Chapter 4: The Feast of Blades
In the Empire of Virellen, honor was measured in steel.
And the Feast of Blades was where the nobles came to feast on each other.
Not with teeth, but with spells, swords, and veiled threats that cut deeper than steel. A celebration, they called it. A tradition. A showcase of the realm's most "promising" young warriors from the royal academy.
It was a cage match dressed in gold.
Cael arrived in silence, dressed in the Academy's ceremonial crimson. No ornament. No flair. Just one sword — forged from soulsteel, the only thing he'd allowed himself from his previous life.
No one knew what it was.
But one man might remember.
High Consul Derian.
Cael spotted him across the dueling coliseum, seated at the highest tier among the royal envoys, wearing a diplomatic mask and that same smug smirk he had on the day he condemned Caelum Ardent to execution.
The last time they met, Cael had been on his knees.
This time, he had a blade.
And the gods weren't watching.
The Feast began with pageantry.
A parade of heirs, each bowing to the banner of the royal phoenix, each radiating magic, wealth, or both. Cael walked in last — unannounced, uncheered.
Just a Scion. A bastard.
No one clapped.
Perfect.
"Name?" barked the herald at the entrance to the combat ring.
"Velren," Cael replied, stepping into the light.
Somewhere in the stands, a few students whispered.
That's the bastard who beat Tavin Morlen.Didn't he get invited to Vale's circle?Why is he here?
Because Cael wanted them to look.
He needed them to watch.
Veyra appeared at his side, veiled in midnight-blue robes lined with arcane sigils. The headmistress of House Astraea and the architect of chaos, she oversaw the Feast with a calculating gaze.
"Your invitation to the Feast wasn't guaranteed," she said. "I had to bend a few rules."
"Why?" Cael asked.
"Because I want to see how long you can survive if I tilt the board."
"I thought you liked me."
"I like watching dangerous people play dangerous games," she said, eyes glittering.
Then she vanished.
Just like that.
The first matches were pomp and posturing.
Elemental flares. Sword dances. Enchanted duels so rehearsed they might as well have been theater.
Then came Cael's turn.
His opponent: Alric Fenhold, third son of the Duke of Murden, fire affinity, rumored heir to Vale's southern intelligence web.
Strong. Skilled.
Arrogant.
Perfect.
Alric sneered across the ring. "Did you bring the wrong sword, bastard?"
"No," Cael said, unsheathing the soulsteel blade. "I brought yours."
The crowd laughed.
Then the bell rang.
The duel began in silence.
Alric moved first — flame whip. Basic. Predictable.
Cael dodged, slashed the mana tether, and stepped inside range before Alric even realized he was in danger. Soulsteel cracked against enchanted bracers.
Alric reeled, barely blocking.
Then Cael did something no Scion was supposed to do:
He cast a cursed sigil.
The glyph pulsed under his palm, lashing Alric with gravity magic. Forbidden, banned, and completely illegal outside of battlefield warfare.
The crowd gasped.
The Tribunal mages stirred.
But Cael just smiled and let the magic fade before permanent damage was done.
Barely.
It was enough.
Alric crumpled.
Match over.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Accusations. Debates. Tribunal murmurs. Was it an accident? Was it a test? Was this bastard Scion mad?
Cael bowed.
"I apologize. I've been studying older texts. I wasn't aware the glyph was prohibited."
Another lie.
But delivered so perfectly, so innocently, that even the Tribunal couldn't challenge it without making it a scandal.
He'd baited them into silence.
And from the top tier, Derian smiled.
Like he knew.
Like he remembered.
Cael met his gaze and didn't blink.
The Feast continued. But the whispers had changed.
That night, the Academy buzzed like a hive poked with a dagger.
"Who is Velren?"
"Where did he learn that magic?"
"Did you see the way Derian looked at him?"
Cael returned to his quarters and locked the door.
Alric was still alive — bruised, humiliated, and now politically radioactive. No one in Vale's faction would defend him.
Which meant his network was ripe for the taking.
That was the plan.
Phase two.
By midnight, a parchment arrived under Cael's door.
One sentence, in ink that shimmered oddly under moonlight:
"The soul remembers what the blood forgets."
No name. No sigil.
Just a second message underneath, this one invisible to normal eyes.
But Cael wasn't normal.
He burned the page and watched the invisible message appear in the flames:
"Meet me where ghosts speak."
At dawn, Cael slipped through the Academy's older tunnels — ones not marked on any map.
The place where ghosts spoke?
There was only one place that fit: The Whispering Hall.
Once a chapel, now condemned. Said to be haunted by the voices of students who died during the last Crown War.
Cael lit a witchflame.
Waited.
And she appeared.
Orielle.
Of course it was her.
She stepped into the blue light like she belonged in it.
"You baited the Tribunal," she said, tone flat. "And you drew Derian's eye."
"I wanted him to look."
"Why?"
"To see if he still feared me."
Orielle frowned. "He doesn't."
Cael leaned against a cracked column. "Then I'll remind him."
Orielle sighed. "You're going to get us both killed."
"You're not on my side."
"I'm not on theirs either," she said.
Then, softer: "Do you know what he did to you?"
Cael paused.
"In the old records," Orielle continued, "there's mention of a Scion accused of treason. Publicly disavowed. Never named. Executed in secret."
"I know," Cael said.
"He erased you."
Cael's voice was ice. "Not well enough."
Orielle approached, closer than before. "Why now? Why not disappear and live your second life in peace?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, slowly: "Because I don't just want to win. I want them to remember who they killed."
She met his gaze. "You'll need allies."
"I don't trust people."
"You'll need to learn."
Then she placed a vial in his hand — a shimmer of moonlight inside.
"What's this?"
"A gift. For surviving your next match."
"I thought you didn't care."
"I don't," she said, turning. "But I'm curious what kind of monster you become."
By the next morning, Cael was a name on everyone's lips.
A bastard Scion who cast a cursed sigil and walked away clean.
Veyra summoned him to the upper tower. Her expression unreadable.
"Do you know what you've done?" she asked.
"I've drawn the right kind of attention."
"You've provoked the wrong kind," she said. "Derian wants to speak to you. Privately."
"Then I'll speak."
"He thinks you're a weapon."
"Let him think that," Cael said.
Then: "Let him try to use me."
As the sun rose over the Academy, Cael stood on the balcony outside the Tribunal's chambers.
Waiting.
Derian would arrive soon.
The man who had once sentenced him to die.
The man who would now shake his hand.
The man who would, eventually…
Beg.