“A toast to my dear nephew Will and his friend Arien, for gaining admission to our wonderful Academy!” Gilfra raised her glass. Dozens of others immediately followed, and the reception hall erupted in enthusiastic applause.
Arien smiled because everyone was looking at him and because Gilfra would probably notice if he didn’t.
Two days had passed since registration ended, and Gilfra had naturally decided that admission to the Academy required a celebration, at least twice the size of anything she had hosted since Arien arrived. She had proudly informed them over breakfast that she had never received so many accepted invitations. Apparently, “producing” two Eights had done wonders for her social standing.
Arien wasn’t entirely comfortable being displayed as one of the evening’s attractions, but he was still pursuing his campaign to secure permanent access to Gilfra’s estate.
Some sacrifices had to be made, including surviving the tailor.
Two days earlier, Gilfra had summoned one to the residence and subjected Arien to a seemingly endless sequence of measurements before announcing that an entirely new wardrobe would be his belated gift for awakening the System.
Refusing had not been an option.
He now owned more than a dozen new outfits for occasions he hadn’t previously known required separate clothing. The entire wardrobe must have cost a fortune. At least by his standards.
Tonight’s clothes were a little too fitted for his taste, but the fabric was magnificent. Besides, poor people had no right to be picky.
“I’m afraid I’m stealing some of your glory,” Arien murmured after yet another guest congratulated him before even acknowledging Will. “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
“You can have all of it.” Will watched the departing man with something approaching suspicion. “Take the glory. Keep it. Sell it. I don’t care. I just want people to leave me alone.”
“You’ll get your wish soon enough. Classes start in a week.”
“Exactly.” Will frowned. “Which means I should be training.”
Of course he did.
“I’m still not sure I performed that well during registration,” Will continued.
“You finished first in the physical trials that day and beat all three of your opponents.”
“None of them were accepted.”
“Will—”
“Being strong among the weak isn’t something to be proud of.”
Arien placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re exaggerating. You’ll probably be among the best students in your year.” Will didn’t look convinced. “And if you aren’t,” Arien added, “then congratulations. You’ll finally have people worth chasing. Isn’t that how every hero in those stories you like starts?”
Will considered that for a moment. “Hm. That’s true. Competition accelerates progress.”
Naturally, that was the part he took from the conversation.
“It’s still a shame you aren’t following the path of the sword.”
Arien laughed. He didn’t possess even half of Will’s enthusiasm for physical training. Nor did being reincarnated provide any particular advantage when it came to swinging a sword.
Magic was different. He already understood concepts like heat, electricity, pressure, and energy from Earth. Erador’s magic did not necessarily follow the same rules, but at least he knew what questions to ask.
With swordsmanship, Arien’s accumulated Earthly wisdom amounted mostly to knowing which end was supposed to go into the other person.
“What are you two discussing?” Malbek asked as he approached with two other students.
At his side stood a teenager so thin that he looked vaguely malnourished. His Academy robe hung from his shoulders like clothing thrown over a scarecrow, and judging by its condition, washing it wasn’t particularly high on his list of priorities.
Bloodshot brown eyes, pale skin, and hair sticking out in every direction completed the impression of someone who hadn’t slept properly in at least a week.
Beside him stood a young woman in a fitted blue dress, with dark hair and an appearance considerably more polished than her collegue.
Wait.
Arien looked twice before recognizing the assistant from registration. Without the black Academy robe, spectacles, and mountain of paperwork, she looked completely different.
“Competition,” Will answered while Arien was still staring.
Damn. Arien realized he was still staring and looked away.
“Will is upset that I don’t want to become a warrior like him,” Arien added, making a determined effort not to immediately glance back.
“Will, Arien, these are Jakol and Velia, friends from the Academy,” Malbek said. “And a warrior with the Life Aspect would be a terrible waste.”
“That’s not true!” Will protested. “The Paladins of Sul are one of the most powerful orders in existence, and most of them can heal.”
“Most are non-aspected,” Jakol said in a dry, tired voice. “Their combat effectiveness comes primarily from divine blessings. They are exceptionally effective against Abyss-affiliated creatures, but during the Battle of Huskerl their performance against the Republic’s mercenary armies was considerably less impressive. In particular, their—”
“Jakol.” Velia raised one finger. “No historical lectures.”
Jakol closed his mouth.
“For what it’s worth, I agree with young Will,” Velia continued. “Warrior-mages with Aspects look absolutely wonderful.”
Will stared at her suspiciously, apparently unable to understand what appearance had to do with combat effectiveness.
Velia smiled at Arien. “Besides, you have Fire as well, don’t you?”
Arien blinked. “Right. You were taking notes.”
“Very diligently.” Velia smiled.
“Fire is hardly exceptional,” Malbek said. “Life, on the other hand…” He looked at Arien. “Life can open doors almost anywhere once you graduate.”
“What are you even doing here?” Will asked him. “You hate parties. And now you’ve brought friends you’ve never mentioned before.”
Arien briefly considered burying his face in his hands.
Velia laughed. “He really is as charming as you described.” Her laugh was pleasant too.
“I’m leaving on an Expedition in a few days,” Malbek explained, apparently immune to his brother’s manners. “If either of you has problems while I’m gone, Jakol can help. I wanted you to meet before I left.”
“And Velia?” Will looked between them. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.” Malbek answered so quickly that it almost sounded offensive.
Velia laughed again. “I happened to be in the library with Jakol when Malbek mentioned there was a reception for two promising new students.” She smoothed the side of her dress. “And it’s been far too long since I had an excuse to wear something pretty.”
She gave them a playful turn. Arien seemed to be the only one who appreciated it; Will simply waited for the conversation to continue, Malbek barely looked, and Jakol appeared to be using most of his strength to stay upright.
Arien found their collective indifference incomprehensible.
“I imagine a week of carrying documents and writing reports makes any excuse worthwhile,” he said.
Velia looked at him with surprise. “You really were paying attention.”
“It was difficult not to.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.” Then she turned toward Malbek. “How could you keep these two hidden from me? They’re already more interesting than you are.” She lightly punched him in the shoulder. “But thank you, Arien. Most applicants are so terrified during registration that they wouldn’t notice a bear sitting beside them.” Her expression became a little more curious. “Then again, you weren’t exactly an ordinary applicant. Even old Vizimir took an interest in you.”
“Vizimir was doing registration?” Malbek asked.
“Against his will. He lost two shifts to Uthrel in a card game.” Velia grinned. “I’ve never seen him so talkative. First Efie Coldhart, then Arien not long afterward.”
“Coldhart?”
“Yes.”
“One of those Coldharts?”
“Are there any others?”
“Well, well. Maybe this year will be interesting too.”
Will, who had clearly detected the possibility of someone powerful being involved, immediately leaned closer.
“What Coldharts?” He paused. “And what do you mean this year? What happened before?”
“Hugo Coldhart,” Malbek said, “is probably the most powerful Archmage currently living in Wyndor.”
“The Golden Dragon,” Jakol supplied.
“He’s old, notoriously difficult to deal with, and extremely powerful,” Malbek continued. “The Coldhart bloodline has produced exceptional mages for generations.”
“And Efie is really his granddaughter?” asked Arien.
“Great-granddaughter,” Jakol corrected automatically.
Arien pictured the small girl in dirty trousers calmly informing Basil that he could send his complaint to her Grandpa. That explained quite a lot.
“And what happened before?” Will asked, refusing to be distracted.
“Three years ago,” Jakol said, “the Academy received an unusually strong group of students. Some people call it the Golden Year.”
“Some people who enjoy dramatic names,” Velia added.
Jakol ignored her. “Several exceptionally talented students entered together. Prince Cedrick among them.”
“Prince?” Will repeated.
“Eleventh in the line of succession,” Malbek said. “Nephew of Prince Leonard.”
That name Arien remembered.
Third in line to the throne. He was also the leader of the Development faction, though Arien still wasn’t sure how much actual authority came with the title.
“Cedrick is an exceptional swordsman,” Jakol continued. “He also has mana and two Aspects. He regularly defeats students from older years.”
Will leaned forward. “He’s in the House of the Sword?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone challenge him?”
“In the Arena, yes,” Malbek said. “The problem is finding someone willing to accept when he challenges them. These days, there aren’t many.”
“Why?”
“Losing to someone several years younger tends to damage the ego.”
Will looked delighted by this information. Arien, meanwhile, had stopped caring about the prince several sentences ago.
“How powerful is Hugo Coldhart?”
Malbek looked at him. “Nobody knows exactly.”
“Approximately.”
“Above Level one hundred and fifty.”
One hundred and fifty. No wonder Efie had shown so little concern about Basil.
Malbek continued, “He’s been barred from participating in the League for years, so that much is public knowledge.”
“No wonder Basil ran from her,” Arien muttered.
“Basil… who?”
Arien quickly recounted the confrontation.
By the time he finished, more than a dozen people had gathered around them to listen, most of them young men and women who had apparently decided Basil’s humiliation was more interesting than whatever conversation they had been having before.
“You came all the way from the provinces and managed to run into Efie Coldhart before your first day?” said a girl several years older than Arien. “That’s impressively bad luck.”
“Have you actually met her?” someone asked.
“No.” The girl shook her head. “She almost never attends social gatherings. Though if what my friend told me is true, I understand why.” She leaned slightly closer. “Apparently, she once broke another girl’s arm for ‘following’ her.”
Arien pictured Efie calmly claiming Basil’s purse as spoils of war.
“I could believe that.”
But Efie’s reputation interested him less than something else about the encounter.
“How does the Academy handle Skills that influence other people’s behavior? What Basil was doing has to be forbidden, doesn’t it?”
“Direct manipulation is,” Velia said. “Especially against students from younger years.”
Arien waited. “But?”
Velia smiled faintly. “There’s always a but.”
“The Masters tend to tolerate minor uses as long as nobody takes things too far,” Jakol said. “Particularly when the effect can be resisted.”
“That sounds remarkably convenient for the person using it.”
“It is.” Jakol didn’t seem bothered by that. “But there is some logic behind the policy. Students need opportunities to practice their abilities against actual resistance, and everyone else needs to learn how to recognize and defend against them.”
He scratched absently at one bloodshot eye.
“Most children from noble families receive some form of mental-defense training before they ever reach the Academy. Mental Resistance, or an equivalent Skill, is considered almost mandatory in certain circles.”
Arien thought of Unshakable Mind. He was becoming increasingly glad he had assigned it.
“The Academy is starting to sound less like a school and more like a military training ground.”
Several of the older students laughed. Malbek did not.
“You have no idea.”
During the remaining days before classes began, Arien divided his time between magic practice, rest, and Gilfra’s increasingly intensive etiquette lessons.
At Will’s insistence, Arien spent most of his training time working with the Fire Aspect. Will himself was dragged into several etiquette lessons as well, although judging by his expression, he would rather have fought another three registration opponents at once.
Etiquette proved every bit as dull as Arien had feared, and he rarely lasted an hour before his attention began to wander.
Apparently, bowing three seconds too long to one noble and one second too briefly to another could create arguments lasting generations.
The hierarchy itself wasn’t particularly difficult. Baron below count, count below duke, and so on.
Unfortunately, titles were only the beginning.
A person’s actual standing could also depend on the amount of land their family controlled, the highest level reached by a close relative, political connections, and even possession of particularly rare Skills.
Then came greetings, forms of address, introductions, who was supposed to speak first, who extended a hand, and how deeply each person was expected to bow.
Arien finally understood why Will had resisted learning any of it.
Still, he gritted his teeth and memorized as much as he could. The knowledge would eventually prove useful.
Gilfra, naturally, was delighted by his cooperation. It didn’t take long before she casually suggested that Arien leave some of his belongings in his room at the estate.
“It’s yours anyway,” she had said, as though this had been obvious all along.
Arien celebrated the victory in silence and paid private tribute to the two greatest allies in his campaign: hot showers and dessert.
His meeting with the Healer had to be postponed until he knew what his Academy schedule would look like and how much free time he would actually have.
Gilfra also assembled what she proudly called a proper “school starter kit” for both him and Will. Writing supplies. Several stacks of pristine parchment. Notebooks, including one specifically intended for spells. Spare quills. Ink. Envelopes. And, for reasons known only to Gilfra, a calendar listing every major and minor religious or state holiday alongside the addresses of Wayhold’s most fashionable receptions and banquets.
Nevertheless, everything went into his already overstuffed bag.
The week passed faster than Arien expected. He felt as though he had barely had time to enjoy the stretch of warm, sunny weather that had followed them into Wayhold before clouds began gathering over the capital on the final afternoon.
By nightfall heavy rain and thunder had settled over the city. Then the storm arrived. Rain hammered against the windows. Thunder rolled over the rooftops, loud enough to shake the glass, and flashes of lightning periodically turned Gilfra’s gardens white.
Arien slept poorly.
When he and Will climbed out of their carriage in front of the Academy gates the following morning, burdened like pack mules beneath their luggage, they were greeted by driving rain and another distant rumble of thunder.
Arien looked from the enormous Academy gates to the dark sky above them.
Wonderful.