The days following the events at the academy were marked by a tense, almost palpable atmosphere. Illiad’s small victory against the nobles and his role in helping Tessara’s family begin their recovery had shifted the balance, if only slightly. Rumors started spreading among the commoners, tales of defiance and whispers of new alliances. The heat between the noble and commoner students grew more intense, with open confrontations becoming more common.
But it wasn’t just the training grounds that felt strained. The academy’s corridors and courtyards were starting to take on an air of suspicion. And with the promise of midterm evaluations looming like a storm cloud, the pressure on every student was growing. Illiad could see it in their eyes—the mix of determination and fear. And as he moved through the campus, he noticed that some nobles seemed to keep a sharp watch on him, their expressions unreadable, but their attention unmistakable.
**
The Meeting in the Shadows
The night air was cool, with a biting breeze that carried the scent of rain. The moon, half-hidden by drifting clouds, cast pale, shifting light across the cobbled paths and ivy-laden walls of the east wing. Illiad had taken a route he knew well, one that avoided the main halls and the watchful eyes of patrolling cadets. His steps were steady but quiet, each one pressed into the stone with practiced control. He was moving with purpose, driven by a mix of urgency and the fear that if he failed, more than just his reputation would be at risk.
As he approached the old training yard, a narrow passage cut between the main academy buildings, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was a small, unnerving sense that prickled at the back of his neck. He paused for a moment, listening. The wind ruffled the fallen leaves, and somewhere, distant voices carried faintly on the breeze. But otherwise, there was silence.
Illiad found Lorian already waiting, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the towering stone arch that framed the entrance to the yard. The boy’s dark eyes were alert, darting from shadow to shadow, his stance tense.
“Did you see them?” Illiad asked quietly, glancing around.
Lorian nodded sharply. “They’re here. And I don’t think they know we’re watching.”
Illiad followed his gaze to the yard’s center. It was a place where training routines and sparring sessions were usually held—now the scent of sweat and effort was replaced by the metallic bite of tension. Torchlight flickered against the stone, casting long, shifting shapes that seemed to breathe with the wind. Cadets from both noble and commoner ranks had gathered, their figures cloaked in shadows, their faces obscured by the dull glow of the torches.
At the heart of the gathering, Cedrin Rithane stood as if he were an embodiment of power. Tall and lean, his presence commanded the attention of all. His voice, rich and authoritative, boomed through the yard, cutting the air like a blade.
“Enough games,” Cedrin said, his voice deep and resonant. He raised a gloved hand, silencing murmurs and shifting bodies. “The time has come to remind them that the true order must be upheld.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but it was Veylor’s voice that drew Illiad’s attention. His expression carefully crafted to mask any hint of emotion, yet his eyes glittered with something Illiad recognized—a mix of arrogance and calculated ambition. The heir to House Rithane seemed to revel in the power of the moment, leaning forward with the confident poise of a predator surveying its prey.
The group around them was a mix of senior cadets, older students who bore the distinct insignia of noble houses and those who served as their subordinates. It was clear that whatever was about to unfold, it was going to be orchestrated with the precision of a maestro. Illiad’s chest tightened, the weight of his breath pressing into his ribs. The stakes were higher than he had ever imagined. This wasn’t just about winning in the training yard anymore; this was the line between standing strong and falling into the shadow of the Rithane influence.
“Do you know what they’re planning?” Lorian’s voice snapped Illiad back to the present. His friend was watching him closely, searching his face for answers.
Illiad didn’t answer immediately. His mind was racing. If Veylor Rithane had convened this group, it was more than just a show of force; it was a direct threat. This was where the real game began, where the silent struggle for power and influence bled into the lives of those who dared to challenge the status quo.
“They’re organizing a strike,” Illiad said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, but the resolve was there. “Not just against us, but against anyone who threatens their hold.”
He looked at Lorian and saw the tension in his posture, the way his fingers curled into tight fists. “And we need to be ready,” Illiad continued. The words hung between them, a promise more than a plan. It was the first step in their response—a warning that the fight for equality, for freedom from House Rithane’s suffocating reach, was about to get a lot more dangerous.
As the meeting broke up, the noble cadets dispersed, their laughter cold and hollow, full of the certainty that they were untouchable. But Illiad didn’t flinch. He knew now that this was the true beginning. They had forced his hand, but he would be ready, ready to strike back with everything he had.
With one last look at the retreating figures, Illiad turned to Lorian, who nodded grimly. The lines were drawn, and it was no longer a question of survival. It was a fight for something much bigger—something worth risking everything for.
**
Preparing for the Unknown
Illiad’s mind was a storm of thought, a whirlpool of strategy and instincts that had been honed through years of training and preparation. The next few days blurred into a mix of sleepless nights and relentless practice. He was no stranger to the feeling of being hunted, but now the hunter had taken on a new, more terrifying form. House Rithane's influence was not just an abstract concept; it was real, tangible, and poised to engulf them all if they weren’t careful. Illiad knew he had to be more than just ready; he had to be exceptional.
He spent his days in the academy, training in the practice yard and reviewing every tactical text he could find in the library’s archives. Lieutenant Garven’s lessons took on new importance, and Illiad dissected each word, each strategy, with the precision of a craftsman. The midterm evaluations loomed on the horizon, but they were no longer his primary concern. His focus had shifted. He had to prepare not just for tests and competitions, but for a confrontation that could change everything.
Lorian noticed the shift in him. The playful banter that once came easily between them was now strained, replaced with terse nods and brief exchanges. It wasn’t that Illiad had abandoned his friend; he was just lost in thought, spending more time with a map of Valtheris and the surrounding regions spread out in his bunk. He traced routes and noted strongholds, key locations, and potential safe havens. Every detail mattered now.
One evening, as dusk bled into the darkened sky, Illiad was in the training yard, alone but for the distant figures of cadets sparring in the dim torchlight. The air was damp with the scent of moss and earth. His muscles ached from the day’s workout, but he pushed himself further, practicing footwork and the precise movements of his blade until sweat dripped from his brow.
“Taking your training a bit too seriously, aren’t you?” Lorian's voice called out from the shadows. He had appeared with a practiced nonchalance, arms crossed and eyes glinting with both amusement and concern.
Illiad didn't turn, but he let out a breath, half a smile tugging at his lips. “You know how it is. If I’m not ready for whatever comes next, then I’m not worth the space I take up here.”
Lorian sighed and stepped into the torchlight, the orange glow illuminating his sharp features. “I get it, but you don’t have to do this alone. We’re in this together.”
There was truth in those words that cut deep, and Illiad’s chest tightened. The bond they shared was fragile, held together by the understanding that they were both more than they seemed. Illiad finally turned, meeting Lorian’s gaze.
“I know. And I don’t plan to do it alone,” Illiad said, voice rough but sincere. “But when the time comes, we need to be ready for anything. The more prepared we are, the better our chances.”
Lorian nodded, a shadow of determination flickering in his eyes. “We’ll face it together. You have my word.”
That night, as the moon rose high and the wind picked up with a whistling chill, Illiad took his last look at the training yard. The uncertainty of what was coming weighed heavily on him, but beneath the storm of apprehension, there was resolve. He was no longer just a commoner trying to survive in an academy full of noble pretensions. He was a force taking shape, a figure emerging from the shadows of his past and present to face a future that promised no mercy.
And in that moment, he vowed that no matter what House Rithane had in store, he would be ready—not just to survive, but to fight and win.
**
Trials of the Mind
The written exams loomed closer with every passing day, casting a shadow of unease over the academy. Anxiety crept into every corner of the commoners' quarters, like an invisible weight pressing on their spirits. Whispers began to swirl, hushed but urgent, growing louder with each evening. Tales emerged of how the nobles had an advantage—stacks of past years’ notes, meticulously preserved, annotated, and passed down like family treasures.
“It’s tradition,” someone murmured. “A rite of passage for them. They’ve been doing this for generations.”
The revelation stung. The notes weren’t just pieces of paper; they were lifelines, containing patterns, key themes, and insights into the exams’ structure. For the nobles, they represented privilege—a head start that was theirs by birthright, a way to keep the gap between themselves and the commoners firmly intact.
The tension in our quarters was palpable as my peers scrambled to gather any scraps of preparation they could find. Desperation drove them to action. Some rifled through the academy’s library, scanning for textbooks or past assignments that might give clues. Others turned to the seniors, their last hope.
At first, the seniors seemed approachable. They smiled politely, feigning interest in the commoners’ plight. “Notes from last year?” one senior repeated when asked. “Oh, I’m sorry. I think I’ve misplaced them.”
Another senior gave a similar excuse: “I used to have them, but I think they were thrown out during the last dorm inspection.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
One by one, the hopeful inquiries were met with the same response. Every senior had conveniently lost, misplaced, or forgotten their notes. Yet their nervous glances and hurried tones betrayed them.
Something felt off.
The notes couldn’t have just disappeared. The seniors were lying—it was obvious. But the question was, why?
I watched the scene unfold with growing suspicion. This wasn’t just negligence or disinterest; this was coordinated. The commoners were being deliberately cut off, left to fend for themselves in a system that already placed them at a disadvantage.
Frustration simmered beneath the surface of my thoughts. The nobles already had so much handed to them on silver platters—status, resources, connections. But that wasn’t enough. No, they had to rig the game even further, ensuring the commoners remained firmly in their shadow.
I clenched my fists. If the seniors wouldn’t help us, then it was time to find out why.
**
Uncovering the Truth
Lorian and I didn’t waste time. Something about the way the seniors avoided eye contact or mumbled half-hearted excuses made it clear this wasn’t a case of coincidence or carelessness. This was deliberate. And if there was one thing I’d learned in both my lives, it was that deliberate actions always left a trail.
We started subtly, asking around without drawing too much attention. Lorian, with his usual quick wit, slipped questions into casual conversations with the seniors. “Strange, isn’t it? Notes always went around before—why not this year?” His tone was light, nonchalant, but I could see the gears turning in his head, observing every twitch, every stumble in their replies.
I approached it differently, watching from the shadows, listening to murmurs in the corridors or whispered conversations in the cafeteria. Patterns began to emerge. The seniors weren’t just withholding the notes; they were nervous about it. There was an undercurrent of fear, as though they were being watched—or worse, threatened.
The pieces started to fit when Lorian overheard a group of seniors whispering near the training grounds one evening. “We don’t have a choice,” one of them hissed. “Do you want to get on his bad side? You know what he can do!”
My stomach twisted. His bad side? I didn’t need a name to know who they were talking about. There was only one person in this academy with the influence and cruelty to pull something like this—Veylor Rithane.
Lorian confirmed my suspicions the next day. Using his agility and knack for slipping unnoticed into places, he managed to catch sight of a senior receiving a sealed letter with House Rithane’s insignia on the wax seal. “Veylor’s orders,” Lorian whispered to me later, his voice low but laced with disgust. “He’s the one threatening them. They’re too scared to cross him.”
The anger that simmered in me threatened to boil over. Veylor’s hands were all over this. Not content with his noble-born privileges, he wanted to ensure the commoners didn’t even have a fighting chance. This wasn’t just about the exams anymore; it was a declaration, a reminder that in his world, people like us were meant to stay beneath his heel.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe. Acting on impulse would only play into his hands. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake—not here, not now. Veylor might have stripped us of the notes, but he couldn’t take away our determination.
“We’ll beat him at his own game,” I said, meeting Lorian’s gaze. “If they won’t share the notes, then we’ll make our own.”
Lorian grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
**
A Plan to Fight Back
The seniors’ refusal to share the notes was a setback, but it wasn’t the end. If Veylor thought he could break us by taking away our preparation, he clearly underestimated our resolve. His power lay in fear and manipulation, but we had something he couldn’t touch—determination and a shared drive to prove ourselves.
As the reality of the situation sank in, the commoners’ quarters buzzed with frustration and quiet despair. The exams weren’t just tests of knowledge; they were a gateway to better opportunities within the academy. A poor performance could set us back months, if not years. That’s when I decided it was time to act.
“We’re not going to let this stop us,” I declared during an impromptu meeting in one of the quieter corners of the dormitory. Faces turned to me, a mix of hope and doubt flickering in their eyes. Lorian stood by my side, his usual playful smirk replaced by a look of quiet determination.
“What’s the plan?” someone asked hesitantly.
I took a deep breath. “We create our own notes. Every one of us has strengths in different subjects. Some of you excel in history, others in mathematics or military theory. Instead of relying on something we don’t have, we’ll pool our knowledge and teach each other.”
Murmurs of uncertainty rippled through the group. “But we’re running out of time,” one student pointed out. “The exams are just weeks away.”
“That’s true,” I admitted, “but it’s better than doing nothing. Think about it—if we work together, we can cover more ground than any of us could alone. And it’s not just about passing these exams. It’s about proving to them—and to ourselves—that we’re more than what they think we are.”
Lorian chimed in, his voice carrying a spark of inspiration. “Look, we’ve already beaten the odds once. Remember Squad Three? Everyone thought we’d lose, and yet here we are. This isn’t any different. Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “we’ve got Illiad here. Trust me, he’s too stubborn to let us fail.”
The tension in the room softened, and a few smiles broke through the gloom. Encouraged by their response, I quickly outlined the plan. We divided into small groups based on our strengths and weaknesses. Those who excelled in a subject took on the role of tutors, guiding their peers through the material.
Late into the night, the dormitory transformed into a hive of activity. Candles flickered as students pored over books and scrawled notes on parchment. Lorian and I moved between groups, offering guidance where we could and encouraging those who struggled. The camaraderie that had been forged on the battlefield during our skirmish with Squad Three now extended into this new challenge.
Despite the odds stacked against us, a sense of determination filled the air. This wasn’t just about acing the exams anymore—it was about defying the system that sought to keep us down.
By the end of the week, we had compiled a set of notes that rivaled anything the nobles might have had. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, built from teamwork and a refusal to give up.
As I looked around at the tired yet resolute faces of my peers, a surge of pride welled up within me. This was more than a plan—it was a statement. If Veylor wanted to see us fail, we would prove him wrong.
We weren’t just surviving anymore. We were fighting back.
**
The Exams Day
The day of the written exams arrived, bringing with it an air of anxious anticipation. The academy grounds were quieter than usual, the usual chatter replaced by a heavy, collective focus. Students shuffled into the examination hall, their faces a mix of determination and dread. The nobles, as always, exuded an air of smug confidence, their preparations evident in their composed demeanor. For the commoners, however, the stakes felt insurmountable.
I took my seat among the rows of desks in the hall, the smooth surface of the wooden table cool against my hands. The sound of the proctor’s footsteps echoed sharply in the stillness as he walked to the front, holding a stack of exam sheets.
"Remember, this is your chance to prove your worth," the proctor announced, his gaze sweeping over the room. The words felt more like a challenge than encouragement, especially for those of us without the safety net of privilege.
The exam sheets were distributed, and the moment they landed in front of me, my pulse quickened. Rows of questions stared back at me, each one a test of not just knowledge but endurance. Military history, tactical analysis, mathematics, and philosophy—all subjects designed to test our capacity to think critically under pressure.
The first section was military history. The names and dates blurred together for a moment as I tried to focus, forcing my mind to recall the late-night study sessions with my peers. I could almost hear their voices—Lorian’s sharp wit as he quizzed us, the hesitant yet insightful observations of others.
Slowly, the answers came.
The next section, tactical analysis, was trickier. It presented hypothetical scenarios on the battlefield, asking for strategies to outmaneuver the enemy. This was where I had an edge. My memories of past battles, from my previous life, came flooding back, guiding my pen as I sketched out formations and contingency plans. I wrote with confidence, though I kept my pace steady.
Then came mathematics. Equations and geometric problems lined the page, each one more complex than the last. I wracked my brain, trying to piece together formulas and methods I hadn’t studied properly in this life. The frustration mounted, but I pressed on, refusing to leave any question unanswered.
Finally, philosophy. The open-ended questions tested our ability to reason and articulate our thoughts. I took a deep breath, letting my mind wander for a moment before writing. My answers drew not only from the lessons I had absorbed in the academy but from the experiences that had shaped me—experiences no textbook could encapsulate.
Time seemed to move both too fast and too slow. The scratching of pens on parchment filled the hall, a constant reminder of the race against the clock. Occasionally, I glanced around, catching glimpses of others. Some were bent over their papers, their brows furrowed in concentration. Others looked lost, their pens hovering hesitantly over blank spaces.
I pushed through, question by question, until the proctor called, "Time’s up." The words rang through the hall like a bell tolling the end of a battle. Reluctantly, I set down my pen, feeling both relief and apprehension.
As I handed in my paper, I caught sight of Lorian across the hall. He gave me a quick thumbs-up, his expression a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction.
**
Aftermath
The days following the exams were marked by a strange mix of relief and apprehension. The immediate pressure of the tests was gone, but in its place loomed the anxiety of waiting for the results. The academy returned to its usual rhythm, yet there was an underlying tension that was hard to ignore.
In the commoners' quarters, the atmosphere was subdued. Conversations about the exams dominated every meal and every free moment. Some were confident, others were riddled with doubt, and a few outright admitted they had struggled.
Lorian and I were no exception. As we sat on a bench outside the dormitory, a rare patch of sunlight breaking through the otherwise overcast sky, he nudged me with his elbow.
“So,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, “do you think you aced it?”
I gave him a sideways glance, letting out a faint chuckle. “Aced it? Hardly. Surviving it feels like an achievement on its own.”
He laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You’re too modest. I saw the way you attacked those tactical analysis questions. You looked like you were planning an actual battle.”
“I was improvising,” I admitted, leaning back. “It’s not the same without proper preparation. Those past notes would’ve been a game-changer.”
Lorian’s expression darkened briefly, but he quickly shook it off. “Yeah, well, we’ll just have to wait and see how well we did without them.”
The thought lingered in my mind. The stolen opportunity still gnawed at me, but I knew there was no point dwelling on it now. What was done, was done.
The nobles, on the other hand, were far less discreet about their confidence. Walking through the academy halls, I couldn’t help but overhear their boastful conversations.
“That question on the Seven Fronts? Easy. My brother drilled it into me last year,” one noble drawled as we passed.
Another chimed in, “I finished half an hour early. Had time to double-check everything.”
Their words were barbs, deliberate reminders of the advantage they held. I felt a surge of irritation but forced myself to focus on what truly mattered: the knowledge that we, the commoners, had faced the exams without their privileges.
That evening, the commoners gathered in one of the larger dormitory lounges. The atmosphere was warm despite the tension, the camaraderie from the study sessions still strong. A few brought snacks they had scrounged together, and the conversations gradually shifted from exams to other, lighter topics.
I sat near the corner, listening to the chatter, when one of the younger students, a shy boy named Rennick, approached me.
“Um, Illiad?” he began hesitantly.
I turned to him, offering a reassuring smile. “What’s up?”
“I just… wanted to say thanks. For organizing the study sessions and all,” he said, looking at the floor. “I think I would’ve been completely lost without them.”
His words caught me off guard. I had arranged the study groups out of necessity, never expecting gratitude in return.
“You don’t need to thank me,” I said, patting his shoulder. “We’re all in this together. Just do your best, and that’ll be thanks enough.”
He nodded, his face lighting up with a small smile before he scampered back to his friends.
As the evening wore on, I found myself reflecting on the past few weeks. The challenges, the obstacles, the sheer determination it had taken to stand against the odds—it all reinforced what I already knew: strength wasn’t just about swords or strategy. It was about unity, resilience, and the will to keep pushing forward, no matter how steep the climb.
The results would come in time, and with them, the academy would judge us. But deep down, I knew we had already achieved something greater. We had refused to back down, even when the system was stacked against us.
And for now, that was enough.