The gates of the Vesperan Military Academy loomed like the jaws of a steel beast. Aras adjusted the strap of his satchel, fingers brushing the hidden dagger beneath his coat. The air smelled of oil and burnt coal, the academy's towering spires casting long shadows over the courtyard.
Talis nudged him, nodding toward a group of cadets in polished brass uniforms. "Look at those peacocks. Think they polish their boots before or after they kiss the Magister's ass?"
Aras didn't smile. His eyes were fixed on the figure standing at the top of the steps—Director Kael Marr, a gaunt man with a mechanical eye that whirred softly as it scanned the newcomers.
"Remember," Kalen had warned him the night before, "Marr isn't just a director. He's Lysara's spymaster. Assume every word you say reaches her ears."
Aras climbed the steps, his back straight, his expression unreadable.
Marr's mechanical eye clicked as it focused on him. "Aras Yashira. The boy who outmaneuvered a battle droid with a single shot." His voice was dry, like parchment. "Tell me, was that skill or luck?"
"Luck favors the prepared, sir."
Marr's lips twitched. "A pretty answer. Let's see if your swordplay is as sharp as your tongue."
The training hall echoed with the clash of steel. Aras parried a strike from a hulking cadet, his movements precise, economical. Sweat dripped down his temple, but his breathing stayed steady.
Across the room, a girl watched him.
Seraphina Vesper.
Her family's name was etched into the academy's walls, her bloodline synonymous with Vespera's military elite. She leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, her dark hair tied back in a ruthless braid. A mechanical brace gleamed on her wrist—a prototype, no doubt.
"You fight like a farmer," she called out. "All strength, no finesse."
Aras disarmed his opponent with a twist of his wrist. The cadet's sword clattered to the floor.
"Farmers win wars," he said, wiping his blade. "They're the ones who know the land."
Seraphina's smirk didn't reach her eyes. "Land doesn't matter when you've got cannons."
"Ask the Triarchy how that worked for them."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face. The Triarchy's downfall was a sore spot for Vespera—their reliance on firepower had blinded them to the knife in their back.
She pushed off the pillar. "Let's see how you handle a real opponent."
Their duel was a storm of steel. Seraphina moved like lightning, her strikes calculated, her footwork flawless. Aras matched her, blow for blow, but he was testing her, studying her patterns.
She feinted left. He didn't fall for it.
Her mechanical brace whirred, enhancing her next strike. The force of it sent him skidding back.
"Yield," she demanded.
Aras adjusted his grip. "No."
She lunged. He sidestepped, hooking his foot behind her knee. She hit the ground hard, her brace sparking against the stone.
For a second, fury flashed in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by cold amusement.
"Lucky shot."
Aras offered her a hand. She ignored it, rising on her own.
"You're not what I expected," she admitted.
"Disappointed?"
"Intrigued."
That night, Talis found him in the library, pouring over maps of Vespera's eastern front.
"Making friends already?" Talis dropped into the chair beside him, tossing a stolen apple between his hands.
Aras didn't look up. "She's dangerous."
"Obviously. But is she *interesting* dangerous or 'stab-you-in-your-sleep' dangerous?"
Aras traced a finger over a marked supply route. "Both."
Talis took a loud bite of the apple. "Perfect. Nothing like a little rivalry to keep things spicy."
Director Marr summoned him at dawn.
The office was sparse, save for a single painting of Lysara on the wall. Marr steepled his fingers, his mechanical eye whirring softly.
"You've made an impression. Seraphina doesn't lose often."
Aras remained silent.
Marr leaned forward. "Tell me, boy. What do you want?"
"To learn."
"To learn what?"
"How to win."
Marr studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Good answer."
The weeks passed in a blur of strategy sessions and sparring matches. Seraphina was a constant shadow, her taunts sharp, her challenges relentless.
"You're late," she said one morning, tossing him a practice sword. "Did you finally realize you don't belong here?"
Aras caught the blade. "I belong wherever I choose."
She attacked without warning. He blocked, their faces inches apart.
"You're holding back," she accused.
"Observant."
She kicked his legs out from under him. He rolled, sweeping her feet next. They landed in a tangle of limbs, her dagger at his throat, his knee pressed against her ribs.
A standoff.
Her breath was warm against his cheek. "You're infuriating."
"You're predictable."
She shoved him away, but there was no real anger in it.
Talis, ever the nuisance, cornered him after drills.
"So. You and the Vesper princess. What's the play?"
Aras cleaned his sword. "There is no play."
"Bullshit. You've been trading blows—and looks—for weeks."
Aras sheathed the blade. "She's a means to an end."
Talis raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
The final test came at midnight.
Marr stood at the edge of the academy's rooftop, the city sprawled below them.
"Your task is simple," he said. "Reach the clocktower before Seraphina. Succeed, and you'll earn your place among Vespera's elite."
Aras didn't hesitate. He leapt.
The rooftops were slick with rain, the gaps between buildings treacherous. Seraphina moved like a wraith, her mechanical brace whirring as she vaulted over chimneys.
Aras took the harder path—scaling drainpipes, swinging across gaps with nothing but momentum.
They reached the clocktower at the same time.
Seraphina's blade flashed. Aras ducked, countering with a strike that sent her dagger skittering across the roof.
She glared. He held out a hand.
"Truce?"
For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then she took it.
"Truce."
Marr's voice cut through the night. "Congratulations. You've both passed."
Seraphina's grip tightened. "This isn't over."
Aras met her gaze. "I know."
The next morning, a sealed letter arrived on his desk.
*Welcome to the game.*
Aras burned it.
Talis whistled. "Damn. She's got style."
Aras said nothing.
But for the first time, he allowed himself a small, grim smile.