The Academy gates swung open at dawn, but there was no trumpet. No officer awaiting his return. No marshal flanked by attendants.
Only the cold wind and the scent of steel on sweat.
Renard Valtierre rode through the threshold alone, his cloak stiff with dried fog, his eyes low beneath his hood. Noble sons and daughters sparred in the yard as he passed. A few glanced his way and whispered—sharp glances that were more measuring than mocking.
He wasn't ridiculed anymore.
He wasn't praised, either.
He was something worse: noticed.
He dismounted without ceremony and ignored the stablehand scrambling toward him.
He didn't speak. Didn't slow.
Renard moved through the archway like a man avoiding fire—each step deliberate, each breath measured. He took the servants' stair to the old west dormitories and shut himself into his quarters without a word.
The moment the door locked behind him, he unstrapped his travel pack and lit a single candle.
Then, he wrote.
Recon Summary: Wraithpine Pass
Forces encountered: ~40 (rotating formation, high precision)
Tactics: Fog-based suppression via pitch-oil and anchored mana. Audio dampening, faux camp structures
Objective: Field rehearsal; no engagement. Movement implies probing for corridor breaches
Strategic Conclusion: Wraithpine is a covert corridor bypassing major watchposts. Eastern baronies are exposed if breached
Casualties: Tarn (presumed KIA). Maera (wounded). Self and Elric (uninjured)
At the bottom, he didn't sign his name.
Instead, he stamped it with a forgotten identifier—an encoded mark used during the border skirmishes by Ghost Recon detachments.
[Observer Class: P-R1 \u2013 Phantom Recon]
He sealed it with neutral wax, slipped it into a private hawk tube, and fastened it to the leg of a dusk-feathered hawk from his personal roost.
The hawk soared out across the treeline without hesitation.
The message was sent.
Whether the capital listened? That wasn't up to him.
By midday, the Academy buzzed with murmurs.
Not about Wraithpine—no one knew about that. Not yet.
They talked about something else entirely.
"Did you hear about Marius Calden?""Collapsed in one blow. Didn't breathe for ten seconds.""He's still in the infirmary. I heard the medics summoned a priest.""And the one who did it? Renard Valtierre."
Some said it was poison. Others claimed cursed swordwork. The wildest theory suggested Renard had invoked an outlawed blood rune.
No one could agree.
But all of them whispered one word:
"Assassin."
Renard passed them without turning his head. He ignored the stiffening of shoulders as he walked past noble-born dueling students, and the sudden hush in hallways he entered.
He was no longer the failure son of a minor baron.
He had become a question they didn't know how to ask.
The Tournament Board updated just after the midday bell.
A fresh parchment had been pinned to the public post.
Renard's name was gone.
Not scratched out.
Not marked disqualified.
Just... not there.
Maera stood in the crowd when he arrived, her hood up, her face drawn.
She didn't greet him—she just pointed to the bottom of the page, where a new note had been added:
CADET RENARD VALTIERREREMOVED FROM TOURNAMENT PROGRESSIONReason: Breach of Martial Spirit DoctrineRuling by Academy Council (Final).
Martial Spirit Doctrine.
A phrase. Not a rule.
Not even a crime.
Just a justification.
Maera looked at him. "They couldn't prove anything, so they made something up."
Renard didn't reply.
Because earlier that morning, his system interface had flashed:
[Swordsmanship Rank Up: F → E+]
He hadn't practiced since the match.
He hadn't trained.
But the system had registered the technique anyway.
The Execution Thrust.
It was never taught in sword drills. It wasn't even a recognized move in the Royal Duel Codex.
It was a silencer. A killer's tool.
And the system had called it swordsmanship.
But the Academy? They knew better.
He returned to his quarters before sunset and pulled out a red-bound codex from under his cot.
He flipped past the ornate bookmark—past the sections on duel etiquette, blade lineage, and house codes—until he reached the right page.
Article 17 — Forbidden Arts Classification
Any combat maneuver designed for stealth, fatality, or silence is hereby designated as Class IV Forbidden.Such skills are deemed treasonous unless sanctioned by military decree, noble writ, or sovereign exception.
He turned the page.
Clause 17.3 — Noble Domain Exception
A Lord bearing the rank of Viscount or higher may authorize the use of forbidden techniques within their territory during wartime or critical defense scenarios.
He read it three times.
Then he closed the book.
I don't need a throne.I need a title.Viscount.
A goal. Achievable. Legal.
A way to fight without apology.
As dusk fell, the Academy settled into a strange hush.
Students passed him in corridors like he carried a sickness. Some bowed their heads. Others stiffened.
None dared speak.
He returned to his quarters and sat in silence, candle burning low.
Until—
Three sharp knocks.
He opened the door.
Lysette. Cloaked in green, hair damp from the mountain wind, gloves tucked into her belt. She held a sealed scroll.
"You'll want to read this alone."
He took it. Broke the wax.
To: Cadet Renard ValtierreBy direct order of the Bureau of Strategic CommandField Posting: Forward Command Post YseraEffective: Five days from deliveryRank: Acting Field CaptainAuthority: Command of 40 soldiers (Provisional). Independent operation permitted. Oversight suspended.
He looked up.
"You vouched for me."
Lysette raised an eyebrow. "I observed. I reported. The rest followed."
"You know what I used in the arena."
"I know you survived."
A pause.
Renard stepped aside to let her in. She declined with a tilt of her head.
"You're being sent off the record," she said. "Technically still a cadet, but now a commander. No training. No applause. No backup."
"A trial by fog."
"No. A trial by future," she said. "If you survive, they'll rewrite the law to fit you in. If you fail, you'll vanish and they'll pretend you never existed."
He closed the scroll gently.
"You read Article 17, didn't you?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Then you know what happens next."
"I climb."
"Good." She turned to leave—then added over her shoulder:
"Viscount is the lowest title with exemption privileges. You want to stop hiding, that's your ceiling."
Renard smiled faintly. "No. That's my floor."
She didn't look back.
She just said, "Then rise," and walked away.
Renard stood in the quiet afterward, the sealed scroll pressed to his chest.
He didn't feel triumphant.
He felt cold. Focused.
Forty troops.One corridor.One war they haven't seen coming.
And a law standing in his way.
Not for long.