Morning came with a rattle of silverware and the scent of roasted tomatoes.
My body was not ready.
I groaned, barely able to lift myself off the goose-feather mattress. My arms and shoulders ached from yesterday's rune attempts, and my fingers felt like they'd been beaten with hammers made of lead and shame.
Ormond stood at the foot of my bed, already dressed in a crisp butler's coat, holding a folded towel like a judge passing sentence.
"You groan like a man three times your age."
"I feel like I was buried in a library and resurrected by a spiteful book."
He ignored me, motioning to the breakfast tray he had brought in. A modest plate this time. Grilled tomatoes, buttered bread, two slices of bacon, and a hard-boiled egg.
Gone were the days of honeyed ham mountains and buttery cream rolls stacked three high.
"Your new diet," Ormond said flatly.
"Don't I get a final meal before the execution?"
"You already did. Every morning for the past six years."
Touché.
I chewed in silence, the crunch of bread unusually loud in the dorm's stillness. My room, though opulent, felt hollow. The shelves were stacked with dust-covered tomes I hadn't touched since first year. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall beside a tarnished broadsword I never used. Remnants of a noble who had once believed reputation alone would carry him.
Now it was just me. A second-chance squatter in a body that needed work.
I finished the last bite of tomato and stood, adjusting my new uniform. Ormond had replaced the old double-breasted monstrosity with a sleeker version, still navy blue but far less embroidered with my family's crest. It looked… plain. Normal.
Good.
"Do you think I have a shot?" I asked.
Ormond tilted his head. "At not combusting your robes again? Perhaps."
"Encouraging."
He offered me a small scroll, sealed with crimson wax. I broke it open.
It read:
Lord Darian Ravenscar,
Your Trial of Binding is set for the third hour past noon. Location: Rune Arena, West Wing. Audience expected. Evaluation formal.
Instructor Arkwright will oversee your performance. A secondary examiner from the Tower of Glyphs will be present.
Failure will result in formal expulsion.
– Dean Atrius
I read it again.
Audience expected.
Formal evaluation.
And Lina would be there, not just as an instructor, but as a judge.
"Fantastic," I muttered. "They're giving me a stage to fail on."
"Then make sure you don't."
Ormond's voice was quiet, but there was something behind it. Not pity. Not sarcasm. Something like… belief.
It was unsettling.
I tucked the scroll into my coat and made my way toward the central campus. The Trial wasn't until noon, but I needed practice. Lina had agreed to meet me again, though she hadn't said a single word when I left the lab last night. Just handed me a new practice cloak and returned to her diagrams.
The academy was already stirring. Banners flapped gently in the morning wind, the silver trees in the courtyard rustling as first-years ran between classes in a panicked stream of oversized robes and spellbooks.
No one really greeted me. I was still a ghost here. The disgraced heir. The joke noble who had flunked enchantments and once caught his sleeve on fire trying to bind wind to a feather duster.
They whispered. But not as loudly as before. That, in itself, was progress.
At the lab, I found Lina already mid-lecture—to no one. She was facing the wall, scrawling a complex rune into the air with a fine brush, her eye glowing faintly as each stroke settled into place.
She turned when I entered, eye scanning me from boots to collar.
"You're early."
"I thought I'd try something new."
She handed me the same training cloak from yesterday, now patched where I had nearly incinerated it.
"We only have until second bell," she said. "You'll need to bind a single-tier flame rune to a wearable garment. Stable. Repeatable. Without error."
"I've only gotten it right once."
"Then get it right twice."
I stepped into the center circle and took a breath. The ink in the pot shimmered again, but this time, I didn't hesitate.
I let the strokes flow—not fast, but steady. My wrist trembled slightly, but I pushed through it. No shortcuts, no panic. Just form and control.
One curve. Two lines. Cross-hook. Anchor curl. Seal.
The cloak pulsed faintly.
Then glowed.
The rune held.
Lina approached, examining the glow without speaking. Her expression remained unreadable.
"Passable," she said at last.
"I'll take it."
"No visible instability. Flame resonance is weak, but it won't detonate. It'll suffice… assuming you don't trip on the way to the arena."
I offered a weak smile. "You're really not good at pep talks, are you?"
She tilted her head, almost puzzled. "I'm not here to cheer you. I'm here to see if a failing noble with too much name and not enough discipline can survive the academy."
"I suppose I should be flattered."
"You shouldn't."
Second bell rang.
Lina handed me a small scroll—this one sealed with a wax rune instead of the standard crest.
"What's this?" I asked.
"A contract. It marks your rune signature as temporary approval for combat-adjacent demonstration. Without it, the Academy's safeguards will treat your casting as unauthorized."
"Combat?"
She looked away, which, for Lina, counted as flinching.
"There may be… an opponent."
"You didn't mention that before."
"I didn't think it mattered. You'll be binding, not dueling. But Dean Atrius… he may have arranged a guest."
Of course he did.
I opened the scroll and felt the pulse of magic as the rune sealed itself to my signature. My fingers tingled, the parchment vanished into light, and suddenly the Trial felt very, very real.
I gathered the cloak, checked the ink kit, and started toward the West Wing.
Behind me, Lina said quietly, "You can do it."
I turned.
She was looking at the wall again.
"Didn't catch that."
"You heard me."
I smiled.
Then, with aching steps and a burning knot of nerves in my chest, I made my way to the Rune Arena.