House of Blood

The news of the incident in the Sector Three Logistics Vault was suppressed before the morning mist had even cleared from the parade grounds.

By order of the Vanguard Division’s high command, the ruined vault was sealed behind triple-reinforced warding barriers, the melted lock written off as an experimental mana-conduit overload, and the missing night-guard quietly classified as a deserter. To the three thousand students marching across the muddy cobblestones of the lower courtyards, it was just another cold, routine morning at the Imperial Academy.

To Mirain Sec Sangius, however, it was the first move on a chess board she had no intention of losing.

Inside the Representative’s office on the third tier of the Sovereign Tower, the smell of damp stone was replaced by the crisp, dry aroma of parchment and mountain tea.

Mirain sat behind her mahogany desk, her crimson hair pinned back with a simple iron hairpin. Arrayed before her were seven thick, leather-bound ledgers containing the complete roster, resource allocations, and dormitory assignments for the entire first-year class.

Valerian stood near the high arched window, his arms folded over his chest. His black blindfold was tied securely, his head slightly tilted as he listened to the distant, rhythmic clatter of wooden practice swords echoing from the martial grounds four stories below.

”The Vanguard Division operates on a four-tier housing hierarchy,” Mirain said smoothly, her quill dipping into a well of dark purple ink. ”Tier Four consists of the outer barracks—cold stone dormitories, eight students to a room, shared washrooms, zero mana-density amplification. That is where eighty percent of the commoner examinees and low-ranking noble scions are placed.”

”The sheep pen,” Valerian remarked dryly.

”Precisely,” Mirain agreed without looking up. ”Tier Three and Tier Two are reserved for mid-ranking noble houses, military scholars, and top-fifty examinees. They receive private quarters and basic array heating. And Tier One—the Sovereign Spire—is reserved for us. High-grade mana vents, private training grounds, and direct access to the alchemy vaults.”

She placed the quill down, sliding a single sheet of heavy parchment across the desk toward him.

”As my Executive Assistant, your first official duty is to oversee the weekly resource distribution for Tier Four.”

Valerian didn’t reach for the paper. ”That sounds like a task designed to make me very popular with two hundred angry commoners who think they were cheated out of mana-crystals.”

”It is,” Mirain replied, a faint, razor-thin smile touching her lips. ”And it will also keep you occupied while I attend the Class Representative Council meeting with the senior instructors. You leave in ten minutes.”

Before Valerian could respond, the heavy double doors of the office were shoved open with a loud, resounding CLANG.

Casper von Valerius stepped into the room, flanked by two imposing upperclassmen wearing the red-and-gold shoulder drapes of House Valerius. His golden hair was immaculately combed, his red mantle pinned with a heavy ruby crest, but his expression was storm-cloud dark.

”Representative Mirain,” Casper said, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling, stiff with aristocratic outrage. ”I demand a formal revision of the First-Year Allocation Charter.”

Mirain didn’t flinch. She slowly leaned back in her high-backed leather chair, interlocking her fingers over her desk.

”Scion Valerius. You did not knock.”

”I do not need to knock when House Valerius’s rights are being violated,” Casper spat, taking three heavy steps forward, his boots clicking sharply on the polished stone floor. He cast a venomous glare toward Valerian, who remained leaning against the window frame, completely unbothered. ”You have assigned the western training grounds—the highest mana-density courtyard in the lower sector—to the Commoner Union’s auxiliary squad. My personal vanguard unit has been relegated to the eastern mud pits!”

”The western training grounds are allocated based on unit size and training efficiency, not birthright,” Mirain said calmly. ”The Commoner Union contains forty-two vanguard martial artists who require wide physical space. Your unit consists of six people.”

”It consists of six high nobles!” Casper roared, slamming his gloved fist against the edge of her desk. ”We pay three thousand gold sovereigns in quarterly academy maintenance fees! To place us in the mud while commoner strays occupy the prime mana vents is an insult to the Imperial Charter!”

He turned his head sharply, pointing a finger directly at Valerian’s chest.

”And this... this blind beggar you pulled out of the dirt! I hear he was seen wandering the lower vaults last night like a thief. By what authority does a nameless mercenary sit in the Representative’s office while true scions are denied their rightful space?!”

Inside Valerian’s mind, Aurelix let out a long, theatrical sigh.

”Oh, master... he is so loud. Can I please slip a tiny drop of chaos poison into his afternoon tea? Just enough to make his hair fall out?”

Quiet, Valerian thought.

Valerian slowly pushed himself off the wall, his iron sword clinking faintly against his belt as he took two calm steps forward. He stopped directly between Casper and Mirain’s desk.

”Scion Valerius,” Valerian spoke, his tone flat, even, and entirely devoid of heat. ”You are standing eighteen inches too close to the Representative’s desk. Step back.”

Casper’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief.

”What did you say to me, sellsword?”

”You’re spitting on her ledgers,” Valerian added, tilting his head slightly. ”And your two bodyguards behind you are blocking the doorway. It’s a fire hazard.”

The two upperclassmen behind Casper shifted uncomfortably, their hands instinctively dropping toward their sword hilts, but Casper let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

”You dare lecture me on etiquette?!” Casper’s face flushed red, his right hand gripping the hilt of his ornate, golden-hilted longsword. ”You think because Mirain picked you as her little lapdog, you suddenly carry weight in this spire? You are a nameless worm, Valen! Without that blindfold, you wouldn’t even be able to find the exit!”

Mirain did not intervene. She sat behind her desk, her cool crimson eyes watching the exchange with intense, calculating interest. She wanted to see how her new assistant handled high-born pressure when swords were drawn.

Valerian didn’t draw his weapon. He didn’t drop into a stance. He simply stood there, his hands resting casually at his sides, his breathing slow and rhythmic.

”Draw your blade,” Casper growled, a faint aura of golden-red fire mana beginning to flicker around his shoulders—the signature Solar Flare Art of House Valerius. ”Let us see if your sword speaks as loudly as your arrogance.”

”I am not permitted to duel within the Sovereign Tower without the Representative’s consent,” Valerian replied smoothly, his spatial sense reading every micro-muscle contraction in Casper’s shoulder. ”And more importantly, you can’t afford the medical bill.”

”You arrogant bastard—!”

Casper’s hand twitched, his sword clearing its sheath by three inches with a bright, metallic ring.

THWIP.

Before the blade could fully clear the scabbard, Valerian took half a step forward—a movement so small and instantaneous it barely displaced the air. His left hand shot out, his gloved palm slamming directly down onto the pommel of Casper’s sword, driving the blade back into its sheath with a heavy, bone-rattling CLANG.

In the same fraction of a second, Valerian’s right foot slid behind Casper’s front heel, his shoulder nudging Casper’s center of gravity by a mere two degrees.

Casper’s eyes went wide as his balance completely vanished. He stumbled backward three awkward paces, his boots scrambling wildly against the slick stone floor before he slammed hard against the stone wall, gasping for breath as the wind was knocked out of him.

The two upperclassmen gasped, drawing their steel halfway before Valerian even turned his head.

Valerian remained standing in the center of the room, his hand already back at his side, his posture relaxed, as if he hadn’t moved at all.

”Leverage,” Valerian said softly. ”You put too much weight on your front knee when you draw from the hip, Scion Valerius. Any borderland bandit would have taken your arm before your steel reached your waist.”

Casper slid down the wall slightly, his chest heaving, his face burning with a mixture of shock, rage, and humiliation.

”You... you used mana...”

”No mana,” Mirain’s voice cut through the room like a silver blade.

She stood up from her chair, her cold crimson gaze locking onto Casper.

”He used body weight, heel placement, and your own momentum,” Mirain said flatly, coming around her desk. ”Scion Valerius, you have violated the decorum of the Representative’s office and threatened an official administrator. If you do not vacate this spire within ten seconds, I will personally revoke House Valerius’s training ground access for the remainder of the term.”

Casper gritted his teeth, pushing himself up off the wall. He glared at Valerian with a deep, murderous hatred that burned hotter than his solar mana.

”This isn’t over, sellsword,” Casper hissed through clenched teeth. He turned sharply on his heel, his cloak whipping around him as he stormed out of the office, his two bodyguards scrambling to follow him.

The heavy double doors slammed shut once more.

Silence returned to the office.

Mirain walked over to her desk, picking up the sheet of heavy parchment she had prepared earlier, and handed it directly to Valerian.

”You handled that efficiently,” Mirain said, her crimson eyes searching his blindfolded face. ”Though you could have been slightly less provocative.”

”I was being polite,” Valerian replied, taking the parchment. ”In the borderlands, when someone reaches for a sword in a small room, you break their wrist first.”

Mirain let out a soft, amused exhale.

”Go to Tier Four, Valen. Distribute the mana-crystal vouchers, keep the commoners from rioting, and do not break anyone’s wrist unless they attack you first.”

”Understood, Boss,” Valerian said, turning toward the exit.

As he reached the door, Mirain’s voice called out behind him one last time.

”Valen.”

Valerian stopped, his hand resting on the iron door handle.

”Yes?”

”Where did you learn that footwork?” she asked softly. ”The heel-slide leverage... that is an ancient Vanguard military technique taught only to borderland captains forty years ago.”

Valerian didn’t turn around. Behind his black blindfold, a small, dark smile touched his lips.

”I read a book once,” Valerian replied smoothly, and pushed the door open.