[THIS IS IT FOR THE WEEK I'LL BE STUDYING FOR MY EXAMS(ToT) MAYBE... MAYBE I'LL PUBLISH A FEW CHAPTERS IF THE VIEWS INCRESE ON THIS NOVEL (^-^) ANYWAY ENJOY IT
The academy didn't sleep.
It just whispered more softly after sundown.
Atlas stood at the edge of the upper parapet, where the wind was stronger and the guard patrols were lazier. The stone beneath his boots was slick with sky dew, and the towers across the courtyard glowed dim gold, like candles in cages. Somewhere below, a bell tolled a half-hour past midnight.
He hadn't planned to climb the outer observation walk. But he hadn't planned to be *here*, either—sponsored, watched, cornered by fate and politics masquerading as favor.
The weight of it all was quieter up here.
He exhaled through his nose and let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword. Not to draw it. Just to feel it.
His aura stirred.
---
Earlier that day, Magistra Ven had announced it in her usual clipped tone:
> "All first-years will undergo a preliminary evaluation in eight days. A restricted-duel format. No lethal intent. No killing strokes. But everything else is permitted."
> "You will not be judged by victory alone."
The phrase lingered with Atlas even now. Not judged by victory. Then what? Precision? Control? Discipline?
Or worse: **message**.
In the academy, message was everything.
---
He left the parapet just before patrols rotated and made his way back through the south wing cloisters. The quiet halls reminded him of a monastery—if monks were permitted knives and noble grudges.
When he reached his dorm, the door was unlocked.
Not open. Just… not fully latched.
He tensed for only a breath. Then pushed it open.
No one inside.
No sign of theft.
But on the desk, beneath his untouched meal tray, sat a sealed parchment envelope. Waxed in gray. Stamped with the tri-star insignia of the **Stellanox Administrative Board**.
He opened it with a thin blade.
> *Cadet Atlas Caelum Westenra, Skythorn Block – Room 17A*
>
> *Notice of Status Update: Individual housing reassigned as Permanent, Per Sponsor Family Directive.*
>
> *Sponsoring Authority: House Vaelcrest – Strategic Observation Division*
>
> *Duration: Indefinite until graduation or revocation.*
He stared at the signature below the seal.
**V. Vaelcrest**
No first name.
No explanation.
No request.
He folded the parchment carefully and tucked it into his sword-case lining.
The door lock clicked fully this time.
---
He didn't sleep.
By sunrise, he'd already dressed, packed his day satchel, and headed out through the western sparring garden to observe the second-years' private drills.
He didn't expect to learn their forms. He wanted to study their *timing*. Their footwork rhythms. The little gaps that real fights opened up.
And that's where she found him.
---
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
The voice came from behind a column. Measured. Controlled.
Atlas turned.
Serenya Vaelcrest stepped into the open, hands behind her back, not wearing her blade.
She wasn't smiling.
"I didn't request it," he said. "The sponsorship."
"No," she replied. "Someone in my house did. Likely without consulting me."
"And now I'm your problem."
Serenya didn't blink. "You've always been a problem, Westenra."
Atlas met her eyes. Steady.
"I thought your family dealt in strategy. Sponsoring a 'problem' seems like poor form."
"We deal in probability. And you're… an anomaly. Too sharp to ignore. Too quiet to trust."
He said nothing.
She walked past him slowly, letting her boots crush a few fallen spar leaves underfoot.
"Consider this your first warning," she said. "If you embarrass my house, I *will* sever the sponsorship myself. Permanently."
He waited.
Then, without expression, said: "That implies you'd be watching."
She paused.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then she left.
---
Later that evening, the sky fell into dusk with soft orange ribbons. Atlas didn't return to his dorm. Not yet.
Instead, he climbed the eastern roof spire above the dueling hall. No guards here. Just wind, and the long shadows of students finishing evening drills.
Two figures below had drawn a small crowd.
**Second-years**.
One, a wiry boy with sleeves torn at the elbows and a strange crescent tattoo on his jaw. The other, a girl who fought without words—her blade was curved, her stance odd. Like a viper ready to uncoil.
Atlas crouched behind the stone ridge and watched.
They circled. Exchanged a dozen light cuts. Tested, pressed, retreated.
Then—
—the boy struck high.
The girl ducked. Cut low.
He pivoted. She rose. And *locked* the clash.
Aura sparked between them.
Atlas narrowed his eyes.
The boy's aura surged with **pressure**. It made the air ripple. Forced responses.
The girl's? Subtle. Flickering. She didn't meet power with power.
She redirected.
That was it.
That was the principle of the Second Fang—not impact.
**Influence**.
Not domination.
**Distortion.**
Atlas sat back, closed his eyes briefly, and imagined the white realm.
Not to enter it.
Just to **remember** what waited there.
The crack in the floor.
The figure behind the shadow.
The shape that hadn't moved—yet.
*Soon,* he thought.
*I'll need the Third Fang.*
---
Back in his dorm that night, he lit the wall-lamp. The flame didn't flicker.
He retrieved the letter from Vaelcrest again. Reread the part that mattered.
> *Strategic Observation Division*
He didn't know who **V. Vaelcrest** was. But he knew what this meant.
He wasn't just being *watched*. He was being tested.