Patterns of Friction

The victory against Darius should have been a quiet one.

But Aetheris Academy thrived on power, and power never remained silent.

By nightfall, the rumors had evolved from simple retellings of the match into something far more dangerous.

"Did you see how fast he moved?"

"He didn't use magic—not once."

"He humiliated Darius. And Darius never forgets a slight."

"Who is Nox, really?"

The last question, though whispered in hushed corridors and dim-lit halls, was the most important.

Because the answer was something only a handful of people truly knew.

And some of them?

Weren't happy about it.

The Fire Within

Cael sat alone in the academy's abandoned east wing, a place few students dared to enter. It suited him.

The only light came from a flickering torch on the wall, casting jagged shadows that danced across the stone floor.

He needed space.

He needed time.

Because he knew what was coming next.

Darius wouldn't take this loss lightly.

A noble's pride was more fragile than glass. And when shattered, they never picked up the pieces alone—they used others to make sure the one who broke it paid the price.

Cael exhaled, stretching his fingers, feeling the raw tension of the fight still lingering in his muscles.

"You're overthinking," a voice murmured from the shadows.

Cael didn't flinch.

"You're early," he said, without looking up.

From the darkness, Soren Draeven stepped forward, his expression unreadable.

"I had a feeling you'd be here," Soren said, leaning against the stone wall. His dark cloak barely moved in the dim torchlight. "That match... you did more than just win, you know."

Cael tilted his head. "Enlighten me."

"You made yourself a target."

Cael let out a slow breath. "I was already one."

Soren studied him for a moment. Then, with a faint smirk, he shook his head. "You really are different."

Different.

The word lingered between them, heavy with meaning.

Soren pushed off the wall and began to walk away. But just before he disappeared into the corridor, he paused.

"Be careful, Nox," he said over his shoulder.

And then, he was gone.

Cael remained in the flickering light, his hands clenched into fists.

"I know."

The Meaning of Nox

The name wasn't something he had chosen lightly.

Once, he was only Cael Mavros, a boy who had nothing, who lived in the shadows of the powerful, who learned to fight because survival demanded it.

But "Cael" was too easy to trace. Too many people would recognize the name.

He needed something else.

Something forgotten. Something erased.

"Nox" came from the old tongue, from a whispered legend of a being who walked unseen, striking without warning, disappearing before the world knew what had happened.

"He moves like a shadow."

"No one knows where he comes from."

"By the time you see him, it's too late."

A fitting name for a ghost.

But the people here were starting to see through the illusion.

They were beginning to realize—Nox and Cael Mavros were the same.

And if they figured out why he was here…

It would be over.

A Game of Nobles and Knives

The first attack didn't come in the form of a duel.

It came after midnight, when Cael had just returned to his quarters.

A single, sharp tap against his door.

Too light to be hostile. Too deliberate to be casual.

Cael didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the dagger hidden beneath his bed and moved silently to the side, where the shadows concealed him.

Only then did he speak.

"Enter."

The door opened.

And in walked Lirienne Valis.

She was still dressed in her academy uniform, her silver hair loose around her shoulders. But it was her expression that caught Cael's attention—calm, controlled, but carrying something sharp beneath the surface.

She closed the door behind her, then leaned against it, arms crossed.

"I hope you know what you've done," she said.

Cael tilted his head. "You'll have to be more specific."

Lirienne exhaled sharply. "Darius's family is already moving. His father's sent word to the academy."

That made Cael pause.

Not because he feared Darius's father, Lord Aldric Veyron—but because he knew how this world worked.

If a noble couldn't reclaim his pride personally, he would let others do it for him.

"Let me guess," Cael said slowly. "They're not calling for a rematch."

Lirienne smirked. "No. They're calling for your head."

Cael sighed. "How predictable."

Lirienne pushed off the door. "You don't seem worried."

"I don't waste energy on obvious things," Cael replied.

Lirienne stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Then let me give you a warning, Nox—this isn't about Darius anymore. This is about power. And when the nobles smell blood in the water, they don't care who it belongs to."

She was right.

And Cael knew it.

He had spent years playing the game from the outside, watching from the alleys, from the rooftops, from the places where no one thought to look.

Now, he was playing it inside the walls.

And the real game?

It was just beginning.

The Unseen Blade

Cael didn't sleep that night.

Instead, he listened.

To the whispers beyond his door.

To the faint scuff of boots against stone.

To the silence that settled just a little too perfectly.

Then, just before dawn, it happened.

The attack came not from the front, but from above.

A single dagger, descending like a falling star—silent, precise, lethal.

Cael moved before his mind even registered the danger.

He twisted, barely avoiding the blade as it embedded itself in his pillow, the force splitting fabric and feathers.

A shadow leapt from the ceiling beams, landing in a crouch. A masked figure, clad in black.

An assassin.

Cael barely had time to smirk before the second strike came.

He blocked with his forearm, wincing as the blade scraped against his skin. The assassin twisted, aiming for a finishing blow—

But Cael wasn't there anymore.

He slid beneath the attack, slamming his knee into the assassin's ribs. A sickening crack echoed through the room.

The masked figure staggered back.

Cael didn't give him a second chance.

He stepped in—fast, ruthless.

One strike to the wrist—disarm.

One strike to the knee—disable.

And one final strike to the throat—silence.

The assassin collapsed.

Cael grabbed the mask and tore it away.

And beneath it…

Was someone he recognized.

Not a mercenary.

Not a rogue.

A student.

One of Darius's allies.

Cael exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"Well," he muttered. "That was faster than I expected."

The game had started.

And from now on?

Every move would be a battle.