Theodore Selaris of House Selaris sat in Sparkshire's main common room, observing the social dynamics of his peers with calculating precision that came naturally to someone raised in a political environment.

Power comes to the worthy, Theodore believed fundamentally. But worthiness isn't birthright. It's capability refined through deliberate action.

His appearance reflected that philosophy—immaculate uniform, composed bearing, subtle markers of wealth that suggested his influence without flaunting it. Everything calculated to project an authority that felt earned rather than assumed.

The followers gathered around him didn't share that understanding.

Minor nobles mostly. A few wealthy merchants' children. All convinced that their birth conferred automatic superiority, that common origins meant an inherent inferiority.

Fools, Theodore thought without a visible expression. Useful fools, but fools nonetheless.

They sat in his presence like courtiers attending a prince, their deference gratifying even as their reasoning disgusted him.

"The outpost recruits shouldn't be taking positions that should go to proper candidates," one follower—Markus, third son of a minor house—complained. "Those resources are wasted on people who lack the noble blood."

"Some are competent fighters," another acknowledged reluctantly.

"Some limited skill without technique can't make them a threat," Markus dismissed. "We need leaders with proper education and a grasp of how power actually operates."

Theodore said nothing, letting his followers' prejudice reveal itself, cataloging their assumptions for future exploitation.

They're not entirely wrong, he thought. Military positions after graduation are limited. Competitive. A zero-sum game where every commoner success means one fewer noble placement.

But their reasoning is backwards. It's not that commoners are inherently inferior—it's that they lack political connections that make their positioning in the military actually useful to the Republic power structure.

An Adept from an established house can coordinate military and political objectives. Can leverage his family resources. Can serve as a bridge between combat operations and institutional policy.

An Adept from nowhere serves only a limited function as he wastes potential by lacking a broader utility.

So eliminating them isn't prejudice—it's optimization. In a way, it's ensuring the Academy resources produce maximum institutional benefit.

He let the followers continue their complaints, their casual cruelty, their plans for social exclusion of the outpost recruits.

Then spoke with careful moderation.

"We shouldn't be overtly hostile," Theodore cautioned. "That would create resentment. Creates martyrs that others would rally around."

"Then what do you suggest?" Markus asked.

"Subtlety," Theodore replied. "Make the Academy experience sufficiently unpleasant that they choose alternative assignments. Make them understand that advancement requires connections they don't possess. Not through direct confrontation—through systematic social pressure. It should also feel like a natural consequence rather than a coordinated campaign."

That's how you win, Theodore thought. Not through some obvious cruelty that the instructors could punish.

"Exclude them from study groups," Theodore continued. "From social gatherings. From informal mentorship that the nobles provide each other. Let them succeed or fail based purely on their individual capability."

"Make them understand that being capable isn't enough. That lacking proper connections means a limited career trajectory regardless of their so called combat skill."

His followers nodded, recognizing the strategy's elegance—cruelty disguised as meritocracy.

This is how power actually works, Theodore thought. Through structural advantages that eliminate threats before they become problems.

Father taught me that. House Selaris understands what idealistic commoners don't.

That capability matters. But connections matter more.

He already had targets selected. The Vester recruits who'd survived that shitstorm. Literally anyone demonstrating exceptional capability without noble backing.

Eliminate them socially, Theodore planned.

Some will break. Will remove themselves from competition.

Others will persist.

Either way, I win. Either way, the noble candidates would maintain an advantage in the appointment pecking order.

That's survival in Central.

It was ruthless. Sophisticated. Completely calculated beneath the veneer of reasonable pragmatism.

And Theodore felt no guilt about it whatsoever.

Because this is how power operates, he reminded himself. This is the reality that idealists refuse to acknowledge.

Better to be honest about your structural advantages and exploit them than pretend everyone competes on equal footing.

Better to win through superior strategy than lose through naive fairness.

Outside the common room, other candidates studied, trained, developed—most unaware of the social warfare being waged around them.

While Theodore planned his systematic exclusion with same precision his ancestors had used to build House Selaris's southern influence.

-----

Silas-POV

Silas walked through Sparkshire's evening grounds with Lady Katerina Verne, a second-year noble whose political connections could prove valuable if properly cultivated.

She'd been remarkably easy to engage. Few strategic conversations in the common areas. Careful application of his charm that felt genuine even while being calculated. Subtle deployment of Sense Fade to make their interactions feel more significant than an objective observation might suggest.

Silas allowed her to believe his interest was genuine—that he was drawn to her wit, her presence, something intrinsic rather than the weight of her family name. He never corrected the assumption.

Belief was a useful thing.

As long as it opened doors into second-year circles, as long as it granted him access to networks he hadn't yet earned by rank, the illusion served its purpose.

"There's a place off campus," Katerina suggested, her tone carrying mixture of excitement and nervousness. "Discrete. Where students go when they want privacy."

"Sounds perfect," Silas replied smoothly.

The motel was exactly what he'd expected—an establishment that catered to Academy students seeking privacy away from campus oversight, that asked no questions and maintained no records.

Perfect, Silas thought.

They entered a clean but impersonal room—bed, basic furniture, nothing suggesting permanent occupation.

Katerina closed the door, her expression showing uncertainty beneath her attempted confidence.

"I didn't know first-years had it in them," she said, clearly trying for sophisticated banter.

"Not all of us do," Silas replied. "Plus, I'm special."

He moved closer, reading her body language, calibrating his approach to match her comfort level while advancing toward his objective.

She wants to feel special, Silas assessed. Wants to believe this is a meaningful connection rather than a strategic cultivation.

They kissed—Katerina responding with genuine enthusiasm, Silas maintaining enough emotional engagement to make it feel real while keeping internal distance that prevented any actual attachment.

Just got to do it, Silas reminded himself as they moved toward the bed. Intimacy as currency. Connection as leverage. No different from weapons training or core development—just a different application of available resources.

The physical encounter proceeded with practiced competence—Silas providing enough genuine attention to make it feel meaningful. He peeled off her clothes slowly, kissing down her neck as his hand slid between her thighs, fingers circling her clit until she arched and moaned. She tugged at his pants, freeing his hard cock, stroking it firmly before guiding him inside her wet pussy. He thrust steadily, hitting deep with each push, her nails digging into his back as she gasped his name. They moved together, her legs wrapping around him, until she clenched around his shaft in release, pulling him over the edge to cum inside her with a low groan.

She deserves better, some distant part of him acknowledged.

But she's a second-year noble with connections and I'm a first-year nobody trying to build a network that will keep me alive and advancing.

So I do what survival requires. And tell myself it's justified by necessity.

He guided the encounter with careful attention to her responses, understanding that satisfaction produced attachment, that attachment produced ongoing access.

Make her feel valued, Silas calculated. Make her want repeated encounters. Make her invested in the relationship that serves my objectives.

Afterward, they lay together in quiet.

"That was wonderful," she said softly, her voice carrying genuine emotion. "I'm glad we… I'm glad this happened."

"Me too," Silas replied, the lie smooth with practiced warmth, his arm draped over her as he traced lazy circles on her skin. Inside, he filed away the night's gains: access to her circles, a potential ally in the cutthroat world of the academy. As she nestled closer, whispering about seeing him again soon, Silas nodded, already plotting how to weave her into his web without getting tangled himself.

She would want exclusivity. Silas saw that coming as clearly as a blade drawn too slowly. As a noble, it would be assumed—expected—that a commoner like him would fixate on her, orbit her, mistake proximity for devotion. Whether she returned that exclusivity would be irrelevant.

He exhaled softly.

Expectations could be shaped. Redirected. Managed.

He would make sure they never became a liability.

Katerina shifted closer, clearly comfortable in post-intimacy proximity.

"Can we do this again?" she asked. "Not just… this. But spending time together. Getting to know each other better."

"I'd like that," Silas said.

They dressed eventually, returned to campus separately to maintain discretion, Katerina clearly viewing the evening as a romantic success while Silas catalogued it as strategic victory.

As long as the arrangement delivered. As long as it kept pushing him forward.

Everyone exploited what the world placed within reach—titles, bloodlines, favors, fear. His just happened to wear a face, a smile, and the illusion of closeness.

And Silas felt no discomfort claiming it.

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