Fuck. My half-siblings? Mother sent them here for me? Wait, they must have already been at the Academy before me.

The noblewoman, my half-sister apparently, steps in front of me.

"You do know Jacob Cloud, don't you?"

I keep my voice measured and cough a little.

"Yeah, I traveled with him. Saw him a couple of times on board. He should come around soon."

The youngest, tall and broad-shouldered, flashes an eager smile.

"I'm Kai. How's Jacob? Is he a good sort?"

I shrug, shifting my bag on my shoulder. "Seems decent."

The one with the toughest eyes, the one who seems just about a few years older than Kai, narrows his eyes at me.

The armored one tosses me a platinum coin, which I catch without thinking.

Rich people, I muse, pocketing the coin.

"Thanks for your time," he says. "We'll wait here for him."

I nod, then push past them, not giving them another word.

The last thing I need is trouble with the Valemont family.

I set my bag down, keeping my voice even.

"It's been a pleasure, milords, milady, Kai."

I don't give them time to press further. I shoulder my bag and stride away toward the avenue, refusing to glance back. I want nothing to do with the Valemont family if I can avoid it, not after years of being their well-kept embarrassment.

* * *

Ytrial's inner city is a labyrinth.

I join a tide of travelers heading toward the center, keeping my gaze locked on the next archway and not the shimmering fortress walls that tower above the square.

I keep my stride brisk, and I don't bother hiding my relief when I finally lose sight of that pack of noble siblings in the crowd.

Every street here bends at strange angles, and every alley has its own array of mana lights that flicker with passing energy.

The place teems with enough people to fill a hundred Clearwaters, but I pick up no trace of my half-brothers as I navigate the crush. I duck beneath a row of awnings that lead straight to the Academy's registration hall.

I have one goal: to get myself registered before the other half of my family starts bothering me again.

Whatever they want, if I'm already an academy student by the time they get to me, it should make things easier.

When I saw the letter from my grandmother, Queen Anthea, I knew things were serious.

She didn't say what they want, but whenever a noble—wait, not a noble—a royal wants something, it can't be anything good.

Inside the registration hall, the light turns colder and sharper.

The stone pillars are veined with glowing runes, and every desk is manned by clerks with the harried faces of people who have seen one disaster too many today.

I get in line behind a group of chattering teenage noble girls.

I keep my hands folded and my pack pressed tight to my hip, not giving them an excuse to start a conversation.

When it's my turn, I step up to the desk and give my name and candidate's token.

The clerk—a woman with skin darker than obsidian and hair bound in braids—gives me a look that says she's handled far too many of me this week.

"Jacob Cloud, Knight candidate, seeking admission," I say, standing straight and letting my cloak hang so the Clearwater pin is visible. I set the token on the counter.

She glances down at the token, then at me. Her eyes flick over the Clearwater pin before she picks up a quill and dips it in a jar of shimmering ink. She fills in my name and details with a speed that tells me she's done this a thousand times.

"All right, Jacob Cloud," she says, "present your Squire's registration papers and you'll move to the admission office."

The words don't register for a moment. I stare at her, feeling my heartbeat jump once.

"My what?"

She sets the quill down and looks at me the way a brick wall would look at a charging deer.

"All candidates must have a registered Squire. You'll need to provide a signed Squire's parchment before your admission can proceed. If you don't have one, you can find the Squire Selection Square just north of the academy's gate."

I blink, and for a second, I want to ask her to repeat it. I school my expression into something close to calm.

"Is this a new rule?"

Her lips tighten.

"It's always been in effect for the main cohort. The only exceptions are for sponsored candidates or those with dispensation from the Deans or the Headmaster—well, the vice-Headmaster, I suppose—dispensation which you do not possess."

She looks back at her paperwork and doesn't spare me another glance.

"Next."

"Thanks," I say, turning and following some signs for this Squire Selection Square.

If the Academy wants a Squire, I'll find a Squire.

I step away from the desk with the kind of measured, even stride that looks like confidence and feels like a rope pulled tight. A wave of laughter and chatter drifts in from an open archway to my right. I follow the noise until I emerge into sunlight again.

Squire Selection Square sprawls in the shadow of the academy's southern towers. The place buzzes with a hundred voices—teenagers dressed in every kind of faded livery, all gathered in a ring around a central wooden platform. \

Every few moments, another would-be Squire leaps onto the platform to show off.

A guy is playing with knives, showcasing a peculiar concealing/throwing Skill that makes them difficult to detect. Another guy is fencing with a rapier—great abilities, honestly.

Many of these individuals are actually quite talented.

The bar to be a Knight is so high that even these people, who would make many in Clearwater turn their heads, can only be Squires.

Several Squires carry signs around their necks. Some list their meager talents in clumsy script—"Fast runner, good cook, will clean armor"—while others get more creative. One reads, "My father trained three Knights. Please pick me." Another kid, not more than eleven, stands on a box and yells, "Pick me, mighty sir! I'll bring you glory!" He even throws in a bow so deep he nearly topples into the mud.

The whole spectacle has a farcical edge that makes me want to laugh. I smirk despite myself. Even as I survey the chaos, I keep one eye trained on the street in case my family decides to follow.

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I weave through the crowd, ignoring the kids who try to grab my cloak or sing their own praises.

Whom should I pick?

That's when I hear the first wailing cry.

I freeze. The voice is high and raw, and it carries over the din with a kind of ragged force.

Heads start turning, and people on the far end of the square begin to point.

I follow their gaze to a wooden tower built against the square's southern wall—a crude stage, easily twenty times the height of a man.

Someone is standing on top, framed by the sky and a tangle of banners.

I see a boy—short, morbidly obese, with red cheeks and eyes swollen from crying—clinging to the edge with both hands. His wailing bounces off the stone, drawing stares and laughter from below.

I feel something cold run through my chest. I see the way the crowd responds: some laugh, others glance away with embarrassment, and a few watch with cold interest.

The fatty's hands tighten on the rail as he shouts, "No one wants me! I'll jump! I mean it!"

He looks like he believes it.

A kid with spiky black hair elbows past me, snorting. "He's at it again. Does this every single day."

Another squire—skinny, eyes too old for his face—nods.

"Don't bother rushing. He just wants attention. If anyone goes up, he'll bawl harder. And nobody's gonna pick him."

I glance at the two, but neither one seems interested in helping. They watch the spectacle with the detached look of people who have seen the same play a dozen times.

A third voice—this one older, probably a returning student—chimes in from behind me. "Fatty did it yesterday, too. Apparently, he's been doing it since last year as well. He climbs up there, screams about how he'll end it all, and by lunch, he's eating pies from the food stalls. Watch, the old merchant lady's got one ready. It's a ritual."

The boy on the tower flails, making the banners snap.

"I'm serious! If a Knight doesn't pick me this year, I'll throw myself down! And I'll haunt whoever takes my spot, you'll see!"

A few younger squires glance at each other, uncertain. One girl whispers, "Maybe someone should tell the teachers?"

"Nah," the spiky-haired kid says, "they don't care. They'll only show up if he actually falls, and he never does. He's actually quite nimble for his size."

There's a kind of sick entertainment in the way people gather at the base of the tower. Some throw jeers, others watch in silence. One boy, face painted with some family crest, cups his hands and shouts, "Jump then, fatty! If you survive, I'll make you my squire myself!"

Laughter breaks out in a jagged wave.

I catch the look on Fatty's face: a twist of hurt pride and theatrical rage.

He shakes the railing, red-faced, and howls, "You'll regret mocking me! I'm the best cook in the city, and my uncle's a great martial artist! I swear I'll—"

He loses his grip with one hand for a second, flailing, and the crowd's laughter crests. The old merchant woman someone mentioned appears near the base, holding a pastry box and a tired expression. She waves it above her head.

"Come down, Lancelot," she calls, "before you ruin your uncle's good name. I have your tart."

The boy freezes. He looks down, lip trembling.

"Is it the honey one?"

She lifts the lid, showing a glint of syrup.

"Still warm. I won't hold it forever."

A few Squires groan.

"Every time," someone mutters.

A girl beside me—freckled, with a chipped front tooth—shrugs.

"He actually can cook, you know. Last year, he got picked as a squire for a week, just for the food. Dropped him after he burnt a house down because he fell asleep in front of the stove."

I shake my head, feeling a mix of annoyance and pity. This is what I have to work with? A circus.

But I also sense something from the boy as he shakes his head vigorously.

"IT'S ALWAYS BEEN MY DREAM TO BE A SQUIRE! I SWEAR, I'M ENDING IT TODAY! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"

However, no one seems to believe him still.

I see him looking at the platform and closing his eyes, muttering a few words to himself.

Damn it! I think. That guy might really do it! I'm not sure he'll survive that fall!

"Wait!" I shout, my voice cutting through the crowd.

The boy freezes. He stares down at me, still sobbing but suddenly attentive. The laughter dies off, and the other candidates and Squires begin to step back. I step through the ring, glaring at the ones who look amused.

"Don't move," I tell him, every word clear and cold. "If you want someone to hear you out, then wait. I'll come up."

He nods, and the crowd's tension ripples outward. I find the ladder at the side of the tower and start climbing. The rungs wobble under my weight, but I keep moving.

I could use my wings, but it doesn't seem wise to reveal so much about myself this early.

At the top, the wind tugs at my cloak. The boy stands with his back pressed to the rail, tears streaking his face. He's younger than I thought—probably my age.

He meets my eyes, and his lips tremble.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I say, keeping my voice rough but not cruel. "You think if you throw a tantrum, someone's going to swoop in and save you?"

He shakes his head and tries to wipe his nose with a sleeve.

"I'm sorry. I… I just…" the Fatty's voice breaks, and he chokes on a sob. "No one wants me, sir. I tried every apprentice Knight, but I'm too slow and too fat. They all said so. They said I'd just get in the way."

His words tumble out in a rush, shame and fear tangling in his throat.

"I trained for a whole year, and my dad told me it'd be different here, but it's all the same. Nobody cares. If I go home, I'm just a joke. I'll just end it."

I look at him and see a bit of myself in the desperation, in his dreams—the sick ache of knowing you don't fit, the certainty that nobody wants you. My jaw tightens, and I hold the feeling down with a force of will.

"What's your name?" I ask.

He stares at me, surprised. "Lancelot. Lancelot Grafton."

"Lancelot Grafton," I repeat, then snort. "You know, you have a ridiculous name for a Squire."

He manages a watery laugh and nods.

"It's my mum's favorite. She thought it'd make me lucky."

"Well, Lancelot," I say, "I didn't come up here to watch you jump. I'm looking for a Squire, but I don't take cowards, and I don't take pity cases. If you want a shot, you'll have to prove you're worth it. Understand?"

He straightens, nodding so fast his jowls shake.

"Yes, sir! Anything, sir! I'll work twice as hard as anyone! I'll—"

Then, he jumps back on the platform with the kind of dexterity that belies his form.

I frown, looking at him.

This shameless bastard climbed up too easily! What the hell?! He might have somersaulted from this platform if he were so nimble!

"How strong are you, good sir?" Fatty inquires.

"Shut up," I say, grumbling, "you go down first. I'll follow."

We reach the ground. The crowd parts to let us through, and I steer Lancelot to an open patch of earth where the mud isn't too deep. He wipes at his face with both hands.

"All right," I say, crossing my arms. "Show me what you can do."

He blinks, then nods and glances around for a weapon or training dummy.

I saw a few squires hitting these before. They're scarecrows that materialize a score based on how much damage you deliver to them. I'd be curious to unleash the Black Flame on them, but… yet again, not a wise move.

I'm so curious to know how hard that hits, though.

Fatty snatches up a wooden staff from the edge of the ring and takes up a stance that's all wrong—too wide, knees locked, grip too far forward.

I watch him swing at the post, his arms shaking with the effort. He manages to hit the target with a loud crack, but the blow glances off instead of landing square.

"42."

"Is that good?" I ask someone by my side.

It's a noble girl.

"The threshold to qualify is five hundred."

"WHAT?!" I look at the Fatty, already panting, incredulous.

This guy's talent is terrible!

"Well, that wasn't that bad!" Fatty says, walking up next to me, already sweating up a storm.

I turn, my senses prickling with the warning that always comes before trouble. The crowd is parting, and I spot two young men striding toward us. The space around them opens as if everyone knows their names.

The first is tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of smoke and eyes like sharpened steel. He wears a set of pristine academy robes trimmed with gold, and a white tiger as tall as him pads along at his side, its coat marked with runes that pulse in time with its breathing. The animal's eyes sweep the crowd with lazy confidence.

The second is Kai, a very tall man with gray-blue eyes.

Kai towers above me, but he has kind eyes.

The other one, instead…

They already found out?

Kai's looking at me with a big smile, but the older one is looking at me with murder in his eyes.

"Well, look who we have here. You had me, Thorne Valemont, sent to chase you down, Jacob Cloud. Why did you lie?" Thorne leads, and his voice cuts through the crowd.

He stops a few paces from me, folding his arms across his chest. The gigantic tiger sits at his feet, tail lashing in slow, dangerous arcs.

Kai steps up beside him, hands in his pockets and eyes full of open curiosity.

"Hi, Jacob! It's such a pleasure! You must have been shy. I already introduced myself, but can I shake your hand? Mom told me a lot about you, and—"

"We have business with you," Thorne says, unsheathing his sword and causing the tiger to jump to its feet and roar so violently that several Squires around us—surprisingly not Fatty—faint.

I relax my shoulders and I get ready to call upon my Skills, but I can feel Thorne's aura.

He's Diamond Rank—he's way too strong for me.

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