The official welcoming reception for new students was held three nights before the examinations. It was a grand affair, hosted by the Academy in the main auditorium, a space so vast and so cleverly expanded by Vex'Arak architecture that it could comfortably hold thousands without feeling crowded. The ceiling was a projection of the night sky, complete with swirling nebulae and distant galaxies. Floating orbs of light provided a warm, golden glow, and the air was filled with the sound of soft music and the polite murmur of a hundred conversations.
For the students, it was a chance to network, to size up the competition, and to curry favor with the instructors and upperclassmen in attendance. For me, it was a hunting ground. I moved through the crowd with my now-perfected stillness, a glass of untouched juice in my hand, a ghost in a fine black coat. I was observing, listening, my mind a cold engine of analysis.
Isabella Pyralis was holding court near the center of the room, a fiery, laughing vortex of energy, already challenging people to arm-wrestle. Elara Glaciem stood near a pillar, observing the social dynamics with the detached air of a scientist studying a petri dish. Kaelen was hovering awkwardly near Roselle and her Terranova contingent, looking like a nervous sheep that had wandered into a pack of well-dressed wolves. All the pieces were where I expected them to be.
Then, a subtle shift occurred in the room's atmosphere. The murmur of conversation dipped slightly. A path began to clear through the crowd, not with any command, but with a series of subtle, deferential movements. An Imperial had arrived.
Prince Valerius Solarius moved through the reception with a practiced, predatory charm. He was dressed in a simple but exquisitely tailored dark blue tunic that, to the casual eye, made him seem less imposing than the more flamboyantly dressed nobles. It was a deliberate choice. He smiled, he shook hands, he remembered the names of minor nobles he had met only once, years ago. He was a master of the craft of politics, making everyone he spoke to feel, for a fleeting moment, like they were the most important person in the room.
*And every word is a lie,* my inner Azrael noted. *He's scanning them for weaknesses, for leverage. He's not shaking hands; he's checking for a pulse.*
I watched him work his way through the room, a shark gliding through a school of unsuspecting fish. I had no intention of approaching him. My entire strategy was built on being unremarkable, on staying below the notice of major players like the Prince. I was a second son, a non-entity. He should have no reason to even acknowledge my existence.
So, of course, he headed directly for me.
My mind went into overdrive. *Why? My file is blank. My presence is minimal. Did he notice me watching him? No, my observation was passive. Is it a random approach? Unlikely. Valerius does nothing randomly. This is a probe. He's testing something. What does he know?*
I suppressed the sudden jolt of adrenaline, forcing my body to remain relaxed, my expression placid. I turned my head as he approached, as if noticing him for the first time, and adopted the standard posture of a lesser noble addressing royalty: a slight bow, eyes respectfully lowered.
"Your Highness," I murmured, my voice a perfect, deferential baritone.
"Damon Mournblade," Valerius said, his voice smooth as velvet. He smiled, a warm, disarming expression that did not reach his amber-gold eyes. Those eyes were sharp, analytical, and they were dissecting me. "It is a pleasure to see a son of House Mournblade at the Academy. Your family is a pillar of the empire, though you keep to yourselves far too much."
The words were a perfect blend of Imperial condescension ("a son," not "the son") and personal interest. It was a masterfully crafted opening.
"Our duties in the Bone Gardens require a certain… focus, Your Highness," I replied, the words flowing from Damon's ingrained vocabulary of polite evasion. "We serve the throne best from the shadows."
"A noble sentiment," Valerius said, taking a sip from his own glass. "And how are you finding the Academy? A significant change from the quiet solitude of your home, I imagine." This was the first test. A seemingly casual question designed to gauge my personality. Was I overwhelmed? Arrogant? Intimidated?
I needed to be unremarkable. Perfectly, flawlessly unremarkable.
"It is… stimulating," I said, after a carefully calibrated pause, as if searching for the right word. "The concentration of powerful affinities is something one can feel in the very air. It is an excellent environment for study."
It was the perfect answer for a studious, slightly odd necromancer's son. It was academic, detached, and just a little bit creepy. It was exactly what Damon Mournblade should say.
Valerius's smile widened slightly, but his eyes narrowed. I knew, in that moment, that I had made a mistake. My answer had been too perfect. Too polished. A truly unremarkable boy would have stammered, or been overly formal, or said something foolish. My performance had been flawless, and in its flawlessness, it had become a flaw. No one is that unremarkable naturally. It had to be a performance. And if it was a performance, what was it hiding?
*Damn it,* Azrael's voice cursed in my head. *He's better than the book described.*
"An excellent environment indeed,"; Valerius mused, his gaze unwavering. "I am told your House's power lies in Ancestral Resonance. A fascinating art. To speak with the past, to draw upon its strength. You must have learned many secrets from your ancestors." This was the next probe, more direct. He was fishing for information, testing my willingness to reveal my House's secrets.
"The dead are… discreet, Your Highness," I replied, my voice dropping to a lower, more confidential tone, a classic Mournblade deflection. "They guard their secrets as jealously as the living. Our art is more listening than questioning."
We were two predators circling each other, smiling and speaking in pleasantries, while our true selves were assessing, calculating, and judging. He was trying to find a crack in my armor. I was trying to build that armor as he struck.
He chuckled, a soft, appreciative sound. "Well said. A diplomat's answer. Perhaps your House is not as removed from politics as it pretends." He finished his drink and placed the empty glass on a passing servant's tray. "Well, Damon Mournblade. I shall not keep you. I wish you the best of luck in the examinations. I will be watching your progress with… interest."
The final word was a stiletto, slid gently between my ribs. It was a warning. *I see you. I don't know what you are, but I am watching.*
"You honor me, Your Highness," I said, bowing again as he turned and glided away, his charm-mask firmly back in place as he greeted another student.
I remained in my spot, my heart hammering with that slow, heavy beat. I had survived my first encounter with one of the story's primary antagonists. But I had not escaped unscathed. I had intended to remain a shadow, a non-entity. Instead, in my attempt to be perfectly unremarkable, I had made myself a person of interest to the most dangerous man in the room.
My assessment of him was now concrete: *Dangerous. Must be watched.*
And his assessment of me, I knew with a chilling certainty, was exactly the same. The chessboard had just gained a new piece, and the Prince was already planning how to take it.