During the free period, the hundred or so first-years scattered into their usual cliques, eager to enjoy the hour-long reprieve before their next class—History. The halls buzzed with leftover energy from the chaos stirred up in both Combat and Alchemy earlier that day.

"That damn woman," Braydon grumbled, sticking a finger in his ear, "I can still feel the ringing." He complained loudly to his group of lackeys as they strolled through the corridors.

Randolph walked beside him, unusually quiet. Normally, he'd parrot whatever Braydon said, but today, something was clearly bothering him.

"What's your problem?" Braydon asked, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

"I… I lost the medicines my father gave me," Randolph muttered bitterly.

"Those phials?" Braydon scoffed. "You're still hung up on that? It's just a few potions. Your family can afford another batch without blinking."

He spoke like the matter had nothing to do with him, conveniently ignoring the fact that he was the one who had pushed Randolph into continuing the bet in the first place. Sure, Braydon had lost a storage ring too—but he seemed to treat that detail as irrelevant.

"Still," he added, clicking his tongue, "I thought Jakob could handle a lowly commoner. Jakob, what the hell even happened back there?"

But when he turned to look, Jakob was nowhere to be seen.

"Huh? Where'd he go?"

"I think he said something about needing the bathroom," one of the lackeys offered.

Braydon crossed his arms. "Well, when he gets back, we're having a proper discussion. I'm not going to tolerate any more humiliating losses to that blond bastard pretending to be Melody's fiancé." His expression twisted into one of open resentment.

Randolph, however, seemed distracted—his gaze glued to the floor.

"Do we really need to provoke him?" he asked softly. "Something about that guy feels… off."

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Braydon said, gripping Randolph's shoulder. There was a sharp tension in his voice now, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Randolph's robe.

"Did you forget who Melody is? She's the niece of the king," he hissed. "And do you not see the ice-blue hair on her head? That's the mark of the Ancient Mages."

The moment he said it, a heavy silence fell over the group.

"I thought that was just a rumor," Craig, a noble boy, whispered.

"A rumor?" Braydon repeated with a scoff. "My father confirmed it. Why do you think that slave bastard Winterborne was given noble status? It's because of his bloodline."

"Slave?" one of the boys gasped. "Lord Winterborne was a slave?"

Braydon sneered, clearly enjoying the attention. "This is common knowledge. The only reason the king married off his sister to him was to try and fuse their royal line with the Ancient bloodline."

"But I don't get it," Randolph said, now seemingly distracted from his earlier grief. "What's so special about her bloodline?"

"Well…" Braydon paused, noting the expectant looks on the teens' faces as they hung on his every word. "I-I don't exactly know. Apparently, the royal family's been keeping it a secret," he admitted lamely, much to the group's disappointment.

"But," he added with a sharp grin, "my father says I must secure her hand—no matter what. Once she's married into our family, we'll eventually uncover the secrets of her bloodline."

His voice dropped, laced with something darker.

"Randolph, your Bishop family is quite close with ours—the Marburys. If either of us succeeds, it'll be a victory for both our houses," Braydon said, turning to the curly-haired boy beside him.

"But with that commoner bastard in the way…" he trailed off, letting the silence stretch.

"I understand, Braydon," Randolph replied, nodding slowly. "We'll never get close to her unless we get rid of that Michael guy."

Braydon smiled, the corners of his lips curving upward in a sinister arc. "Good."

He turned to the rest of the group, his tone sharp with command. "I want eyes on the commoner—both of them. Find out their weaknesses. Anything we can use. We'll do whatever it takes to fulfill our families' mission."

A murmur of agreement passed through the group as they nodded, each one silently committing themselves. A pact had been made—a feud that would spark from the shadows of envy and ambition.

"And where the hell is that damn Jakob?" Braydon muttered with annoyance, scanning the corridor.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle—atop the northern spire—a very different conversation was taking place. The noon sun had begun its descent, brushing golden light against the highest peaks of the castle towers.

Inside the topmost room, Headmaster Bartholomew Arcadius sat behind a long mahogany desk. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in the room told a different story. The regal décor, warm tones, and ancient tomes lining the walls did little to ease the stifling atmosphere.

Opposite him sat a slender figure—Professor Stark—his back straight, his gaze lowered.

"Sir, I've personally verified the information we received," Stark said solemnly, his voice firm despite the weight of the words.

Bartholomew's expression remained unreadable. Only the faint flicker in his eyes betrayed the inner turmoil. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the polished wood, his gaze drifting toward the massive bookshelf on the far wall.

"Has the royal family issued a statement?" he asked quietly.

Stark's lips thinned. "They'll likely sweep it under the rug again… just like last time."

The headmaster nodded absently. "You may leave."

Stark hesitated. "Sir… when will we take action?"

Bartholomew's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Leave, Peter. I won't ask again."

"...As you wish." Professor Stark rose abruptly, bowed, and turned to leave, his robes fluttering behind him. Though anger simmered in his steps, it wasn't directed at the headmaster. And showing it here would do no good.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Bartholomew alone in his office.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then the mask cracked.

The headmaster's face twisted—rage and frustration breaking through the calm he'd maintained. He raised a clenched fist above the elegant desk, his knuckles white with pressure.

But at the last possible moment, he froze.

His fist hovered inches above the wood, trembling.

"Those fucking bastards…" he spat through gritted teeth, eyes wild with fury.

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