Keir held perfectly still as he felt his normally dormant Mana shift and swell. Mercifully, it seemed content not to pester him with its incessant nagging. He sensed tendrils of the stuff questing away from his body; probing. Keir had no idea for what his unwieldy power searched. Behind him, he heard a choked off yelp come from Page Ren. Keir wanted dearly to turn and investigate, but Sir Eston’s hand fell, signalling the beginning of the bout.

Forcing himself to relax, Keir refocused on his opponent, Knight Harker. Unlike Hala, Keir could not simply overwhelm his foe with brute strength. His Mana would never move to his will. It never had. In all the years he had practiced, Keir had only mastered one ‘spell’. Although that was not so much a spell, like a true mage might weave, so much as a sudden expulsion of raw, untamed Mana. It was, in actuality, the destructive backlash from a failure to control Mana. The range of this ability was such that Keir had to have physical contact with his target, but he was content with what he affectionately called his ‘Kiss Goodbye’.

The upside was, that magic did not work overly well on him. When Keir had been attacked with offensive magic before, he could only vaguely describe the sensation. It felt to him as though the magic just didn’t ‘stick’. To be struck by a ball of fire was painful, true, and it burned, but not like it should. The burns were always superficial ones, and they healed far too quickly. It was this resistance that allowed Keir to utilize magical backlash as a weapon. The chaotic blast of Mana, that would normally tear one’s hand apart, simply bruised him. Or on rare occasion, broke a bone or two. An acceptable risk, to Keir’s mind.

Looking to Harker’s luminous blue sword, Keir suspected that, while the magical sharpening effect would do him little harm, the steel beneath would cut him just fine.

Knight Harker grinned with the surety of his impending victory. Taking a wide step forward he stabbed at Keir’s arm. From his low stance, Keir swayed, avoiding the thrust by less than an inch. Grunting in annoyance, the knight slashed diagonally then stabbed once more. Keir, again, leaned away from the first strike, barely avoiding it, then slapped the knight’s second attack to one side with a gauntleted hand.

Keir’s movements seemed odd, to the knight. His body seemed almost like it might flop over at any moment, but then Keir’s torso would jerk strangely and his arms would swing with the momentum. At first glance, it looked like the uncoordinated dance of a fool. But Harker was an experienced knight, he could see that beneath the thrashing surface, was a steady, flowing grace.

Harker swung low then, trying to take Keir at the knee. Just before the strike landed, the mercenary’s flailing sword arm whipped round, his short sword colliding with the knight’s blade with such force as to break the larger man’s stance.

With Harker’s weapon knocked aside, Keir drove closer. In response, Harker raised his glowing shield to block and push the mercenary back. The knight’s eyes widened in disbelief as, instead of bouncing away when touching the famed Bulwark, Keir’s offhand passed right through the spell and clanked onto the flat of Harker’s shield.

In the next instant, proud Knight Harker was reacquainted with a sensation he had not felt, since he was a young man in the academy. When he had been a touch overly forward in his courting of a young woman in the Mage course. The feeling of hurtling freely through the air.

Slamming into the dirt a good ten feet from where he started, Harker waited for the world to stop spinning. Finally raising his head, he saw the young man, Keir, looking down at him with a cheery demeanour. To Harker’s continued bafflement, Keir blew him a kiss and then waved as if to say goodbye.

“The victory goes to Keir.” Eston announced without ceremony, looking Keir’s way. “Are you satisfied, sire?”

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Keir, thinking the man was talking to him, shrugged his shoulders and looked to the surrounding onlookers in confusion.

“Yes, yes, Eston. Fine. If only spoiling my fun were a crime, you would never be free from chains.” The man Keir knew as Page Ren, walked up beside him to address Sir Eston. Keir noticed a pale tint to the page’s skin, remembering how Ren had cried out before the fight, and thought to ask what caused the man’s obvious distress.

“Deepest apologies, sire. But now that our men have been sufficiently brutalised, perhaps you would like to discuss our actual business.” Eston sniped, redirecting everyone's attention. The knight beckoned one of his uninjured men and sent them off in search of a healer.

“Indeed!” Captain Vander bellowed, a laugh in his voice. Then he began to bodily shepherd the group back to the command tent.

Back inside, the party converged around the central map table. Smoothing phantom wrinkles from his already pristine clothing, Ren, who Keir had long since concluded was not a page at all, addressed the group.

“It seems one more introduction is in order.” Ren bowed with a flourish. “As some of you may have deciphered, my true identity is none other than Prince Lirian Astarion!”

“...”

In response to the silence that greeted his proclamation, Lirian coughed.

“W-well, to business then! Allow me to inform our hosts of what I require from them and why.” He began. “As I am sure you know, I require guards to ensure my safety during my time at the academy. What you may not know, however, is that students of the academy are not to be accompanied by guards or attendants of any kind.”

“You’re saying that the spoiled offspring of noble elites, are sent off to school entirely alone?” Hala asked dubiously, then flushed slightly and added. “Uh, no offence meant to you, of course...um, sire.”

“Hah!” Lirian laughed and put a consoling arm around Hala’s shoulders. “I take no offence, lady Hala. And no, the scions of powerful families are never truly left to their own devices”

“They break the rules? I’m not surprised, but it hardly seems very ‘noble’” Hala questioned, not seeming to mind Lirian’s over-friendly manner.

“I find that the aristocracy often take a more...interpretive approach to rules and law.” the prince mused. “They are not permitted to send guards to the academy, so they invite the existing academy guards to, quietly, enter their service.” Lirian’s face contorted, displaying his distaste. “The teachers must remain impartial in their judgements. But, if they were to be given a gift, as thanks for their tireless commitment to education, of course. Who could blame them, if they were to think kindly of the family that had been so generous.”

“Mhm.” Keir nodded. “And how does your interpretation of the rules, allow two gutter-born peasants like us into the Royal Academy?”

Lirian smiled devilishly, as did Vander, apparently already knowing the plan, and liking it.

“It’s quite simple really. If noble blood is required, I will make your blood noble.” One arm still draped around Hala, Lirian faced her father.

“Vander Nehr of the Grasping Hand mercenary company, by the inalienable power of the royal family of Fallmir, and in recognition of your many years of service to the state, I, Prince Lirian Astarion, knight thee.” Lirian spoke in a monotonous tone that somewhat undercut the life-changing announcement.

Vander, or Sir Nehr as he could now insist, practically vibrated in self-satisfaction. Laughing to himself uproariously. In contrast, the newly minted Lady Hala Nehr, stood absolutely frozen in surprise.

“Huh.” Keir eloquently remarked. “Congratulations?” It seemed that no one, save for the prince, quite knew how to behave at that moment.

“What about me then?” Keir continued. “Vander isn’t my pap, thank Rialta. And I think I’m a little young to have earned knighthood myself.”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Lirian hesitated, using his free hand to rub the back of his head.

“So, Keir. Might I ask how you feel about adoption.”