The next few days after our victory against Squad Three felt like walking a tightrope. The commoners’ quarters buzzed with whispered tales of our win, their pride almost tangible. Each passing glance from my peers held a newfound respect, even from those who had doubted us before. The quiet camaraderie of shared hardships began to shift into something more—a tentative belief that perhaps, just perhaps, we could achieve more than mere survival in this academy.

But where pride blossomed in the commoners’ quarters, resentment festered among the nobles.

Their stares had grown colder, their disdain sharper. Every step through the halls felt like walking into a silent battlefield. I overheard snatches of conversation—biting remarks about how "commoners were getting too bold for their station" or "a fluke doesn’t change their place in the world." Drelan’s humiliation had rippled through their tightly knit circle, and the nobles were determined to reassert their dominance.

I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen it before, in my past life. Power, when challenged, always lashes back harder. And yet, I refused to let it distract me.

The upcoming midterm evaluations loomed like an ominous specter over the academy. Whispers of their difficulty filled the air—physical tests that pushed bodies to the limit, tactical exams that required razor-sharp wit, and live combat scenarios designed to test more than just skill. While others fretted and speculated, I buried myself in preparation.

During the day, I refined my swordsmanship in the training yards, the feel of the blade becoming an extension of my will. At night, I combed through the academy’s library, studying tactical manuscripts and battle reports, searching for any advantage. The more I learned, the more pieces of this elaborate game began to fall into place.

It was during one of these late-night training sessions that things began to unravel.

The training grounds were eerily quiet, bathed in the faint glow of the moon. My blade sang through the air as I practiced drills, the rhythmic sound of steel cutting through the stillness. Footsteps approached, light but deliberate. I turned, half-expecting Lorian, but the figures emerging from the shadows were anything but friendly.

Three noble students stepped forward, their postures exuding arrogance. Their leader, a tall boy with blonde hair and a sneer that could cut glass, spoke first.

"Illiad, isn't it? The commoner with the big win," he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery.

I sheathed my sword and met his gaze evenly. "What do you want?"

He laughed, a hollow, humorless sound. "You think you’ve done something remarkable, don’t you? Beating Drelan? Humiliating one of us?"

"Us?" I echoed, my voice calm. "I wasn’t aware victory in training exercises was a matter of bloodlines."

His sneer deepened. "Everything here is about bloodlines, commoner. Your little victory? It upset the balance. People like you should know your place."

I stayed silent, letting his words hang in the air. Engaging with his provocations wouldn’t lead anywhere productive. Instead, I observed—the way his hand twitched near the hilt of his sword, the subtle shift in his companions' stances. This wasn’t a conversation; it was a prelude.

"You don’t belong here," he continued, his voice laced with malice. "And we’re going to remind you of that."

The first strike came without warning—a diagonal slash aimed to catch me off guard. But I wasn’t some green recruit. I sidestepped smoothly, drawing my blade in a single fluid motion. The clash of steel echoed in the night, sharp and resonant.

It was three against one, but I’d fought worse odds before.

Their attacks were coordinated but predictable, driven by ego rather than strategy. I used their overconfidence against them, baiting their strikes and exploiting their openings. Each parry and riposte was precise, calculated to conserve energy while wearing them down.

As the fight wore on, their frustration grew palpable. The blonde leader’s movements became sloppy, his strikes wild and desperate. I capitalized on his mistakes, disarming him with a sharp twist of my blade. He stumbled back, glaring at me with pure venom.

"Enough," I said coldly, leveling my sword at him. "If this is your idea of reminding me of my place, you’ve failed."

He spat on the ground, his pride clearly more wounded than his body. "This isn’t over, commoner. You’ll regret this."

They retreated into the shadows, their threats lingering in the air. I watched them go, my grip tightening on my sword. This wasn’t just a petty skirmish—it was a warning, a sign that the divide between us and them was about to deepen further.

As I returned to the dormitory, the echoes of the clash still ringing in my ears, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. The nobles wouldn’t let this go, and the midterms were fast approaching.

The storm was gathering. And I would be ready.

**

Unseen Threats

The dormitory buzzed with an undercurrent of tension in the days following my confrontation with the noble trio in the training grounds. I hadn’t spoken a word of the incident to anyone—not Lorian, not even to the commoners who had begun looking to me as some sort of quiet figurehead. I didn’t see the need to stoke the flames further, but the feeling of unease lingered like a shadow at my back.

The nobles were quiet. Too quiet.

In my past life, I’d learned that silence often masked preparation. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that the noble faction might be plotting their next move, though what form it would take remained a mystery. Their pride had taken a blow, and I doubted they would let the humiliation go unanswered.

For now, I busied myself with preparations for the midterm evaluations. The library became my haven, its dim candlelit halls offering a reprieve from the eyes that followed me through the academy. I immersed myself in tactical studies, poring over old battle reports and strategy manuals. Every detail, no matter how small, was a potential advantage.

But even in the sanctuary of the library, I couldn’t ignore the shifting atmosphere. Whispers trailed behind me as I moved between shelves, hushed voices cutting off the moment I came into view. Nobles would gather in corners, their gazes darting toward me before turning away, like conspirators caught mid-scheme. It was subtle, but the signs were there.

Then, small incidents began to occur.

It started with my training equipment. One morning, I found my practice blade missing, replaced with a poorly balanced, nearly useless replica. Another time, the straps on my sparring armor were mysteriously severed. These acts were meant to unnerve me, to throw me off balance.

I didn’t give them the satisfaction.

Replacing the equipment took time, yes, but that time was spent sharpening my resolve. I doubled my efforts, ensuring that any weakness they hoped to exploit would be covered.

But the most disturbing event came late one evening.

I had just finished another round of sword drills in the training grounds. The moon hung high, casting long shadows across the academy. As I made my way back to the dormitory, a sense of wrongness prickled at the back of my neck. I paused, scanning the empty courtyard, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

It wasn’t until I stepped inside the dormitory that I noticed the parchment slipped under my door.

The note was short, its message stark:

"Leave while you can. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed."

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the intent was clear. This wasn’t a warning born of concern—it was a threat.

I burned the note in the small brazier in my room, watching the flames consume the words. Whoever had written it underestimated me. I wasn’t some green recruit to be intimidated by empty threats. I’d faced worse dangers in my past life and emerged stronger.

The next morning, I gathered my thoughts while walking the academy grounds. If the nobles wanted to test me, I would let them. But I wouldn’t play their game by their rules.

The commoners had taken notice of the escalating tension, their wary glances betraying their concern. Lorian, ever perceptive, cornered me as I prepared for another session in the training yard.

"You’re planning something," he said, her tone light but his gaze serious.

I met his eyes and smirked faintly. "I’m always planning something."

His lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "You’re not going to tell me, are you?"

"No," I replied, gripping the hilt of my sword. "Not until I’m sure."

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

What I didn’t tell him was that I was already laying the groundwork to counter whatever the nobles were planning. I had started keeping track of their movements, piecing together patterns from their behavior and gathering small but critical details from overheard conversations.

The midterm evaluations were fast approaching, and I had no doubt they would use the event as a stage for their retribution. They wanted to prove that commoners didn’t belong here, to humiliate me publicly and restore the "natural order."

But if they thought they could break me, they would soon learn just how wrong they were.

Unseen threats loomed, but I would not be caught unprepared. Every step I took, every choice I made, was part of a larger plan—a plan to not only endure but to triumph. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about sending a message.

The game had begun in earnest, and I intended to win.

**

Hand Revealed

The air around the training grounds was cold, the late-night silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. My muscles burned from the relentless training, but I pushed myself, each strike and parry a testament to my determination. The moon hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows that flickered like specters across the stone walls of the academy's courtyard. It was in that uneasy stillness that I felt the shift, the subtle change that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

A moment later, the quiet was shattered by the sudden rush of movement. I caught the blur of motion in my peripheral vision just as the first strike came—a sharp jab aimed at my ribs. Pain flared as it connected, sending a jolt through my body. I staggered, my sword slipping in my grasp, but I quickly corrected my stance. I pivoted, eyes narrowing as I took in the figure before me.

It looks like Lorian. The wiry boy I’d sparred with countless times, the one who had been at my side, the one who had smirked and joked about how serious I always was. His dark eyes were narrowed, full of something I had never seen before: cold, controlled malice.

But this was no friendly sparring session. The way he moved, precise and relentless, was unlike anything I had seen in our previous matches. Each strike, a calculated maneuver meant to test my limits, wear me down, and break my guard. My instincts screamed that this was more than just training, that this was a battle for survival.

“Lorian! What’s going on?” I demanded, parrying another flurry of blows. My muscles ached, sweat streamed down my face, but I stood my ground.

He didn’t answer. His strikes became faster, almost feral, as though he was testing some hidden limit within me. And then it hit me—the familiarity of his movements. It wasn’t Lorian. It couldn’t be. This was deliberate. The way he shifted his weight, the way his feet glided across the stones with a predator’s poise—it was too perfect, too controlled.

The final blow came in a whirl, a feint that left an opening at my side. I was ready, anticipating a frontal strike, but the attack was a swift sidestep that exposed my vulnerable left side. I felt the cold edge of something sharp press against my skin, not enough to cut but enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“Enough,” I said, voice tight with barely contained rage. The figure in front of me paused, the moonlight catching the glint of the eyes I knew all too well. There was no mistake now. The eyes that had looked at me in friendship, the eyes I’d seen when we trained, were now hardened and filled with a smoldering intensity.

“Veylor,” I whispered, a name that tasted like venom.

The attack stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The figure stepped back, and I finally saw him without the shroud of doubt clouding my vision. It was Veylor Rithane, the heir to House Rithane, his presence here a dark confirmation of my suspicions.

The nobles, with their cold glares and quiet whispers, had taken things too far. This was no ordinary test; this was a message, a declaration that I was a threat that needed to be silenced before I could gain any ground. My fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword, and the fury that had been simmering inside me burst into a flame. I hadn’t realized how deep the roots of this betrayal went until now.

A smirk curled on Veylor’s lips, one that was both knowing and cruel. His gaze locked with mine, a challenge hanging heavy in the air between us. The way he carried himself, poised and commanding, spoke of authority and unyielding confidence. He knew he had power here. And he intended to remind me that the cycle of oppression was far from over.

“I’d advise you to rest, Illiad,” Veylor said, his voice calm, almost mocking. “You’ll need it for what comes next.”

I stood there, body quivering with exertion and rage. The cold realization hit me like a fist to the chest: this was just the beginning. The heir to House Rithane had marked me, and his game had only just started. And I knew one thing with certainty—I would no longer play by his rules.

**

Shocked and Resolute

The cold moon glared down at us as I stood there, panting, with the echoes of our clash still ringing in my ears. Veylor’s presence sent a chill racing down my spine, an unspoken warning that reverberated deep in my bones. The stinging pain in my side from his calculated attack throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the shock that buzzed in my veins. For years, I had studied and prepared, expecting betrayal, yet never in my life had I anticipated it would come from him.

The air between us seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken truths and a tension that could snap at any moment. Veylor’s expression was a carefully constructed mask—smooth and unreadable—but the glint in his eyes told me more than words ever could. The young heir to House Rithane had orchestrated this, every movement, every shadowed plot designed to push me back, to remind me of my place. The realization sank in, sharp and bitter. He was behind the whispers in the hallways, the unprovoked taunts, the silent glares from noble students that had made life at the academy tense and grueling.

“Why?” I forced the word out, my voice cracked and strained, unable to mask the fury churning inside me. “Why me? What do you stand to gain from this?”

Veylor’s smirk deepened, his posture casual, as if we were discussing the weather and not the hidden battles we now found ourselves entangled in. “You’re a threat, Illiad,” he said, the words laced with an icy confidence. “A commoner who dares to challenge the status quo, who dares to show that power isn’t reserved for those of noble blood. That’s not something I can allow.”

The weight of his words pressed down on me, making my chest tighten. I had suspected that the whispers of resentment among the nobles were more than just idle chatter, but hearing it confirmed, spoken in such a blatant tone, made my heart pound with a mix of indignation and dread. This was bigger than petty rivalries; this was the very essence of the power struggle that defined Valtheris. And Veylor Rithane, heir to the house that had always stood at the pinnacle, was the one wielding that power against me.

“But this is only the beginning,” Veylor continued, taking a step closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “The academy is a stage, Illiad, and you’re playing your part beautifully. But remember, the higher you rise, the harder the fall. You have no idea what it means to truly be at the mercy of those who rule.”

I met his gaze, refusing to show weakness. The anger that had simmered within me was now a roaring flame, stoked by his words and the knowledge of the man behind them. He had shown me his hand, and though the sting of betrayal bit deep, it ignited a resolve I hadn’t known I possessed.

“I’ll take that challenge,” I said, the words steady, a vow spoken more to myself than to him. “And when the time comes, you’ll learn just how wrong you are about me.”

For the briefest moment, Veylor’s eyes flickered, the faintest trace of surprise, before he masked it with an indifferent smile. “We’ll see, Illiad,” he said, turning away with a fluid grace. “We’ll see.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, I felt the weight of the night settle over me once more. The air was still, but it was charged with the promise of what was to come. The storm I had feared was here at last, and I had no choice but to stand firm against it. No longer would I merely survive in this world; I would fight to rise, to claim my place and take back control. Veylor’s declaration was clear—he would try to break me, to bend me to his will. But he had underestimated me. And that mistake would be his greatest downfall.

**

The Bloom of Opportunity

The streets of Qalbargh were alive with the usual hum of activity as I made my way toward the Grant General Store. The market was bustling with merchants hawking their wares, children darting between legs, and townsfolk haggling over prices. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed since I first set foot in this city, yet everything was different now. My days at the academy were a storm of training and strategy, but the weekends were my time to catch my breath and touch base with Tessara and her family. The brief respite was grounding, reminding me that I still had ties beyond the academy’s walls.

The morning sun cast golden light across the cobblestones as I made my way down the bustling streets toward the Grant General Store. The city was alive with the sounds of vendors calling out their wares and children chasing one another through the throng. The weight of the week’s events pressed on me, but the familiar sight of the store, with its wooden sign creaking in the breeze, brought a sense of comfort I couldn’t quite explain.

As I stepped inside, the warm, herbal scent of dried flowers and incense enveloped me. Tessara was at the counter, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. I noticed her smile was a little brighter, her posture more confident. The changes in her were subtle but undeniable. I couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride—she was resilient, more so than even I had expected.

“Morning, Illiad,” she greeted, her voice bright. She glanced past me, out the window, and then back with a hint of mischief. “You’re just in time for our special delivery.”

I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Special delivery?” I repeated, taking in the shelves lined with various jars and vials. The Giba Flowers I’d told her about were now prominently displayed in a small glass case, their purple hue glistening under the sunlight streaming through the window. It was a sign of hope, or at least a shift, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anticipation.

“Yes, a shipment came in early today,” Tessara explained, setting a small pouch of dried flowers on the counter. “The word’s starting to spread that we’ve got the most potent Giba in the city. We’ve already had buyers interested in bulk orders.”

A wave of relief washed over me. The initial warning I’d given her had been worth it. If the flowers were gaining traction, then her family’s fortunes might shift. But my eyes narrowed as I remembered the implications of this. The surge of interest would draw attention, and that attention might not be all good. The whispers about House Rithane, and the sheer lengths they’d go to maintain control, came back to me. I had to ensure Tessara’s safety—if she knew the true value of the Giba Flowers, then so did others who’d be willing to strike.

“How’s business otherwise?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the tension that had started tightening in my chest.

Tessara’s smile faded a little, her brow furrowing as she glanced at the door, a nervous tic that I had come to recognize. “Better,” she admitted. “But not without its challenges. There’s talk of rivals—whispers of sabotage and espionage.”

My gut clenched. I knew this was only the beginning. The pieces were in place now; the threats were no longer subtle. If House Rithane was involved, their ambitions would only grow as they saw an opportunity for control. The Giba Flowers could be the leverage they needed to destabilize the balance in the city. I had to act fast, but not recklessly. A plan needed to be made.

I pushed the thoughts aside, forcing myself to smile. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re doing well. That’s what matters.”

Tessara's eyes met mine, her expression softening. “Thanks, Illiad. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

Her words stung in a way I hadn’t expected, but I kept the smile steady. “You’re stronger than you think, Tessara. And I’ll be here to help you keep it that way.”

Her smile returned, brighter than before. But there was something in the way she looked at me that told me she knew. She knew that trouble was brewing, and that no amount of flowers or profits would be enough to keep it at bay. It was a moment of unspoken understanding between us, the kind that said we were both bracing for what was to come.

As I left the store later that day, the sun had started its descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the cobblestones. The streets were quieter now, as if the city itself sensed the growing storm. The Giba Flowers were in bloom, but so were the stakes. And as I made my way back to the academy, I felt the burden of the upcoming battle settle on my shoulders, heavier than any sparring match or exam. This was more than a fight for recognition—it was a battle for survival. And I would not lose.