As the defeated Arclan students retreated with wounded pride, Lowell Brandt remained still, his expression unreadable. His sharp, calculating eyes tracked their movements—not with triumph, but with the precise scrutiny of a seasoned warrior assessing a battlefield. He watched their movements, their posture, the way they carried their injuries—noting it all and filing it away as if this were just another sparring match, another test of skill.

  Robbie, the self-appointed leader of the pack, clutched his ribs with one hand while the other pressed against the stone railing for support. His sneer had faltered, replaced by a grimace of pain and humiliation that twisted his features into something ugly. The morning light caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his dyed hair, once carefully styled but now clinging to his scalp in disheveled clumps. He stumbled away from the pavilion, each step deliberate and measured, as if he were trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the crushing defeat.

  The other Arclan students were behind Robbie, slower to follow. Robbie barked at them to hurry as he stumbled away, then shot Lowell a look that said it plainly: This wasn't over.

  For now, though, it was.

  Lowell let a small smile play over his lips as he watched Werner, the broad-shouldered brute, lumber in pursuit of Robbie. He moved slowly, not because of injury or humiliation. Lowell doubted he did much more than bruise the big student, but Werner moved with deliberate purpose. He stopped briefly to help one of his fallen allies to his feet. The young man's wrist hung at an awkward angle, and Werner supported him with surprising gentleness, his massive hands careful as he guided his companion away from the pavilion. He paused at the edge of the reflecting pool, not to nurse wounded pride, but to take stock of the situation.

  When he finally turned to cast one last glance over his shoulder, there was no anger in his eyes. No promise of vengeance, as with Robbie. Instead, his gaze was calculating, measuring Lowell with the same clinical assessment Lowell had given him. The large student's regarded Lowell intently, as if commiting the features of a worthy opponent to memory. He nodded once, a gesture that could have meant anything—acknowledgment, respect, or perhaps a silent promise to be more careful next time.

  The remaining student limped slightly, favoring his left leg as he struggled to keep up with Werner and his injured companion. He moved like a shadow retreating from the dawn, his once-cocky demeanor replaced by sullen silence.

  The park's serene beauty appeared to mock their retreat. Birds continued their morning songs from the trees, their melodies carrying on the gentle spring breeze as if nothing of consequence had occurred. The reflecting pools remained perfectly still, their surfaces mirroring the clear blue sky above, undisturbed by the violence that had just unfolded. Nature, indifferent to victors and losers, carried on. The park, and by extension the city, continued its daily rhythm without acknowledging that any disruption had taken place at all.

  As they disappeared down the winding path, Lowell could still hear Robbie's muttered curses and whispered threats carried on the wind. The words were indistinct, but their tone was unmistakable.

  Although he had initially tried to avoid the confrontation, he'd felt his hand twitch earlier at the mere prospect of it. He hadn't been in a battle—a real battle, one that challenged his skills and pushed him to his limits—since before he'd arrived in Dahncrest.

  It wasn't that he was looking for trouble, but he was becoming restless. Deep down, part of him had secretly hoped for one of them to be a worthy opponent. Someone who could test the edge of his abilities. Instead, he'd faced a pack of untrained bullies who could barely throw a proper punch.

  Lowell let out a slow breath and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the residual tension. The fight was over, but its echoes still lingered in the air, like the aftershock of a distant storm. He could feel the eyes of unseen observers on him, students who had been too wary to interfere but had undoubtedly witnessed everything.

  Bart Allston, still catching his breath, ran a hand through his dusty, orange-brown hair, trying in vain to fix the mess of it. He exhaled sharply before turning toward Lowell with a broad grin, extending a hand.

  Bart laughed, though it sounded a bit forced, revealing that he hadn't quite shaken off his fear. "Man, that was insane!" He extended his hand to Lowell, a mix of gratitude and greeting. "Thanks for saving me, man!"

  Lowell glanced at Bart's outstretched hand. For a moment, it hung between them, an awkward bridge spanning the gap of unfamiliarity. Then, without a word, Lowell turned his gaze away from the other student's hand, meeting Bart's eyes instead.

  "Lowell Brandt." His tone was flat; he made no move to shake the offered hand.

  Bart faltered, dropping his arm with a sheepish chuckle. "Yeah, thought so. I'm Bart Allston. You're a second-year at Orus, right?"

  Lowell gave a curt nod. "Yes."

  Silence stretched between them like an uncomfortable blanket, thick and suffocating. Lowell stood expressionless, while Bart shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

  Though they attended the same school and were peers in the same class, neither knew what to say next. Bart opened his mouth once, then closed it again, his lips forming shapes that never quite became words. Lowell simply stared, his gaze distant and detached, as if he were already mentally calculating the fastest route to the academy to avoid further delay.

  The only sound was the distant chime of the academy bell, its sharp tone slicing through the morning air like a blade through silk.

  Bart's eyes widened in realization, the color draining from his face. "Oh, crap."

  Lowell's mask of detachment cracked in an instant. His head snapped toward the direction of the school. "Shit." Without hesitation, he snatched up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

  "I'm late again!" he muttered, his usual cool demeanor fracturing into something far more human—exasperation.

  Bart scrambled to grab his own bag. "Wait for me!" he called, rushing after Lowell as they sprinted down the hill, their morning battle already becoming another story lost in the endless churn of academy life.

  #

  Orus Guild Academy stood as a testament to the enduring legacy of its founder, Irving Orus, a visionary mage who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of magical knowledge and excellence. Founded in the early days of the Guild Marches, the academy had been a beacon of learning for generations of students, attracting the brightest minds from across Dahncrest and the rest of the Guild Marches during its prime. For centuries, Orus Guild Academy had been renowned as one of the premier guild academies, rivaling even the esteem that the Arclan Guild Academy holds today.

  However, as with all things, time and debt had taken their toll on the academy's grandeur. Despite its storied past, Orus Guild Academy was now beset by financial woes, its once-majestic buildings showing signs of wear and tear. The intricate stone carvings that adorned the walls were beginning to weather, and the once-vibrant murals depicting scenes from Dahncrest's history had faded to a dull sheen.

  Irving Orus, the academy's founder, had been a man of unyielding passion and vision. A master of the arcane arts, he had spent his life studying ancient tomes and seeking out new knowledge to share with future generations. His legacy lived on through the countless students who had graduated from the academy, many of whom went on to become respected mages, scholars, and guild masters in their own right.

  Orus' grounds were typical for a guild academy. Nestled at the heart of the sprawling complex was the courtyard. A statue of Irving Orus stood in the center of the yard, a placard on the base of the statue presenting the core tenets of the founder's philosophy. Emblazoned behind the text was the academy's crest: a stylized representation of the celestial bodies that had guided Irving Orus on his journey before he settled and built the guild academy as his legacy. The same crest could be seen on the patches which adorned the academy uniforms, outside the gates, and above the main doors leading into the central building.

  Despite its financial troubles, the grounds were well kept, mostly by the staff and student body rather than by an army of groundskeepers. The sweet scent of blooming flowers and the soft chirping of birds created a sense of serenity that belied the intensity of the learning that took place within the academy's walls.

  Toward the back of the courtyard, directly across from the street entrance to the academy, stood the central building of the academy, Irving Hall. A grand staircase led up to the entrance, where students would often gather before classes or during special events.

  Behind it were three additional buildings added over the years. These housed most of the student classrooms and other academy facilities. The buildings were connected with covered walkways to create an interior courtyard which students and faculty simply referred to as the quad. The colonnade was furnished with glow orbs, a common type of magitech that provided artificial light at night and on overcast days. Nearby trees provided shade for the benches set beneath them.

  Walls surrounded the academy grounds, the wall toward the front of the courtyard adjacent to the street was half-solid and half-fenced. The solid sections were imposing and sturdy, while the fenced sections allowed for glimpses into the surrounding landscape. Although discouraged from doing so, students would often sit on the walls, carrying on their conversation amid the bustle of the city beyond the academy's boundaries.

  As Lowell and Bart left the park behind them, they couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over them. They had made it to the school just in time, or so they thought. The last bell signaling the start of first period classes had already chimed, true, but the academy was still bustling with students who were hurrying to their classrooms.

  Lowell strode confidently onto the grounds, his long strides eating up the distance as he led Bart towards the entrance. But as they approached the gate, Lowell's pace slowed, and he came to a stop just inside the entrance.

  "Hey, Brandt." Bart's voice carried unmistakable concern as he spoke in hushed tones. "Don't you think we should, you know, hide or sneak in? Or maybe try to blend in with the crowd?"

  Lowell glanced at Bart, then nodded toward the gate. "It won't do us any good," he said flatly.

  Bart's eyes widened as he followed Lowell's gaze towards the imposing figure who stood just inside the gate, arms crossed and a smug grin spreading across his face. The man was built like a fortress, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence that seemed to fill the entire courtyard.

  "Ah-ah, right on schedule." Headmaster Byron's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You two are just in time for our little chat. To my office, boys."

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  #

  Headmaster Byron's office was stuffy, not to mention cramped and cluttered. The office was functional; it offered enough room for the headmaster to hold small meetings with academy instructors or to hold conferences with parents and guardians. It was also more than sufficient to deliver punishment for students who failed to acknowledge or follow the rules of the academy.

  The headmaster's desk was a microcosm of the rest of the room, papers and books covered the desk leaving very little room for the headmaster to write, or even rest a cup of tea. One stack of papers, posters advertising the annual city-wide games in the summer, had been tucked into the trash receptacle. However, each of the piles was neatly arranged, though Lowell had not yet been able to identify their organizational scheme.

  Lowell was no stranger to this office.

  He was often summoned there, either due to his tardiness or lack of academic enthusiasm. Mostly he received a slap on the wrist for arriving late to class. His social withdrawal only added to Headmaster Byron's frustration.

  Their first encounter, which had taken place shortly after Lowell's enrollment, had set the tone for their tumultuous relationship. Phileas Byron demanded respect from all students at the academy. Lowell, on the other hand, believed that respect was earned through actions, not simply because of one's position or rank. When Lowell said as much, he immediately found himself on Byron's bad side.

  While Lowell reflected on his time spent in this office, he glanced over at Bart who seemed to be fidgeting nervously.

  They waited in quiet, but it was clear that the other student was anxious.

  The monotonous, mechanical ticking of a clock counted the passing seconds.

  When they were ushered into the office, Byron had closed the door behind them, leaving them unattended while he spoke with his assistant. They could hear him gloating, his voice practically oozing with vindictive satisfaction. Lowell's sword was gone, seized by the headmaster. Its absence left him feeling anxious and unbalanced, as if part of him was missing. Lowell overheard the headmaster making a big deal out of confiscating the sword, noting that it had been the "fifth weapon confiscated this week". Lowell was left wondering if anyone other than the headmaster actually cared.

  At Orus Guild Academy, weapon training wasn't just encouraged; it was a fundamental part of a student's education. As future guilders, students were expected to develop proficiency with a variety of weapons, from standard swords and staves to specialized arms tailored to their respective disciplines. However, while combat training was integral to the curriculum, the possession of personal weapons outside designated training sessions was a different matter entirely.

  Strict regulations governed the carrying of arms on academy grounds, a measure designed to maintain order and prevent unnecessary conflicts among students. For most, their weapons remained locked away in the academy's armory or within supervised training halls, only accessible during sanctioned practice. There were, of course, exceptions. Wealthy students from powerful guild families often secured special permissions, flaunting their heirloom blades or enchanted relics as symbols of status. Even so, they were usually wise enough to leave them at home, avoiding any potential issues with the headmaster.

  Yet for the average student, possessing a weapon outside of approved circumstances could mean confiscation, disciplinary action, or worse, especially under the watchful eye of the academy's administrators.

  Lowell lacked both the prestige and the connections to convince the headmaster to grant him permission to carry his sword. Not that it would have mattered. The headmaster had taken a dislike to him from the moment he set foot on academy grounds. From day one, Lowell had been branded a "troublemaker," a label that clung to him like a stain no matter how little effort he made to stand out.

  Lowell had hoped he could get away with disguising it. Clearly, he'd miscalculated.

  Lowell frowned slightly, wondering how he could have been so careless. The sword was one of the few items he'd come to Dahncrest with.

  But then, because it was one of the few effects from a life before he was enrolled at Orus, that was precisely the reason he'd been brazen enough to carry it despite lacking the express permission to do so. He had wrapped the sword in cloth, kept it secured to his bag, and avoided drawing attention to it whenever possible. As long as it remained out of sight, he figured no one would question it. After all, some students carried training gear or personal belongings of sentimental value.

  He should have been more careful. Though, it may not have mattered. Byron seemed to be watching him more closely than most students, waiting for an excuse to tighten his grip.

  Being forced to part with his sword only deepened his sense of unease. He felt exposed without it, as if a vital part of himself had been stripped away. Not every guilder carried a weapon; many pursued paths in artisan or civil guilds, but Lowell had been raised in a mercenary guild, where steel wasn't just a tool but an extension of one's identity. To walk unarmed felt wrong. Vulnerable.

  And he hated it.

  "Why did you even have that sword?" Bart barely raised hi voice above a whisper. "I mean, don't get me wrong." He made a swinging motion with his hands as if he were holding the sword, though the motion seemed to be more suggestive of a bat. "You looked cool using it."

  Lowell remained silent, refusing to engage in conversation.

  Instead, he focused on trying to listen to what was being discussed behind the closed door in the office's annex. Bart continued talking, but Lowell wasn't able to catch any meaningful details.

  The door to the office swung open without warning, and Headmaster Byron strode in, his large frame making the already cramped space feel even more oppressive. Bart's mouth went dry as he caught sight of the man.

  The headmaster made his way around the desk and sat down, folding his hands into the small recess between the papers and books as he stared at Lowell and Bart, unblinking.

  The silence was unbearable, lasting long enough that Bart, who wasn't accustomed to being scrutinized in this way, began to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.

  After a moment of silence, Byron cleared his throat, producing a low, gravelly cough that startled Bart and made him sit up straight. "This sort of delinquency I would expect from Lowell Brandt," he began, casting a disapproving gaze at Lowell, who remained stiff and unyielding. "But you, Master Allston..." His words trailed off, disappointment dripping from every syllable.

  "I..." Bart started to defend himself, but Lowell interrupted him with an air of nonchalance.

  "It was my fault."

  The headmaster's looked incredulous. "Oh?" A small chuckle escaped his lips, one that seemed to come from the depths of his belly. Lowell's eyes narrowed as he considered Byron's reaction. He suspected that Byron knew more than he was letting on and decided to be cautious.

  "I woke up late and ran into..." Lowell hesitated briefly before recalling Bart's name.

  Apparently, the pause was long enough to convince Bart that Lowell had forgotten his partner's name. Bart's brow furrowed with displeasure. "Bart." This time Bart's voice was flat, flavored by annoyance. How could he not know my name by now?

  "...right, Bart. There was an accident on one of the trolley lines this morning so we were both cutting through the park. We heard the first period bells chime and rushed toward the gate. The rest? You already know."

  Byron looked from one student to the other, his eyes lingering on Bart before returning to Lowell. "Nothing else?"

  There was a moment of tense silence as the two parties assessed each other's strategy. Lowell was convinced that Byron knew more than he was letting on, while Bart seemed to be realizing that he was caught in a game of cat and mouse between Byron and Lowell. I'll have to be careful. Lowell thought to himself, suspecting that getting caught in a lie with Byron would carry with it a far worse punishment than his delinquency.

  "I see." Byron nodded and shuffled through a stack of papers. Without raising his eyes, he addressed Bart again. "Master Allston, your uniform is rather unkempt, isn't it?"

  Bart's face paled as he realized the headmaster was criticizing him.

  "Uh, well... I..." Bart trailed off, unsure how to respond.

  Byron's attention suddenly shifted away from Bart and his uniform. "Alesandra!" He called out in a commanding tone. The headmaster's assistant, a young elw, hurried through the door carrying Lowell's sword. She handed it to him and he lifted the sword, studying it intently. "What were you doing carrying this, Brandt?"

  Ah, yes! The sword. Bart let out a silent sigh of relief, now that the scrutiny had passed from him to something else. Bart glanced at the sword, then at Lowell, wondering what was about to happen. Where did Lowell get this? Beyond concerns about guild academy regulations regarding weapons, Bart was curious about the sword itself. Without seeing the quality of the blade, the ornate and decorated sheath implied that the blade held some value. The well-oiled sheath suggested that Lowell took the time to care for the weapon. A family heirloom, perhaps?

  As far as Bart could tell, Lowell Brandt didn't have any special status or exemption from the weapon prohibition. This meant that Lowell risked losing a weapon that clearly held significant meaning for him.

  When the headmaster looked up to meet Lowell's gaze, he paused for a fleeting moment before their eyes locked with an intensity that made Bart shift uncomfortably in his seat. Lowell remained impassive, yet defiant. A flicker of warning danced in the depths of the headmaster's eyes, as if baiting Lowell.

  Lowell opened his mouth to respond to Byron's question when Bart intervened this time. "Oh, haha!" Bart laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his head. "Brandt was helping me out. I'm so stupid. I tripped and dropped a few things I was carrying, including this sword."

  Byron was surprised at Bart's flippant admission. "This is yours, Master Allston?"

  "No, no, no. Sorry." Bart's embarrassment was evident as he spoke. "I was delivering it for my father, a special order from a customer that I... uh..." He cast his gaze downward, then looked up again, raising his hands in a passive gesture of defense. "I didn't want my father to find out, so I was on my way to deliver this in the morning but..."

  Byron's eyes hardened as he continued the interrogation, unconvinced by Bart's explanation. Lowell felt a sense of unease wash over him as he watched the exchange. "Why were you not carrying it then, Master Allston?"

  An explanation he no doubt expects to pick apart. Lowell thought to himself. He understood that Bart was trying to help him, but if Byron caught him in the lie it was likely to be Lowell who would suffer. The Allston family may not be guild royalty, far from it, but they were prominent members of Ironhaven and had been since the guild was founded a few generations back. On top of their storied history in Dahncrest, the Allstons had a legacy with the academy.

  "Oh! That's simple." Bart tried to salvage what was left of his credibility. "As I mentioned, I dropped most of the things I was carrying, including that." He pointed almost lazily at the sword while lifting his bag to demonstrate the ripped strap.

  Lowell looked at Bart, stifling a smile that would betray the fact that he was impressed and possibly give Byron reason to suspect something else. The bag's strap wasn't broken when they entered the school grounds, at least not as far as Lowell saw. Which meant that somehow during the course of Bart's story, or before it, Bart had deliberately managed to break it.

  "So, you see, I couldn't carry everything, so I had to rely on help from a classmate."

  The headmaster turned to Lowell. "Is this true?"

  "Every word of it." Bart's said, his words carrying a hint of challenge. "Are you calling me a liar, Headmaster Byron?"

  "No, Master Allston, I—"

  Bart pressed his advantage. "See, to me, it sounded like you were calling me a liar. If you don't believe me, I'm sure my father could..." Bart let the words hang in the air, the vague threat apparent.

  "No, no. That is fine. I'm sorry, Master Allston." Byron bowed his head.

  Looking from Bart to Lowell, Byron was quiet for a few moments, his expression a mix of resignation and frustration. It was clear that Bart had managed to talk his way out of trouble, at least in part.

  "There is still the matter of delinquency that must be dealt with." Byron's voice was firm but bearing a hint of defeat.

  Bart nodded, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Of course."

  Byron sighed and rubbed his temples. "You two will be cleaning the academy's basement after school hours for the next week."

  Bart's face fell. "The basement?"

  Lowell raised an eyebrow, surprised by Bart's reaction. The basement was hardly a glamorous task, but it wasn't exactly a punishment either.

  "Unless you would prefer to clean the academy's lavatories." Byron's annoyance was growing. "Yes, the basement."

  Bart sighed and nodded reluctantly. "Fine. What about the sword?" Bart's eyes flickered to Lowell before returning to Byron. "It's mine, after all."

  "It is." Byron confirmed. "I will be sending it back to your father, Master Allston."

  Bart nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. He had managed to turn the situation around, using his wit and charm to deflect Byron's suspicions. Still, he'd have to contend with the elder Allston when he got home.

  Lowell couldn't help but feel that he was in over his head. He had underestimated Bart's cunning and now found himself stuck cleaning the academy's basement alongside his supposed friend.