“We are not going to grovel at the doorstep of their house, child,” Lady Anisia said sharply, her cane tapping against the cobblestone road with measured precision.
The wealthier part of Zamzul was quiet now, the bustle of the day fading into a twilight hush. Flickering fae lights hovered above the street, casting pools of shifting color onto the stone below—soft greens, cool blues, and warm ambers that danced in the evening sun. Apart from an occasional sentry bearing Imperial emblems, the district was silent apart from the hum of the artificial illumination systems.
Mikhil walked a step behind her, hands stuffed into his pockets, his steps uneven as his bare foot slapped faintly against the wet cobblestones, the sound irritatingly loud in the stillness of the evening. His missing shoe—the only casualty of this morning’s skirmish—had been gifted to the Head Lectern, but the damp, sticky dirt clinging to his sole refused to let him forget.
“That bridge burned when you reduced the number of teeth Karl had,” Lady Anisia continued, Her cane clicking against the stones in a steady rhythm as she walked. “We may have been able to strike a one-sided deal with that fat Balgrodov, Algrod, to allow your admission into the Academy, but now? The Navkans will make sure he refuses. They’ll put more than enough pressure on that hog to ensure you never set foot in it.”
Mikhil grunted, his lips curling into a faint sneer as he glanced down at his mud-caked foot. Hobbling on one leg, he scraped the wet dirt against the edge of a raised stone, but it only smeared further across his sole. After a while, with a frustrated sigh, he gave up and accepted the muddy fate of his bare foot.
“Why is this Imperial Academy so important, anyway?” he muttered, kicking a loose stone with deliberate aim.
The pebble struck the metal grates of a wrought-iron fence with a sharp clang, ricocheting once before tumbling into the perfectly trimmed grass of a minor manor’s garden. Banners depicting a silver oak on a green background hung limply from the fence, marking the estate as belonging to one of the smaller families—one whose name Mikhil didn’t bother to know, nor care to. A small, satisfied grin swept across his still somewhat swollen face as his rock found its mark.
Mikhil straightened, brushing his hands against his shirt as if dusting off the moment. When he looked back, Lady Anisia was still watching, leaning lightly on her cane. She wasn’t looking at him anymore—her sharp eyes had settled on the innocent garden he’d just stoned.
“The Vohakli family. Some of the best gardeners I have seen. Their magi-horticulture is commendable, but influence? They’ve none to speak of—not even with three full seats in the Under-Council, and certainly not in the High one.”
She turned to Mikhil with a smile and a question.
“Why do you think that is?”
Mikhil shot a look at the Vohakli emblem on the banners, fluttering in the wind above an impressively well-kept greenery—especially remarkable in the middle of a bustling city.
“Because they’re gardeners?” Mikhil turned back to Anisia with a smirk.
Lady Anisia’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but it wasn’t one of approval. “You think their eukaryotic cultivation built them that estate? Paid for those banners? Secured their place in the Under-Council?”
Mikhil frowned, his hands slipping deeper into his pockets. “Didn’t it? I mean, if they’re the best at it, wouldn’t that be enough?”
Anisia tapped her cane sharply against the cobblestones, a low chuckle escaping her lips. “Being the best at something is useful. But power, Child, does not come from utility alone. It comes from relevance. It comes from positioning yourself where others have no choice but to depend on you.”
She raised her cane, pointing it at the silver oak emblazoned on one of the banners.
“When we see the silver oak, we don’t think, ‘Oh, it’s the Vohaklis.’ Instead, we ask ourselves who it even belongs to.” She let the words hang for a moment, her yellow eyes narrowing slightly. “The Vohaklis are skilled, yes, but they are gardeners in a world of hunters. They serve a purpose, but no one fears them. No one owes them. And no one knows them—at least, no one important.”
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She stepped closer to Mikhil and tapped the gryphon pinned to his chest with the head of her cane.
“But when our foes see the red gryphon of Talganreach,” she continued, her voice sharper now, “they know it’s the Opetlevs. They know our reputation—the blood we spilled, the deeds we committed. It means something to them.”
She tilted her head slightly and with a piercing whisper, she leaned in. “Reputation, Mikhil, is what separates us from the Vohaklis. It is what makes the gryphon feared, and the oak… forgotten.”
From the corner of his eye, Mikhil could see servants from a minor house passing across the street; whispering into each other while glaring at them with a recognizing fear across their face.
Lady Anisia lowered her cane, resting both hands on its gryphon head as she regarded Mikhil.
“And this, Child, is why the…” She sighed a bit before continuing. “The Grand Imperial Academy of Arts, War and Magic.. matters.”
Mikhil frowned. “You just said power doesn’t come from utility. Isn’t that all the Academy is? A place to learn spells and tactics so people like Karl can strut around pretending to matter?”
Anisia’s yellow eyes narrowed, glinting faintly under the shifting fae light. “If that’s all you think it is, then you’ve learned nothing.”
She straightened, her tone softening but no less firm. “The Academy is where power is born—not the kind you see on a battlefield, but the kind that shapes this empire. Every alliance that matters, every rivalry worth respecting, begins within those walls. It is where debts are made and favors owed. If you are not there, Mikhil, then you are nothing to them. Just another forgotten weed in someone else’s garden.”
She gestured at the banners again, the silver oak fluttering faintly in the evening breeze. “Do you want the Opetlev name to be one they see and remember, or one they overlook entirely?”
Mikhil’s gaze dropped to the red gryphon pinned to his chest, his jaw tightening. “So, what? I’m supposed to bow to them? Be like the Balgrodovs, licking the emperor’s boots and flashing finely crafted banners?”
Anisia’s lips curled faintly—not a smile, but something sharper. “No, Child. You are supposed to take their game and turn it against them. To make them fear the gryphon as they always have. And that begins with you walking through those gates, earning their grudging respect, and ensuring that they owe you.”
She tilted her head slightly, tapping her cane against the cobblestones. “Do you think your great-grandmother fought every battle, Child? While her husband’s specialty was the blood-soaked fields that allowed the Kyratins to take the throne, it was your great-grandmother who fought the battles that truly mattered. They were an upstart crime matron and a wronged officer turned mercenary—useful, yes, but unworthy in the eyes of those who mattered. Even if those indulgent Kyratins owed everything to us, they would never have raised us to aristocratic status if not for the seeds she planted. She made us relevant.”
Anisia leaned closer to Mikhil, her voice lowering. “For every skull my great-grandfather smashed in with a mace, she made a nobleman indebted to her. For every now-extinct House the gryphon tore apart, another simply changed its patriarchs with a few well-placed bribes and assassinations. The new management, of course, was kept in line with sweet lies and blood-stained deceptions. For every Imperial army shattered on our wall of pikes and shields, another was quietly raised for the new Empire, with enough important men loyal to us—or owing us.”
She straightened, her sharp gaze cutting through the stillness of the street. “And after all of that, after the blood we spilled and the webs we wove… they still did not raise us to the status of a true House.”
Anisia turned, her eyes shifting toward the distant Imperial capital. For a moment, her voice softened to a dangerous whisper. “For that slight, the gryphon will remember.”
She turned to Mikhil, her expression softening for just a moment, clasping a gloved hand on the right shoulder of the young Opetlev. “You, my magically gifted child from another mother, will bear our legacy—even if you are not of my blood. Circumstances have dictated that you will be our heir, and a good one at that. I will see to it.”
“Unlike most—if not all—of the other petty clans, families, or Houses in this Empire, we Opetlevs care little about the blood that runs through one’s veins. What matters is how much blood one is willing to spill for the Opetlev name.”
Her expression softened further, a rare warmth breaking through her otherwise steely demeanor. “You must bear this burden, Child, and step into the Academy. You will be the first Opetlev to enter those gilded halls and frolic with the children of dukes, princes, and barons. Let the sons and daughters of Houses and families alike come to know us—intimately. Learn their ambitions. Whisper in their ears. Leave them unable to forget the gryphon.”
She leaned closer, her voice quiet. “You will thank me for this, Mikhil, when you lead us.”
“Noted, Mom. No pressure,” Mikhil replied, with the faintest flicker of a smile tugged at his lips.
Lady Anisia raised an eyebrow, her own lips curling into a faint smile as she turned back and began walking again, her cane clicking lightly against the cobblestones. “Come, Child. The night approaches, and I would rather not trip on the sidewalk. I doubt even the magic of the best magi could salvage my dignity if I did.”