Kseiran Valreyn
This day could hardly have been going worse.
Sitting on the low stone parapet surrounding the square courtyard, I drew another lungful of tobacco smoke into my chest. The familiar, searing sensation rolled down my throat and settled somewhere deep in my lungs. It did nothing to ease the tension, though I hadn't exactly expected it to.
The girls around me—first-years, judging by the looks of them—kept sneaking glances in my direction. I ignored them, staring straight ahead. Somewhere nearby, Eyvar's deep, irritating voice droned on.
"They're not going to do anything to you!" my childhood friend insisted as I joined in on his conversation. "You were protecting your sister."
I exhaled another little cloud of poisonous smoke. Fortunately, the damned tobacco couldn't do anything to my health. I'd never understood mortals who sacrificed their lungs for such a shitty habit.
"They're the nobility," I said, my voice rough and distant. Gods, I was sick of going over the same thing. "There will be consequences."
"And you're the son of a general, Irkhi take their souls," Eyvar barked.
I merely shrugged. There was no point arguing with him.
Several hundred students were scattered throughout Aelyrium's perfectly square inner courtyard. In the center of the cobblestone grounds stood an enormous tree, its massive branches spreading in every direction. Bright scarlet and fiery orange leaves crowned its limbs, blotting out the gray, storm-laden sky.
One of the girls nearby giggled so loudly that I couldn't help looking up. The group of girls in identical dark-blue wool dresses, with long sleeves and floor-length skirts, immediately averted their intrusive gazes.
What the hell was so funny?
Rumors about how I'd nearly killed a bastard of noble blood had been circulating through the halls of the damned palace for almost a day now. And all of it just days before the Allocation. The moment I'd spent the last fifteen years working toward.
And these idiots thought my situation was amusing?
The son of a general renowned for his battles against the Irkhi. A member of the proud Valreyn family. I had nearly become one of those hunted in our world myself.
If I'd killed the bastard who had harassed my sister, I'd be halfway to Eyrholm by now. One of the oldest places in Emreall, where all magical abilities of any of its peoples were suppressed.
I'd been there once with my father.
I had no desire to return as a permanent resident.
Murder was the worst thing an immortal of my rank could do. It condemned them to an eternal descent into the abyss of darkness. No forgiveness. No way back.
And even though I'd stopped myself, even though the blood on my hands had amounted to nothing more than the result of someone else's broken nose, even an attempted attack on another Emreallian was severely punished.
The whispers behind me grew louder.
Irritation boiled through my veins.
But a moment later, I realized that, this time, the subject of discussion had abruptly changed.
"Fuck," Eyvar muttered as he followed the other students' gazes.
Two officers of the Emreall Royal Guard strode across the courtyard, not sparing a glance for the astonished people around them. Their dark-green uniforms gleamed beneath the dim light of the freezing day, gold buttons catching what little light there was.
Their faces were hidden behind masks. Members of the king's personal guard were forbidden from showing their faces, lest their enemies recognize them.
Seeing the elite of the military establishment inside the academy was unheard of.
And even stranger was the girl walking between the two soldiers, her head held proudly high.
Her chestnut hair, apparently once braided, had come loose. Long strands kept falling across her face. Her pale skin had an odd, sallow cast, as though she were not entirely well. Deep shadows lay beneath her expressive light-brown eyes, which on better days shimmered like amber.
Her face was still pretty, though not beautiful in the conventional sense. Her features were soft and smooth: a neat line of slightly full lips, a small nose, straight, thick brows.
She looked exhausted.
Of average height, with what had once been an attractive figure—full hips and breasts accentuated by a narrow waist—she looked nothing like the vibrant, cheerful girl I'd seen only a few months ago.
"Miraelle Sevraine," a whisper passed through the courtyard like a curse.
"I was sure she was dead."
"Did she escape?"
"Why did she come back?"
"This is because of her. Marhven fell because of her."
"She practically murdered him!"
If I could hear all those whispers, then so could she.
But Miraelle didn't lower her head.
She showed no reaction to the words of the people around her, simply keeping pace with her escort as she walked, as though she were not their prisoner but a member of an elite battalion.
She wore soft traveling trousers, tall boots, and a long burgundy greatcoat that looked as though it had been taken straight from a man's shoulders.
They were taking her toward the administrative wing, where the academy's leadership had their offices.
When the enormous double doors slammed shut behind the girl and the officers, the whispers abruptly swelled into a deafening roar.
Everyone was discussing the ghost of the recent tragedies.
"Devil's spawn," Eyvar spat onto the stones. "How the hell did she have the nerve to come back?"
"I don't think she had a choice," I muttered, crushing my cigarette against the stone parapet.
