Atrius's eyebrow lifted.

"Good. That stance isn't Academy. Where did you—"

He cut himself off. "Doesn't matter. Use it."

Soren shifted his weight. The sword hung loosely in his hand, but the looseness was deceptive — it was the kind that could tighten into violence in half a heartbeat.

Valenna murmured, soft and approving.

Yes. This is yours, not theirs.

Atrius circled him, appraising like a man inspecting a dangerous animal that had suddenly decided to listen to commands.

"Now," Atrius said, "bend it."

Soren moved.

Not the Estrix lunge, not any Academy form. His footwork shortened, steps almost silent on the mat. A half pivot, a cut that traveled only eight inches but carried all its power inside those eight. Atrius raised a forearm to block the angle—barely in time.

Metal kissed leather.

Atrius hissed. "Again."

Soren repeated it, tighter.

Then again — faster.

Atrius tested each angle, each shift, without warning. A jab to Soren's ribs. A faint to the neck. A sweeping strike meant to probe guard discipline. Soren deflected, ducked, turned, absorbed — not with elegance, but with brutal economy.

The kind that could kill in small spaces.

The kind Feldren would understand immediately.

"That," Atrius said, breath steady but eyes sharp, "is how you speak their language."

Mira muttered from the wall, "Their language is murder scribbled in neat handwriting."

Atrius snapped, "Mira."

"What?" she said. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Atrius didn't. He turned back to Soren.

"Feldren will pressure you the moment you arrive. They'll look for hesitation. For gaps. For weaknesses in your spine."

He pointed.

"Stance again."

Soren sank down, weight centered, aura barely a ripple beneath his skin.

"Now," Atrius said, "hold."

Seconds stretched.

A minute.

Two.

Sweat traced down Soren's back, not from exertion — from discipline. The stance demanded stillness and readiness at once. Valenna tightened around his pulse, guiding him through the micro-adjustments only she could feel.

You are stone, she whispered. Stone with a blade inside.

Footsteps thundered outside the hall.

Atrius straightened. "Ignore it. Focus."

The footsteps grew louder. A group passed the windows — students in Feldren colors, moving in a deliberate pattern, their boots hitting the stones like matched beats in a drumline.

Mira inhaled sharply. "They're already out scouting positions? Dusk is hours away."

"No," Atrius said. "This is posturing. They want Coren to know they're ready."

Soren did not turn.

Did not flinch.

His stance didn't waver a hair.

Atrius exhaled, almost approving. "Good. That's exactly what they want to break. Now—drop the stance and strike."

Soren's blade moved before the final word finished. A low diagonal arc, a pivot, a rising cut. Atrius intercepted with a wooden practice staff, the crack echoing like a whip.

They exchanged three blows.

Then five.

Then ten in rapid succession.

Atrius's staff blurred.

Soren's blade blurred faster.

Mira leaned forward, wide-eyed, forgetting to breathe.

Atrius stepped back after a final clash that sent vibrations up his arms. "Enough."

Soren lowered the blade but didn't relax.

Atrius studied him for a long, calculating moment.

"…Feldren will not intimidate you," Atrius said quietly. "They'll respect you."

Mira blinked. "Wait—respect? That's worse!"

"No," Atrius said. "That's how Coren stays alive."

Before Soren could respond, Valenna slid cold and electric along his skin.

Someone approaches.

A heartbeat later, the eastern hall doors creaked open. Slowly. Intentionally.

A figure stepped inside.

Not a student this time.

An instructor.

Black-trimmed robes.

Iron insignia of Feldren on the collar.

The air tightened.

Mira whispered, "You have got to be kidding me."

The Feldren instructor bowed slightly — not to Atrius.

To Soren.

"Coren Vale," he said, voice like polished stone. "The heir requests punctuality."

Atrius stepped forward sharply. "He knows the meeting is at dusk."

"Yes," the Feldren replied. "He does."

A pause.

"He wishes to see if the summoned understands courtesy."

Mira's mouth fell open. "They're timing him? Now?"

Atrius's jaw locked.

This was a trap inside a test inside a message.

Soren sheathed his sword.

"I'm ready."

Valenna whispered, cold pride unfurling like a blade.

Good. Show them they do not choose the tempo — you do.

Atrius grabbed Soren's shoulder before he could move.

"Coren. Listen carefully." His voice dropped to a low growl. "Whatever Aren Feldren says tonight, whatever he implies — do not volunteer anything. Not your past. Not your techniques. Not your loyalty. They will try to claim you. They will try to press into the cracks."

Mira added, "And don't let them stab you. Important detail."

Atrius ignored her again.

"Stand tall. Speak little. Answer nothing directly. Feldren respects stillness more than speech."

Soren nodded once.

The Feldren instructor waited at the threshold, patient as a blade on a rack.

Soren stepped forward.

As he passed Mira, she grabbed his sleeve.

"Coren," she whispered, voice cracking, "come back alive."

He met her eyes.

"I will."

Her grip tightened for one heartbeat, then released.

Soren walked out of the hall.

Valenna coiled around him like shadowed armor.

Now, she whispered, thrilled and cold, let us see what Feldren truly wants.

Soren followed the Feldren instructor through the corridor, footsteps measured, silent, the kind that revealed nothing and noticed everything. Students pressed themselves against the walls as he passed — not out of fear, but out of that strange, instinctive deference Feldren uniforms commanded.

Valenna curled cold and sharp beneath his skin.

They are watching from the shadows. Four… no, five pairs of eyes. All Feldren. All assessing.

Soren didn't look toward any of them.

The instructor spoke without turning his head.

"You arrive promptly. That will be noted."

Soren didn't answer. Silence was safer than anything he could say.

They climbed the stairs to the northern terrace — stone arches, wind slicing in from the mountain side, banners hanging unmoving despite the breeze. Feldren had always favored stillness.

When they stepped onto the terrace — there he was.

Aren Feldren.

The heir.

He stood at the far side, back turned, hands clasped behind him as he looked out over the training fields below. His hair was dark, his posture flawless, his aura so tightly leashed it felt like a pressure in the bones.

He didn't turn when Soren approached.

"Leave us," Aren said.

The instructor bowed and withdrew, closing the terrace doors with a heavy finality.

Wind whispered between them.

Still Aren did not turn.

Valenna's voice brushed his mind.

Be the blade. Not the sheath.

Soren stopped exactly six paces behind the heir — not close enough to challenge, not far enough to submit.

Aren finally spoke.

"You answered quickly."

His voice was cool. Refined. Dangerous in its calm.

Soren said nothing.

A soft, almost amused exhale left Aren's nose.

"I see Atrius has already trained you in the art of not speaking."

Aren turned.

His eyes were steel-grey, sharp enough to cut.

They swept over Soren once — not dismissing, not lingering — measuring.

"Coren Vale."

Soren held his posture steady.

Aren stepped closer, just enough to test boundaries.

"Your aura," Aren said, tone flat, "is undisciplined. Violent. Unrefined. And yet… unmistakable."

Soren didn't move.

Aren's gaze narrowed. "Most students hide their strength. You bury yours. Why?"

Valenna whispered,

Say nothing. Make him work for every scrap.

Soren held silence.

Aren's lips curved — a tiny, knowing, satisfied edge.

"Good. You understand restraint."

He circled Soren once, slow and deliberate, like a commander inspecting a soldier before deciding where best to break him.

"When you unleashed your aura earlier today," Aren said quietly, "every Feldren student in the Academy felt it. Even those outside the grounds felt the shift."

He stopped in front of Soren again.

"That level of pressure… is not something a common fosterling develops accidentally."

Soren met his eyes.

Unblinking. Steady. Unreadable.

Aren studied that lack of reaction for nearly ten heartbeats.

Then he spoke, voice dropping lower.

"Tell me, Coren Vale… which House discarded you?"

Soren's jaw tightened.

Valenna's whisper sharpened, lethal.

Do. Not. Answer.

Aren waited.

Soren kept still.

After another long moment, Aren's expression shifted — not frustration, not offense — something like approval flickering beneath the cold exterior.

"You refuse to be categorized. Good. That makes you less predictable than the rest of them."

Aren stepped back a fraction.

Then—

"Walk with me."

He turned and moved toward the open ledge. Soren followed, controlled, silent.

Below, the training fields stretched beneath them, students moving like small pieces on an intricate board.

"Feldren values three things," Aren said. "Duty. Precision. And strength without ornamentation."

He rested a hand lightly on the stone railing.

"You hold the third. Atrius is polishing the second. But the first…" Aren looked at him, eyes unreadable.

"…that is what I intend to test."

Soren's pulse didn't shift — but Valenna coiled, tense.

"You received our warning earlier," Aren continued. "We do not issue warnings lightly."

"You threatened me," Soren said.

Aren's smile was a faint cut of steel. "If Feldren wished to threaten you, Coren, there would be no parchment."

He leaned in slightly.

"That was an invitation."

Soren's fingers curled at his side. Not enough to reveal anything, just enough for Valenna to feel it.

Aren's gaze flicked to the movement.

"As I thought," Aren murmured. "You do not fear us. Not even a little."

He straightened.

"Good."

Aren stepped away from the ledge, turning fully toward Soren.

"I will ask you one question tonight."

His voice lowered, quiet as a blade leaving its sheath.

"And your answer will determine whether House Feldren considers you a threat… or an asset."

Valenna's presence pressed against Soren's chest, ready.

Aren spoke:

"Coren Vale… if I ordered you to kneel, right now, in front of me — would you obey?"

Silence.

Wind.

Stone.

Soren's heart didn't move.

Valenna whispered, frost and steel and absolute resolve:

Do not bend.

Soren looked Aren Feldren dead in the eyes and said—

"No."

The word dropped like a blade between them.

Aren didn't blink.

Then—

He smiled.

Slow.

Satisfied.

Predatory.

"…Good," Aren said. "That is the correct answer."

The air shifted — the silent snap of a test passed.

Aren turned away, cloak brushing the stone.

"You will report to me again tomorrow," he said. "We are not done."

He didn't dismiss him.

Didn't bow.

Didn't look back.

Just walked away, doors opening at his approach as if the Academy itself moved aside for him.

When the door shut behind him, Valenna exhaled in Soren's mind like a blade leaving water.

You chose perfectly.

Soren stood on the terrace alone, wind cold against his face.

He had not been broken.

He had been measured.

And Feldren liked what they saw.

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