People looked at me, then looked away.

  I was crossing the study wing with my bag over one shoulder when Eira finally slowed down.

  She was still holding my sleeve from the courtyard, as if she thought I might disappear between two columns.

  "You can let go," I said.

  "No."

  "Why?"

  She looked up at me with complete seriousness.

  "Because you walk fast when you want to leave."

  I looked at her for a second.

  "I'm not leaving."

  "Mmh."

  I hated that little sound.

  Because it meant she didn't believe me.

  We reached the main crossing of the east wing. From there, the corridors led to the study rooms, the secondary library, the inner gardens, and the rooms reserved for the children of the royal family.

  Eira finally stopped.

  "It's here."

  "I know."

  "Will you come get me later?"

  "You have three guards and two nursemaids."

  "It's not the same."

  I sighed.

  "Yes."

  Her face lit up at once.

  Then she finally let go of me, ran toward her room, stopped suddenly, took three quick steps back, and pointed at my bandaged hand.

  "Don't do that again."

  "I'll try."

  "Bad answer."

  Then she left without waiting for mine.

  I watched her disappear beneath an archway, then stood still for a brief moment.

  The palace was fully awake now. I could hear teachers' voices behind half-open doors. Servants moved quickly through the corridors with their heads lowered. High windows let pale light fall across the marble pillars.

  Everything looked normal.

  But something had been bothering me ever since the courtyard.

  Not what Father had done.

  What he had not done.

  He had looked at me.

  Then nothing.

  As always.

  I pushed the thought away and kept walking.

  My classroom was at the end of a quieter corridor, near the secondary library. It was not a real school. Just the palace study wing, reserved for the children of House Solis and a few children from allied, minor, or fallen houses who were allowed to grow up near the throne.

  Not enough students to call it a real academy.

  Just enough for everyone to already know who mattered and who did not.

  When I walked in, several heads turned toward me.

  Then turned away again.

  I already knew that silence.

  It was not respect.

  It was the polite version of contempt.

  One boy near the windows shifted his tablet and inkstone farther across his desk before I had even sat down. He never looked at me while he did it. He did not need to.

  I took my place near the back, beside a white column that hid me a little from the center of the room. It was easier that way. The seats near the windows were already taken.

  The best ones, as always.

  Kian was there too, two rows ahead. He did not even need to turn around to remind me that he belonged there. The way he sat was enough.

  A teacher entered shortly after.

  Master Oren.

  Tall, lean, already gray-haired, but still straight-backed. He almost always kept his hands inside his sleeves when he spoke, as if he had never needed pointless gestures to make people listen.

  The room fell silent at once.

  "Open your tablets."

  The sound of polished wood and hinges briefly filled the room.

  The lesson began.

  The history of bloodlines.

  Again.

  I already knew most of it. Not because I liked it. Because if you grew up in this palace, you grew up surrounded by names, laws, deaths, and oaths hanging on the walls like family portraits.

  House Solis ruled.

  The great houses held the kingdom together.

  The minor houses served, followed, or disappeared.

  When Master Oren said it, everything sounded simple.

  Much less so when you heard servants talking at night.

  "Power never exists alone," he said. "It comes with discipline."

  Some students wrote.

  Others pretended to.

  Kian was actually listening.

  So was I.

  Not for the same reason.

  "A great house does not survive by blood alone," Oren continued. "It survives because it passes down what it can control."

  He let a second pass.

  "Its name. Its methods. Its core."

  This time, more heads lifted.

  Every child in that room knew what that meant.

  A noble child had to learn how to read, write, speak, stand straight, and keep silent at the right moment.

  But in the end, one thing mattered more than the others:

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  the core.

  Whether it was strong.

  Whether it responded.

  Whether it could be mastered when the time came.

  Master Oren closed his tablet.

  "Remind me of the basics. What can a core be used for?"

  No one answered at first.

  Then he pointed to a boy near the window.

  "Alen."

  The boy straightened at once.

  "To use power, Master."

  "That is vague."

  Oren turned his head slightly.

  "Kian."

  Kian answered at once.

  "To strengthen the body. Or to release power outside the body."

  "Good."

  Master Oren took a few slow steps between the rows.

  "Remember it simply. Some people use their core better to strengthen their body. Their speed. Their strength. Their resistance. Others can release their power more easily."

  He paused briefly.

  "And some are bad at both, because they lack discipline."

  A few glances moved through the room.

  Not toward Kian.

  Not toward the seats by the windows.

  Toward the back.

  Toward me.

  I kept my eyes on my tablet.

  Master Oren went on as if nothing had changed.

  "A strong core is useless if the body is weak. A strong body is useless if the core slips out of your control. A great house must train its heirs in both."

  I felt my hand tighten against the edge of the tablet.

  He had not said any name.

  But I did not like the way that sentence fell into the room.

  "Kian," Oren said. "What is the first duty of a great house?"

  Kian answered without hesitation.

  "To keep its bloodline stable."

  Oren nodded.

  "And how does a house do that?"

  "By controlling what it passes down."

  "Correct."

  Oren turned a page.

  "A house that no longer controls its heirs always begins to weaken."

  The silence lasted one second too long.

  Then he added, more calmly,

  "And a house that hides what it cannot control is often already beginning to fall."

  No one turned this time. They did not need to. The room had already decided where that line belonged.

  My hand stopped at once.

  I looked up.

  The teacher's face had not changed.

  As if he had said nothing unusual.

  Then he reopened his tablet.

  "Continue."

  The lesson went on.

  But I was not really listening anymore.

  The words still entered my ears.

  My mind had caught on something else.

  A house that hides what it cannot control.

  I looked toward the high window.

  A cloud had just passed in front of the sun.

  At midday, we had a short break.

  The others left in small groups. Some stayed together. Others joined their guards or tutors. Kian left the room without a single glance in my direction.

  I stayed seated for a little longer, my tablet closed in front of me.

  Then I stood up.

  Instead of going to the courtyard, I took the corridor toward the library.

  The silence there felt different.

  It was not the silence of rejection.

  It was real silence.

  Calm.

  Bearable.

  The secondary library took up a whole wing of the palace. It was smaller than the great archive hall, but I preferred it. The ceilings were lower, the light less harsh, and the windows looked out over an inner garden that did not try to impress anyone.

  I walked between two rows of shelves.

  The smell of paper, polished wood, and warm dust calmed me almost at once.

  I already knew the quietest spots.

  The one near the south window was the best.

  I went there without thinking.

  Then I stopped.

  Someone was already there.

  A girl was sitting on the inside ledge of the window, a book open on her knees. Her feet were folded against the stone, as if she belonged there, or simply did not care if someone scolded her for it.

  Her black hair fell over her shoulders in a mess. Not the studied kind of mess nobles used when they wanted to look natural. Real mess. Her clothes were simple, well-made, but without any visible wealth. Not a servant's clothes. Not the clothes of a great heiress either.

  She looked up at me.

  Then closed her book.

  "Do you always stare at people like that?" she asked.

  It took me a second too long to answer.

  "No."

  "Liar."

  Her voice was neither harsh nor soft.

  Just direct.

  I took a step closer.

  "I thought no one was here."

  "So did I. Then you arrived."

  I looked at her again, more carefully this time.

  I had never really seen her before.

  Or not enough to remember her.

  She must have noticed I was trying to place her.

  "You can stop thinking so hard," she said. "It looks painful."

  This time, I really felt the beginning of a smile.

  Not much.

  But enough for her to see it.

  "Ah," she said. "So you do know how to smile."

  "Rarely."

  "It shows."

  She finally stepped down from the ledge, her book pressed against her chest.

  "Elora."

  I blinked.

  "What?"

  "My name," she said. "It's more practical if you plan to keep looking at me like I'm a riddle."

  I lowered my eyes briefly to the book she was holding.

  The leather was old. Worn at the edges. Not the kind of book children were given for no reason.

  When I looked up again, she was still waiting.

  "Vaelen," I said.

  She tilted her head slightly.

  "I know."

  I did not entirely like that.

  "Then why ask?"

  "To see if you would say it yourself."

  I crossed my arms.

  "And?"

  "And you did."

  I looked at the place near the window.

  Then at her.

  Then at the window again.

  Elora followed my gaze and let out an exaggerated little sigh.

  "Go on."

  "What?"

  "You want to sit there."

  "No."

  "Liar again."

  Before I could answer, she moved aside and left me half the space.

  I sat down anyway.

  The inner garden stretched beyond the glass. There was a round basin, a few white stones, two trees too thin to give any real shade, and at the back a small wall covered in moss.

  For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

  It was not awkward.

  It was new.

  Elora opened her book again.

  Then she looked at my hand.

  "You did that to yourself again?"

  I followed her gaze.

  My bandage.

  Wrapped badly.

  Of course.

  "Yes."

  "That's stupid."

  "I know."

  "Then why do you keep doing it?"

  I stayed quiet for a moment.

  Because I did not have a clean answer.

  Or rather, I did. But I hated the idea of hearing it out loud.

  "Because if I stop, I won't have much left."

  Elora looked at me from the side.

  Not with pity.

  Thankfully.

  "That's false," she said.

  I turned my head toward her.

  "You don't even know me."

  "I know you well enough to tell you that people who talk like that are almost always wrong."

  I was about to answer with something sharp.

  But she had said it in a strange way.

  As if she was not trying to comfort me.

  As if she was just stating a fact.

  I looked down at my hand.

  Then I asked,

  "What are you reading?"

  She lifted the book slightly.

  "Stories about houses that disappeared."

  I looked up faster.

  "Why?"

  "Because the houses that disappeared usually tell more truth than the ones still standing."

  I looked straight at her this time.

  She shrugged slightly.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "You've been making that face since earlier."

  "What face?"

  "The face of someone who listens more than he talks."

  I looked away toward the garden.

  Silence returned.

  This time, I was the one letting it stay.

  Then Elora closed her book.

  "You train with a sword a lot," she said. "But I've never seen you in the core yard."

  I frowned slightly.

  "You know that place?"

  "Everyone in the study wing knows it."

  She leaned one shoulder against the window frame.

  "The children from the strongest houses go there after lessons. Breathing. Control. Simple exercises."

  I stayed silent.

  Elora watched me for another second.

  Then she asked simply,

  "Then why are you never there?"

  I lowered my eyes to my bandaged hand.

  Then to the floor.

  Then to the garden again.

  "Because this is easier to control," I said at last.

  Her eyes stayed on me.

  "The sword?"

  "Yes."

  "And the rest?"

  The question was simple.

  Too simple.

  It took me longer to answer.

  "The rest doesn't always respond the way it should."

  Elora did not move.

  She did not soften either.

  She only looked at me.

  And because she did not rush to fill the silence, I found myself saying more.

  "A bad move with a sword cuts the skin," I said. "A bad answer from the core can become something else."

  Elora lowered her eyes briefly.

  Then raised them again.

  "So they keep you away from that."

  It was not really a question.

  I gave a slight shrug.

  "No one says it like that."

  "But it's true."

  I did not answer.

  Because yes.

  It was.

  The bell rang in the distance to mark the end of the break.

  Students' voices came back up from the corridor.

  The moment was about to break.

  I could already feel it.

  Elora stood properly.

  "Your bandage is awful," she said.

  I raised my hand.

  "You can do better?"

  "Yes."

  "That isn't difficult."

  "That's exactly why it's sad."

  I let out a breath through my nose.

  Then she held out her hand.

  "Give it."

  I looked at her for a second.

  Then I removed the cloth and handed it to her.

  Her fingers moved quickly. Neatly. She tightened the bandage around my palm without hurting me.

  The gesture was simple.

  But precise.

  Nothing like Eira's work.

  "There," she said when she was done. "At least now it doesn't look like you lost a duel against a curtain."

  I lowered my eyes to the result.

  "It's better."

  "I know."

  I turned my head toward her.

  "You say that a lot."

  "Because I'm often right."

  This time, my smile showed a little more.

  Not enough to become a real one.

  But enough for her to see it.

  And for some stupid reason, that bothered me less than it should have.

  Footsteps approached in the corridor.

  Heavier.

  More even.

  Guards.

  I straightened at once.

  Elora did too.

  Two men passed the open entrance of the library without looking at us. But their presence was enough.

  The calm broke.

  The palace had returned.

  With its rules.

  With its eyes.

  With what it expected from everyone.

  Elora slid her book under her arm.

  "We should go."

  I nodded.

  We left the library together, then she slowed at the crossing.

  "Vaelen."

  I turned my head toward her.

  "Yes?"

  She looked at me for a second.

  Then her eyes dropped to my hand.

  "Master Oren's line this morning... the one about houses hiding what they can't control."

  I did not answer.

  She continued anyway.

  "He wasn't speaking to the whole room."

  I stayed still.

  Elora did not look away.

  "He was talking about you."

  The corridor suddenly felt narrower.

  Louder too.

  I looked around us.

  No one seemed to be paying attention.

  And yet I felt as if the whole palace had just heard the same thing.

  "You're wrong," I said.

  "Maybe."

  But she did not look like she believed that.

  Then she added, more quietly,

  "If you really want to understand why they keep you away from the core, look more carefully at what happens before lessons. Not after."

  I frowned.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means people show more when they think no one is watching."

  Then she walked away.

  I watched her until she disappeared behind the row of columns.

  Only then did I lower my eyes to my hand.

  The bandage was neat.

  Simple.

  Useful.

  And for the first time in a long while, something in this palace had not looked at me like I was a problem.

  But Elora's line would not leave me.

  Look more carefully at what happens before lessons.