Steam plumed from the copper tub as Vicktor sank into the scalding water. Eight hours of relentless blade-work had left his muscles vibrating with exhaustion, and he let the near-boiling heat seep into his aching joints. He tracked the minutes with mechanical precision, soaking until exactly 00:55—the exact moment the academy's gilded halls finally emptied of the chattering aristocrats who looked right through him.
Only when the dormitories fell to a tomb-like silence did he rise. Towel-dried and dressed, he descended into the shadow-draped lobby to check his mail slot.
A single, heavy envelope waited for him. The thick parchment felt dense between his callused fingers, weighed down by a pool of crimson wax. Stamped into the center was the glaring crest of the main Vulivar estate.
Vicktor cracked the seal.
My dearest, simplest cousin,
I trust this missive finds you well. Word of your little playground victories at the Academy has reached the estate. I hear you overpowered the second-ranked girl in your year. Shall I dispatch a ribbon to commemorate the achievement?
Congratulations, Vicktor. Truly. Your dedication to swinging sharpened metal is almost quaint. However, the whispers from your tutors sing a far less inspiring tune. Failing marks? A Vulivar who cannot decipher the basic arithmetic of a primer?
Perhaps if you ceased brawling with girls and opened a book, your presence at that Academy might actually serve a purpose. Need I remind you that succession is not a tavern brawl? It is a game of rulers, of intellect, and of ruthless political grace. You play the rabid hound so well, cousin, but the family estate cannot be ruled by a brute who only knows how to bite.
Try to make this battle somewhat of a challenge for me. Otherwise, I shall grow utterly bored before I even have to sweep you from the board.
With profound pity,Your cousin, Vincent Vulivar IX
The elegant, looping script blurred before Vicktor's eyes. Every perfectly penned syllable echoed the silent humiliations that plagued his daily classes. A rabid hound. A brute. His scarred knuckles turned white. The heavy parchment groaned, snapping sharply as he crushed it into a dense, ragged ball in his fist. He glared up into the cavernous shadows of the empty lobby, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Spies. He has people watching me.
A cold spike of dread pierced his anger. Even if you are his blood son… this crosses a line.
Retreating to his room, his gaze drifted to the pristine mattress—a bed he hadn't slept in once during his six months at the Academy.
Why does everyone hate me?
"Discipline is a virtue."
It was the only sentence his adoptive father had ever spoken directly to him, a ghost of a memory that chased away his self-pity.
Vicktor lowered himself onto the scarred wooden floorboards. The hard surface anchored him, demanding his presence every night at this hour, yearning for him again at dawn. He crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and commanded his racing mind to halt.
Stillness. The biting words of the letter, the physical ache in his shoulders, the stinging isolation—he swept it all away into the dark corners of his mind until only a hollow quiet remained. He didn't know if this mental conditioning was truly effective, but it was his anchor. His ritual.
As the moon crested its zenith, his mind's eye played back every waking moment of the day with perfect clarity. He scrutinized his sparse interactions with Cedric; in truth, his growing admiration and acceptance of the boy proved that Arthur's desperate masquerade was a resounding success. Then, the faces of the academy's female students drifted through his thoughts. Here, in the absolute solitude of his room, there was no one to mock his rigid, uncomprehending views on romance. Left unchecked, his cold, innate beliefs only hardened into iron.
Usually, this absolute stillness shattered exactly ten minutes after the grating chime of the morning bell. But today, the schedule offered a rare mercy. He was granted twenty extra minutes of pure, uninterrupted silence.