The first day of the Royal Academy began with a line of lacquered carriages stretching half a mile down the cobblestone avenue.
Inside the Veriton carriage, five-year-old Miré had her face pressed flat against the cold glass, her breath fogging the window as she stared up in absolute awe at the towering stone spires and the massive iron gates.
Beside her, Aurelia sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. She was already annoyed. The carriage ride had been bumpy, her new leather shoes pinched slightly, and she fully expected the academy's footmen to carry her satchel for her. At Eldermere, she didn't have to lift a finger; her mother made sure the world bent over backward the moment Aurelia entered a room.
When the heavy academy bell finally struck, the sound echoed across the courtyard like a hammer. Dozens of children flooded out of their carriages, a sea of wool cloaks, nervously clutching their wooden slates.
Master Pellin stood at the front of the grand, vaulted classroom, clapping his hands once to kill the nervous chatter. "New scholars. Front row."
Miré and Aurelia stepped forward together. They were identical in their stiff blue-gray uniforms and tight braids, but the illusion of twins shattered the moment they moved. Miré practically vibrated with restless, eager energy, her storm-gray eyes darting around to look at everyone. Aurelia moved like water freezing over glass—perfectly composed, her pale blue eyes coolly scanning the room, inherently expecting the best seat to be offered to her simply because she was a Veriton.
Prince Edmund, a lanky seven-year-old with scuffed boots, leaned over his desk and grinned at Miré as she walked past, completely ignoring Aurelia. "Race the bell to the courtyard later?"
"Only if you want to lose twice in one day," Miré whispered back, flashing a feral, unapologetic smirk.
Aurelia's jaw tightened. At home, visiting Barons and Dukes tripped over themselves to compliment her golden curls and perfect posture. The Prince hadn't even looked at her.
"Silence," Pellin commanded, though his eyes softened slightly when he looked at the Prince. He pointed his long wooden ruler. "Aurelia, you will sit on the left with Princess Clara and Lady Beatrice. Miré, you will take the right bench with Prince Edmund and Lord Leo Vane."
Aurelia internally preened. Of course she was seated with the Princess. It was only natural.
From the shadows of the open doorway, Calthea watched. She was officially their escort, but unofficially, she was the only thing standing between Miré and an early grave. Before retreating to the gallery, the witch caught Miré's eye and tapped her own right hand.
Miré looked down at the slim silver moonstone ring resting on her finger. If it burns, step back. Miré touched the stone once, acknowledging the secret rule, and sat down between the two loudest boys in the room.
As the first day bled into the first month, the architecture of the academy's social order violently realigned itself around the two sisters.
Aurelia demanded worship, and she extracted it from the quietest, most important girls in the room. Princess Clara was easily overwhelmed by the shouting and chaotic energy of the older children. Aurelia became her shield, sitting perfectly still beside the Princess, acting as the gatekeeper to Clara's attention.
When Beatrice Calloway—a painfully shy, trembling five-year-old whose family controlled the eastern ports—started to cry over a snapped piece of charcoal, Aurelia rolled her eyes. She didn't hug the girl. She simply slid a perfectly sharpened piece of her own across the desk with an exasperated sigh.
"Stop crying, Beatrice. It's embarrassing," Aurelia instructed softly, flawlessly mimicking her mother's condescending tone. "Tears make your face red and blotchy. Sit up straight before someone sees you acting like a baby."
Beatrice gasped, wiping her eyes frantically, and immediately straightened her spine, staring at Aurelia with deep, terrified reverence. Aurelia loved the way that felt. She didn't just want friends; she wanted subjects.
But outside in the muddy courtyard, Aurelia's tidy kingdom meant nothing. Because the rest of the world belonged to Miré.
Miré was a wildfire. She didn't care about staying clean or acting like a lady. When arrogant, eight-year-old Leo Vane demanded the younger children give up the best playing field, Miré didn't argue or tattle to the tutors. She simply challenged him to a footrace, beat him by ten paces while laughing the entire time, and then handed him a bruised apple as a prize.
Leo should have hated her. Instead, he became her fiercely loyal shadow.
Miré was magnetic. She climbed the treacherous stone walls of the old wishing well, her auburn hair ripping free from its neat braid. She showed the older boys how to whistle through blades of grass. And because of it, the entire academy—from the scullery maids to the future King—gravitated toward her.
Aurelia would stand under the stone arcade with Clara and Beatrice, watching Edmund and Leo hoist Miré onto their shoulders after a game of tag. Aurelia would grip her slate so hard her knuckles turned white. She was furious. At Eldermere, Elara stopped the entire room just to applaud Aurelia for holding her teacup correctly. Out here, Miré was covered in dirt, breaking every single rule of decorum, and the boys were cheering for her like she had conquered a country. It was entirely backwards. It was wrong.
"She's so loud," Beatrice whispered nervously, desperate to echo whatever Aurelia was feeling. "It's not very proper."
"She's an embarrassment," Aurelia snapped, no longer bothering to hide her bratty disdain. She smoothed her pristine skirt. "Mother says people who play in the dirt are basically servants."
But a cold, petulant anger settled in Aurelia's stomach. She absolutely hated sharing the spotlight.
Aurelia wasn't the only one furious with Miré's popularity. Elara's reach extended far beyond the iron gates of Eldermere. The Viscountess couldn't tolerate the glowing reports the academy sent home about the "spirited" gray twin. And so, the "accidents" followed Miré to school.
It happened in late autumn. Miré was walking alone down the academy's eastern colonnade, retrieving a forgotten slate for Edmund. The heavy stone arches above her were centuries old.
Without a sound, the silver ring on Miré's finger flared. It didn't just warm; it burned like a hot coal pressed directly against her skin.
Miré gasped, stumbling backward on pure instinct.
A fraction of a second later, a massive, decorative stone urn plummeted from the roof, smashing into the flagstones exactly where she had been about to step. The impact was deafening. A jagged piece of stone tore through the air, heading straight for Miré's head.
The air violently thickened. A localized, concussive blast of freezing wind erupted around Miré, hitting the flying shrapnel mid-air. The stone shattered into harmless dust, showering her gray uniform in powder.
Miré stood frozen, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs, staring at the crater in the floor.
Fifty feet away, standing in the classroom doorway, Aurelia jumped at the massive crash. She had been right in the middle of showing Princess Clara her flawless penmanship. Clara had just been about to praise her when the deafening noise ruined the moment.
Aurelia looked at the smashed urn, and then at her sister, who was covered head-to-toe in gray dust.
A normal five-year-old might have cried in terror, or run to hug their twin. Aurelia just felt a sudden, intense flare of spoiled rage.
She's always making a scene to get people to look at her, Aurelia thought, her lip curling in disgust.
She watched as Prince Edmund and Master Pellin came sprinting out of the classroom, their faces pale with panic, rushing straight past Aurelia to hover over Miré, asking if she was hurt.
Aurelia's grip tightened on her slate. It wasn't fair. Miré almost got squished because she was clumsy, and now she was getting all the attention again. Clara wasn't even looking at Aurelia's slate anymore. Aurelia didn't know anything about paid assassins or her mother's murderous plots; she only knew that her sister was a constant, exhausting disruption to her perfect world, and she wanted her gone.
When Calthea arrived a moment later, the witch took one look at the rubble, felt the residual heat of Miré's ring, and went perfectly still. Elara is paying the academy groundskeepers, Calthea realized, cold dread pooling in her stomach.
Aurelia didn't understand the life-or-death stakes of the falling stone, but the incident solidified her bratty resolve. If Miré was going to steal all the attention by being loud and messy, Aurelia would simply have to punish her for it.
The social warfare began with the absolute, brutal simplicity of kindergarten politics. Aurelia weaponized Princess Clara.
The next day, when Miré approached the arcade, laughing and holding a handful of interesting, shiny rocks she had found by the gate, Aurelia leaned in and whispered something into Clara's ear. Clara immediately looked uncomfortable, shrinking back on the bench and averting her eyes from Miré.
"You can't sit with us today, Miré," Beatrice Calloway piped up, physically blocking the empty spot on the stone bench. Her voice trembled slightly, but she was emboldened by Aurelia's approving nod. "Aurelia says you smell like the stables."
Miré stopped, her smile faltering. She looked down at her hands, which were indeed covered in dry dirt from digging for the rocks. She looked at Aurelia.
Aurelia didn't smirk. She simply tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at her sister the exact way Elara looked at the scullery maids.
"It's just that Princess Clara's dress is very expensive, Miré," Aurelia said, her voice dripping with fake, condescending pity. "We can't have you getting mud on her. Maybe you should go sit with the groundskeepers. You have more in common with them anyway."
Edmund jogged up behind Miré, his brow furrowing as he caught the end of the exchange. "She doesn't smell like the stables. You're just being a brat, Aurelia."
Aurelia's face flushed hot with indignation. How dare he call her a brat? She was a Veriton! "I am just following the rules, Your Highness," Aurelia replied stiffly, crossing her arms. "Mother says dirty hands are for the help."
Edmund scowled, grabbing Miré's sleeve. "Come on. They're boring anyway. Let's go show Leo the rocks."
Miré went with him, but the barb had landed exactly where Aurelia wanted it to. For the rest of the week, Miré was hyper-aware of her scuffed boots. She kept her hands tucked in her pockets when she walked past the other girls. She laughed a little less loudly.
Aurelia watched her sister shrink, and felt a rush of pure, vindictive satisfaction. She didn't need to be fast. She didn't need to climb walls. She just needed to draw a velvet rope, put the Princess inside it, and lock her sister out in the cold.