My father was already pouring when I entered. Two glasses of water. He slid one across the desk without looking up.
"The Caelin situation. Theatrical, but effective." Father gestured to the chair across from his desk.
I stopped mid-step, thrown. I'd been bracing for disappointment, fury, the cold dissection of every mistake I'd made last night. Instead—approval?
"Sit," he repeated.
I sat, wary. This felt like a trap.
My father, Titus Venn, looked exactly like what he was: a man who'd spent forty years turning House Venn from minor Palatine into a force senators had to acknowledge. His hair was iron-gray, swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it ever softened. He wore a simple black coat—no ornamentation, no excess. Power didn't need to announce itself.
He studied me over the rim of his glass. Something shifted in his expression—not quite a smile, but close enough to unsettle me.
"I've received three letters already this morning," he said. "Palatines commenting on last night's... theater." A pause. "Interesting choice you made."
I picked up the glass, buying time. "I thought it was the right play."
"It was." He set his glass down with precision.
I said nothing. Safer that way.
My father stood, moved to the window. The morning light caught the gray in his hair.
"The academy term begins in six days," my father said, still facing the window. "You'll be sorted into one of the five cohorts based on your entrance evaluation. Combat proficiency, tactical thinking, academic standing."
He walked back to the desk but didn't sit. Instead, he placed both hands on the surface and leaned forward slightly.
"I'm going to ask you a question, and I want the truth—not whatever performance you gave the Caelin boy last night." His eyes locked onto mine. "Can you win that duel?"
My mouth went dry. Every instinct screamed to lie, to bluff, to say whatever would make this conversation end. But something in his tone suggested he'd know.
"I don't know," I said.
"Honest." He straightened. "Unexpected, but honest." He moved to a cabinet along the wall, opened it. Inside were scrolls, documents, and a simple wooden case. He removed the case and brought it back to the desk.
"Your grandfather was a mediocre swordsman," my father said, opening the case. Inside lay a dueling blade—plain, unadorned, the steel dark with age. "But he won more duels than he lost. Do you know how?"
I shook my head.
"He understood something most duelists don't." My father ran a finger along the flat of the blade. "A duel isn't decided when the swords cross. It's decided in the days before. In knowing your opponent's patterns, their weaknesses, what makes them reckless." He looked up at me. "In the hour before, in choosing the ground, the light, the time of day that favors you. In the minute before, in reading which shoulder drops when they lunge, which foot they favor."
He closed the case slowly.
"Honor is a luxury afforded to men who've already won, Aldric. Your grandfather made sure he'd won before he ever drew steel." He slid the case across the desk toward me. "The blade is a formality. Victory is preparation."
I took the case, the weight of it settling in my hands.
"The trainer will arrive tomorrow at dawn," my father said. "Don't embarrass me by oversleeping. And don't embarrass yourself."
I nodded, gripping the case. Almost made it to the door before he spoke again.
"The Academy places students in tactical study groups. Five to seven per group, mixed cohorts, assigned by the faculty." He was reading from another letter. "Your group has already been determined."
This was unusual. The Academy prided itself on randomization, preventing houses from consolidating power through planned alliances.
"How—"
"I made a donation. Substantial enough that the Dean found flexibility in his principles." He looked up. "Your group will include the Mirith heir."
The auburn-haired woman from last night. The serpent crest.
"I saw her approach you yesterday." My father set the letter down, picked up another. "House Mirith is in a precarious position. They've survived by being useful—their information networks span half the Imperium. But their current Palatine is dying, and he has five daughters, no sons. The inheritance will be contested."
He tapped the letter.
"Lyanna is the youngest. Clever, by all accounts, but fifth in line with no marriage prospects and no independent power base. She needs allies, particularly ones who can provide military backing when the succession fight begins." He looked at me directly. "A reformed wastrel makes for an interesting prospect. Less competition for control, more gratitude for support."
"And you want me to—"
"I want you to be aware," my father interrupted. "The Mirith trade in information, but they also trade in debts. She'll offer you something valuable—information about the Academy, about other houses, perhaps about Caelin himself. And in return, you'll owe her. A small debt at first, easily paid. Then another. Then another." He set the letter aside. "Before you realize it, House Venn will be entangled in a succession war we have no stake in."
He picked up a third letter.
"You'll also be grouped with Cassius Orestia."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"The last heir of House Orestia," my father continued. "Brilliant, driven, and the Academy's rising star. Three commendations, personal recommendation from the Imperator himself." He looked up. "Having him in your study group will reflect well on House Venn. More importantly, Orestia has no house, no land, no political base. Just skill and reputation. He'll need allies when he graduates, and we're positioned to offer that."
He set all three letters aside and stood.
"Cassius Orestia is valuable, Aldric. Treat him accordingly. And try not to make an ass of yourself in front of him the way you have at every previous event."
Simple. Direct. The kind of scolding I'd probably heard a hundred times before.
If only he knew what Cassius really was. What he'd really come back to do.
"Don't waste the opportunity. And don't gamble away your placement scores before you even receive them." My father said.
I nodded, the wooden case heavy in my hands.
"Dismissed." he said assertively.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
I stood in the corridor, my father's words settling like weights. Not praise. Not forgiveness. Just acknowledgment that maybe, possibly, I hadn't completely fucked up for once.
I forced myself to move, walking back toward my chambers. The servants had learned to make themselves scarce when I passed. Small mercies.
The blade inside caught the afternoon light. Plain, functional, deadly. My grandfather's blade. A duelist who won by knowing everything before the fight began.
Victory is preparation.
I picked it up, tested the weight. Somewhere in Aldric's muscle memory, there had to be something—some fragment of training, some instinct. I went through a basic guard position.
It felt wrong. Awkward. Like wearing someone else's shoes.
I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself.
In. Out.
The rhythm came automatically—deeper than I intended. Not the shallow breathing of frustration, but something older. Practiced.
My body knew this pattern.
In. Out. In. Out.
My lungs expanded fully, drawing air down into my diaphragm. The exhale was controlled, measured. I didn't think about it. My body simply... did it.
The room changed.
Not visually—my eyes were still closed. But I felt it differently. The air moving through the open window. The settling of the floorboards under my weight. The distant sound of a servant's footsteps in the corridor below, and the subtle vibration they created.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Everything looked the same. But when I shifted my stance, I felt the displacement of air around me. Sensed how my movement created pressure, disturbed the equilibrium of the space.
I lifted the blade and moved through the form again.
This time, I felt the resistance. Not just the weight of the steel, but how it cut through air, how each motion created a wake. My feet found better positioning without me thinking about it—responding to feedback I couldn't have named.
The form was still rough. Still amateur.
But it wasn't completely wrong anymore.
I stopped, breathing carefully, trying to maintain the... whatever this was. The heightened awareness faded after a few moments, leaving me standing in an ordinary room with an ordinary sword.