The hall was built to intimidate.
Rows of pale stone seats rose in perfect symmetry, veined faintly with gold. Pillars stretched into shadow above, etched with restrained Arcana that pulsed softly beneath the surface. Light filtered through stained glass and fractured across the polished floor in fractured color.
At the far end stood a raised platform.
No banners. No decoration.
Authority did not need embellishment.
The doors opened.
Conversation thinned, then vanished.
The principal entered without announcement. His presence was overwhelming; his gaze passed once over the hall, steady and measuring, and silence followed naturally.
"Those who survived the Rite," the principal said evenly, "step forward."
Modred moved first. Taren followed, then Lysara, Arthur, Dante, Riven, and Julius. They formed a line before the platform—close enough to be seen, far enough to remain separate.
"Introduce yourselves."
"Lysara Valcrest."
Recognition moved through the hall like a contained ripple.
"Riven Valcrest."
"Taren Liam."
"Arthur Liam."
"Dante Varmand."
Modred's head snapped toward him immediately. Taren's brow furrowed. Arthur stilled. Even Riven glanced sideways, confused.
"…Varmand?" Modred said flatly. "Weren't you a Liam?"
Dante didn't look at them.
His gaze stayed forward, posture composed as ever.
But the air around him shifted.
"It's a talk for another time," he said quietly.
Then he added, voice steady but carrying something heavier beneath it—
"Besides, it suited me before," he said calmly, his voice cutting through the whispers. "This suits me now."
Modred held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something. "Alright."
There was no room for further questions. The conversation died as quickly as it had begun.
"Julius Liam."
Then—
"Modred Vayne."
The reaction fractured instantly.
"Vayne?!" "That's impossible—"
Across the hall, a girl froze.
Coral-red hair shifted softly over her shoulder as Paris-green eyes lifted and locked onto him. Her fingers tightened around the dark ruby bracelet at her wrist, the gem catching the light in a brief, sharp light.
"…Modred…"
For a brief second, something unguarded crossed her face.
Relief.
"…I found you," she whispered.
The principal ignored the disturbance.
"These individuals stood where many would not," he said calmly. "They entered the Rite knowing the cost."
The noise subsided.
"They put their lives and honour on the line for a place here. They earned it."
His gaze swept the students.
"The Academy values resolve. Lineage alone is insufficient."
A brief pause.
"Give this prestigious institution your full resolve."
He stepped back slightly.
"From this point forward, you are students of the Royal Academy. Strength is expected. Weakness is removed."
Aurelian Crest stepped forward.
Tall. Composed. Pale grey-white hair framing a precise face. Ice-blue eyes, steady and cold. "You will not disrupt order," he said quietly. "If you cannot stand here, you will be removed."
Beside him, Selene Varis, composed and unreadable.
"You will learn your place," she added softly. "Or one will be given to you."
"Dismissed."
The weight of authority lifted.
Judgment returned.
"Class placements," Aurelian announced.
Names were called.
"First Tier — Arthur Liam."
Expected.
"Second Tier — Lysara Valcrest."
Approval murmured through the hall.
"Second Tier — Taren Liam."
Then—
"Second Tier — Modred Vayne."
The air shifted.
"A Vayne in Second Tier?" "After surviving the Rite?"
Aurelian's eyes lifted.
Silence snapped back into place.
"Tier is determined by evaluation," he said. "Not assumption."
No further explanation.
Modred rolled his shoulders. "Second Tier. Could be worse."
"We're together," Taren muttered.
"I'll be nearby," Lysara said calmly, stepping down toward them.
"How disgraceful."
They turned.
Roselle Vayne stood just beyond the dispersing crowd. Nobles parted without hesitation.
Her gaze fixed on Modred—then shifted to Lysara.
Something in her expression hardened.
"…So this is what you've become," she said softly. "The rumors weren't exaggerated."
Modred frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You really don't remember?" she asked.
"Remember what?"
"How you were cast out. How you became a stain on the Vayne name."
Silence tightened.
"I wasn't cast out," Modred said flatly. "I left."
Her composure cracked for a fraction of a second.
"…You don't remember," she whispered.
"Stop talking like you know me," he replied coldly. "You don't. So either say something that makes sense or leave."
She stepped forward—
A hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
"Enough."
Lance Vayne stepped beside her.
Same coral-red hair. Same green eyes. Sharper.
The nobles immediately withdrew.
"My apologies," Lance said smoothly. "Emotions tend to cloud judgment."
His gaze shifted.
Stopped on Lysara.
"I am Lance Vayne," he continued. "I look forward to observing how you all perform."
Lysara didn't respond.
Modred's eyes narrowed.
Roselle looked away—but not before her gaze lingered on how close Lysara stood to him.
Her fingers tightened around the ruby. The bracelet bit deeper into her skin.
She had searched for him for years.
And he stood there as if she were a stranger.
Second Tier occupied the eastern wing.
Tall windows. Clean stone. Structured rows.
Modred took a seat near the back. Taren is beside him.
Lysara chose the seat on his other side without hesitation.
That gesture did not go unnoticed.
Two well-dressed girls approached shortly after.
"You're Modred Vayne, correct?"
"Depends."
Soft laughter.
"A Vayne in Second Tier is… unexpected."
"You fought in the Rite. You must be strong."
"Strong enough," he replied lazily.
"Perhaps you could show us sometime?"
Lysara leaned forward calmly.
"He's injured."
Her tone was polite.
Firm.
"He won't be entertaining requests."
The girls stiffened slightly.
"Oh—we didn't mean—"
"I'm sure you didn't."
They retreated.
Modred glanced sideways. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
"…They were staring."
He smirked. "Jealous?"
"I am not."
Taren cleared his throat loudly.
Modred leaned back.
"Sure."
Her cheeks tinted faintly. "Focus on class."
Around them, whispers spread.
From the doorway, Lance watched.
His gaze rested briefly on Lysara.
Then on Modred.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Roselle stood beside him.
Her eyes were not on Modred.
They were on Lysara.
On the space between them.
Too close.
The ruby bracelet bit into her skin again.