From the crowd of the Grand Hall, Soren the tall, lengthy lackey of Damien watched as Arthur and Mars conversed near the board. As they walked away, he watched them talk with happy glee. Or rather, Mars did, while Arthur calmly spoke beside him.
'What a bunch of fools. Don't they understand the danger they're getting into messing with Damien? He'll show them.'
Walking up to the notice board, his master had sent him to check the rankings and to find out what else was posted.
'As expected. Master's rank is 12. He is truly strong.'
His eyes shifted to the first-year board.
'Now where is that lowly Webb at?'
Scanning the list, he looked for Arthur, expecting him to be somewhere in the 300s.
But what he found stopped him cold.
'How? Did this fool bribe the teachers? There's no way.'
Rank 94.
'How could he be ranked 94?'
Noting the number, he turned on his heel.
'Master will not be pleased.'
–
Back in his dorm room, Damien was busy taking a sip of liquor as he looked out his window, enjoying the view.
A knock echoed through the door.
"Come in," Damien said.
"Master, I've come back from the Grand Hall."
"Good. What did you find, Soren?"
"Your ranking is where you perceived it to be, Master. Rank 12."
"And the Webb?"
No reply.
"And the Webb?" Damien turned, looking at Soren, who was kneeling on the ground.
"...Rank 94."
"How?" he exclaimed. "Did he use all his points to bribe the teachers? No that wouldn't be right. He wouldn't be ranked 94 if he used such underhanded tactics. There must be a mistake." His voice sharpened. "That fool would have never made the top 100 even if he sacrificed his whole bloodline for it."
Seething, Damien cried out with anger, his eyes falling on Soren. His hateful gaze stared down at him as if demanding an answer Soren didn't have.
Soren kept his head low. He knew better than to speak when Damien was like this. The air in the room had turned sharp and heavy, the way it did when his master's bloodline stirred beneath the surface with rage.
Damien turned back to the window, his fingers pressed against the glass.
"The Webb... in the top hundred," he muttered.
He took a breath. The grip on his hands releasing, as if washing the anger away.
"The tournament," Damien said, his voice level now. Controlled. "I want to know the bracket format the moment registration opens. Individual events, team events I don't care. Find out everything the Webb is entering. I want him matched against our people in the early rounds." He paused. "I want him to fail."
"Understood, Master," Soren said.
"And while you're leaving, fetch Helena."
Soren looked up and read his master's expression. The anger was still there, but it had found a direction now. A channel.
"Yes, Master."
Soren stood, bowed, and left the room.
Helena was in her room when the knock came.
She was sitting at her desk, studying over the notes she had taken from class earlier as she wrote up a presentation she was going to give at the club later. The tournament announcement meant more work for students and to give them an edge. She thought she might as well show them some combat and defensive inscriptions.
But then it came.
Knock. Knock.
She knew that knock.
"Helena." Soren's voice came through the door. Flat and professional. "Damien wants to see you."
Her quill stopped. The ink bled into the page as her hand tightened straining the quill.
"I'll be right there."
Standing she straightened her uniform, checking her sleeves, making sure they looked presentable. Her eyes fell to the bracelet on her wrist.
Twisting it she turned it to look away from the writing on the inside. Property of Blackwell. No matter how pristine the craftsmanship, it was nothing more than a reminder of her imprisonment.
She opened the door where she saw Soren standing right beside it. Knowing she has to follow him she nodded and walked forth following along.
The journey along the corridor was quiet that evening. As the light came in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. It was beautiful but Helena could never enjoy it as her fears ate at her mind every step of the way.
And before she knew it she reached Damien's room.
She took a quick moment outside the door taking a deep breath before she knocked.
Knock Knock.
"Come in," a voice answered.
She entered.
Stepping in, she saw her fiancé by the window, his back to her, a glass of liquor sitting on his desk half-empty. The room was immaculate as always books aligned, candles trimmed, the runic lighting tempered to the perfect color. Everything under precise control.
"You wanted to see me?" Helena voiced out.
"Yes." Damien didn't turn. "See, I noticed something strange recently. It seems you've always had an excuse when it comes to date night." He paused. "Like tonight you told me you had to prepare for the club meeting. And I understand how much you enjoy the club while I also respect the value that comes from it." His tone was pleasant. Almost generous. "But it seems you're forgetting something."
Helena swallowed. She tried to make no noise as worried thoughts ran through her mind.
Damien turned to face her.
"When did you ever have the gall to refuse me?" His voice was calm, but the edge beneath it could cut glass. "I gave you a pass these last couple of weeks, knowing you were just busy as you said, and that you weren't ready. But enough is enough." He stepped closer. "No more running. I need you to put on that dress because tonight, we have reservations."
Helena's eyes went wide. "But Damien, I really need—"
He backhanded her across the face.
The sound cracked through the room as Helena stumbled, her hand flying to her cheek, the sting spreading like fire across her skin.
"Did I tell you to speak?" Damien stood over her, his expression unchanged as if he'd swatted away a fly rather than struck his fiancée. "You're nothing more than my woman. Somebody I use for status and power. I respect your intelligence, which is why I give you freedoms. And this is how you treat me?" He let the question hang in the air. "You have no respect for your fiancé. For my family." His eyes darkened. "Do I need to remind you what we have done for your father?"
"...No." Helena's voice was barely a whisper, her hand still pressed to her cheek.
"Good." Damien straightened his cuffs as if nothing had happened. "Then wear the dress. It's time we show the world just how beautiful my fiancée is."
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