"The ceremonies of the powerful are brief."

***

The laughter that followed was soft, cultured, and sharp enough to draw blood.

I ducked my head lower and mumbled something about needing to find my assigned position. Let them interpret my retreat as embarrassment rather than tactical withdrawal.

As we moved deeper into the cathedral’s nave, weaving between clusters of noble families who parted around us like we were contagious, I caught sight of Lucius holding court near the Leone family banners.

He’d positioned himself with a tactician’s eye for maximum visibility. Close enough to the main aisle to be noticed by important families. Far enough from Father’s actual position to subtly distance himself from association.

His dark blue doublet was tailored to perfection. Cut to emphasize his broader shoulders and the confident set of his bearing. Even from across the cathedral, I could see him working the crowd. His smile was controlled. His gestures were smooth.

Look at him. Every inch the rising star of House Leone. Or at least the Leone that House Argent is rebuilding in their own image. He’s good at this. I’ll give him that much.

If I actually were the pathetic waste of space everyone thinks I am, watching him would probably hurt.

"Young Leone!" The voice boomed across the cathedral with enough volume to make several conversations stutter to a halt.

Aldwin, the academy’s Deputy Headmaster, approached with the kind of smile politicians wore when fulfilling an unpleasant obligation they couldn’t avoid.

He was a thin man, almost reedy, with prematurely gray hair and formal robes that seemed tailored for someone larger. He had the unfortunate appearance of a child playing dress-up in borrowed clothes.

"A pleasure to see you, my boy. A true pleasure."

"H-Headmaster," I managed. I offered a bow that was just slightly too deep, held just slightly too long. The kind of gesture that suggested either ignorance of proper protocol or desperate eagerness to please.

Probably both, in the eyes of observers.

"Thank you for allowing me to attend. I know my academic record isn’t... that is, I understand if there were concerns about my admission, and I want to assure you that I’ll work very hard to—"

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Aldwin gave a magnanimous wave of his hand. A gesture that offered comfort while simultaneously dismissing me as lint to be brushed away.

His eyes held the flat politeness of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.

"Every young noble deserves their chance at awakening, regardless of previous difficulties. The cathedral’s doors are open to all those of proper birth. I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate place at the academy."

The word "appropriate" landed with surgical precision.

Not "your place" or "a good place" or "success." Appropriate. Fitting. Suitable to your station and capabilities.

Translation: we both know you’re going to fail, but at least you’ll fail quietly in a corner somewhere.

Behind Aldwin, I spotted the cluster of academy instructors observing the proceedings. Professor Blackthorne from Combat Applications stood like a granite statue worn smooth by decades of weather. His scarred hands were clasped behind his back as he surveyed the assembled nobles with the gaze of a man who’d spent a lifetime turning soft aristocratic children into soldiers.

His eyes moved methodically. Sorting us into mental boxes before we’d even awakened.

Beside him, Professor Delacroix from Theoretical Foundations appeared lost in her own world. Her silver hair was twisted into an elaborate construction held in place by what looked like crystallized mana. Her violet eyes didn’t focus on the students at all but rather on patterns of magical energy invisible to normal sight.

The faculty. The people who’ll be making decisions about my immediate future.

Blackthorne already looks like he’s mentally dividing us into "might survive basic training" and "expensive funeral waiting to happen" categories. Delacroix seems more interested in ambient magical resonances than anything as mundane as human students.

Good. The less attention I draw from the perceptive ones, the better.

"Your attendant seems well-trained," Aldwin observed. His gaze slid to Lyra with the casual assessment one might give to a nice piece of furniture. "It speaks well of the Leone house that they ensure even their... that all their scions come properly prepared for independent living at the academy."

The slight pause before "all their scions" was masterful. Just enough hesitation to suggest he’d almost said something else. Something less diplomatic.

Lyra executed a perfect curtsy. "You’re too kind, sir. I simply do my best to ensure Master Kaelen’s needs are met to the fullest extent possible."

The subtle emphasis on "needs" was brilliant. Just enough weight on the word to suggest I required more extensive help than the average student, without being obvious enough to seem intentional.

I saw it land exactly as planned. Several nearby nobles exchanged knowing glances. More than one sympathetic look was directed at Lyra, the competent servant trapped in service to an incompetent master.

A bell chimed somewhere high in the cathedral’s shadowed vault. Its tone was resonant enough to make the floating candles shiver in the air. Conversations died as everyone turned toward the altar.

Archbishop Valdris had appeared seemingly from nowhere, as if he’d materialized directly from the candlelight. He was ancient. Truly ancient. His white robes seemed to generate their own gentle radiance.

When he raised his hands, palms upward in the traditional gesture of blessing, the very air seemed to still and listen.

"Young nobles of Aethelgard," his voice carried through the vast space without seeming to echo. Each word arrived with crystalline clarity as if he were speaking directly into each listener’s ear. "Today you stand at the threshold between who you were and who you might become."

The Archbishop gestured, and the floating candles began to move in response. They flowed like a river of light overhead. Geometric forms that hurt to look at directly. Organic spirals that seemed almost alive.

The mana in the air grew thicker. I could feel it pressing against my skin like warm honey. It made my lungs work harder to draw breath. Made my heartbeat slow and deepen to match some vast rhythm that pulsed through the cathedral’s foundations.

"One by one," Valdris continued, "you will approach the Awakening Stone. Place your hand upon its surface. Open your heart to the magic that flows through all things. Let the truth of your nature be revealed."

His gaze swept across the assembled nobles in a slow arc.

For just a moment, a single heartbeat, I could have sworn his ancient eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. Long enough to notice. Long enough to wonder if he saw something others didn’t.

Then the moment passed, and his attention moved on.

"Whatever gifts the Awakening Stone reveals within you today, use them in service to something greater than your own advancement."

Noble sentiment. The kind of thing that sounded profound in a cathedral but rarely survived contact with political reality.

"Leo von Valerius, heir to the Ducal House of Valerius."

Of course they started with the protagonist.