Several days of relentless fights had been necessary before the wretches locked within the Well finally realized that the frail-looking "young lordling" was not an easy target. Morveyn was no expert in combat—he took more blows than he dodged, and more than once, it seemed that this time, surely, the beaten and bloodied boy would finally give up and join the ranks of the dead. His once-pristine white shirt, which had stood out so starkly in the near-total darkness, was now darkened with grime and blood, its former elegance swallowed by the filth around him. Yet, against all odds, he endured. When the dust settled, five bodies lay cold in the pit, and though no one could say exactly how it had happened in the blind haze of the abyss, the message had been received. Morveyn Lyuteakh was not the easy prey they had taken him for.

  When they left him alone, he no longer seemed to take interest in the meager scraps passed down to the prisoners—lukewarm slop, a shared bucket of stale water. He did not fight for space, nor for the fleeting comfort of what little warmth existed in this rotting cesspool. He merely sat apart, his seething, ghostly-pale eyes burning in the dark like a curse, a patient promise of survival.

  And in those moments of stillness, when his aching body was finally left to its own devices, his thoughts drifted far from the pit. From filth, from decay, from the festering stench of human desperation—to distant, hazy recollections of another time. A time just as dark, just as isolating, just as full of quiet, suffocating anger.

  When the heir of the Lyuteakh family turned seven, the once vibrant Hawk's Nest estate, once filled with laughter and grandeur, had transformed into a silent and somber giant, a state it maintained to this day. These changes occurred within a single year, during which Morveyn spent most of his time confined to bed, struggling through bouts of fever and pain, or cautiously exploring the garden under the watchful eyes of his caretakers. The garden, once sprawling and untamed, had been trimmed and reduced to a narrow patch of land at the front of the estate, while the rear had been swallowed by vast expansions. Architecture no longer adhered to aesthetic elegance—cold efficiency took precedence. Massive hangars loomed over the gravel driveways, their mechanical hearts housing protectorium war machines, whose relentless movements ground away at what remained of the once-pristine paths.

  The halls no longer echoed with music or lively conversations. No guests seeking entertainment dared visit Hawk's Nest anymore. Only serious men in armored vehicles came and went, bypassing the grand salon to head directly to Menno’s study or the west wing conference hall. That wing, once a place of family gatherings, had been entirely repurposed for the needs of the Protectorium. Menno Lyuteakh had finally reaped the rewards of his research, rising from Right Falconet to the title of the Crimson Hand itself. His position demanded constant presence in the Protectorium’s Palace in TeakAn, but rather than uproot himself, he had reshaped Hawk’s Nest to serve his ambitions. Now, the estate teemed with Protectorium personnel, its once-pristine grounds overrun with war machines and the ceaseless hum of strategic operations. None of this particularly troubled the estate’s remaining residents—except for the overburdened servants, who now had to cater to the ever-growing presence of the Crimson Hand garrison. Yet even they spoke of the house’s transformation in hushed whispers, muttering about the Young master.

  The so-called miracle that had saved young Morveyn—the intricate procedure that had kept him from death’s grasp—was a triumph of ingenuity, but a bitter one. It had taken him away from his mother in all but name. Eolin, once doting, had begun to withdraw, fleeing to the sanctuary of the library or her relatives' estate in Monselu. She spent days at a time away from Hawk’s Nest, immersing herself in her brother’s household, where her newborn niece, Okkin, was growing strong and healthy. A real child. A human child. Not like the thing that now haunted the halls of her own home.

  For that was how she saw Morveyn now. Not her son. Not really. Something unnatural had taken his place, wearing his face, using his voice, staring at her with eerie, glass-like eyes. Whenever she saw him, nausea crept up her throat. The thing that Menno had stitched together from their dying son’s body, that mockery of life—she could barely stand to look at it. It was easier, far easier, to grieve for the child she had lost than to pretend the thing before her was still him.

  The only person who did not recoil from Morveyn was his grandmother, the formidable Countess Lyuteakh. A rigid, austere woman, she had never paid him much attention before. Now, however, she rarely left his side. Her creaky chair was ever near, her presence lingering like a shadow, with her maids always close at hand. She filled his sleepless nights with tales of a time before the realms were shattered, when the world was whole. She told him of the Sleeping One, the Dark Visage, and the demons lurking beyond the veil. She spoke of the witches who struck bargains with the Sleeper, and of the Crimson Wolves who stood against them. These chilling stories became his lullabies. They crept into his dreams, where demons roamed, and brave warriors fought them back. And in every dream, his father stood at the forefront, a towering figure, strong and unyielding.

  When Morveyn turned seven, his grandmother insisted on a grand celebration. Though frail herself, she wished to see her grandson honored in a way befitting his lineage. And so, for the first time in years, the great hall of Hawk’s Nest was filled with guests. Musicians played, acrobats performed, and an elaborate feast was laid out. A towering cake, adorned with lifelike sugar falcons and wolves, stood at the center of the banquet table.

  Seated at the high table between his father and grandmother, Morveyn looked more like an ornament of the evening than the guest of honor. Dressed in his finest attire, his thick dark curls meticulously arranged, and his strikingly delicate features framed by the soft glow of the chandeliers, he seemed more porcelain doll than boy. With his mother’s sharp grey eyes and his father’s raven-dark locks, he blended seamlessly with the grand display—no different from the elaborate silver candelabras or the intricate sugar sculptures on the cake.

  Eolin sat further away, shrouded in shadow, her gaze downcast as she quietly sipped her wine.

  Even Duke Geddacht, his wife, and their newborn daughter Okkyn attended. The tiny infant, wrapped in an elaborate nest of lace, bore no resemblance to her father. If anything, she was a perfect replica of her mother, Singrid Geddacht—a woman of extraordinary beauty whose golden hair cascaded down like a river of sunlight. The duke himself, though not a particularly striking man, made no effort to hide his adoration for his wife and child, his every glance toward them brimming with devotion. By Singrid’s side stood her ever-present companion and nursemaid, Renna—a stout woman with copper braids coiled tightly around her head, whose watchful presence ensured that neither the child nor her mother was ever left unguarded.

  Morveyn watched them with rapt fascination. It was not Singrid’s beauty that unsettled him, nor even her flawless grace—it was the warmth between them, the effortless way Duke Geddacht’s family moved as one, bound by something unshaken and whole. Compared to them, the marriage of his own parents—once strong, once full of love—now looked like a grotesque imitation of a family, a hollow shadow of what it had been. For the briefest moment, he resented it.

  The room brimmed with well-wishes, empty words of prosperity and health. The chorus of congratulations lulled Morveyn into a quiet haze. Then his father stood, and silence fell.

  “Thank you all for gathering here today to celebrate my son’s recovery,” Menno declared, raising his wine goblet high. “You are all dear friends of our house, and you know this journey has not been easy. Today, my heir turns seven, and I am pleased to announce that starting next month, my son will be attending the Crimson Branch Academy. Upon completing his education, he will be prepared to become a worthy successor to the Lyuteakh legacy and my rightful heir.”

  Morveyn sat stiffly, the smile on his lips frozen in place. This was the first he had heard of it. The Crimson Branch Academy—where boys were shaped into warriors, or broken trying. The weight of their gazes pressed down on him, but something deep within, small yet unyielding, stirred against the pressure. If my father has thrown me into the fire, then I will walk through it. I will not break.

  Later, he would realize this had been his father’s plan all along. By making the announcement here, before the assembled guests, Menno ensured there would be no arguments. His grandmother, who had grown fiercely protective of him, could not openly oppose him without causing a scandal. Retracting a public declaration of his son’s future would be disgraceful.

  Morveyn clenched his fists beneath the table. It was not fear that stirred in him, nor even resentment—but defiance. He could feel the weight of their stares pressing down on him, the silent verdict written across their expressions. His grandmother’s rigid mouth, the flickering unease in the eyes of the guests—none of them saw a future soldier before them. Only a sickly child, dressed up like a doll and paraded before them, frail and unfit for the life his father had chosen. He refused to be their object of pity. If his father had thrown him into the crucible, then so be it. He would not break. He would not be weak. He would carve his place in the world with his own hands and never again be the subject of their silent, damning judgments.

  A month later, seven-year-old Morveyn found himself enrolled at the Teak-An Men’s Lyceum of the Crimson Branch, an institution with towering walls and imposing gates adorned with golden crests. "Discipline, Obedience, Law" proclaimed the grand inscription above the gates—a motto that governed every aspect of life within.

  From the very beginning, Morveyn approached his education with a near-fanatical intensity. He was not the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the most naturally gifted in combat, but he would be damned if he let that stop him. Every waking hour was spent perfecting his form, memorizing techniques, and studying the theory behind every move. Where others succeeded through brute strength, Morveyn excelled through precision, through sheer force of will. If his father had decided to shape him into a warrior, he would become one—not because he was compelled to, but because he refused to be seen as weak.

  It was not that he was friendless, but rather that his determination left little room for idle companionship. His peers recognized his effort, even if they did not always understand it. He was a curiosity, an enigma who spoke little and worked tirelessly.

  The school days were grueling, filled with both rigorous academic study and exhaustive physical training. While others spent their leisure time playing or engaging in reckless feats of bravado, Morveyn was practicing, refining, learning. He did not allow himself to falter. His body, naturally slower to develop than those around him, demanded twice the effort to build muscle, so he trained twice as hard. He knew that when others were sleeping soundly, he would be lying awake, feeling the dull ache of his scars pulling against his skin. Pain had long become a companion, one that neither comforted nor hindered him. It simply was.

  Despite his relentless dedication, his father never once visited him. Holidays at the lyceum were marked by the arrival of proud parents—men of status, officers, scholars, all eager to see how their sons had grown. The schoolyard filled with demonstrations of skill, bursts of laughter, warm embraces. But Morveyn stood apart, watching from the edges. His name, at first spoken in hushed tones with a mix of awe and curiosity, gradually lost its weight. If Menno Lyuteakh had a son, surely he would have come to see him at least once? The assumption formed that Morveyn was simply a distant relation, someone with little importance to the Protectorium.

  The only visitor he received was Sir Saaggs, who came once a month to check on him. But his concerns lay not with Morveyn’s well-being, nor his progress in studies or combat. His interest was solely in the stones embedded in the boy’s abdomen—the miraculous, dreadful scheme that refused to deplete. Attempts to alter or remove it had failed; the circuit saw itself as part of Morveyn’s body, seamlessly woven into his existence. It would replenish its energy, heal his wounds, and yet leave him with constant, lingering discomfort.

  It affected him in ways more than just pain. His physical growth was stunted, his body locked in a slower cycle of development. While his peers rapidly matured into strong, broad-shouldered youths, he remained lean, his delicate features unchanged. It was not just a trick of slow aging—it was as if the scheme sought to preserve him in an unaltered state, frozen between boyhood and adulthood. His muscle growth lagged behind, demanding greater effort for even minor gains. This only drove him further. He would not let his body dictate his limitations.

  As he aged, the tension of the scars across his stomach worsened. Though the stones repaired his wounds, the primary incision that had embedded the scheme refused to fade. It remained, as if burned into his very essence, an unbreakable bond tying the construct to him. The tighter the scars pulled, the more unbearable the discomfort became. He underwent several painful smoothing procedures to ease it, each time conducted under deep sedation to minimize the risk his body posed to others. A large animal was always brought into the room during the process, a necessary buffer to ensure the procedure did not go awry. Morveyn remembered little of these sessions—only the aftershocks, the lingering sense of violation, the resentment toward the alien thing inside him.

  At some point, he realized that binding his abdomen alleviated the worst of the pain. The tight pressure stabilized the shifting stones, keeping them from rolling beneath his skin like living things. It was a small relief, but a crucial one. Sir Saaggs, ever pragmatic, arranged for a corset to be tailored for him—an essential piece of his wardrobe from that moment forward. It was no mere article of clothing. It was armor, a way to hold himself together when his body threatened to tear itself apart. And so, every morning, before stepping out to face the world, he would stand before the mirror, press his fingers against the unyielding lumps beneath his skin, and wrap himself in layers of fabric and leather, ensuring that no one could find out what had been done to him.

  Despite his tireless efforts and grueling work, Morveyn could never quite fit in at the academy. He excelled in his studies, was meticulous in his training, and carried himself with the poise expected of a future officer of the Protectorium. Yet, no matter how hard he pushed himself, there remained an unspoken divide between him and the others.

  Morveyn had learned early on that respect at the academy was earned through skill, reputation, or sheer force. He was never naive enough to expect that his family name alone would secure his place among the students. His father’s absence, which might have set him apart as someone to be revered, instead marked him as an anomaly. With no father to hover over him, no visits to reinforce his standing, and no protective hand ensuring his success, Morveyn was left to prove himself through his own merits.

  For the first few years, he worked himself to the bone, excelling in his studies and pushing his body beyond its natural limits in combat training. But no matter how hard he trained, he was never the most talented fighter, never the strongest among his peers. His punches lacked weight, his endurance failed him at the worst moments, and while others gained strength with ease, his own body seemed to resist him at every turn. Yet, what he lacked in raw power, he made up for with sheer determination. He endured every blow, every setback, with clenched teeth and silent resolve. If he could not overpower them, he would outlast them. If he could not be the strongest, then he would be the sharpest. If he could not dominate through brute force, then he would outmaneuver those who relied on it. He refused to let them see him as weak. Yet, his very presence unsettled them. Morveyn’s controlled detachment, his refusal to acknowledge their taunts or partake in their foolish games, painted him as an outsider.

  By the time he was eleven, the student body had collectively decided that Morveyn’s differences made him a target. It started with whispers and mockery—jokes about his delicate features and wiry frame. They scoffed at the way he carried himself, as if he was better than them, as if he saw through them.

  “Reading your little books again, girlie? Don’t you know girls aren’t supposed to wear the Crimson Wolves’ uniform?”

  At first, it was easy to ignore. The words held no weight. He had no interest in their approval, no desire to play their games. But when words failed to get a rise out of him, they escalated to something more tangible.

  One afternoon, on his way to his usual retreat—the black staircase leading to the academy’s abandoned wing—he found his way blocked. Five boys waited for him, lined up in a crescent formation like a poorly executed drill maneuver. Morveyn exhaled sharply, a flicker of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. "Not for nothing did they nap during tactics lessons," he thought dryly. The blond leader stood at the center, raising his brows with exaggerated amusement, clearly reveling in the moment, while the others closed in from the sides, their grins sharp and expectant.

  “Well, well. Seems like a girl has infiltrated the grounds of our Lyceum! What should we do with her?”

  Their laughter was sharp and mean. The boys at the edges grabbed Morveyn’s arms, twisting them behind his back in a mock bow. His satchel hit the ground, and with it, the rare library tome he had carefully borrowed—Engineering Graphics and Schematic Techniques. A freckled brute nudged it with his boot, ready to kick it into the dirt. Morveyn saw red. Without hesitation, he lashed out, headbutting the boy in the stomach. A satisfying wheeze escaped his lips, and for a brief second, the others faltered.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “That little bitch has some fight in her,” one of them snarled.

  Their amusement twisted into something darker. One of them—red-haired and still bent over from the blow—grinned maliciously and turned to the leader. “We should check if she’s really a girl.”

  A wave of revulsion rolled over Morveyn as they closed in. He struggled, but their grip was ironclad. His mind screamed at him to keep his body away from them, to avoid any more contact. A hand grabbed his waistband. "Don't you dare," he snapped, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity in this situation, but his voice came out too high-pitched, only fueling the laughter.

  One of the boys roughly tugged at the waistband of Morveyn’s pants. He struggled, trying to kick, but it was in vain.

  And then everything turned to chaos.

  At first, Morveyn barely registered the blur of movement that stormed into the scene. For a brief second, he thought it was some wild animal—an unruly mess of limbs, dirt, and unchecked aggression. It crashed into the blond leader from behind, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt before turning on the others with the reckless abandon of a cornered beast.

  The figure resolved into a boy—though barely resembling one by academy standards. His fists were unrefined but brutal, each blow carrying the raw strength of someone who fought not for sport, but for survival. He did not move with the trained precision of the academy boys—he fought like something feral, all teeth and claws and sheer, unrelenting rage. Only after the first few bodies hit the ground did Morveyn recognize him: Beor, the academy’s resident anomaly, the untamed creature who somehow belonged to no one yet seemed to answer to nothing.

  It was the first time Morveyn had properly noticed him. Beor was a boy who clearly did not belong among the polished sons of nobility. He came from some nameless countryside, admitted to the Lyceum under circumstances no one had ever quite explained. He was rough around the edges, unrefined in both manners and appearance, and carried himself with an unruly confidence that defied the rigid structure of their world.

  In the confusion, Morveyn wrenched himself free, driving an elbow into his captor’s ribs. The formation shattered. The once-smug bullies scrambled back, unwilling to risk serious injury over their game. The blond leader staggered upright, clutching his bleeding nose, and gave the order to retreat. Their mock hunt had turned on them.

  Breathing hard, Morveyn fixed his clothing, forcing himself into composure as Beor stood grinning at him, bruised and triumphant. “Those fools, huh?” he laughed, dusting off his hands. “They lined up like proper little soldiers. Might as well have raised a banner and blown a hunting horn.”

  Morveyn did not smile. His pride burned hotter than his bruises. He did not want Beor’s rescue, nor the shame of being seen as someone in need of saving. He nodded silently to Bear, grateful for the help but feeling a wawe of shame in his chest. Morveyn felt no relief. He wasn’t grateful. He felt sick with anger.

  He could have handled it. Maybe not won, but endured. Like he always did. He couldn’t stand a thought that somebody would think he needed saving.

  "Well, well, the young lady is unharmed?" Beor snorted, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Morveyn ripped his hand off—harder than necessary.

  "Stay out of it," he snapped, gathering his books.

  Beor only grinned.

  "Yeah," he drawled. "Knew you’d be pissed about it."

  Morveyn clenched his teeth. Damn him.

  "You held up pretty well, I saw," Beor continued, wiping his nose with a grimy sleeve. "I was watching from over there"—he nodded toward the upper steps, where Morveyn had been heading to his secluded spot—"and figured if you started fighting back, I'd help."

  "And if I hadn't fought back?" Morveyn asked, still somewhat confused. The boy smirked, squinting at him cunningly.

  "I'd have thought it was some kind of rich kid game. Who can tell with you lot?" he laughed, seeing Morveyn 's startled expression.

  Later, despite the fact that Morvayn hoped to forget about what happened forever, he was never able to shake off either the wildling or his pursuers. And yet, the country boy did not leave him alone after that. For whatever reason, this creature had decided to insert himself into Morveyn’s affairs, and worse—he refused to go away.

  Whether out of curiosity or sheer stubbornness, Beor remained close, lingering at his side even when Morveyn made no effort to reciprocate. He should have been irritated, but there was something maddeningly persistent about Beor, something that made it impossible to simply push him away. And in time, against his better judgment, Morveyn found himself permitting the company of the wild, untamed boy who had—against all odds—fought on his behalf.

  Morveyn did not initially seek companionship, least of all from a boy like Beor. Yet, despite his best efforts to remain solitary, Beor had an uncanny way of inserting himself into Morveyn’s life. Like a persistent shadow, he followed, undeterred by cold stares or clipped remarks. Morveyn would turn a corner, and there Beor would be, grinning with that reckless, almost infuriating energy, as though the idea of being dismissed simply did not apply to him.

  Beor was a walking contradiction—a boy from the countryside who somehow ended up at one of the most prestigious academies in the Confederation. His origins were murky, his patron unknown, and his presence an anomaly among the polished sons of noble houses. Unlike the other students, who maintained their uniforms in pristine condition, Beor always looked as though he had just tumbled down a hill. His unruly hair stuck out in all directions, perpetually unkempt, as if he had never once attempted to tame it. His hands, always calloused and dirt-streaked, bore the signs of a childhood spent climbing trees and wrestling wild creatures rather than attending etiquette lessons.

  Morveyn first took note of him not as a person but as an irritating presence—an unpredictable whirlwind that disrupted the carefully maintained structure of the academy. He dismissed Beor as a stray dog sniffing around where it wasn’t wanted, but the boy was persistent. Morveyn would catch glimpses of him watching from a distance, those sharp, knowing eyes following his movements. It wasn’t mere curiosity; it was something more deliberate. Beor had noticed things that others had not—the bruises that faded too quickly, the small animals that stilled unnaturally in Morveyn’s hands before scrambling away unharmed. It wasn’t long before the boy confronted him outright, his grin wild and triumphant, as though he had uncovered a secret meant only for him.

  Instead of being afraid, Beor cornered him with it, his relentless curiosity pressing in until Morveyn had no choice but to acknowledge it. He did not flinch, did not shy away—rather, he marveled, as though he had stumbled upon a rare and fascinating specimen, something precious that only he had the privilege of discovering.

  He called it a ‘gift’ when Morveyn himself knew it to be anything but. Beor pushed him to test it, to acknowledge it, and to wield it—not with trepidation, but with the pride that Morveyn refused to feel. He was relentless, his fascination bordering on reckless amusement, always pressing Morveyn to see how far his strange abilities could go.

  At first, Morveyn resisted. He had spent years rejecting what had been done to him, what he had become. But Beor’s stubborn enthusiasm made it increasingly difficult to ignore. It was not the admiration Morveyn craved—no, that would have been easier to dismiss. It was the sheer lack of fear, the way Beor treated his abilities as something natural, something exciting.

  Despite himself, Morveyn found it difficult to turn away from that kind of acceptance. Beor was not a friend in the conventional sense. Their bond was not built on mutual understanding or shared ideals. It was something else entirely—an unspoken agreement between a noble boy burdened with something he loathed and a wild creature of a boy who refused to let him wallow in self-pity.

  More often than not, Beor took the lead, dragging Morveyn along on whatever foolish adventure he had concocted that day. He treated the academy’s strict boundaries as mere suggestions, sneaking into the forests beyond the school walls, climbing the tallest trees, and running barefoot across the training grounds when the instructors weren’t looking. He taught Morveyn to climb, to track small animals, to see the world beyond the rigid structure imposed upon them. And Morveyn, despite his better judgment, followed.

  For all his brashness, Beor was perceptive. He saw what Morveyn tried to hide, understood the weight he carried in ways that no one else did. He never spoke of it directly, but there were moments—brief, fleeting—where his usual reckless grin softened, where his rough, calloused hands hovered just a moment too long before nudging Morveyn forward. As if he understood that beneath all his cold defiance, Morveyn was still just a boy trying to make sense of what he had become.

  And so, against all logic, Morveyn tolerated him. Tolerated the dirty nails, the unkempt hair, the inappropriate jokes and the constant prodding. Because in the end, Beor was the only one who did not look at him with pity or fear. And for that, Morveyn supposed, he could endure far worse.

  Unfortunately, the incident on the black staircase did not put an end to the animosity directed at Morveyn. If anything, it only made things worse. The young aristocrats, humiliated by their failed attempt to put the "girl" in his place, were left with wounded pride that demanded revenge. They were not foolish enough to risk another direct confrontation with Beor—the wild brute had proven to be more trouble than they cared to deal with—but they were determined to make Morveyn pay.

  Their next move was carefully planned. They ambushed him in an empty classroom after lessons, knowing he would be there alone. As part of his assigned duties, Morveyn was responsible for tidying up the desks and materials—one of the few tasks considered acceptable for noble students, meant to instill a sense of order rather than serve as actual labor. Most students treated it as a minor inconvenience. Morveyn, however, found a strange sense of peace in the artifactorium. The rows of crystals, neatly sorted by type, reminded him of his father’s study—a memory so distant it felt more like a dream. Before everything changed, before his body had become something else, he would sit quietly in the corner while Menno worked, listening as his father muttered over schematics, weaving together strategies for war. He had never felt more connected to his father than in those moments, when Menno would hoist him onto his shoulders and let him observe his work as if Morveyn truly belonged there.

  That was long ago. Now, the only connection left was the cold practicality of the knowledge Menno had once imparted, knowledge Morveyn had no intention of using. And yet, tonight, it would be put to the test.

  He didn’t hear them enter. Focused on a simple twofold scheme he had been absentmindedly sketching onto a scrap of paper, he barely had time to register the movement before they surrounded him. He recognized them immediately. Rein, the ringleader, a boy with white-blond hair and sharp blue eyes that held all the smug arrogance of the privileged elite, stood in the center, flanked by his two closest followers—one red-haired and freckled, always sneering, and the other a stocky brute who rarely spoke but was quick with his fists.

  Morveyn remained still. He did not rise to their bait, nor did he shrink back. He had seen enough predators to know that fear would only make them bolder.

  “What are you doing here?” Rein asked, his voice deliberately casual, as if he had simply stumbled upon Morveyn by accident.

  Morveyn set down his stylus. “Cleaning,” he answered, voice calm, though his pulse quickened.

  Rein’s lips curled into a smirk. “Dutiful little thing, aren’t you?”

  “He looks nervous,” the redhead commented, his grin widening. “Maybe he’s expecting his little pet rat to come scurrying in again?”

  The others laughed, the sound grating against Morveyn’s nerves. He held his ground, silently weighing his options. The room was spacious, but the desks created a maze, leaving little room to maneuver. Running would only amuse them. Fighting was useless—he was fast, but outnumbered. He had to wait, let them make the first move.

  They did not keep him waiting long. One of them kicked over a chair, then another, until the once tidy room was in chaos. A box of crystals tumbled to the floor, the sharp chime of saap fragments scattering across the tiles sending a pang of irritation through Morveyn. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting.

  “Maybe we should help him clean up,” Rein suggested mockingly, motioning toward the shards.

  Morveyn met his gaze, unreadable. “Go ahead,” he said evenly. “Pick them up.”

  The stocky boy scowled at the tone. A moment later, a rough shove sent Morveyn stumbling backward. He barely had time to catch himself before another hand yanked him upright by the collar. He struggled, but the grip was ironclad. The first fist struck his ribs. Then another. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, refusing to make a sound. That only seemed to irritate them more. The blows became more erratic, shoving, dragging, jostling him between them like a toy.

  He fell to his knees, hands skidding across the floor—pain flared as sharp edges sliced his palms. For the briefest moment, his fingers curled around something cool and smooth. A shard of saap crystal.

  He barely had to think.

  One of the most basic combat schemes—a claw. Simple. Instantaneous.

  He lunged. His hand shot out, grasping Rein’s wrist before the boy could react. The crystal in his other hand flared with energy as he pressed it against his own shoulder, activating the scheme. A bright flash, the scent of something burning, and then…

  Rein collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.

  Panic erupted. The others staggered back, staring in horror as their leader slumped against a desk, his limbs going slack, his breath turning ragged. Morveyn forced himself to unclench his grip on Rein’s collar, ignoring the lingering warmth that pulsed through his fingertips. He hadn't even touched the boy directly—he had slashed his own shoulder with the claw, let the sting of pain activate the dormant hunger in his stomach. And now Rein lay crumpled, pale, his body instinctively offering itself to Morveyn’s unnatural equilibrium.

  The others didn’t understand what had happened. They only saw their leader drop, saw Morveyn rise to his feet, wild-eyed, blood seeping from his torn sleeve and dripping onto the scattered saap shards. The fear in their faces was unmistakable.

  Without hesitation, he reached for the red-haired boy’s wrist, smearing blood across his forearm as if in mock camaraderie. The effect was instant—his knees buckled, the strength in his limbs faltering as though something unseen had begun siphoning it away. Morveyn barely felt the wound on his shoulder anymore, the pain dulling as fresh warmth coiled through his core.

  The third boy, realizing too late that something unnatural was happening, tried to recoil—only for Morveyn to lunge at him next. He didn’t even need to grab him fully; a brush of fingers against his face was enough. The brute staggered back, eyes wide with blind panic, and in his desperation to escape, he nearly tripped over Rein’s still-twitching form, leaving Morveyn a clear path to the door.

  He bolted, leaving them to sort out their own horror-stricken confusion. His heart pounded as he tore down the corridor, breath ragged.

  Laughter rang out behind him.

  “Holy hells, Mor, you should’ve seen your face!”

  Beor. He was running beside him, grinning from ear to ear, his delight entirely unfiltered.

  “You really gave it to them!” Beor whooped. “I was about to jump in, but damn, you handled it! Never thought you had it in you.”

  Morveyn barely spared him a glance, still coming down from the rush of adrenaline.

  "You know," Beor tilted his head, watching him with amusement. "You cut yourself, and they all just dropped like flies."

  A cold sensation crawled up Morveyn’s spine.

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "Sure you don’t," Beor hummed, but his smile only grew wider, he was apparently simply delighted with what he saw. "But wouldn’t it be interesting to find out?"

  He leaned in closer, teeth flashing in a sharp grin.

  "Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I’m your friend, after all."

  Morveyn exhaled sharply, glancing sideways. Beor’s grin was wide, unashamedly impressed.

  Morveyn glanced sideways, pulse still racing. A part of him wanted to reject the praise—to claim that it had been an accident. But somewhere beneath the denial, something darker stirred. They deserved it, a voice whispered, low and certain. He exhaled slowly, allowing the thought to linger longer than it should. And Beor, grinning beside him, seemed to know.

  Awesome. He didn’t answer. But for the first time, he wondered if Beor was right.

  The next morning, the classroom was pristine, as if nothing had happened. The desks were aligned, the crystals neatly sorted. No one spoke of the incident. Rein was absent, and when he returned days later, he never looked in Morveyn’s direction again.

  And, strangely, no one else did either.

  For the first time in his life, Morveyn was almost deliriously happy that neither the Protectorate nor his father seemed to care about him. No one came, no one asked questions. Even Sir Saaggs, who now visited only twice a year for his assessments, never once brought up the incident—or any of the similar ones that followed.

  Morveyn and Beor, now inseparable, continued their strange companionship. Morveyn abandoned his desperate attempts to bulk up and match his peers in physical prowess. By the time they both turned fifteen, he had transformed into a refined young man, dedicating more time to books and artifact studies than trying to impress anyone on the training grounds. He had realized that no matter what he did, his father simply didn’t care. His wounded pride dictated that if he was of no interest to his father, then he saw no reason to prioritize the Protectorate’s interests over his own.

  Beor, meanwhile, had grown into a broad-shouldered, grinning troublemaker, towering over most of their peers. His wild, sun-bleached hair, which he stubbornly refused to cut, was now kept in two thick braids resting on his shoulders. It had taken considerable convincing from Morveyn to get him to accept even this level of grooming—his hair had become so unruly that it had crossed the threshold of decency. Beor had only agreed on the condition that Morveyn himself would be the one to braid it for him. From that moment on, Morveyn had sworn off making any further suggestions regarding his friend’s appearance.

  Newcomers to the academy often mistook Beor for Morveyn’s personal servant. His perpetually disheveled appearance made it impossible to imagine him as an aristocrat, and next to Morveyn—always impeccable, his uniform pristine and not a single crease in sight—he looked even more out of place.

  More than once, they had to resort to their old trick of "sudden fainting spells" whenever someone displayed excessive curiosity about their friendship. Rumors had even begun to circulate within the academy, suggesting that the young lord and his unruly companion shared a scandalous romantic entanglement. However, after a particularly brutal and very public thrashing that Beor delivered to a group of gossiping busybodies in the middle of the main courtyard, the rumors abruptly ceased.

  Then, without warning, everything changed.

  Menno Lyuteakh arrived at the academy.

  The visit had no prior announcement. It was just before the final academic year’s conclusion when, for the first time in years, Morveyn saw his father. And for the first time, his father saw the towering figure that loomed protectively behind him. Menno didn’t offer explanations; he simply grabbed his son and dragged him toward the waiting transport. Morveyn, taken completely off guard, instinctively resisted, though he knew it was useless. He barely managed to catch a last glimpse of Beor, who stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, fists clenched tight.

  Only wounded pride kept Morveyn from making a scene right there on the academy’s drive, where a crowd of onlookers had already begun to gather. The last thing he saw of his friend was that unusually stiff posture and a face void of its usual wolfish grin.

  A month later, Morveyn received his graduation documents by mail. By then, however, his life had already been set into an entirely different motion. There had been no time, no opportunity to slip away from his father’s watchful eye, no chance to track Beor down. The difference in their social standings, which had seemed insignificant within the academy’s walls, had reasserted itself the moment they stepped beyond them.

  That was something Morveyn still regretted. And resented.

  He had been forgotten for years, but the moment his father found a way to make use of him, he had been pulled into the Protectorate’s grasp so tightly that the rigid discipline of the academy now seemed like a period of unbridled freedom.