The square that J-65 ended up bringing him to was an elegant yet understated space, framed by low stone walls engraved with various symbols of the Imperial Academy. Gently glowing lanterns hung from iron posts, casting a warm golden light over cobblestones that were arrayed in patterns with a large fountain at their center. The fountain itself was a masterpiece, sculpted to show what Klarion took to be a human nobleman surrounded by individuals of various races armored as legionnaires, weapons pointed outwards, shooting gentle streams of water.
Leaving his escort behind, Klarion turned his attention to the small tables and cushioned benches that were scattered around, most bearing refreshments and snacks, that dozens of first-year scions were currently socializing around. The murmur of mingling voices filled the air, mixing with the faint soothing sound of the fountain. He thought at first many had not yet arrived, but when he saw a handful going in and out of various buildings on the other side of the square, he guessed that those buildings were proper restaurants and many more students were already inside eating.
After the quiet of the Central Archive, the noise and bustle were a bit overwhelming. He stood for a moment, just taking it all in, doing his best to adjust. A few deep breaths, and he began walking into the square, glancing around to figure out if there was anyone who seemed open to being approached. As he walked in, he overheard bits and pieces of conversation. Students talking about their connections. Students talking about the factions they were already a part of. Even students talking over alliances they hoped to cement by the time graduation came around. He overheard the words “House Brightcoin” multiple times, though “House Blacksword” was mentioned nearly as often.
His steps began to falter somewhat as he realized that it was clear from looking around that the majority of students were already grouped into cliques based on status and rank. Klarion felt a pang of exclusion as he watched the interactions unfold before him. While he could not always make out what was being talked about, the body language of those around him spoke volumes. The subtle glances, the turned backs, the sidelong looks — they were all enough to tell him that he was not welcome with any of the groups around him. He was not welcome to join their circles, and they were making sure he knew it.
Ultimately, Klarion ended up standing awkwardly at the edge of the small square. Leaning against one of the iron posts next to a bench, he slowly sipped at a cup of juice he had been able to snag from an unattended table. While the juice helped, his stomach still gurgled with hunger. As much as he wanted something to eat, he wasn’t sure if he could go into one of the restaurants now, and the snacks that had been laid out across the exterior tables in the square were all gone. He wasn’t sure what he could do. First, the ceremony, then the veiled hostility from some of the students and the clear divisions among the factions, all of it was overwhelming and he felt more out of place than ever.
His brooding was interrupted by the sound of deliberate footsteps approaching. He turned to see a young elf with short, pointed ears underneath a shock of hair so blue it was almost white. Eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were fixed on him as the scion came closer to Klarion, his school uniform showing the ranking of a baronial house. Klarion nearly gripped the hilt of his greatsword when he saw who strode behind him.
A stocky, red-skinned hobgoblin with sharp features, dark hair, and a school uniform that was, somehow, already scuffed and dirty. It was the last, despite their rough appearance, that led to Klarion doing little more than shifting his drink to his opposite hand, so that he could draw his greatsword if needed.
“Mind if we join you?” the elf asked, his voice polite.
Klarion blinked in surprise but quickly nodded. “Of course not. I wasn’t really doing much.”
Without hesitation, the hobgoblin plopped onto the nearby stone bench with a grunt of satisfaction. “Not exactly the friendliest, are they?”
“Not really,” Klarion admitted. “I take it you both have had the same experience?”
The elf adjusted his glasses and sat down beside the hobgoblin. “You could say that. The name’s Valdre, scion of House Emarion. This is Redrek.”
Redrek raised a hand in a lazy wave. “Knight’s son. Not that it does me much good here.”
“Klarion, scion of House Blacksword,” he offered, glancing between them. “So you’re not… part of one of the bigger groups?”
Valdre gave a dry laugh. “Not exactly. I don’t fit neatly into their ranks and priorities. Half-elves of the frost lineages aren’t exactly the first choice for alliances or friendships, even if I come from a family with a baron’s title.”
Without thinking about it, Klarion glanced back at Valdre’s ears. The majority of elves he had seen so far had longer ones that were longer than Valdre had, but that would make sense if he was only a half-elf. At least it would if the logic that held in the games he had played growing up held here as well.
Redrek leaned back, resting an arm on the bench. “And me? Well, let’s just say hobgoblins aren’t a noble favorite either. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got a crest or not.”
Klarion nodded, understanding a bit more of what Redrek was hinting at simply from his own experiences getting to the Imperial Academy from Verdant VI. “Seems like we’ve got something in common, then.”
“Outsiders,” Redrek agreed with a toothy grin, raising a red hand in agreement.
Valdre adjusted his glasses, the lamplight glinting of the wire rims as he leaned forward slightly. “Klarion,” he began carefully, his tone measured but direct, “I’m not sure if this is presumptuous, what with just meeting you and all, but I wanted to say something on behalf of myself and Redrek.” He glanced at the hobgoblin beside him, who nodded silently but kept his arms crossed in an almost defense gesture.
Klarion tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Go on.”
Valdre cleared his throat, the faintest trace of hesitation betraying his previously composed demeanor. “The truth is, we don’t have much chance of joining one of the other Archducal factions here at the Imperial Academy. For reasons that, well… we can explain later, neither of us exactly fits their mold.” He offered a rueful smile as he awkwardly ran a hand through his blue hair.
Redrek let out a long sigh, though his expression remained guarded. “What my half-elf friend is saying, Klarion, is that we’re not just here because we are interested in the story of your scars.”
Valdre shot him a look before continuing. “We’ve been watching the way things work here, much as I expect you have been. Even in the short time we’ve been on campus, it has been clear that connections are everything. And we couldn’t help but notice the way you’ve carried yourself, and especially the way you have interacted with the Sentinel you were with earlier. You didn’t treat her as just another faceless servant. You were kind and respectful. That stood out.”
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Klarion blinked, taken aback by the observation. “You approached me based on how I treated J-65?”
“The fact you even know her designation proves my point,” Valdre shrugged, a grin coming to his face. “It might still be a gamble, approaching you like this. But you’re the first scion from an Archducal house that we’ve seen tonight who didn’t seem completely consumed with their own self-importance. Call it instinct, but we figured it was worth the risk.”
Redrek nodded. “We’re looking for someone we can trust, someone who might be willing to build something of their own here — something that doesn’t require us to start at the very bottom of the rigid hierarchies that dominate this place.”
For a moment, Klarion was silent, his mind racing as he considered their words. Trust and alliances were both important and, he suspected, dangerous, especially for someone like him, who was still completely unaware of so many of the rules that governed the games that nobles played. Yet as he looked at Valdre’s earnest expression and Redrek’s wry grin, he didn’t feel a flicker of worry but rather one of hope.
“You’re not wrong,” Klarion said finally, his voice steady. “I should be thinking about gathering supporters and allies, given my position as the only scion of House Blacksword amongst the first-years. But, honestly? Right now, I’m more interested in finding some friends.”
Redrek raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward to show a large fang. “Friends, huh? That’s not exactly the typical noble mindset. Especially from someone like your background.”
Klarion shrugged at that pointed response. “Well, I’ve never been a typical noble.” He made sure not to elaborate on just how much that was the case. Better to keep any more details than that secret for now.
Valdre gave a larger smile, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “Then perhaps we’re in good company.”
Klarion couldn’t help but smile in return, as he started to actually feel somewhat comfortable for the first time all night.
Which was why, of course, that feeling could not last.
A ripple amongst the more crowded tables further into the square seized the trio’s attention. A group that had recently left one of the restaurants on the opposite side was cutting through, clearly headed in Klarion’s direction. At the center of the group was a young man with striking golden-blonde hair wearing a school uniform that, even from where he stood, Klarion could make out as having the crest of the Archducal House Brightcoin on it. Flanking him were other noble scions, though their presence was not quite as attention-grabbing as the lead scion of House Brightcoin. They moved together, their every step exuding an air of dominance.
Caspian’s sharp gaze landed on Klarion, and his lips curled into a predatory smile. He stopped a few paces away, his entourage halting just behind him.
“Well, if it isn’t the newest scion of House Blacksword,” he said, his voice smooth but laden with condescension. ”I wasn’t sure I believed the whispers that your family would be sending someone to the Imperial Academy this year, but here you are. On behalf of House Brightcoin, I welcome you, Blacksword.” Caspian dipped into a clearly mocking bow, his supporters behind him not bothering to cover their laughter.
Klarion’s jaw tightened at the mocking. While he still knew next to nothing about proper noble behavior, he did have some experience with bullies. The most important thing he could do was not rise to his baiting.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” he nodded in response. “My name is Klarion.”
The Brightcoin scion snorted, the amused look souring on his face when Klarion did not rise to his baiting. “Klarion? Is that what you think you are? No, you’ll only ever be a Blacksword. A name that carries infamy and a stench that can’t be scrubbed clean.”
Valdre shifted nervously on the bench that stood beside Klarion, while Redrek leaned slightly closer, clawed hands drifting to his side as his lips pressed into a thin line. Klarion’s pulse quickened as he recognized Caspian was still trying to goad him into reacting, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“While I wouldn’t know anything of infamy, I’ll admit I am looking forward to a bath after the long day I have had,” Klarion responded evenly. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation later, Caspian.”
Caspian’s eyes flashed in anger, and his expression darkened at Klarion using his name. “Your House has been an enemy of mine for generations, Blacksword. You do not belong here. And if you think for a moment that anyone of any importance will side with you, you’re more deluded than the majority of your House. I have already begun spreading the word that so associate with you will come with…costs.”
The tension in the square thickened, conversations around them dwindling as the standoff between two of the most important scions in the incoming class drew attention. While still outwardly calm, Klarion felt nothing but rage. He hadn’t even done anything yet but go through the ceremony at the Amphitheater of Induction, and he, apparently, already had an enemy willing to threaten the entire first-year class in an attempt to isolate him. Klarion held his ground, but the weight of this confrontation pressed heavily on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Valdre’s visible anger on his behalf while Redrek seemed almost to be psyching himself up for conflict. A small kernel of happiness grew in the ball of anger he was feeling. Despite the threats being voiced by Caspian, it looked like he might have made two friends willing to back him up.
Thankfully the three of them wouldn’t have to find out what they would do today.
Before the situation could escalate further, the distinct sound of armored footsteps cut through the tension. A trio of Sentinels, their polished white masks glinting in the lantern light, approached swiftly. The lead Sentinel raised a gauntleted hand that gripped some sort of red rod. Klarion vaguely recognized it as being similar to one J-65 had carried.
“Enough,” the Sentinel said, their voice holding an edge of anger. “This gathering is for socializing, not posturing. Disperse. Now.”
Caspian hesitated, his jaw tightening in frustration. With a last, venomous glare at Klarion, he turned to the group of scions that had followed him. “Let’s go. The Blacksword isn’t worth my time.”
The group stepped around the Sentinels, going slowly as if to prove a point. Soon they were heading out of the square on the opposite side. The potential fight ended before it could begin, the three Sentinels returned to where they had been keeping watch over the square.
Klarion exhaled, the tension and anger of the moment passing.
“You should be careful.”
J-65’s voice coming from behind them caused all three of the scions to jump. She had come to a stop behind Klarion, her mask still fixed in the direction Caspian had left.
“Careful? What’s that supposed to mean?” Redrek asked.
Valdre’s eyes flicked between Klarion and J-65, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in his gaze. Klarion gave a small shake of his head, dismissing the half-elf’s unspoken question for now. His thoughts continued to churn, the encounter with Caspian leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I need to get out of here,” Klarion muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
J-65 turned her mask to him. “Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere but here,” Klarion replied. “Someplace quiet. Preferably with food.”
J-65 nodded, then turned to face Valdre and Redrek. When she did not say anything, Klarion figured out what she wanted.
“I don’t suppose you both would care to join me for dinner somewhere else?”
The half-elf and hobgoblin shared looks, then nodded in agreement and said together, “Sure.”
J-65 nodded and gestured for the trio to follow her. They wove through the square and onto a quieter side street, thankfully some distance away from the one Caspian and his group had taken. The ambient noise of the other first-years faded, replaced by the softer hum of lanterns and what Klarion suspected to be crickets of some sort. They sounded a bit bigger though.
After a few minutes, they arrived at a modest restaurant tucked into a corner of the campus. Its warm, inviting light spilled out into the street, and the faint scent of roasted spices wafted from within. A handwritten sign on the door read Open, though the seating area outside was empty.
“There are other restaurants open?” Valdre asked, surprised.
J-65 nodded. “It’s one of the few establishments that remains operational year-round. Few, if any, students of your year know about it yet. Welcome to The Hearth & Ember. ”