The rain fell like blades, carving rivulets into the scorched earth where the Laveniya banner fluttered, soaked and limp. The funeral pyre had long since collapsed, reduced to a smoldering heap of ash, smoke curling like restless spirits. Nobles lined the stone courtyard in silence, dressed in ceremonial black, their faces buried beneath layers of veils and pride. But not Reinhard. He stood bare-headed under the storm, eyes sharp and dry.
Arman Laveniya was dead. The heir. The pride of House Laveniya. The shining sword of their legacy.
Now ash.
The flames hadn't taken him the way they claimed most. No. Arman had returned in pieces, ravaged by forbidden magic. Even the family's healing mages could not reassemble what was left of his noble form.
Reinhard didn't flinch when they set the body aflame. He hadn't wept. Not once. His father, Lord Edward Laveniya, stood beside him like a statue carved of grief and duty, but Reinhard remained a void. The world expected him to crumble. He refused.
A soft hand reached out. A servant, trembling, extended a small box made of rune-wood.
"This was recovered from Lord Arman's belongings, young master," the man whispered, bowing low.
Reinhard took the box. Opened it. Inside lay a ring—twisted silver, still bloodstained. But that wasn't what caught his eye.
Etched into the underside of the gemstone was a symbol: a crescent eye pierced by a jagged spear. He knew that mark. The world did.
The Viel Walkers.
Murderers. Shadow-dwellers. The hand behind his brother's death.
His fist closed around the ring.
---
Three weeks later.
The gates of Arcanthus Academy loomed like the jaw of some ancient beast. Forged from star-metal and reinforced by dragonbone runes, they shimmered with latent power. Around Reinhard, hundreds of aspiring magi, spellblades, and nobles stood in clusters, dressed in their house colors, buzzing with excitement.
He said nothing. His uniform was plain. Unadorned. The Laveniya crest hidden beneath a travel cloak. He didn't come here to represent his house.
He came to hunt.
He came to burn.
The Academy's entrance exam wasn't simple. It wasn't a written test or a duel. It was a Trial.
A shifting pocket dimension crafted by the Academy's elder mages. Each initiate would be thrown into a constructed illusion—part dream, part nightmare—designed to test their mental and magical fortitude.
They called it the Mirror of Truth.
Reinhard stepped forward when his name was called. The archway lit up, humming softly. As he passed through the gate, the rune in Arman's ring—now hanging on a cord around his neck—glowed faintly.
His pulse quickened.
Something was waiting.
---
Darkness swallowed him whole. The Trial had begun.
The world reformed around him—an endless forest, trees taller than towers, their leaves made of glass. Magic pulsed in the air like a heartbeat.
Then came the sound: dragging metal, low laughter, footsteps.
From the tree-line emerged figures cloaked in black and gray, wearing masks carved into crescent-eyed beasts. Reinhard's eyes went wide.
They wore the mark.
The Viel Walkers.
"Found you," Reinhard whispered, drawing a dagger from his belt.
It wasn't real. He knew that. This was the Trial. An illusion.
But that didn't matter.
He would kill them anyway.
And if the Academy saw him for what he truly was—
So be it.