THE CHRONICLES OF DREKI-VESTR THE PALADIN REINCARNATION VERDALIA

The Crown Spire of the Royal Academy of Verdantis looked like a weapon that had been plunged into the earth point-first and left to rust for ten thousand years.

Hallah stood at the window of her suite—their suite, though she and Lucan had separate bedrooms divided by a study—and stared down at the training grounds five stories below. From here, the Hall of Valor looked like a mouth full of teeth, all jutting spires and sharp angles designed to intimidate before instruction even began. The sand in the arena was imported from the southern coasts, golden and fine, designed to cushion falls and record footprints like a ledger of violence. Around the perimeter, stone walls rose thirty feet high, topped with iron spikes that caught the morning light like teeth. Banners hung limp in the humid air—six colors for six gods, though Hallah only recognized Valerius’s gold and Morwenna’s copper.

They had been quartered in the Academy dormitories for three days now, having moved across the capital from the royal palace after their twelfth nameday. Long enough to learn that the Crown Spire had twelve students in Class S, and that she was the only common-born among them. Long enough to learn that the other ten nobles with manifested classes looked at her with expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt to naked calculation. Long enough to learn that the foreign exchange students were kept in a separate building entirely, like they might contaminate the Verdantian elite with their outsider perspectives.

But not long enough to get used to the luxury. Her bed was larger than her parents’ entire bedroom in Sovringard. The bathtub was copper and deep enough to swim laps. The windows faced east, catching the morning light, and the mattress was so soft she woke every morning with backaches from the lack of support. Bear would have hated it. Hallah wasn’t sure how she felt yet.

She missed the forge. Missed the honest smell of coal and iron, the ring of hammer on steel, the sweat that came from real work rather than nervous tension. Here, everything was silk and whispers and eyes that watched for weakness. Here, she was a curiosity, a spectacle, the common-born Paladin who had chosen the spare over the heir two years ago and made the sun itself move.

”You’re staring again.”

Hallah didn’t turn. She’d heard Lucan enter the study, his soft footsteps unmistakable after two years of daily palace routines. Even with three days since moving into the Academy dorms, he still had a way of walking like he was apologizing for taking up space, like any moment someone might notice and correct him. She already knew his sounds—the way he cleared his throat before speaking, the particular rhythm of his breathing when he was nervous, the catch in his step when he passed shadows where Aldric might be hiding.

”Not staring,” she lied. ”Scouting. Different thing entirely.”

He came to stand beside her at the window, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He was taller than her—had been since they arrived, though they were both twelve—and he smelled of the lavender soap the servants pressed on him despite his protests. He wore the Academy uniform now: black tunic, silver trim, the six-colored sash of divine service. It fit him better than it should have, tailored to his slight frame, making him look like a miniature version of the nobles who ruled the kingdom.

He looked like a prince. The thought made her chest tight in a way she refused to name.

”Marshal Dawnshield said the exams start at noon,” Lucan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He was nervous. She could see it in the way his hands twisted together, in the way his eyes kept darting to the door like Aldric might burst through at any moment. The old bruises from their childhood encounters had faded, but the memory of his brother’s cruelty lingered in every flinch, every hesitation. ”Combat first. Then magic.”

”You’ll do fine,” Hallah said, the words automatic.

”I’ve only ever sparred against you in the palace yard,” he admitted, the words rushing out like they’d been trapped behind a dam. ”With wooden practice blades. And my magic... I’ve only manifested for six months. I’m not—” He stopped, swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. ”I’m not strong like you. I don’t have your... your confidence. Your certainty. You walk into a room like you own it, like you could kill everyone there and not lose sleep. I walk into a room like I’m apologizing for being alive.”

Hallah turned to look at him. Really look at him. His pale blue eyes were wide behind his glasses—gold-rimmed now, probably costing more than her father’s annual forge output, replaced after Aldric had smashed the last pair long ago. His hair fell across his forehead in dark waves, and his lower lip bore a tiny silver scar where his brother had split it the day they first met. He had filled out slightly from two years of drills, though he still had the delicate bones of someone who had never done physical labor, never swung a hammer, never fought for anything.

Delicate and pretty and brave, some quiet part of her thought, and he still doesn’t see half of what he’s built.

She mentally shook herself. Focus. It’s trial day.

”You’re stronger than you think,” she said, the words rougher than intended. ”You survived Aldric. You survived ten years alone in that palace before I ever walked through the gate, and two more turning yourself into someone he’s terrified of. That takes strength. Not the kind that swings ten-pound sledges, maybe. But the kind that matters.”

”Not the kind that matters in exams,” Lucan said, his voice small.

”The kind that matters most,” Hallah corrected. She turned back to the window, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. Below, servants were setting up dummies and targets, marking lanes in the sand, preparing the arena for the Class S entrance exams. ”Look, Prince, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re probably gonna get knocked flat in the weapons ring. Garrett—Marshal Dawnshield, now that the King seconded him here as Dean of Combat—he’s not gentle. He doesn’t know how to be. He’ll test you hard, maybe harder than the others, because you’re...” she hesitated, ”because you’re his blood, even if he doesn’t act like it. Family’s complicated that way.”

Lucan flinched at the mention of Garrett as family. ”In two years at the palace, he barely said ten words to me directly. Only ever through you. I knew he was my uncle, my mother’s brother, but he was just... a statue in armor. Another guard who looked away.”

”Yeah,” Hallah said. ”That’s gonna change today. For better or worse.” She watched a servant carry a rack of practice blades across the sand, the steel catching the light. ”But the magic exam? You’re Class S for a reason. You manifested. That puts you ahead of ninety-nine percent of the population. Most people go their whole lives without speaking a single word of Lingua Arcanum. You can make fire dance. That’s not nothing.”

”It’s not enough,” Lucan whispered. ”Not for them. Not for the nobles who want me to fail, who want to prove the spare doesn’t deserve Class S. Not for Aldric, who’ll hear about every stumble, every mistake.” He turned to look at her, his eyes desperate. ”Will you watch?”

Hallah’s hand tightened on the windowsill. Her knuckles went white. ”Not like I care or anything,” she said, her defensive reflex automatic, a shield against the warmth in her chest. ”But yeah. I’ll watch. Someone’s gotta make sure Garrett doesn’t actually kill you.”

”Thank you.”

”Don’t thank me. It’s my fucking job. Shield, remember? That means I watch your back. Even when you’re... whatever. Being tested. Being stupid. Being brave.” She could feel his smile without looking at it, warm and grateful and too intense for her to handle. She focused on the training grounds below, where the other Class S students were beginning to gather, their colored sashes bright against the black uniforms. ”Besides, I want to see the look on Helena Stormborn’s face when you out-magic her. She’s been strutting around like she owns the place since we arrived. Needs taking down a peg.”

”She’s beautiful,” Lucan said absently. ”In a scary way. Like ice. She has those eyes—grey, like a winter sky before snow. When she looks at you, it’s like she’s measuring you for a coffin.”

”Yeah,” Hallah agreed, surprised. ”She does. Pretty things can be dangerous. That’s... that’s something I’m learning.” She caught herself, realized she was staring at the line of his jaw, and forced her eyes back to the arena. ”Anyway. Get your head straight. Exams in an hour. Eat something. Don’t puke on my fucking boots.”

”I’ll try.”

”Don’t try. Do.” She turned finally, meeting his eyes. They were closer than she’d realized, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his pale blue irises, close enough to smell the lavender and the fear-sweat underneath. ”You’re gonna be fine, Prince. You’re gonna walk in there, and you’re gonna fail the combat exam spectacularly, and you’re gonna pass the magic exam with flying colors, and you’re gonna be exactly what you are—a Wizard, Class S, timid and brave and too stubborn to stay down. And I’m gonna be there the whole time, being unimpressed and critical and... and proud. Not that I’d ever fucking say that out loud.”

He smiled, small and trembling, but real. ”Proud?”

”Don’t get ideas,” she snapped. ”I said I wouldn’t say it out loud. That was a slip. Brain malfunction. Doesn’t count.”

”Counts to me,” he said softly.

She shoved him—gently, carefully, mindful of his fatigue. ”Go. Get ready. I’ll meet you in the Hall of Valor in an hour. And Lucan?” She waited until he turned at the door, his hand on the frame, his silhouette fragile against the morning light. ”Don’t die. I don’t want to explain to your father why I let his son get killed on my first week as an Academy Paladin.”

”I won’t die,” he promised. ”Not while you’re watching.”

He left, his footsteps fading down the corridor, and Hallah turned back to the window, her heart beating too fast for the simplicity of the conversation. She watched the arena until the servants finished their preparations, memorizing the layout, the exits, the places where shadows pooled and danger might hide.

The other Class S students would be watching. Helena Stormborn, ambitious and resentful, with her lightning-class power and her winter-grey eyes that measured everyone for coffins. Cassian Aetherion, bitter and weak, the Duke’s son who had manifested late and never forgiven the world for it. Platinum Goldweaver, cold and calculating, whose merchant family had bought their way into nobility and never stopped paying for it. They would see Lucan fail—because he would fail, at least in combat—and they would remember that he was the spare, the timid one, the mistake.

Not on her fucking watch.

The Hall of Valor smelled of sand and sweat and the particular sharpness of magic spent under pressure.

Hallah stood at the edge of the observation deck, her arms crossed, her face set in the mask she used when she wanted to look dangerous. Which was always. She’d changed into her own Academy uniform—black leather reinforced at the joints, the six colors on her sash bright against the dark fabric. Gold Rush hung at her hip, conspicuous, a reminder to everyone that she was a Paladin and they were not.

The other Class S students occupied the tiered seats behind her. She could hear them whispering, feel their eyes on her back like physical pressure. Twelve students in Class S, including her and Lucan. The elite of the elite, the strongest manifested classes in the kingdom, gathered to watch the entrance exams that would confirm or deny their place.

”—common-born, can you believe—”

”—the King himself sponsored her, they say—”

”—chose the spare over the heir, what was she thinking—”

”—shut up, she’ll hear you—”

Hallah didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Bear had taught her that the best response to whispers was to make them afraid to whisper louder. She kept her eyes on the sand below, where the students stood awaiting examination. She noted their positions, their weapons, the way they held themselves. Helena Stormborn with her chin raised in arrogance, her silver-blonde hair braided with threads of actual storm-cloud that crackled with latent electricity. Cassian Aetherion with his hands clenched in barely suppressed rage, his dark eyes jet-black and darting nervously. Thrain Dawnshield, Garrett’s nephew, already huge at twelve and only growing larger, with the heavy shoulders and thick neck of someone who had been bred for combat. The others—noble children with noble classes, born to power and expecting it.

Lucan was third from the left. He held the practice blade Marshal Dawnshield had issued him with both hands, like he was afraid it might bite. His glasses caught the light, and she could see even from here that his knuckles were white on the grip.

”First examination,” Garrett’s voice boomed across the arena. He stood in the center of the sand, scarred and imposing, his own blade loose at his hip. He wore the formal blacks of his office, the Dean of Combat’s insignia on his shoulder, but he looked every inch the soldier he had been before. ”Combat proficiency. Class S standards require demonstrated competence in at least one weapon form. You will face me in three exchanges. Survive, and you pass. Fail, and you attend remedial training with the Class F hopefuls until you meet minimum standards.”

A murmur ran through the line. Hallah’s jaw tightened. Three exchanges against Garrett? She’d faced him once since arriving, a sparring session that had left her ribs bruised and her pride intact only because she’d refused to fall. These were entrance exams, not graduation trials. The standard was brutal, designed to weed out the weak before they could embarrass the Academy.

”First,” Garrett called. ”Helena Stormborn.”

The Countess’s daughter stepped forward, all confidence and flowing hair and the crackle of barely suppressed lightning. She chose a bow from the weapons rack, her movements practiced and elegant, the grace of someone who had trained with the best instructors since birth. She nocked three arrows in rapid succession, each one humming with electrical charge, and released them in a spread pattern that forced Garrett to actually move twice—once to dodge, once to deflect—before he closed the distance and tapped her throat with his blade.

”Passable,” he grunted. ”Speed without precision, power without patience. You’ll learn the difference, or you’ll die learning. Next. Cassian Aetherion.”

The Duke’s son lasted one exchange. He chose a staff, swung it with textbook form that had probably taken years to perfect, and Garrett knocked him down with a single blow that didn’t even look hard. Cassian lay in the sand, gasping, his face red with humiliation.

”Remedial,” Garrett announced. ”You move like you’re underwater, boy. Get up.”

Cassian scrambled up, fled to the observation benches, and Hallah saw the hatred in his eyes as he passed her. Directed at her, at Lucan, at the world that had made him weak.

”Next. Thrain Dawnshield.”

Garrett’s nephew lasted four exchanges, longer than anyone else so far. He chose a warhammer, massive and crude, and he used his bulk to absorb blows that would have broken smaller frames. He was strong, clearly trained from birth, but he relied too much on that strength, not enough on technique. Garrett exploited his openings with surgical precision, and on the fifth exchange, Thrain went down hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

”Pass,” Garrett said, though his voice was disappointed. ”Barely. You fight like your father, boy—all muscle and no mind. I’ll beat that out of you, or break you trying. Next. Lucan Verdantis.”

Hallah felt her hands clench. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until her lungs burned. Around her, the whispers intensified, the other students leaning forward, eager to see the spare fail.

Lucan stepped forward. His face was pale, his glasses slipping slightly on his nose. He held the practice blade in a grip that was technically correct—the stance they had refined together—but visibly trembling. He looked small in the vast arena, alone in the sand, a target waiting to be struck.

”Your weapon, Prince?” Garrett asked. There was no softness in his voice, no familial recognition, no acknowledgment that they shared blood through the late Queen. But Hallah caught something in his eyes. A flicker. Guilt, perhaps, or obligation, or simply the knowledge that this was his sister’s son and he had failed to protect him.

”S-sword,” Lucan stammered.

”Begin.”

Garrett didn’t wait for Lucan to ready himself. He struck, a simple overhead blow that any student should have been able to block, a test of basic reflexes. Lucan barely got his blade up in time. The impact drove him to one knee, and he gasped, the sound audible even from the observation deck, his glasses flying off to land in the sand.

”One,” Garrett counted, his voice flat.

Lucan scrambled for his glasses, but Garrett kicked them aside, sending them skittering across the sand. ”Battle doesn’t pause for poor eyesight, Prince. Adapt or die. Two.”

The second blow came from the side, faster than the first, testing his ability to track motion without clear vision. Lucan parried by instinct, the block clumsy but effective, though it cost him his footing. He stumbled, went down in the sand, and Garrett’s blade stopped a hair’s breadth from his throat, the steel cold and final.

”Two,” Garrett repeated. ”Last chance. Get up or fail.”

Hallah’s nails bit her palms, drawing blood. She wanted to jump down there, to stand between them, to tell Garrett that Lucan had trained for two years with wooden wasters, that he was a Wizard, not a Warrior, that this was unfair—

But she didn’t. Because Lucan was getting up.

Slowly, shaking, his face streaked with sand and tears, he pushed himself to his feet. He couldn’t see well without his lenses, but he raised his blade anyway, pointing it in Garrett’s general direction with both hands wrapped around the grip.

”Again,” he whispered.

Garrett’s eyebrows rose. ”What?”

”I said again.” Lucan’s voice was stronger now, anger bleeding through fear, a thread of steel Hallah had never heard before. ”I’m not done. Three exchanges. That was only two.”

”You can’t see.”

”I can hear.” Lucan set his feet, the stance Hallah had taught him, imperfect but recognizable. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, blade angled to deflect rather than block. ”I’m the Second Prince of Verdantis. I’m Class S. I’m not... I’m not a spare. Not anymore. Again.”

Hallah felt something hot in her chest. Pride. Terrifying, protective pride that burned like a forge fire.

Garrett looked at him for a long moment, his scarred face unreadable. Then he nodded, once, and raised his blade. ”As you command, Your Highness.”

The third exchange was over in seconds. Garrett struck, Lucan parried—badly, his blade turned at the wrong angle, too much force meeting too little resistance—and the practice sword struck his shoulder hard enough to bruise, to stagger, to send him sprawling in the sand. He went down hard, gasping, his empty hands clutching at the grains, his body curled in on itself like he expected another blow.

But Garrett stepped back. ”Fail,” he announced. ”Remedial combat training, effective immediately. You move like a scholar, Prince, all thought and no instinct. But—” He paused, looking down at Lucan with something like respect warring with disappointment. ”—you got up. Three times, you got up. That counts for something. Courage without skill is just stupidity, but it’s a start.”

Hallah was moving before she realized it, down the stairs, across the sand, her boots kicking up golden dust. She knelt beside Lucan, her hands finding his shoulders, turning him over. His eyes were closed, his face pale, but he was breathing. He was alive. His shoulder was already swelling, purple and angry, and she could see tears tracking through the sand on his cheeks.

”Idiot,” she said, her voice rough with emotion she couldn’t hide. ”You can’t even see and you’re challenging Garrett to duels? What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed. You could have—”

”I was thinking...” he mumbled, his head lolling against her shoulder, his body limp and trusting. ”I was thinking you were watching. I wanted... wanted you to see...” He smiled, small and trembling, his eyes still closed, his hand finding hers in the sand and squeezing weakly. ”Did I... did I look brave?”

”You looked stupid,” she lied, her throat tight. ”You looked like an idiot who doesn’t know how to hold a sword picking fights with the Dean of Combat. Now hold still, I’m gonna find your fucking glasses before you step on them and blind yourself permanently.”

”I don’t need them. I can see you.”

”You can’t see anything. You’re blind as a bat without—”

”You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Hallah froze. Her hands were on his chest, his heart beating fast beneath her palms, and she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, the confusion of her female body responding to words Bear would never have known how to process. Beautiful. He called her beautiful. She was covered in sand and sweat and he was delirious from exhaustion and he called her beautiful.

”Shut up,” she managed, her voice cracking. ”Don’t say stupid things. I’m not—this isn’t—” She found his glasses, shoved them onto his face with more force than necessary, her hands trembling. ”There. Can you see?”

He blinked, focus returning to his pale blue eyes. He looked at her—really looked at her—and the smile faded into something more serious, more terrifying in its sincerity. ”I meant it,” he said quietly. ”You’re beautiful. And terrifying. And I don’t deserve you.”

”You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me,” Hallah said, her voice dropping low enough that only he could hear it. ”You proved it when you stood back up in the sand. You proved it every day for the last two years.” She cleared her throat, stiffening her posture as the other students began to file toward the stairs. ”Just... don’t pass out on the seventy-three steps going down. I’m not carrying you like a sack of grain in front of Stormborn.”

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his fingers brushing hers. ”Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But she helped him up. Kept her hand on his arm longer than necessary, her fingers checking the swelling, her body angled to block the view of the other students who were staring, whispering, reassessing the spare who had gotten up three times. And when he leaned into her, just slightly, his weight warm and real against her side, she didn’t pull away.

”Next examination,” Garrett called from across the arena, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd. ”Magic proficiency. Lucan Verdantis, present yourself for second testing.”

The magic examination was held in the Astronomy Tower, high above the Academy grounds where the ley lines converged and the air tasted of ozone and possibility. The climb was steep—seventy-three spiral steps, Hallah counted them, Bear’s habit of knowing exits—and the tower room at the top was circular, open to the sky through a domed ceiling of enchanted glass that showed the stars even in daylight.

Hallah had never seen a formal magic exam. In Sovringard, magic was practical—healers working with herbs and minor blessings, the occasional hedge wizard lighting fires or mending tools. This was different. This was theory made manifest, power shaped by intellect and will, the raw stuff of creation bent to human purpose through the eight-slot structure of Lingua Arcanum.

As she entered the tower, Hallah felt something shift in her chest—a humming resonance that made her teeth ache and her palms warm. The ley lines. She was a Paladin, attuned to divine power, and the convergence beneath this tower sang to her blood like a bell struck in a frequency only she could hear. The air itself seemed thicker here, charged with potential, with the memory of thousands of spells cast and uncast, waiting to be born.

The room was crowded. All twelve Class S students, plus faculty—Headmaster Aethelion in his Aetherian robes that shimmered with captured starlight, Magister Pyralis with his ledger of scores, Marshal Dawnshield with his arms crossed and his expression skeptical. And her, Hallah, standing at the edge of the ritual circle inscribed in silver on the tower floor, her hand on Gold Rush’s grip, ready to intervene if the magic went wrong.

Lucan stood in the center of the circle. He had changed—washed the sand from his hair, replaced his torn uniform with fresh blacks, though his shoulder was still visibly swollen beneath the fabric. He looked small again, overwhelmed by the attention, but there was something new in his posture. The straightness that came from having stood up when staying down would have been easier.

”Demonstrate,” Aethelion commanded, his voice carrying the accent of distant Aethelion, the lilt of someone who had grown up where magic was as common as breathing. ”Any spell of the first order. Show us your command of the Lingua Arcanum. Eight-slot structure: Intention, Element, Target, Modifier, with optional refinement slots. Clean formation, clean execution.”

Lucan closed his eyes. Hallah could see his lips moving, forming words too soft to hear, his fingers counting silently on his thigh. She recognized the pattern—Intention, Element, Target, Modifier—the four-slot base that all spells required, with slots five through eight for additional refinement and, for Paladins, the divine invocation.

”Luxmière présent,” Lucan whispered, using only the first two slots—Element and Intention simplified.

Light flared. A soft glow emanated from his palm, gentle and controlled, casting dancing shadows across the tower walls. The heat was minimal, barely noticeable, a demonstration of basic command rather than power.

”First order confirmed,” Aethelion said, marking his ledger. ”Second order. Something more challenging. Show range, Prince. Show flexibility. Use full four-slot structure minimum.”

Lucan’s brow furrowed. He raised his hand, palm up, and spoke clearly: ”Ignefeu créoro sphère fortfort.” Fire create sphere strong.

A sphere of golden flame formed above his palm, larger than before, spinning slowly. It was beautiful—perfect and controlled, a miniature sun that warmed the air without burning.

”Expand,” Pyralis commanded. ”Third order. Full eight-slot structure.”

The sphere expanded at Lucan’s command, becoming a dome of fire that surrounded him completely, translucent and beautiful, like stained glass made of flame. Hallah felt the heat intensify, could see sweat beading on Lucan’s forehead from the effort of maintaining the complex eight-slot structure: Intention, Element, Target, Modifier, with four additional slots for refinement.

”Ignefeu créoro sphère magrand brûlant fortfort!” Fire create sphere big burning strong.

The dome held for ten seconds, twenty, then collapsed inward at his command, becoming a blade of light in his hand. He opened his eyes, raised the blade, and struck at the air. The cut lingered, a line of fire suspended in space, before slowly fading like a memory of sunset.

”Third order confirmed,” Aethelion said, his voice showing interest now. ”Fourth order. Something that demonstrates true mastery. Creation of autonomous structure. Eight slots, full complexity.”

The blade collapsed, and Lucan was trembling now. Hallah could see his reserve draining—could see it in the grey tinge to his skin, the way his hands shook, the slight sway in his stance. He was pushing into dangerous territory where hunger and irritability waited. But his eyes were focused, determined, fixed on Hallah where she stood at the edge of the circle.

He raised both hands, palms up, and spoke the words that made the air itself shiver: ”Luxmière créoro dracon fortfort créationis sanctus aeternus!”

Light create dragon strong creation holy eternal.

The light exploded upward, took shape, became—a dragon. Small, no larger than a hound, but unmistakably draconic, formed of golden flame and pure will. It spread wings of holy fire, opened a mouth that breathed sparks of eternal light, and circled Lucan’s head once, twice, three times, before dissipating into embers that drifted down like snow made of starlight.

The room was silent. Then Aethelion began to clap, slowly, his expression finally showing something other than clinical assessment. ”Fourth order,” he said. ”Creation of complex autonomous structures with divine and eternal modifiers. Eight-slot execution. That is... unexpected. Most Class S Wizards require two years of study to achieve fourth-order manifestation. You have done it in six months, alone, without formal instruction.”

Lucan collapsed to his knees, gasping, his hand pressed to his chest, his face ashen. Hallah knew the signs—the weakness, the shaking, the chest pain that meant the heart was struggling, the lungs burning. But his manifestation was complete.

”Fourth order confirmed,” Aethelion said. ”Class S confirmed. With distinction. Welcome to the Academy, Prince Lucan. You will be... a credit to your house.”

Hallah was at Lucan’s side before the words finished echoing. She knelt, her arm supporting his shoulders, her other hand finding his pulse—fast but steady, thready but there. ”Idiot,” she breathed. ”You pushed too hard. You could have stopped at third order. You could have—”

”Wanted to impress you,” he mumbled, his head lolling against her shoulder, his body limp and trusting and warm. ”Wanted you to see... I’m not just the spare. I’m not just... someone to protect. I can be strong too. I can be... worthy.”

”You are strong,” Hallah said, and the words came out softer than she intended, too gentle for her defenses, too honest for her comfort. ”You were strong before you made a fire dragon. You were strong when you got up in the sand. You were strong when you chose to survive Aldric, day after day, year after year.” She swallowed, forced the roughness back into her voice. ”Just... don’t die during entrance exams. Makes me look bad as a Paladin. Can’t protect a corpse, you know. Very fucking embarrassing.”

He laughed, weak but genuine, his hand finding hers and squeezing. ”Wouldn’t want... to damage your reputation.”

”Damn right.”

The formal induction ceremony took place at sunset on the grand marble steps of the Crown Spire.

All twelve Class S students stood in a single rank, dressed in their formal Academy blacks, the silver pins of their confirmed classes waiting on velvet cushions. Hallah stood directly at Lucan’s left—her rightful post as his sworn Shield. The six colors of her Paladin sash caught the rich amber of the setting sun.

In the crowd below, she spotted them—her father in his forge-leathers, standing out among the silk and velvet like a wolf among peacocks, her mother beside him in healer’s green, her hands clasped tight with pride and worry. Brant caught her eye and nodded, small and fierce, the nod of a man who had hammered steel into shape and now saw his daughter forged into something legendary. Eira smiled, tears tracking down her cheeks, the smile of a mother who had feared this day and now found herself grateful for it.

Hallah felt something shift in her chest. She was a Paladin here, divine and terrible, sworn to a prince. But she was also their daughter, the girl from Sovringard who had swung hammers and skinned her knees and learned to heal before she learned to kill. Both things were true. Both things were her.

Headmaster Aethelion spoke the words that bound them to the Academy, to the kingdom, to each other. ”You are Class S,” he said, his voice carrying across the gathered students and faculty. ”The strongest of your generation. The hope of Verdantis. You will learn together. You will grow together. And when the time comes, you will stand together against the darkness that threatens our world.”

One by one, the students stepped forward to receive their confirmation. Helena Stormborn, Lightning Class. Thrain Dawnshield, Warrior Class. Cassian Aetherion, Mage Class—with a sneer that said he resented every moment of it.

Then Lucan stepped forward, and the murmur that ran through the crowd was audible. The spare. The timid one. The mistake who had somehow manifested Class S and called a holy dragon into being.

”Lucan Verdantis,” Aethelion said, his voice formal but not unkind. ”Wizard Class, S Rank. Confirmed. Welcome to the Royal Academy.”

He received his pin—a silver wand crossed with a star, the symbol of high magic—and turned to face the crowd. His eyes found Hallah’s immediately, and he smiled. Small. Trembling. But real.

She smiled back. Just a little. Just enough.

Then it was her turn.

”Hallah Sovringard,” Aethelion said, and his voice carried weight now, the weight of history. ”Paladin Class, S Rank. The first in ten thousand years. Confirmed. May the gods guide your blade, and may your shield never falter.”

She received her pin—a silver sword and shield intertwined with the six colors of the divine—and pinned it to her sash. It felt heavy. Real. Like a promise she was still learning how to keep.

As the Academy bell began to ring—twelve times for the twelve students of Class S—Hallah’s eyes drifted upward, drawn by instinct or divine warning to the upper windows of the Crown Spire. There, silhouetted against the darkening sky, a figure stood watching. Too distant to see clearly, but she knew the posture, the arrogance, the rage that radiated even from three floors up.

Aldric.

The Crown Prince had not attended the ceremony—confined to his chambers by the King’s decree after the consequences of his actions. But he watched anyway. She could feel his hatred like a physical weight, a promise of violence deferred but not forgotten.

Soon, that silhouette seemed to say. Soon.

She did not flinch. Did not look away. She was a Paladin now, divine and sworn, and she would not be cowed by princes who beat their brothers and called it strength.

The bell finished ringing. The sun set behind the Crown Spire, painting the sky in shades of gold and blood and violet, and Hallah stood on the steps of the greatest magical institution in the world, her hand finding Lucan’s, her parents watching from the crowd, her enemy watching from above, and her heart full of something she didn’t have words for yet.

”Well,” she said, her voice rough in the quiet evening. ”We’re Class S now. Officially. Not like it changes anything.”

”It changes everything,” Lucan said softly. ”We’re... we’re together. Officially. For the next five years.”

”Don’t get ideas,” she snapped, her internal shield up instantly. ”I’m just your Paladin. That’s all. Just... protection. Duty. Nothing special.”

”Everything special,” he corrected, and squeezed her hand.

Behind them, the stars were beginning to emerge in the darkening sky, indifferent to the schemes of kings and the burdens of knights. But Hallah Sovringard, twelve years old and sworn to a prince, looked at the boy beside her and thought that maybe—just maybe—the gods had known what they were doing when they made her a Paladin.

The spare had been chosen. The Paladin had sworn. The enemy had watched.

And the future, vast and terrifying and bright, stretched out before them like a road made of starlight.

The celebration had faded into the quiet of their shared suite. The other Class S students had retreated to their own quarters, the faculty had retired to their towers, and the Crown Spire had settled into the heavy silence of a fortress at rest. Hallah stood at the window again, watching the three moons rise over Valeris, her new silver pin catching the starlight.

Behind her, she heard the study door open, then Lucan’s soft footsteps. But they stopped abruptly, followed by the sound of something heavy being set down with deliberate care.

”Close your eyes,” he said.

Hallah turned, eyebrow raised. ”Prince, if this is some noble prank involving buckets of water or enchanted frogs, I’m throwing your ass out the window.”

”No prank.” He stood in the doorway to his bedroom, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked almost... nervous. Not afraid-nervous. Excited-nervous, like a kid presenting a gift they’d spent months preparing. ”Please. Just... close your eyes. And turn around.”

She regarded him for a long moment, searching for any sign of Aldric’s influence, any hint of danger. But his pale blue eyes were clear, earnest, his hands clasped together like he was praying to her patience.

”Fine,” she muttered, turning back to the window and squeezing her eyes shut. ”But if I hear any snickering—”

”Open the chest,” he said, his voice closer now. She hadn’t heard him move. ”In front of you. The brass one.”

Hallah’s hands found cold metal—brass fittings, oak planks, something that smelled of oil and magic and distant forges. The latch clicked under her thumb, and she lifted the lid.

”Now look.”

She opened her eyes.

The armor filled the chest like captured sunset.

The plates were orichalcum—that warm, ruddy gold of the ancient metal, deep as forge-fire and twice as precious. But beneath the plates, between the joints and at the throat and wrists where the skin needed protection from chafing, she saw glints of silver-white. Mithril. Chain mail of such fine weave it looked like liquid starlight, light as silk and harder than diamond. The two metals married in patterns that spoke of Master Goldweave’s genius—the heavy orichalcum plates for the breast and back, the pauldrons and greaves, all articulated over a foundation of mithril ring mail that would turn any blade that found the gaps.

Knotwork covered every orichalcum plate—Celtic braids and Nordic dragons interwoven in a language of metal that spoke of old magic and older oaths. The pauldrons bore the six-pointed star of the Paladin, rendered in mithril inlay so fine it looked like frozen lightning against the golden ground. The vambraces were articulated with microscopic precision, each orichalcum plate etched with runes she didn’t recognize but felt in her bones, the edges lined with mithril chain that would flex when she moved.

It was fucking beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. Light enough to dance in, strong enough to stop a dragon’s claw.

And the craftsmanship—gods, the craftsmanship. Hallah’s working-class soul, Bear’s mechanic heart, recognized the labor that had gone into this. The hours at the forge, the careful welding, the art of joining two metals that shouldn’t play nice together. This wasn’t noble vanity armor, all gold leaf and no function. This was honest work, the product of hands that knew steel and sweat and the satisfaction of a job done right.

”I had it commissioned,” Lucan said quietly, standing beside her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through her uniform. ”From Master Orin Goldweave—Platinum’s uncle, the one who actually earned his fortune. It took him six months. I gave him your measurements from the palace tailors, but he said he’d need to see you move to get the articulation right. So I... I had him watch, during training. From the galleries.”

Hallah’s hand hovered over the breastplate, afraid to touch it, afraid she’d leave fingerprints on something so clearly sacred. The orichalcum was warm—alive in a way steel never was. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the texture of the mithril chain at the collar, cool and smooth as water. ”Lucan, this is... this is worth more than my father’s forge. More than fucking Sovringard. Orichalcum plates with mithril mail—nobody makes armor like this. Nobody can afford—”

”You can,” he interrupted, gentle but firm. ”You will. It’s yours, Hallah. Not the King’s, not the Academy’s. Yours.” He reached past her, his fingers brushing hers as he lifted a vambrace, turning it to show the interior—mithril chain against the skin, orichalcum shell without, with her name etched in Old High Verdantian on the inner plate: Hallah Sovringard, Shield of the Realm. ”The plates are orichalcum, same as Gold Rush’s core. The chain is mithril—it won’t weigh you down, and it’ll stop anything that slips past the plates. And the knotwork...” He traced a braid with his fingertip. ”These are protection knots. From the old faiths, before the six gods. My mother’s people used them. They mean ’unbroken’ and ’ever-watchful.’”

Hallah’s throat tightened. She thought of her father’s leather apron, her mother’s healing hands, the simple steel she’d worn until now. This was armor fit for a legend. For a Paladin who had chosen a prince and made the sun stand still.

”I don’t know how the fuck to say thank you,” she managed, her voice rough.

”Say you’ll wear it,” he whispered. ”Say you’ll let me see you in it, just once, before the real training starts. Before everything gets hard again.”

She turned to look at him. He was watching her with that unguarded devotion that terrified her, that made her want to run and stay all at once. The boy who had gotten up three times in the sand. The prince who had summoned a dragon of holy fire. The spare who had somehow become the center of her world.

”Help me put it on,” she said. ”And don’t get any ideas just ’cause I’m stripping down to my smallclothes. It’s just... it’s just practical, damn it. Not like I want you to see or anything.”

”Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, but his ears were red.

They moved in silence, the armor clicking into place with whisper-soft precision. The mithril chain settled against her clothes first, light as a whisper, the rings flexing with her every breath. Then the orichalcum plates locked over it—the breastplate fitting like it had been forged around her ribs, the pauldrons settling on her shoulders with weight that felt like authority rather than burden. The star-emblems caught the moonlight, gold and silver intertwined. The vambraces locked over her forearms, the greaves over her shins, each piece connecting with a sound like distant bells, the mithril joints allowing movement that pure plate never could.

When she lifted the helmet—orichalcum winged at the temples, the visor etched with the eyes of a watchful dragon, the gorget lined with mithril mesh—she felt the magic in it hum against her palms.

It wasn’t just armor. It was a fucking promise, forged in the metals of gods and the kind of love that didn’t need names yet.

Hallah walked to the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the study. The woman who looked back was someone she didn’t recognize—someone tall and terrible and radiant, clad in the colors of sunset and starlight and sacrifice. The six-colored sash of her oath lay over the orichalcum breastplate. Gold Rush hung at her hip, suddenly looking like it had always belonged beside this armor, brother metals singing to each other in frequencies only they could hear.

And damn it, she looked good. The armor hugged her curves in ways that made her—Bear, who’d never given a shit about looks—feel a hot spike of satisfaction. The D-cups she’d panicked over at puberty were now assets, the armor shaped to accommodate them without sacrificing protection. She looked like a warrior princess from one of the smut books she hid under her mattress. Like someone who could kill a god and look damn good doing it.

Behind her reflection, Lucan stood with his hands clasped, his glasses catching the light, his face flushed with something that might have been pride or longing or both. His eyes were definitely not staying on her face, she noticed with a traitorous spike of pleasure. They kept drifting to her waist, her shoulders, the way the plates curved over her hips.

”Well?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Hallah turned from the mirror, the armor moving with her like a second skin, like wings she hadn’t known she was growing. She walked to him, each step ringing soft against the stone, mithril whispering between the golden plates, and stopped close enough that the orichalcum breastplate almost touched his black uniform.

She reached up, her gauntleted hand gentle despite the steel, and touched his cheek. ”Idiot,” she said, her voice breaking. ”You made me look like a fucking legend.”

”You always were,” he said. ”I just... gave you armor that matches.”

She kissed him then. Just once, just barely, a brush of lips against his cheek that might have been accident or might have been oath, her heart hammering against the orichalcum plate like a forge at full burn. She lingered a second too long, breathed in the scent of him—lavender and old parchment and the particular warmth that was just Lucan—and felt her face flush hot.

”Thank you,” she whispered, and fled to her bedroom before he could see her cry, the armor singing around her like a promise kept.

Behind the closed door, she leaned against the wood, breathing hard, her hands trembling where they rested against the golden plates. She was so fucked. So absolutely, completely, gloriously fucked.

And she wouldn’t have it any other fucking way.