House of Blood

The central courtyard of the Vanguard Division was less an assembly ground and more a grim, open-air fortress pit.

Constructed entirely from slabs of slate-gray iron-stone—a dense, mana-absorbent mineral quarried from the abyssal trenches of the Northern Reach—the court was designed to swallow both extreme sub-zero mountain winds and the stray, destructive spell bursts of inexperienced prodigies.

At seven o’clock sharp, a bone-chilling mist rolled down from the ragged obsidian peaks surrounding the citadel, settling thick and heavy over the five hundred first-year cadets assembled below.

They stood in rigid, eight-rank formations.

The air was suffocatingly dense, thick with the stench of wet wool, oiled steel plate, bad leather, and the sour sweat of nervous teenagers who had never spent a winter outside a heated estate.

A low, resonant thrumming vibration rattled the cobblestones beneath their boots.

Hovering twenty feet above the central stone dais on a floating platform carved from raw, unrefined basalt stood Instructor Ignatius Victor.

Victor was a towering, gaunt figure whose body looked like it had been assembled from rusted iron and military grudges.

His dark blue battle robes were heavily scarred, trimmed with the tarnished silver braid of a High Vanguard Academic.

Where his left eye should have been, a complex, brass-bound mana-stone mechanism ticked and whirred with microscopic precision, its glowing amber crystal aperture adjusting focus as it scanned the ranks.

Across his broad back, two massive, single-edged greatswords were crossed in an iron harness.

”Silence!” Victor thundered.

He didn’t use a megaphone or a trumpet.

A wind-elemental vocal array embedded in his throat amplified his gravelly rasp into a rolling shockwave that struck every cadet’s chest like a padded hammer.

Iron scabbards clattered against hip guards.

A few weaker commoner cadets in the back row swayed, their knees buckling briefly before they managed to catch their balance.

The scattered, anxious whispers rippling through the back ranks vanished instantly.

”Look at you,” Victor growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rumble as his basalt platform drifted three feet closer to the front row.

His mechanical eye zoomed in with a tiny, metallic whir-click, locking onto a young noble whose sword belt was sagging an inch too low.

”Five hundred little sparrows. Five hundred bright, arrogant, pampered children who think surviving the entry trial makes them soldiers.”

He leaned forward over the lip of his floating stone, resting his heavy, scarred hands on the pommels of his greatswords.

”Let us get one thing crystal clear before the sun clears those peaks,” Victor said, pointing a thick, calloused finger at the front row.

”You are not here to study poetry. You are not here to drink sweet wine, debate political philosophy, or write tearful letters home to your wealthy mothers about the cold rooms.

”You are in the Vanguard Division.

”Within these walls, your noble titles, your ancient family crests, and your grandfathers’ heroic deeds are good for exactly one thing: burning as kindling when the winter blizzards shut down the lower hearths.”

A tense, electric quiet settled over the courtyard.

In the second row, Casper von Valerius stood in his polished red-and-gold plate armor.

His jaw clenched so hard his facial muscles twitched under his fair skin, but he kept his eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to show weakness under the veteran’s terrifying gaze.

”For the next four years, your entire existence is measured by three simple metrics,” Victor declared, holding up three thick, scarred fingers.

”First: Combat Utility. Can you kill what stands in front of you before it kills your squad?

”Second: Strategic Execution. Can you follow a cold order when your boots are sloshing with your best friend’s blood?

”Third: Tactical Endurance. Can you do both of those things after marching forty miles through the snow without dinner?”

He lowered his hand, his stone-bound eye whirring furiously as it pivoted downward, locked onto the second row of the central column.

There stood Mirain Sec Sangius.

She wore pristine, iron-crested crimson robes that hung flawlessly over her slender frame, her dark blood-red hair pinned back with her simple iron hairpin.

Her face was an unreadable mask of pale marble.

Directly to her left stood Valerian.

He looked entirely out of place among the armored prodigies.

He wore his scuffed, dark leather mercenary coat, its hem still stained with dried mud from the Sector Three lower vaults.

His black cloth blindfold was wrapped tightly around his eyes, his left forearm heavy with the dark-mithril suppressor beneath his sleeve.

He leaned back slightly on his right heel, his posture casual, almost bored, his hands resting loose at his sides near his plain, un-enchanted iron longsword.

”As the first-place examinee of the entrance trials, Scion Mirain Sec Sangius has been granted operational command over Cohort Alpha,” Victor announced, his voice reverberating off the high basalt walls.

”And per Vanguard Regulations, Section Four, Paragraph Two... she has exercised her right to appoint a designated Executive Assistant.”

Victor unrolled a heavy, iron-weighted parchment scroll with a sharp, leather-snapping sound.

His mechanical eye clicked as it zoomed in on the red ink at the bottom.

”Cadet Valen,” Victor boomed.

”Step forward.”

A wave of sharp, hostile murmurs rippled through the five hundred cadets like a gust of wind tearing through dry grass.

”Is he serious?” a noble cadet two rows back muttered under his breath.

”A blind sellsword?” another whispered sneeringly. ”He doesn’t even have a recorded house name! He spent the whole entry trial scavenging scrap metal!”

Casper von Valerius’s face contorted into an ugly, dark mask of pure humiliation and outrage.

His golden gauntlets creaked as he balled his hands into tight fists.

Beside him, several scions from prominent military lineages exchanged incredulous, furious glances.

A commoner stray—a man who hadn’t even unleashed a proper mana aura during the practical examinations—was being publicly elevated above the highest bloodlines in the realm before the first morning lecture had even begun.

Valerian didn’t rush.

He took two calm, measured paces out of the formation, his scuffed boots making almost no sound against the wet iron-stone.

He came to a stop at the edge of the central aisle, standing directly beneath Instructor Victor’s floating platform.

He didn’t salute.

He didn’t bow.

He simply stood there, his head tilted slightly upward toward the sound of the whirring mechanical eye.

Victor looked down at him, his single real eye narrowing into a cold slit.

”Cadet Valen. As Executive Assistant to Cohort Alpha, you will be granted secondary command authority over class logistics, direct access to the Sovereign Spire’s private archives, and a double-tier mana allocation voucher.

”Do you accept the duties of the First-Year Sovereign’s Assistant?”

Valerian raised his head.

His voice was completely flat, devoid of pride, excitement, or tension, carrying easily through the quiet courtyard.

”No, Instructor.”

The entire central courtyard went dead silent.

It was a silence so sudden and absolute that even the distant howling of the mountain wind seemed to freeze in mid-air.

On the floating platform, Instructor Victor’s mechanical eye paused mid-rotation, emitting a sharp, high-pitched click-clack as its gears jammed for a fraction of a second.

”What did you just say, Cadet?” Victor barked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that sounded like two millstones grinding together.

”I said no, Instructor,” Valerian repeated calmly.

He casually adjusted the strap of his sword scabbard against his hip.

”The Executive Assistant position requires administrative oversight, squad logistics, inventory audits, and constant attendance at high-tier council briefings.

”I am a low-ranking examinee from the borderlands. I came to the Vanguard Division to refine my martial basics, not to shuffle parchment in a warm spire.”

He turned his head slightly toward the second row, where Casper was standing with his jaw practically unhinged.

”Furthermore,” Valerian added, his tone entirely dry, ”the Representative would be much better served selecting someone with proper political standing, administrative experience, and a high-born lineage.

”Someone like Scion Valerius, for example.

”He clearly has an abundance of energy and a great passion for paper contracts.”

Casper’s head snapped up violently, his face flushing a deep, dangerous shade of purple.

To be rejected for the position was a bitter insult; to be offered what sounded like a sarcastic pity recommendation from a blind sellsword in front of five hundred peers was a humiliation that burned hotter than his dragon-blood mana.

”You... you insolent bastard!” Casper spat in a strangled, furious whisper, his hand twitching toward his golden hilt.

Inside Valerian’s mind, Aurelix let out a long, breathless screech of pure, unadulterated joy.

”Oh, master! Oh, this is divine!” the primordial fox dragon howled, her ethereal golden form rolling across his spiritual space, her nine tails thrashing wildly against his sealed dragon cores.

”Look at his face! His blood pressure is going to explode his tiny noble brain! Please, tell the instructor you’d rather shovel horse manure in the stables! I want to see the red-haired girl throw her quill at you!”

Stay quiet, Aurelix, Valerian thought dryly, keeping his expression stone-faced.

I am establishing a baseline. If I accept without a fight, it looks suspicious. If I refuse publicly, I look like an stubborn, uneducated mercenary who just wants to be left alone.

Before Instructor Victor could roar a response to Valerian’s blatant refusal, a crisp, elegant sound echoed across the stone court.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Mirain Sec Sangius stepped out of the first-row formation.

Her movements were smooth, deliberate, and chillingly precise.

Her crimson robes swept around her legs like a cloak of frozen blood as she walked past the rows of cadets, stopping three paces to the right of Valerian.

She didn’t look at him.

She kept her cold crimson eyes fixed entirely on Instructor Victor’s floating platform.

”Instructor Victor,” Mirain spoke.

Her voice was not loud, but its clarity was terrifying—crisp, sharp, and cutting through the mountain air like a silver razor.

”Under Section Four, Subsection B of the Vanguard Academic Charter, the selection of an Executive Assistant is the absolute, unassailable prerogative of the Class Representative.”

Victor raised an eyebrow.

”It is, Scion Sangius. However—”

”The charter states that the Representative has the authority to command, assign, and utilize any cadet within their assigned Cohort for logistical or operational necessity,” Mirain interrupted smoothly, not giving the veteran instructor a single inch of ground.

”It does not state that the position requires the consent of the nominee.

”Nor does it state that the nominee’s personal career preferences override administrative directives.”

She turned her head slowly, her crimson eyes locking onto Valerian’s blindfolded face.

”Cadet Valen’s refusal is noted,” Mirain said flatly, her voice entirely devoid of warmth or annoyance.

”And it is officially overruled.”

Valerian turned his head toward her, his spatial sense reading the absolute lack of hesitation in her posture.

”Representative. I don’t recall enrolling as your personal servant.”

”You didn’t,” Mirain replied instantly, stepping an inch closer to him.

”You enrolled in the Vanguard Division. In this division, you obey orders.

”As Class Representative, my first order to you is to assume the position of Executive Assistant.”

”And if I refuse the order?” Valerian asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous murmur that only she could hear.

”Then you may file a formal petition of administrative grievance with the Archmages’ Council,” Mirain replied, her lips curving into a microscopic, razor-thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

”The council meets once every six months to review low-born petitions.

”Until that meeting occurs, you remain my Assistant.

”Your duties begin immediately after morning tactical drills.”

She turned her back on him, looking back up at Victor.

”Log the appointment, Instructor. Cohort Alpha is ready for assignment.”

A collective, stunned gasp echoed through the commoner ranks in the rear.

Casper von Valerius looked like he was about to vomit from sheer rage.

His knuckles were bone-white against his sword hilt, his golden solar mana leaking past his skin in turbulent, overheating wisps of steam.

Mirain hadn’t just ignored the noble scions—she had publicly dragged a commoner sellsword into her inner circle despite the man practically throwing the position back in her face.

Instructor Victor stared down at the two of them for three long seconds.

Then, a deep, gravelly sound began to rumble in his chest.

It grew louder, rising into a harsh, booming laugh that sounded like heavy granite boulders tumbling down a mountain slope.

”Hah! Hahaha!” Victor roared, slapping his broad knee with a heavy gauntlet.

”Outstanding! A Representative who uses the charter like a club, and an Assistant who treats a promotion like a death sentence!

”Welcome to the Vanguard Division, kids!”

He slammed his heavy brass seal onto the parchment scroll, the sound echoing across the courtyard like a pistol shot.

”Appointment logged!” Victor declared, his mechanical eye whirring as it stamped an official magical glyph onto the record.

”Cadet Valen is recognized as Executive Assistant to Cohort Alpha.

”Any cadet who has a problem with administrative assignments may challenge for the position during the End-of-Month Vanguard Ranking Duels!”

He rolled up the heavy scroll with a sharp snap.

”Formations, attention!” Victor thundered, his voice shattering the lingering shock of the crowd.

”Cohort Alpha—move to Training Ground Four for tactical squad assessment!

”Cohort Beta—to the eastern archways!

”Move, you worms! Move!”

The rigid ranks instantly broke apart, five hundred cadets turning on their heels and marching toward their respective training sectors in disciplined, heavy columns.

Valerian stood in place for a fraction of a second as the crowd flowed past him.

”She completely cornered you, master,” Aurelix noted, her tone shifting from chaotic laughter to quiet, appreciative analysis.

”She used the academy’s own military regulations to trap you.

”If you fight her publicly, you look like a rebellious, undisciplined stray who gets expelled; if you obey, you become her most trusted asset.”

She’s sharp, Valerian thought, letting out a faint, imperceptible sigh as he turned his heel to fall into step five paces behind Mirain.

Cold, calculated, and sharp.

She doesn’t act on emotion or noble pride.

That makes her far more dangerous than Casper—and far more useful.

As Valerian walked down the narrow, iron-lined archway leading toward Training Ground Four, a tall shadow detached itself from the side pillar.

Casper von Valerius stepped directly into his path.

He was flanked by four high-born scions from Cohort Alpha, all wearing the gold-and-crimson shoulder drapes of House Valerius’s vassal families.

Casper’s face was still pale with suppressed fury, his golden eyes burning with an intense, unbridled hatred as he blocked the narrow corridor.

”Enjoy your little victory while you can, sellsword,” Casper sneered, his voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss that barely carried past the stone walls.

”You think because you played a clever word game with the Representative, you’re safe in this spire?”

Valerian stopped three paces away.

He didn’t drop his hands to his sword.

He just stood there in his scuffed coat, his blindfold tilted slightly toward Casper’s chest.

”I didn’t want the job, Scion Valerius,” Valerian said softly.

”I tried to give it to you.

”You should be thanking me.”

”Shut your mouth!” Casper hissed, stepping an inch closer, the heat radiating off his body turning the damp air between them into faint wisps of steam.

”In three weeks, the Vanguard Ranking Duels begin.

”Inside the dueling ring, there are no paper contracts, no charter loopholes, and no red-haired representatives to protect you.

”I am going to break every bone in your hands, sellsword.

”I am going to make sure you can’t hold a pen, let alone a sword.”

Valerian remained silent for a long moment.

He listened to the irregular, heavy thumping of Casper’s heart, the over-extended tension in his front quad muscle, and the absolute lack of balance in his stance.

”If you’re going to break my hands, Casper,” Valerian said flatly, his voice carrying an eerie, quiet stillness that made the four bodyguards behind Casper shift uncomfortably, ”you should probably learn how to distribute your weight when you step forward.

”Your left heel is lifting off the stone.

”Any borderland scout would have broken your kneecap before you finished your sentence.”

Casper’s eyes widened in sheer, incredulous rage.

”You—!”

”Cadets!” a loud, authoritative bark echoed from the end of the corridor as a senior instructor marched into view, his iron boots clattering loudly against the floorboards.

”Clear the archway! Move to your assigned training grounds immediately!”

Casper gritted his teeth so hard a tiny drop of blood trickled from the corner of his lip.

He pointed two gloved fingers directly at Valerian’s face.

”Three weeks,” Casper whispered, his voice trembling with volatile promise.

”Three weeks, sellsword.”

He turned sharply on his heel, his heavy red mantle whipping through the damp air as he and his bodyguards strode briskly down the hall toward the training grounds.

Valerian stood alone in the iron corridor for a moment longer.

He reached down, adjusting the dark leather strap of his iron longsword against his thigh, feeling the cold, steady hum of his suppressed dragon cores beneath his sleeve.

”Three weeks until the ranking duels, master,” Aurelix purred in his mind, her golden eyes gleaming with dark expectation.

”Are we going to break his kneecap?”

No, Valerian thought smoothly, turning his heel and walking calmly toward the light of Training Ground Four.

That would be a waste of effort.

I’ll just let him trip over his own feet again.