Mel and Bimoth squared off, the tension between them crackling like the storm brewing within Mel’s aura. “Our third fight, huh?” Mel muttered, his tone edged with frustration. “I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to side with a kingdom built on dictatorship. But honestly? It doesn’t matter.”
Both men lunged forward simultaneously, their fists drawn back, ready to collide in a clash of raw power. The room seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the impact—until the deafening slam of the castle doors shattered the moment.
“Enough!” boomed a commanding voice.
All eyes turned to the doorway, where a towering figure strode in with unshakable authority. His presence was impossible to ignore, his broad frame adorned with battle-worn armor. A tattoo on his fist, boldly etched with the word Warden, gleamed in the dim light. He marched forward, stopping directly in front of King Aldara, who stiffened in his throne.
“This is over,” the man declared, his voice carrying the weight of finality. The tension in the room shifted as murmurs rippled through the remaining kings and queens. Even Mel and Bimoth hesitated, their fists lowering as they sized up this unexpected arrival.
“Anyone here not standing with Dorian, come with us,” King Aldara commanded, his voice steady but firm as more Wardens filed into the room, their presence alone silencing dissent.
Elowen, Kraven, Draven, Amara, Kamara, Arid, and Mel exchanged brief glances before stepping forward to join Aldara. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way out, leaving behind the rising tension. Aldara cast one last look at Dorian, his expression heavy with disappointment. “I never thought you’d fall to this, Dorian,” he said with a resigned sigh before turning his back on him and exiting the room with the others.
As the doors shut behind them, the tension in the room turned volatile. The masked girl clenched her fists in frustration. “Why are we just letting them walk away?!” she growled, her voice sharp and dripping with anger.
Dorian's glare was immediate, cutting through her defiance like a blade. “Shut your mouth, Ashley,” he snapped, his tone laced with venom.
Ashley stiffened at the harsh command, her posture rigid as she swallowed her retort. Though silent, her seething frustration was evident in her clenched jaw and the way her fists trembled. Dorian turned his attention back to the room, his frustration simmering beneath the surface, ready to boil over.
Back in the cabin, Arid winced and yelped as a Warden stitched up the gash on his back. “Ow! Ow! Take it easy, will you?” he complained, his face scrunched in pain.
Elowen, sitting nearby with her arm being tended to, rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit whining, Arid. It can't be that—” Her words cut off with a sharp yell as the needle pricked her skin. “Watch it! Are you trying to sew me up or torture me?” she snapped, glaring at the Warden, who simply shook his head with a sigh.
King Aldara observed the scene with crossed arms, his gaze steady and inquisitive. “How did you kids even end up in that mess in the first place?” he asked, his tone laced with a mixture of concern and disapproval.
Mel, seated on the floor with his knees drawn up, blew a soft cloud of healing mist over his own wounds. The black lightning scars on his arms faded slightly as the soothing magic took effect. He let out a heavy sigh. “Amara asked for help. She sent me a letter, and I didn’t stop to think about what might happen—I just went.”
Aldara's brow furrowed as he listened. “You didn’t consider the risks?”
Mel glanced up, his expression calm but resolute. “No. She needed me, so I went. That’s all there was to it.” His tone was steady, but the weight of his decision hung in the air.
Aldara turned sharply to Shenelle, his tone stern. “And where were you in all of this?!”
Shenelle reclined on the couch, a book lazily draped over her face, her voice muffled but nonchalant. “I tried to stop him, alright? He didn’t listen. I also had my hands full stopping my own kids from charging in, and wrangling your daughter, Lance, Lincoln, Renita, and Jake from getting themselves into trouble.”
Aldara opened his mouth to retort but faltered, his words catching in his throat. Despite his imposing stature, there was an air of hesitation—of caution—as he glanced at Shenelle. She didn’t even bother removing the book from her face, a silent yet powerful declaration of who truly held the upper hand in the conversation.
Rue rolled over to Mel, carefully pouring water onto his wounds and gently dabbing them with a towel. He winced at the sting, but she continued with steady hands. “I called my dad to come and get you when you didn’t show up. Sorry about that,” she said softly, her tone carrying a hint of guilt.
Mel managed a faint smile and reached out to pat her head. “Thanks, Rue. I owe you one. Bimoth came way too close to finishing me off this time,” he admitted with a weary sigh.
Arid leaned back, groaning in frustration. “Well, it’s official. We got the shit kicked out of us.” Elowen nodded solemnly, and Mel, still wincing, stood up slowly.
“Dorian’s trying to unite the kingdoms under his rule,” Mel began, his voice strained. “Amara told me he sent a spy to the Seven Sin Kingdoms. I don’t know how true it is, but I managed to steal these.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of documents, tossing them onto the floor.
One of the wardens moved to pick up a paper, but Mel raised his hand sharply, halting him. His eyes narrowed, his mistrust of the wardens evident. The warden hesitated, then stepped back with a respectful nod, understanding Mel’s caution.
King Aldara stepped forward, his expression dark as he bent down and picked up the papers. He scanned them quickly, his brow furrowing deeper with every line. Then, without warning, he tore the documents in half.
“What are you doing?!” Mel demanded, his voice sharp with confusion and anger.
Aldara walked to the fireplace and tossed the shredded pages into the flames. As the fire consumed them, he turned back to the group, his expression unreadable. “Those documents are fake,” he stated coldly. “I won’t have you wasting your time on Dorian or the sins anymore.”
Mel’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? Fake or not, we need to be prepared—”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Aldara interrupted, his tone turning harsh. “I forbid it. If I hear any of you speaking about Dorian or the sins again, I will consider it treason.”
The group stared at him in stunned silence. Aldara’s sudden shift was jarring, his previously steadfast demeanor replaced by something colder, almost threatening.
“You’re all students,” he continued, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Focus on getting ready for school. That’s an order.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing behind him with a sharp click.
“Might as well just get ready for the new year I guess.” Mel sighed and the rest of them nodded.
Seven months later on August 12th, the Auroria Dominion buzzed with life as crowds gathered for the start of the new school year. Students stepped out of their carriages, clutching bags and enrollment papers, their faces alight with anticipation and nerves. The air was filled with the chatter of excited voices and the sound of wheels rolling over cobblestone streets.
A group of students stood near the grand gates of the Arcanum Royal Institute, their eyes fixed on the towering silver spires and intricate amethyst banners fluttering in the breeze.
“I heard the Sky Jousting team’s doing trials right away this year,” a boy said, tilting his head back to catch a glimpse of a rider soaring through the air on a glimmering winged steed.
“Of course they are,” his friend replied, tightening the straps of her armored gauntlet. “Auroria’s hosting the Dominion Cup this season. They need the best of the best.”
“Better hope you’ve been practicing. If you can’t hold your lance steady, they’ll drop you like last year’s rookies,” a passing senior scoffed, their white card gleaming in the sunlight.
Nearby, a group of younger students stood huddled around a schedule board mounted on a polished stone pillar.
“Introductory Sword Techniques in the Obsidian Arena,” one girl read aloud, her voice tinged with awe. “That’s where the Wardens trained during the Border Wars.”
“Wait, the Obsidian Arena? My older brother said they make you spar against upperclassmen there!” her friend exclaimed, clutching his wooden practice sword.
“I thought it was just drills. Nobody said anything about fighting already!”
A merchant by the gates was peddling steel-polished scabbards and reinforced gloves.
“Protective gear, five Knightcoins! High-quality greaves, ten Knightcoins! Last chance before classes start!”
A burly student stopped to examine a leather-bound training manual on the stall.
“Ten Knightcoins for this?” he grumbled.
“Better to pay up than risk getting chewed out by a Warden for improper stance,” the merchant replied with a knowing grin.
Two Wardens, clad in their black-and-silver uniforms, stood off to the side, observing the chaos with stoic expressions.
“Look at them,” one said, folding their arms. “Half of them couldn’t tell a longsword from a halberd.”
“Give it time,” the other replied with a smirk. “The Obsidian Arena has a way of separating the worthy from the reckless. It’s always entertaining, though.”
As the sun climbed higher, a student wearing a Prefect badge stepped forward, clapping their hands to draw attention.
“First years, gather up! Orientation starts in ten minutes in the Amethyst Hall. Keep your swords sheathed and follow me—no dueling until after the safety briefing!”
The crowd shifted and swelled as the first-year students filed through the gates, some eager, others apprehensive, all of them stepping into a world of discipline and ambition. For many, this was the start of their journey toward glory—or the first stumble into the challenges ahead.
“What do you care about dueling anyway?” a boy muttered, his tone more curious than dismissive as he adjusted the strap of his satchel. “That’s a red card thing—royalty and elites. Us yellow cards? We’re better off sticking to technological studies.”
The boy wasn’t mocking, just stating what he saw as plain fact, but his words drew a mix of reactions from his two companions.
One of the nerdy boys, thin and bespectacled, nodded timidly as they began ascending the marble staircase to the first-year classrooms. “You’re right,” he agreed, clutching a notebook so tightly his knuckles whitened. “It’s not like we’ll ever see a real duel anyway. They keep all the exciting stuff in the higher tiers.”
The third boy, stockier with an eager glint in his eye, wasn’t so quick to agree. “Yeah, but still, wouldn’t it be cool to at least try? I mean, imagine—parrying a strike, making a counter, feeling the clash of steel. That’s something tech studies can’t give you.” He gestured animatedly as they climbed, nearly bumping into another student.
The first boy shrugged, smirking slightly. “Sure, it sounds fun until a Warden yells at you for holding your sword wrong. I’ll take tinkering with skyship schematics over that any day.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a sparking mechanism nearby. A group of students crowded around a display in the corridor, where a yellow card student demonstrated a miniature automaton armed with a retractable blade.
“See?” the first boy said, pointing to the display. “This is where we shine. Who needs swordplay when you can build something that fights for you?”
The bespectacled boy hesitated, glancing back at the sparring dummies visible through an open archway leading to the Obsidian Arena. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “There’s something about the old ways… the tradition of it all. Maybe there’s a reason the reds still hold onto dueling. It’s not just about fighting—it’s about proving yourself.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the first boy replied, though his tone carried skepticism. “But I’d rather prove myself with my brain than risk a broken nose.”
They passed a Warden standing watch near the stairwell, who raised an eyebrow at their debate but said nothing. Around them, the corridors were alive with similar conversations, each reflecting the students' diverse ambitions and doubts.
As they reached the second-floor landing, the stockier boy glanced out a window overlooking the courtyard, where older students in crimson and silver uniforms practiced Sky Jousting drills. He grinned. “One day, though… I’ll try it. Not because I’m royal or anything, but because I want to see if I can.”
His companions exchanged skeptical looks but didn’t argue. The halls of Arcanum Royal Institute were full of dreamers, after all, and stranger ambitions had come true.
They passed another room, where eighteen freshman black cards sat, their faces a mix of determination and anticipation. A boy, wearing a mischievous grin, leaned toward his companions, draping an arm over their shoulders as they peered inside. “Now that’s where the real magic happens, fellas,” he said, giving them a knowing wink.
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The tour guide, a tall figure with a stern yet friendly demeanor, gestured toward the room. “This is where the black card orientation takes place,” he explained. “They’ll undergo a rigorous physical test. You all have white and yellow cards, so you’re here for the tour. But those in red and black? They have to prove themselves before they’re officially inducted.”
One of the nerdier boys raised his hand, his voice a little hesitant. “Uh, what happens if they fail the test?”
The tour guide smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “If they fail the physical test, they end up in tier one of the black cards,” he explained. “There are three tiers. Tier one for those who fail the test entirely. Tier two for those who pass the physical test but lose their sparring match. And tier three, of course, is for those who pass both the test and the sparring match with flying colors.”
The group of students, most of them white and yellow cards, exchanged glances. It was clear that the prospect of such high stakes created a palpable sense of respect for those who had earned their way to the black card ranks.
One of the girls, wide-eyed with curiosity, spoke up. “So, if you make it to tier three... what happens then? What do they do with you?”
The tour guide paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Tier three students are trained for the highest level of responsibility here at the Institute,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “They often become leaders in their respective fields—whether that’s in swordsmanship, diplomacy, or even the royal forces. Black cards are never just students. They’re the future of the Dominion.”
As they continued down the hall, the weight of the tour guide’s words hung in the air, reminding them of the high stakes and the fierce competition they would face, even as mere newcomers to the sprawling school.
“So, classes start after this, right? And it’s just freshmen in the school today? That sucks,” a boy muttered under his breath.
His friend furrowed his brow in confusion. “Why does that suck?” he asked.
The boy sighed dramatically. “Don’t you know? The last freshman class, along with Lance, saved Auroria. Aren’t you at least a little curious about what they’re like? I mean, come on, we’re talking about the Merlin’s son, fresh out of Caldara Bastille. Or Arthur Pendragon’s daughter—absolute legends in the making! And then there’s—” He paused, catching himself mid-sentence. “Oh, wait. Never mind. Forget it.”
The friend tilted his head, intrigued. “What? Who else?”
The boy looked around nervously, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I was about to say Dorian Dracula, but, well… you know.” He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder as if the mere mention of the name could summon trouble. “Not exactly treason to say it, but let’s not test our luck.”
The friend’s eyes widened. “Right. Him. Yeah, better not.”
The conversation ended as they fell in line with the others, their voices dropping into hushed murmurs, the weight of the names they’d mentioned adding an extra layer of mystery and reverence to the stories of those who came before them.
“Where’s Lance, anyway?” a girl asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and disdain as the tour group moved through another wide corridor adorned with gleaming suits of armor and portraits of past Aurorian champions.
A boy nearby snorted. “That dumbass? Heard Princess Rue wrote him a letter of recommendation so he could join the red cards, even though he’s not royalty.”
The group exchanged glances, a ripple of surprise and murmurs spreading among them.
“Wait, seriously?” another girl chimed in. “How’d he even pull that off? He’s not a royal, and the red cards are for the elite.”
“Yeah, well,” the boy replied, shrugging, “anyone else notice how much buffer he got? Dude came in with no magic, no lineage, and somehow he’s sparring with royalty now. Princess Rue must’ve really liked him.”
The guide, overhearing the chatter, turned around with a smirk. “Lance Landthug, huh? He’s a bit of an outlier, sure, but if you’ve got guts and someone like Princess Rue backing you, you can make it to the red cards. Just don’t expect the same treatment unless you plan on impressing some high-level connections.”
As they continued down the hall, the tour guide gestured toward a set of grand wooden doors carved with intricate depictions of knights in battle. “This is the Red Hall, where the red cards train. You won’t be going in here unless you’re part of that circle—or unless they invite you for sparring practice. Good luck with that.”
The group peered inside through the small windows in the doors. Red-card students sparred fiercely on polished marble floors, their movements sharp and precise, the sound of clashing weapons ringing through the air. Some practiced in pairs, while others demonstrated advanced techniques under the watchful eyes of stern wardens.
“Looks intense,” one boy muttered, stepping back from the window.
“That’s because it is,” the guide replied with a grin. “They’re not just training for duels or tests—they’re preparing to lead armies, negotiate with other kingdoms, and defend the Auroria Dominion if necessary. Red cards have a lot to prove.”
They moved on, passing through a courtyard where students practiced sky jousting. Riders soared through the air on mechanical mounts powered by glowing blue crystals, lances gleaming in the sunlight.
“This is the Sky Arena,” the guide announced. “Sky jousting is one of the most prestigious sports here, blending aerial agility and combat skill. If you’re into speed and precision, this might be your calling. Just make sure you’re not afraid of heights—or falling.”
The group paused to watch a heated match. One rider narrowly dodged an opponent’s strike, spinning their mount in a daring maneuver before countering with a perfect hit that sent their opponent tumbling into the safety nets below.
“Whoa!” someone exclaimed.
“Yeah,” the guide said, smirking, “it’s as dangerous as it looks, but the glory’s worth it. Maybe you’ll see Lance out here one day—if he survives the red cards, that is.”
The group laughed nervously, their imaginations now filled with visions of future battles, intense training, and the challenges that awaited them in the Auroria Dominion.
As they passed the Red Hall, a commotion drew the group’s attention. Through the tall, arched windows of the room, they saw a boy get slammed into the wall with a bone-rattling thud.
Several kids in the tour group paused, peering inside. Their eyes widened as they took in the figure at the center of the chaos—Lance Landthug. Tall and broad-shouldered, his uniform was worn with a rebellious flair, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened, giving him the look of a street-smart fighter. But his expression was anything but casual; his face was set with an intense seriousness that silenced any whispers about his unorthodox style.
A younger red-card student, clearly outmatched but determined, rushed at Lance with everything he had. Lance moved like a storm, his footwork smooth and calculated. In a blur, he unleashed a hidden cloud kick, the motion almost imperceptible until it connected.
The impact was explosive. The unfortunate boy was launched backward, skidding across the polished floor before coming to a stop against the far wall. Gasps escaped the group watching from the hallway.
“Whoa,” one of the kids murmured, unable to look away.
“Is that Lance?” another whispered.
“Yeah, that’s him,” a third replied. “No wonder he got into the red cards. He doesn’t just fight—he dominates.”
Inside the room, Lance lowered his leg, his gaze never leaving his downed opponent. “If you can’t defend against something you can’t see,” he said coolly, “you’re not ready to spar with me.”
The defeated boy groaned in acknowledgment, struggling to sit up. Lance reached out a hand to help him, his serious demeanor softening just slightly.
“Is he teaching or just showing off?” one of the tour group kids asked, earning a chuckle from their guide.
“Welcome to the red cards,” the guide said with a smirk. “That’s the kind of grit and power they expect in here. And if you’re wondering, Lance didn’t get here by luck—he earned every bit of his place.”
The group moved on, but more than a few glanced back at the scene, the raw energy and skill of the red cards leaving a lasting impression.
“How do you know so much about all this?” one of the boys in the group asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
The tour guide chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. With a casual motion, he slipped off his jacket, revealing scaly arms and wings that unfurled slightly behind him. Gasps rippled through the group as his true identity dawned on them.
“Because I’ve been where you are,” he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I attended this school.”
The murmurs among the students turned into an excited buzz.
“Wait a second,” one of them whispered, eyes widening. “That’s Draven!”
“Draven?” another repeated, stunned. “The guy who took down the Jester Man in his junior year?”
“And didn’t he help Melanthius and the other freshmen fight the wardens and Jester during senior year?” someone else added, their voice hushed as though speaking of a legend.
Draven raised an eyebrow, his wings twitching slightly. “Looks like my reputation precedes me,” he said with a wry grin. “Yes, that’s me. But let’s not dwell too much on the past. I’m here as a staff now—or, if you prefer, ‘big bro,’” he added with a smirk.
Some of the students chuckled nervously, unsure if he was joking or serious.
“Alright,” Draven continued, his tone shifting back to business. “This is the last stop on the tour. From here, you’ll head to the grand cafeteria, where you’ll wait until the black cards and red cards finish their orientation.” He gestured for them to move on, and the students began dispersing toward the cafeteria.
Inside the enormous dining hall, students gravitated toward tables, their chatter filling the air. The long rows of polished wooden tables gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted crystal chandeliers, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the space.
A boy with messy auburn hair and a bright yellow card hanging from his neck strolled confidently toward a table where a few kids were sitting. “Yo, guys,” he greeted, plopping down with a grin. “I’m Miles Jordan, from Maple Leaf Academy in Timberhand. I came here on recommendation after winning my region’s robot fighting championship.” He leaned back, clearly proud of himself.
A girl with dark braids tied back into a ponytail raised an eyebrow at him. “Robot fighting? Sounds intense. I’m Kari Tormund,” she said, adjusting her yellow card badge. “From Sunspire Prep in Goldenfields. I’m here because I’m the best aerial swordswoman in my district.” She crossed her arms, a confident smile playing on her lips.
At the same table, a lanky boy with glasses hesitated before speaking. “Uh, I’m Theo Wren,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I transferred from Ironwood Middle in Solstice City. My thing’s...well, sky jousting. Not the most popular sport, but I’ve got a few wins under my belt.”
Kari’s eyes lit up. “Sky jousting? That’s actually pretty cool. I’ve been wanting to try it—might even beat you at it.”
Theo adjusted his glasses, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I’d like to see you try.”
Miles grinned at the growing camaraderie. “Looks like we’ve got some talent here. Maybe us yellow cards aren’t just ‘tech kids’ after all.”
At another end of the table, a girl sat quietly, her uniform—a neat purple plaid skirt paired with a snug sweater—perfectly in place despite her slouched posture. She glanced around cautiously, trying to avoid attention, but it didn’t work.
A boy swaggered over, his tray in hand, a mean smirk plastered across his face. Without warning, he tilted his bowl of soup over her head, the steaming liquid dripping down her hair and onto her sweater. “Hey, Anita,” he sneered. “Still sitting here like a loser, huh?”
The boy casually tossed the now-empty tray to the floor, his laughter echoing through the cafeteria. Anita sat frozen for a moment before sighing, her hands reaching for a napkin to dab at the mess.
“I thought this year you might finally stand up to me. Guess I was wrong,” the boy taunted, leaning in closer as he chuckled at his own cruel joke.
Anita’s fingers tightened around the edge of her skirt, her shoulders trembling—not with fear, but with barely contained anger. She shot up from her seat, her eyes blazing with fury.
“Oh, I’ll stand up alright,” she snapped, her voice ringing out across the cafeteria. “Because Melanthius Shadowbane is a good friend of mine! And when he finds out you’ve been doing this to me, he’s going to kick your sorry ass straight into oblivion!”
The entire cafeteria fell silent, her outburst reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Heads turned toward her, and even the bullies froze, their smug expressions faltering.
The boy opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, glancing nervously around as murmurs of “Did she just say Melanthius?” and “She knows him?” rippled through the crowd.
Anita, still standing tall despite the soup dripping from her hair, met his gaze with a fierce determination. For the first time, it was the bully who looked unsure.