training fields:

"—that's him—"

"—Merrow's interest? Already?—"

"—Instructor Kaelor vouched for him, didn't he?—"

"—heard he broke the Yard chalkline—"

They didn't point.

They didn't approach.

But they noticed.

And that was worse.

Soren ignored all of it and headed for the outer corridor. He needed space. Air. A moment without someone's House ambition crawling over his shoulders.

He almost made it—

until Mira cut him off.

She stepped out from behind a pillar with the casual aggression of someone who'd been waiting long enough to get irritated.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

Soren paused. "What?"

"Oh, don't do that," she snapped. "Don't do the dead-eyed, stone-wall thing. I saw you talking to her."

She jabbed a thumb back toward the upper hall.

"Lysa Merrow."

"It wasn't—"

"Don't lie."

Her eyes narrowed, sharp.

"Did she threaten you?"

"No."

"Offer you something?"

"Yes."

Mira swore under her breath—quiet but vicious. "Of course she did. Of course. Politics sees a blade and instantly tries to sheath itself in it like—"

"Mira."

She stopped pacing.

Soren's voice stayed steady. "I turned her down."

Mira stared for a moment—then let out slow relief, shoulders lowering an inch. "Good. Good. That keeps things simple."

"It doesn't," Soren said.

She blinked, expression flattening. "Explain."

He didn't want to. Not here. Not with voices nearby. But it didn't matter—Mira wasn't leaving until she got her answer.

"They'll send a formal invitation," he said. "She told me."

Mira grimaced like she'd been punched. "Shit."

That was the problem with Mira: she wasn't stupid. She understood exactly what it meant.

"You know what that means," Soren said.

"Yeah." She scrubbed a hand through her hair. "It means the Houses aren't just interested."

A beat.

"They're circling."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.