The City Overlord, Aldric Marrowvale, barely reacted, his gaze shifting slowly from Sorin to Zane. Aldric’s voice, calm but powerful enough to carry across the entire room, was a stark contrast to Zane’s outburst. "Warbringer," he said, his tone cold, "I am Lord Marrowvale in my court. And I did, indeed, order no harm to come to the boy." There was a subtle edge to his words, a reminder of the authority he wielded in this hall.

Zane clenched his fists, clearly restraining himself. He forced a stiff nod. "My apologies… Lord Marrowvale. But this is unacceptable. Sorin was supposed to be unharmed."

Aldric’s gaze shifted to the two Enforcers who had escorted Sorin, his cold blue eyes narrowing slightly. "You," he said, his voice carrying an unspoken demand for truth, "explain what happened. I ordered him to be treated with respect, not brutality."

One of the Enforcers stepped forward, his face carefully blank but his voice slightly hesitant. “My lord, we found the boy in that condition when we went to retrieve him from his cell. We had no hand in causing his injuries.”

The City Overlord’s skepticism was evident in his expression. He turned his gaze to Sorin, his eyes assessing as if searching for the truth. "Is that so?" Aldric asked, his tone filled with doubt. “Tell me, Sorin—how did you come to such harm?”

Sorin struggled to form words, his lip split and swollen. Through slurred, pained breaths, he tried to speak, his voice weak but determined. “An… Enforcer… named Ziker… he…” His words came out disjointed, his injuries making it difficult to string together a clear explanation. Every word seemed to cost him, his chest heaving with effort.

Before Sorin could finish, Aldric raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze sharpened as he turned to the assembled enforcers in the room. "Ziker!" he called out, his voice a commanding boom that left no room for hesitation. "Step forward and explain yourself."

Ziker stepped forward, exuding a calm, almost lazy confidence as if this were merely a formality he could easily handle. He offered a slight bow in deference to Lord Marrowvale, though there was an unmistakable smugness in his gaze. Straightening up, he addressed the court, his voice carrying smoothly through the hall.

“Lord Marrowvale, I would never have treated the boy harshly without reason.” He paused, casting a glance toward Sorin, his eyes glinting with feigned pity. “But Sorin was… less than compliant. He resisted the entire way down to the cell, acting as though the rules didn’t apply to him. When an Enforcer of the Overlord’s own guard gives an order, we expect it to be followed. And to behave with such insolence and disrespect—especially here, in the hallowed halls of the Overlord’s castle—is not just insubordination against myself but, in truth, against you, my lord.”

Ziker gave a slight shrug, his tone turning almost mournful. “Such disobedience cannot go unchecked. I am sure you understand, Lord Marrowvale, that I acted only to uphold the order and discipline of your esteemed establishment.”

Aldric Marrowvale listened to Ziker’s speech with an unchanging expression, his cold blue eyes fixed intently on the enforcer though his face remained impassive and unreadable. The room was silent, the courtiers and students watching, their own expressions ranging from skeptical to intrigued. When Ziker finished, Sorin, his strength still fading, managed to lift his head, weakly protesting, “I… I was complying…”

The City Overlord’s eyes snapped to Sorin, and his voice rang through the hall with unmistakable authority. “Silence, boy. I did not give you permission to speak.”

Sorin’s mouth closed, his protest stifled as he stared, wide-eyed and a bit stunned. The City Overlord wasn’t interested in hearing his side—at least not yet.

Turning from Ziker, Lord Marrowvale cast his gaze across the room before he spoke, his voice cold and commanding. “Varyk.”

At the sound of his name, a tall, stern-looking man stepped forward from the line of Enforcers. Varyk was a figure of authority among them, bearing a spear whose shaft was inlaid with silver, marking him as a senior officer. His presence was calm and resolute, a counter to Ziker’s easy smugness. He bowed slightly, his expression respectful but clear-eyed. Sorin recognized him as the spear bearer who had led the group that brought him from Warbringer Academy to the City Overlord’s Castle.

“Lord Marrowvale,” Varyk acknowledged, his voice steady.

Aldric’s eyes narrowed, a faint trace of impatience in his gaze. “Why were you not with Sorin until he was secured in his cell?”

Varyk’s jaw tightened slightly, though he remained collected as he answered, “My lord, I had every intention of staying with him. But Ziker assured me that he had the situation well in hand. I believed him due to an Acolyte being unable to pose a threat to someone of the Zealot Rank.” He paused, his gaze flickering to Ziker for a moment before continuing. “Given that Sorin had complied without issue up to that point, I thought it safe to leave him in Ziker's care.”

A murmur ran through the room as Aldric sat in pensive silence, his gaze shifting between Ziker and Varyk. The faintest trace of displeasure touched the Overlord’s expression before his mask of impassivity returned, and he studied Ziker with renewed scrutiny.

The City Overlord’s cold gaze settled on Ziker, his voice sharp and resolute. “In no universe would an Acolyte be able to resist a Zealot, Ziker. You could have easily placed your charge in his cell without causing him harm, especially given my direct order to see him unharmed.”

Ziker’s smug demeanor faltered, and he opened his mouth to object, but Aldric’s raised hand silenced him immediately.

“You will report to Commander Joist for a demotion,” Aldric continued, his tone laced with displeasure. “Consider yourself fortunate it’s not expulsion. Do not mistake my patience for blindness, Ziker—I see clearly where your loyalty lies, and I am neither ignorant nor indulgent of your old affiliations. I may have been born at night, but it was not last night. Remember who rules this city.”

Ziker’s jaw clenched, but he suppressed his reaction, snapping to attention. “Yes, Lord Marrowvale,” he replied, his voice strained with restrained anger. He shot a final, venomous glance toward Sorin before striding out of the hall.

A ripple of discomfort swept through the crowd, and the faintest hint of irritation flickered in Aldric’s otherwise impassive gaze. His patience for this ordeal was evidently thin.

Taking a steadying breath, Zane Warbringer stepped forward, bowing with a deference that softened his otherwise imposing presence. “Lord Marrowvale,” he began respectfully, “with your permission, I would request that one of our professors administer healing to Sorin. This will allow him to testify more clearly and, I hope, expedite the proceedings to minimize the use of your valuable time.”

Aldric regarded him for a moment, then inclined his head, granting permission. Zane gestured for a woman to come forward from among the professors gathered behind him.

The woman who stepped up was Professor Lyra Valen, a respected instructor at Warbringer Academy, known not only for her skills but also for her rare ability to heal as a follower of Mysterium, the God of Arcane Mysteries and Forbidden Knowledge. Lyra moved with a calm grace, her robes of deep indigo and silver trailing elegantly behind her. Her long, silver-gray hair was braided and draped over her shoulder, accentuating her piercing violet eyes, which seemed to hold a world of knowledge and mysteries in their depths.

Professor Valen’s attire was intricate, embroidered with shimmering arcane symbols of protection and healing, each one interwoven with threads of silver and midnight blue. Small talismans hung from her belt, each a charm or amulet connected to her craft, and a delicate amethyst pendant rested against her collarbone, glowing faintly with magical energy. Her hands, though slender, held a quiet strength, adorned with rings etched with ancient runes and sigils.

At the academy, Lyra Valen taught several specialized courses, including Advanced Healing Arts, The Mysteries of Mending, and Arcane Anatomy and Restoration. Her knowledge spanned more than simple healing; she had a deep understanding of magical anatomy and the restoration of both physical and spiritual wounds. However, her powers were rare, even among followers of Mysterium, for few in the Dark Pantheon were granted the gift of healing, and even fewer could perform it with Lyra’s skill and expertise.

With a respectful nod to the Overlord, Lyra knelt beside Sorin. Lyra Valen’s hands hovered over Sorin’s battered body; the healing magic began to surge through him in a raw, almost invasive wave. It felt as though every laceration and bruise were being painstakingly sewn back together, not by soft threads but by barbed wire dragging through his flesh. The sensation was strange, foreign—less like a soothing balm and more like a precise, surgical repair that forced his wounds to knit closed with an almost violent force.

Sorin clenched his teeth, his fingers curling tightly against the table as each nerve fired, his cuts burning, twisting as they fused shut. He felt every cell stitching back together, every contusion shrinking, the bruised tissue around his ribs compressing, and his lips split and swollen, tingling painfully as they closed. By the end of it, Sorin was breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat from the strain of enduring the process.

“Now, with that unpleasantness behind us, we can begin. Take the boy to sit with your academy, Lyra,” declared Aldric Marrowvale, his booming voice leaving no room for distraction.

Lyra Valen gave Sorin a nod, her expression both reassuring and instructive, guiding him toward the section of tables where the Warbringer Academy staff sat. Zane Warbringer gestured for Sorin to take a seat beside him, his face a controlled mask, though his gaze held a hint of concern. As he sat down, Sorin nodded to acknowledge Zane’s silent encouragement.

Aldric fixed Sorin with an unreadable look. “You are to remain silent, Sorin of Warbringer Academy, unless spoken to directly or asked a question. Is that understood?”

Sorin returned the Overlord’s gaze and nodded. “Understood.”

With formal precision, Aldric turned his attention to the other side of the room. “The court acknowledges the Silverblade Masters Academy. Please bring forth your representative to present your case.”

A figure stepped forward from the Silverblade Masters delegation, an older man with a sharp, refined appearance. He wore the deep blue and silver uniform of Silverblade Masters Academy, his cloak falling in heavy folds around him. His hair was a steel gray, cropped close to his head, and his eyes were a piercing silver that held a faint but unmistakable air of arrogance. His features were chiseled, his jaw set as he looked down at Sorin and the Warbringer Academy representatives with a mixture of disdain and superiority. In his right hand, he held a long, elegant cane, its silver handle shaped like the hilt of a dagger—a subtle nod to his own affiliation with the art of weaponry.

“My name is Roderic Flintspire,” he announced, his voice smooth and resonant. “I represent the Silverblade Masters Academy in this most regrettable matter. Lord Marrowvale, it is our duty to present the facts of this grievous incident. Sorin, a Warbringer Academy Acolyte, stands accused of murdering one of our Acolytes in cold blood outside the city walls. It is our demand that justice be served for this unprovoked act of brutality.”

Aldric nodded, his face impassive. “I acknowledge your case, Silverblade Masters Academy.” He turned to Zane. “How do you plead, Warbringer Academy?”

Zane Warbringer rose, his gaze unwavering as he met Aldric’s eyes. “We plead innocent, Lord Marrowvale. Our defense is self-defense.”

Aldric inclined his head, acknowledging their plea. His gaze shifted back to the Silverblade Masters’ delegation, his expression unreadable. “Very well. Silverblade Masters Academy, bring forth your witnesses.”

From the Silverblade group, a familiar face stepped forward—their silver-haired leader from the previous day, his face twisted in a faint, arrogant smirk. He held his head high, clearly relishing the attention of the court as he introduced himself with a slight bow. “I am Aric Eversteel, leader of the Silverblade Masters group that encountered the Warbringer Academy yesterday.”

He took a step closer, adjusting his posture to make himself appear noble and sincere, though his words carried a practiced ease that bordered on manipulation. “We were out hunting beasts, as many students do when we accidentally wandered off our assigned route and entered what turned out to be Warbringer territory. We realized we’d made a mistake and sought to leave immediately. We encountered a group of Warbringer Acolytes and asked for directions back to the city.”

Aric cast an innocent look toward the court, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “But rather than help us, they refused to give us directions, accusing us of trespassing. We tried to leave without incident, yet they chased us down and attacked. During the skirmish, they killed one of our own—our friend and fellow Acolyte, Marek Talvren—before we managed to escape.”

The room filled with murmurs at this revelation, and Sorin felt the urge to speak, to correct the twisted version of events Aric had crafted. But a hand on his arm from Zane kept him still, reminding him silently to hold his tongue until they were called upon to respond.

The City Overlord turned toward Zane Warbringer, his expression unreadable but his eyes steely. "Present your side of the story, Zane, along with your witnesses.”

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Zane gave a curt nod, his hand gesturing for Sorin to rise. As Sorin stood, he felt a wave of disorientation—a moment of dull pain radiated from his head. He supposed the healing might not have fixed the injuries to his head as much as he hoped. Then he noticed his friends, seated just a few meters away at another table, standing to show their support. He realized, almost humorously, that Ziker must have hit him harder than he’d thought for him to miss their presence until now.

Zane’s steady gaze urged him forward, and Sorin took a slow breath before recounting the events. “My lord,” he began, his voice steady though his eyes held the weight of the accusation, “we encountered the group from Silverblade Masters within our academy’s sanctioned hunting grounds. When we told them they were trespassing, they dismissed us, saying they didn’t intend to leave. They began insulting our academy. We were going to return to report the incident, but the situation escalated when they started insulting us directly, mocking our headmaster and our academy as a whole. As a result, a fight broke out.”

Sorin’s voice tightened slightly as he reached the critical point. “During the fight, one of their Acolytes, Marek Talvren, was about to stab my friend Jackson Hughes through the heart. I acted quickly to protect him, but the action ended up costing Marek his life.”

A sharp voice cut through the silence. Aric Eversteel, the Silverblade leader, shouted from across the room, “You stabbed Marek through the heart! That’s never an accident! Marek would have never attacked with lethality.”

The City Overlord’s eyes narrowed, and his voice turned icily authoritative. “Silence, Aric. You will not speak in my court unless you are given permission.” His tone left no room for defiance, and Aric slumped slightly, chastened.

Lord Marrowvale leaned back on his throne, his expression dark. “Trespassing, whether accidental or intentional, has always led to disputes. But it has rarely resulted in death.” He shook his head, disappointment and disgust evident in his voice. “I am ashamed to see this generation so easily baited into deadly violence over petty squabbles and insults. I ask you,” his voice grew louder, carrying a rhetorical bite, “what insult could possibly be worth a life? Each and every one of you are part of the Dark Pantheon with a true enemy within the Light Pantheon. If you have the desire to kill, look towards them.”

Just then, the young woman seated beside the City Overlord shifted, her eyes gleaming with a wicked interest. She leaned forward, her gaze drifting pointedly from Aric to Sorin, the amusement in her expression evident. “Father,” she said, her voice lilting with mock innocence, “I would like to know what insult was so unforgivable. What could provoke such rage?”

Aric went pale, visibly shrinking the moment she spoke, his entire demeanor turning anxious as he looked away, silent under her piercing stare. The room grew tense as it was clear there was more to her involvement than mere curiosity.

The City Overlord, barely containing his own irritation, glanced at his daughter with a sigh. “Very well, Celeste,” he said. “If you truly wish to hear it, so be it.” Turning back to Sorin, he commanded, “State the insult.”

Sorin hesitated, glancing at Zane, who nodded grimly. Steeling himself, he said, “I dare not use such crass language in your presence, Lord Aldric, but they claimed that our headmaster, Zane Warbringer, only secured the best hunting grounds by… by providing sexual favors to you, my lord.”

A profound silence fell over the hall as the words hung in the air. Lord Marrowvale, who had maintained an aloof, nearly unaffected demeanor throughout the proceedings, went dead still. His face darkened, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and his fingers gripped the armrests of his throne with barely suppressed rage. His eyes blazed as he looked first at Sorin, then Zane, then Aric and the Silverblade students, his voice a dangerously low rumble.

“That they would so lightly insult not only Warbringer Academy in such a manner but also me…” His words trailed off, and a deadly silence filled the room, broken only by the faint creak of his knuckles as his grip tightened.

Celeste, meanwhile, sat back with a smile that was both amused and satisfied, her gaze settling on Aric with a dangerous glint. Her voice soft but with an edge, she murmured, “Thank you, Sorin. That does clarify things.”

The City Overlord’s fury was palpable, and for a moment, his gaze rested heavily on Aric and his group, an unspoken promise of retribution hanging thick in the air.

With the tension in the hall nearly suffocating, the City Overlord’s voice shattered the silence like a blade striking steel. His eyes bore down on Aric and the Silverblade Masters’ representatives, seething with cold fury.

"A baseless, dishonorable slander,” Lord Marrowvale intoned, his voice resonating through the trial hall. “To insult not only Warbringer Academy’s headmaster but also my own honor with such filth…" His gaze settled on Aric, who visibly recoiled under the weight of the Overlord’s glare. "Silverblade Masters Academy will answer for this. And you, Aric Eversteel, should remember that words have a way of rebounding on those who wield them thoughtlessly."

Zane Warbringer, standing beside Sorin, used the moment of silence to lean close. “Keep your head down, Sorin,” he murmured, voice calm but firm. “Let Marrowvale do the talking. No one could defend Warbringer Academy better than him right now.”

Sorin nodded, keeping his gaze lowered but listening carefully. Aric and the other Silverblade Acolytes stood rigid, nervous glances darting between each other. Even Roderic Flintspire, the Silverblade representative, shifted uneasily, clearly aware of how serious their transgression had just become. Roderic apparently had yet to hear this version of the story from his student.

Lord Marrowvale leaned back in his throne, regaining his stony composure but leaving no doubt of the lingering anger beneath. “Aric Eversteel,” he called, his tone still cold, “step forward and face your accusations with the same confidence you had when you slandered my reputation.”

Aric gulped, hesitating, but a sharp glare from his own representative, Flintspire, forced him forward. His usual arrogance was absent, replaced by a flicker of fear as he approached the center of the hall.

"Your accusations against Warbringer Academy’s headmaster and my integrity cannot be brushed aside,” Aldric continued, his voice chillingly calm. “Such slander led to a death—a death which you are partially responsible for. Now, explain this entire incident from your perspective, with every detail, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.”

Aric hesitated, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke. “Lord Marrowvale, we…we may have spoken out of turn, but we truly believed that the Warbringer Acolytes would resort to violence no matter what we said. They were aggressive from the start—”

Aldric interrupted him sharply. “Spare me your justifications, Eversteel. I asked for details, not excuses. Begin again, and consider your words carefully.” His eyes flicked to the Silverblade representative, Flintspire. “And Roderic, I hope for your sake that your academy was unaware of this behavior, or you may face more than just verbal reproach.”

Roderic Flintspire paled slightly but nodded. “Understood, Lord Marrowvale.”

Aric continued with visible discomfort, now recounting the incident in much greater detail but trying his best to avoid placing himself in a position of more significant fault. However, as the truth came out, it became increasingly clear that the Silverblade students had taunted and escalated the conflict if not outright provoked it. By the end of Aric’s retelling, the initial story he had spun was barely intact.

Finally, Aldric turned his gaze to Sorin once again. “And Sorin, do you stand by your account—that the actions you took were in defense of your companion?”

“Yes, my lord,” Sorin replied, his voice steady but laced with the lingering pain from his injuries. “Marek was about to stab Jackson, and there was no time to intervene without… without using lethal force.”

Aldric nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied. "I have heard enough.” He looked to the Warbringer and Silverblade representatives. “As lord of this city, I cannot allow provocations such as these to become commonplace among our academies. Silverblade Masters will pay a fine to the family of the fallen Acolyte, as well as a debt to Warbringer Academy for allowing its students to tarnish my court’s name.” He cast a final, cold look at Flintspire. "Ensure this does not happen again, or the consequences will escalate.”

Flintspire bowed his expression one of thinly veiled resentment. “As you command, Lord Marrowvale.”

Lord Marrowvale then turned back to Zane and Sorin. "As for Warbringer Academy… Sorin acted in defense of his friend, but his impulsiveness cost a life. See that he receives proper instruction on restraint, Zane. His talents must serve this city’s strength, not its chaos."

Zane inclined his head, clearly pleased with the outcome. “Understood, Lord Marrowvale.”

With his judgment declared, Aldric turned to Celeste, who smiled with quiet satisfaction, her gaze still lingering on Aric. “Daughter,” Aldric addressed her, “I hope you found this demonstration enlightening…and apparently amusing.”

Celeste’s smile widened, a faintly predatory gleam in her eyes as she glanced back at Sorin. “Very much so, Father. I trust that the lesson will not be forgotten.”

As the echoes of Lord Marrowvale’s verdict faded, the City Overlord rose from his throne, his expression a mask of still barely contained fury. His gaze swept across the room, silencing any remaining murmurs. "Remember," he declared, his voice sharp and carrying the weight of authority, “the upcoming Ranking Tournament in six months will determine the distribution of hunting grounds. These decisions are based on merit, skill, and strength—not my personal preferences, and certainly not the exchange of… unsavory activities.”

He leveled a cold, final stare at the Silverblade Masters delegation, a subtle but unmistakable warning lingering in his words. “Something the Silverblade Masters would do well to remember.” His gaze shifted dismissively before he added, “This court is adjourned.”

With that, Lord Marrowvale turned and strode from the room, his robes billowing behind him as he left through a side door, his guards falling in step. The audience began to disperse, filing out in clusters, their voices hushed with fresh gossip. Sorin rose with the Warbringer delegation, still feeling the lingering ache of his injuries, though Professor Valen’s rough healing had left him far better than before.

As Sorin prepared to join Zane and the others, he noticed Celeste still seated on her smaller throne, her dark eyes trained on him with an intensity that quickened his pulse. Her gaze was sharp and predatory, like a hawk eyeing potential prey, yet there was something compelling in her beauty that Sorin couldn’t ignore. It would have been easier—and perhaps wiser—to avoid her, but Sorin felt a pull to approach. How her eyes gleamed, unwavering, made him curious and maybe a little reckless.

He cleared his throat, leaning slightly toward Zane. "I’m going to speak with her."

Zane raised an eyebrow, studying Sorin for a moment before he replied. “We’ll wait for you in the courtyard. Do not do anything to offend her, Sorin. Celeste Marrowvale is known for holding grudges—and for being far more cunning than she appears.”

Sorin nodded, acknowledging Zane’s warning, and made his way toward Celeste. She didn’t look away as he approached; if anything, her smile grew slightly, like she’d been expecting him all along.

When he stopped before her, he managed a respectful bow. “Lady Celeste,” he greeted, his voice steady though he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was stepping into something dangerous. “You seemed interested in the trial. I wanted to thank you for… for listening to my side.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto his as though she were peeling back layers of his defenses. "You mistake my interest in you, Sorin. I was merely looking to see Aric suitably chastised. He’s quite the talent and big name in Cestead, and that status was going to his head and making him unwilling to comply with some of my demands. You truly made an enemy out of him today if you somehow had not already. I will say, however, that you have caught my attention,” she replied, her voice smooth and silky, with a hint of amusement. “Most people cower in the presence of my father, yet you stood your ground—even after that unfortunate beating.”

Sorin winced internally but maintained his composure. “Respectfully, I wasn’t left with many choices. And I’ve learned that in the face of overwhelming power, you must still defend yourself.”

“Indeed.” She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with intrigue. “I will give you a piece of advice; however, sometimes here in the city, words can be as dangerous as swords—and sometimes far more painful.” Her voice softened as she leaned closer, her tone almost conspiratorial. “Especially in court, where your reputation can be sliced to ribbons with a whisper.”

Sorin hesitated, trying to gauge her intent. “And what do you think of my… reputation, Lady Celeste?”

“Oh, that remains to be seen. There has been no information about you before today,” She straightened, studying him with a playful but calculating glint in her eyes. “But I see potential in you, Sorin. And potential—real, untapped potential—and that can be exciting.” Her gaze lingered on him, her smile turning colder, more mysterious. “If you’re as clever as you appear, you’ll learn quickly to navigate these… treacherous waters. Perhaps even thrive.”

Sorin felt the subtle tension in her words, an invitation wrapped in a warning. He nodded, meeting her gaze with steady resolve. “I’ll remember that. And thank you… for the advice.”

Celeste smirked as though she’d expected no less from him. “Good. Now, do try to stay out of further trouble—or, if you must, make it interesting. I’ll be watching.”

As Sorin inclined his head in parting, Celeste’s gaze lingered, almost daring him to rise to her challenge. She watched him as he made his way back, her expression like a cat who had just found a particularly intriguing mouse.

Sorin left the hall, feeling Celeste's gaze lingering on his back like a hidden threat—and perhaps a promise. He pushed those thoughts aside as he made his way through the grand corridors and out into the courtyard where Zane and his friends waited.

The moment he stepped outside, a familiar voice called out. “Sorin!” Jackson rushed forward, looking both relieved and incredibly guilty. “Listen, I’m so sorry, man. You shouldn’t have had to go through all of this just because of me. I mean, if I hadn’t been such a—”

Sorin shook his head, cutting him off with a reassuring grin. “Forget it, Jackson. We were all in this together. Besides, they would’ve found a way to pick a fight with or without you around. Let’s just be glad it’s over.”

Diego, Tytus, and Torrid joined them, each looking relieved to see Sorin standing with them in one piece. “Hey, no time for apologies or whining,” Tytus said, clapping Sorin on the shoulder. “We’ve got bragging rights now. None of the other academies can say they survived a Silverblade ambush and came out on top!”

Diego nodded, his normally quiet demeanor softened by a rare, approving smile. “That was… unexpectedly brave of you, Sorin. And judging by the Overlord’s reaction, you may have shut them up for good.”

“Heyyy, what do you mean by unexpectedly brave? I am always brave!” Sorin protested, leading to laughs.

Torrid grunted his agreement, flashing a proud, lopsided grin. “You got guts. Big ones.” He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting another fight to break out at any second. “Didn’t back down. Worthy of standing aside, Torrid.”

Sorin chuckled, feeling the weight of the trial finally lifting from his shoulders as he fell in beside his friends. Together, they walked over to one of the sleek, dark carriages belonging to the Warbringer Academy. Zane gestured for them to enter, and with one last glance back at the palace, they climbed in, the doors clicking shut behind them as the horses jolted the carriage forward.

Inside, Jackson looked around, still buzzing with energy. “I still can’t believe you went and talked to the Overlord’s daughter,” he said, his eyes wide with awe. “What was she like? I mean, not that I’d ever talk to her—she’d probably bite my head off, but, you know, in theory.”

Sorin shrugged, feigning a casual confidence he didn’t quite feel. “Let’s just say she’s… intense. And definitely not someone you’d want as an enemy.”

Tytus whistled, leaning back. “Not someone you’d want as a friend either, from the sound of it. Shame, she is quite the looker.”

Diego leaned forward, casting Sorin a severe look. “Just be careful. People like her tend to come with a lot of strings attached—and I doubt she’d offer anything without expecting a favor back.”

Sorin nodded, absorbing the advice. He could still feel Celeste’s gaze on him, even now, but as the carriage rumbled on toward Warbringer Academy, he set those thoughts aside.