Marcell Rovain did not challenge me because he hated me. He challenged me because a weak Valdrake was public property.
Marcell Rovain understood one thing better than most nobles.
Humiliation required architecture.
A private insult was a wasted blade. A corridor shove could bruise pride, but bruises faded before rumors ripened. A cafeteria confrontation drew attention, yes, but attention without structure became noise.
The best humiliations needed witnesses arranged like furniture.
A location with rules.
An audience with appetite.
An exit narrow enough to make retreat look like defeat.
By that standard, the eastern practice court after morning drills was an excellent place to try killing my reputation.
Sunlight poured over white stone platforms. Ranking sigils shimmered above each lane. First-years gathered in clusters according to class, birth, and confidence. Instructors stood far enough away to pretend not to notice anything that did not break academy regulations loudly.
