Waking up in the morning, the first thing I always felt was the damned magic bell screaming at me like I owed it money.

  "..."

  With a reflex honed by sheer spite, my arm shot out to slap the offending object into silence. The bell skittered across the bedside table, its chime dulled as it toppled over.

  My eyelids were heavy reluctant to part, but I blinked rapidly, dragging myself from the haze of sleep. It only took a few seconds for clarity to settle in. The grogginess dissipated like fog under the morning sun, and my body caught up with my mind, though not without protest.

  On the small table beside me, a slim, sterile needle glinted under the dim morning light. Reaching over, I picked it up and pressed it into my fingertip with deliberate precision.

  "Ouch."

  The prick of pain was sharp, pulling me out of the last vestiges of sleep like a splash of cold water.

  This wasn’t some masochistic quirk—mostly. The quick jolt ensured I was fully awake, fully focused. It was a small but vital ritual, honed over the years. When danger could come from anywhere, a foggy mind could be fatal.

  I flexed my fingers and checked my arms and legs, a quick, silent inventory to confirm that all was intact. No wounds, no aches that shouldn’t be there. Proof that I’d survived another night unscathed.

  Throwing off the blanket wrapped around me, I swung my legs down from the chair I had slept on, my feet meeting the cold wooden floor. I ran a hand through my tangled hair, taking in the space I had grown familiar with over the last two years. It was luxuriously decorated to the point of absurdity. Gold-framed paintings adorned the walls, and thick velvet drapes hung over tall windows and a large, grand canopy bed stood nearby.

  But I never slept in the bed.

  Instead, my makeshift bed a hard yet comfortable chair tucked further within the room was where I spent my nights.

  Sleeping on a chair might seem odd, given the opulence of my surroundings, but it wasn’t without reason. Beds are comfortable, yes, but they’re also terrible for combat readiness. Trial and error had taught me that the chair allowed me to spring into action faster. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked.

  Dragging myself to the adjacent bathroom, I turned on the tap, letting the cold water splash over my face. The shock helped. As I stared into the mirror, droplets still clinging to my pale complexion, I examined the face looking back. Black eyes, dark hair, a weary expression. It was a face I hardly recognized sometimes, but it was mine nonetheless.

  "Another day survived," I muttered, staring at myself. "Good job."

  A pat on my own back—or in this case, a verbal pat—had become a habit over the last two years. No one else was going to do it for me, and sometimes you just had to be your own cheerleader.

  Grabbing a towel, I dried my face before heading to the wardrobe to dress. The ensemble awaiting me was a piece of art and a logistical nightmare. Noble attire, designed more for appearances than practicality.

  The waistcoat was velvet black, adorned with intricate silver filigree that traced every edge and button, each shaped into miniature crests. The crisp white shirt beneath featured pleated ruffles that cascaded down the chest like a waterfall of elegance, stark against the deep black. A long frock coat, made from shimmering midnight-red silk, bore silver trim and subtle embroidery of the Blackwood sigil—a leafless tree with countless branches stretching in chaotic grace.

  The trousers were tailored to perfection, slim and charcoal-gray with subtle satin stripes. Polished leather boots reached just below the knee, their silver buckles gleaming. A crimson silk cravat completed the look, fastened with a silver pin that caught the light just so.

  Dressed like this, I looked every bit the noble I was supposed to be. But to me, it all felt excessive. My position didn’t allow for anything less, though. Appearances were everything, especially for someone from a house clinging to its former glory.

  With a sigh, I tied the final piece into place, resigning myself to The absurdity of noble clothing. It wasn’t as if I had much of a say in the matter. In my position, every detail mattered, even the ridiculous ones.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, the last night weighed on my mind, a web of thoughts spinning endlessly in my head.

  My grandmother and the family had made their decision, sending me to the royal capital for the princess’s birthday party. as a convenient scapegoat.

  A light sigh escaped my lips. It wasn’t difficult to see through their intentions. The whole ordeal wasn’t about honoring tradition or cementing alliances; it was about ensuring Eric, "hope" of the family, stayed far away from any potential threats.

  Let me explain.

  For any normal noble house, an invitation to the princess’s birthday party would be a monumental honor. It’s a coveted opportunity to mingle with the elites of the kingdom, forge alliances, and, if you’re lucky, gain the favor of the king himself.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  High-ranking nobles view it as a chance to scout promising alliances or new vassals. The mid-tier nobles scramble to secure connections above their rank while maintaining their own status. And the lower-tier nobles? Well, they pray to whatever gods they worship for even the faintest acknowledgment from their betters. A single nod from a great house could elevate an entire bloodline overnight.

  And then, there’s the rare chance to meet the princess. A fleeting moment to ingratiate oneself with the future of the royal family. A moment every noble dreams of.

  But for House Blackwood? It’s nothing but a executioner's block.

  We were a house of counts a powerhouse in Albion’s political theater. Now we’ve been reduced to the status of barons teetering on the edge of complete ruin. Our political rivals now circle like vultures, eager to pick apart what’s left of the once-mighty house.

  Attending the party means stepping directly into their den. Refusing the invitation, however, would be even worse. It would be an insult to the crown, a slight that our rivals would eagerly use as ammunition. The rumors would spread faster than wildfire: House Blackwood is weak. House Blackwood defies the king. House Blackwood is filled with traitors.

  Yet, sending Eric, the golden boy of the family? That’s a death sentence for him waiting to happen.

  He’s talented, charismatic, and the family’s best shot at clawing its way back into relevance. If Eric showed up at the capital?

  Everyone will target him like crazy. The nobles can't let the chance to eliminate the potential threat slip away.

  A few whispered words in the right ears, a few falsified claims, and he’d find himself either executed or imprisoned for life.

  “Oh, Eric insulted my daughter.” “He damaged my estate.” “He poisoned my wine.” Truth? Irrelevant. The court wouldn’t bother with an investigation. The accusations alone would be enough to justify reparations—land, gold, slaves, or worse. And if not accusations, then poison, steel, or a sudden disappearance.

  And even if he managed to dodge the figurative blades, the humiliation alone would be unbearable. Being mocked and scorned by nobles with nothing better to do than kick a house already on its knees? Not exactly the triumphant debut the heir to House Blackwood should have.

  But me? I was the perfect candidate. Third in line, with no great expectations tied to my name. If I failed, it would barely register as a loss. If I succeeded, well, they’d call it a lucky break, not a stroke of brilliance. And if I died? No big matter.

  The logic was sound, brutally so. But it didn’t make the decision any less reasonable.

  Because I’m an acceptable loss.

  My position in the grand scheme of the Blackwood legacy is not critical.

  Should something happen to me—assassination, scandal, a “tragic accident”—it’s a loss the family can endure. They’d send out the requisite mourning announcements, and then carry on as if nothing had happened.

  So thats why i am the sacrificial lamb.

  but hey! that doesn't mean im worthless...Totally.

  I am still the third son of the house, and my loss will affect the house a little.

  I am, the sacrificial lamb. Not because I’m worthless, but because my worth is measured against Eric’s

  This whole situation could be avoided by sending a branch member or unimportant person related to the family, but my grandmother did not want to risk angering or disrespecting the crown by sending an unimportant member to attend the party.

  So sending someone like me can express sincerity enough.

  Actually, I can understand my grandmother's decision. Of course, understanding and not feeling angry are two completely different things.

  Luckily, I was able to control myself last night.

  I barely managed to "thank" my grandmother for the great honor and excuse myself to my room.

  A knock pulled me out of my thoughts, soft but deliberate, echoing faintly through the stillness of the room.

  "Young Lord Nathaniel, may I come in?" The familiar voice of the old butler came from behind the door.

  "Sure, come in, old man," I replied, leaning back slightly in my chair.

  The door handle emitted a brief glow before it clicked open, the faint shimmer of a security spell dissipating as the butler stepped inside.

  "Excuse me, my lord." The old man’s voice was even, his expression as neutral as ever, though his presence carried the weight of tradition and discipline.

  He stood with his hands clasped, bowing slightly before speaking. "It is time for your morning training, young Lord Nathaniel."

  "Good. Let’s go," I said, standing and stretching briefly before following him.

  The butler inclined his head respectfully, turning on his heel to lead the way through the sprawling corridors of the mansion. The morning light seeped through tall, arched windows, casting soft, golden patterns on the cold stone floors. We passed a few half-human maids here and there, their heads bowing slightly as we walked by, their steps quick and purposeful.

  Breaking the silence, I asked, "Anything interesting happening in the capital lately?"

  It seemed wise to gather a bit of information. If I was heading there, I might as well know what to expect. Information was, after all, often the sharpest weapon.

  The old butler paused for a moment, his measured steps continuing as he pondered my question. "Not exactly, my lord, aside from the princess’s birthday celebration. That has, naturally, caused a significant influx of traffic. Merchants and nobles alike are converging on the capital, and as a result, security measures have been tightened recently."

  The old butler said in a normel accent.

  Actually, most peapole in alabion speak what I’d call regular, natural English.

  Unfortunately for me, the nobles prefer to dress their words up like it’s some grand theatrical performance. The high tongue, they call it – all the thous and thees and dost thou hearken to my words, good sir nonsense. It’s a mouthful and a headache rolled into one. And while I’ll admit it has a certain flair, it’s mostly reserved for formal occasions like last night’s dinner.

  All the house members, even my grandmother speaks normally unless there is some formal occasion.

  Otherwise, I might have killed myself by now.

  What’s even more baffling is that there’s absolutely no need for it. Why complicate something that can be so much simpler?.

  It seems that the nobles here have collectively agreed that sounding unnecessarily poetic somehow makes them superior.

  It doesn’t.

  It just makes everything take ten times longer.

  We finally reached the grassy square a secluded yet practical training spot on the castle grounds.

  Unlike the busier areas near the main building this place felt quiet, almost forgotten.

  It was dotted with all kinds of training dummies, each designed for a different weapon or technique.

  Whether you wanted to practice with a sword, bow, or spear, this square had everything you’d need.

  This place was my favorite.

  Since it was a little isolated, it let me train in peace away from the constant presence of Eric or any other family members.

  "Lady elena should be here soon, young lord."

  "Is that so? thank you. You may leave now," I said.

  The old butler gave a slight bow before quietly turning to go.

  As I began my warm up, I couldn’t help but think back to what Old Althus once told me during one of our many conversations. He was an old grand wizard and his knowledge of magic and other power was... extensive.

  If a bit dry.

  "Novices" he had said in his usual scholarly tone, "or the first level. They possess basic physical enhancements and minor control over elemental forces. It is but the first step on a long journey. One in a thousand common folk may become one, though the odds art much better among the nobility. Still, to be a Novice is no small feat."

  I could still see the old wizard’s face, lined with age and wisdom, as he continued, "In Albion, there art only about ten million Novices. But if thou workest hard enough, about half of them will advance to the level of Apprentice. Tis the way of things."

  Ah yes, the prospect of being one of ten million hopefuls trying not to die before making it to the next level. Truly... inspiring.

  My eyes settled on a small straw dummy near the edge of the square. It wasn’t fancy just a basic target stuffed with straw, meant for novices.

  No moving parts, no enchantments. Simple and unassuming.

  "Ok, let's give it a try"I murmured, rolling my shoulders.

  Positioning myself in front of the dummy, I adjusted my stance, setting my feet shoulder-width apart. With a deep breath, I gripped my practice sword and focused on the target. Drawing in a sharp inhale, I lunged forward with controlled force.

  "Hup!"

  The sound of the strike was dull, not sharp. The blade landed cleanly, but the result was underwhelming. A shallow mark marred the surface of the straw a faint line barely worth noticing.

  I stepped back and examined my handiwork. Technically, it was a decent hit. My form had been good, and the strike was precise. But the power behind it? Lacking. A novice with even the bare minimum strength should’ve sliced straight through the dummy without much effort.

  "Don't worry. It's a decent hit," came a calm, composed voice from behind me.

  So... she’s here.