Chapter: 415
He walked beside Master Elmsworth through the magnificent main quadrangle, a vast, sun-drenched expanse of perfectly manicured lawn, crisscrossed by stone pathways and surrounded by the elegant, colonnaded facades of the main lecture halls. Students, clad in the smart, dark blue uniforms of the Academy, moved in small groups, their faces bright with the easy confidence of youth and privilege. They laughed, they debated, they carried stacks of heavy, leather-bound books. They were the future of the kingdom, the best and the brightest, and Lloyd had once been, very conspicuously, not one of them.
His return did not go unnoticed. His attire—the fine but simple tunic of a nobleman, not the uniform of a student—marked him as an outsider. But his face, the face of the Ferrum heir, was recognizable to many of the senior students. Whispers followed them as they walked, a low, buzzing murmur of curiosity and disbelief.
“Is that… Lloyd Ferrum?”
“I thought he withdrew years ago…”
“What’s he doing back here? And with Master Elmsworth?”
“Look at him… he seems… different.”
Lloyd ignored the whispers, his expression a mask of calm, polite indifference. But inside, the ghosts of his past were stirring. He saw the corner of the quadrangle where he had been systematically, humiliatingly, defeated in a practice duel by a sneering upperclassman. He saw the steps of the grand library, where he had often sat alone, pretending to read, just to avoid the boisterous camaraderie of his more successful peers. Every stone, every archway, held a mory of his forr, failed self. It was a strange, unsettling feeling, like walking through a museum dedicated to his own inadequacy.
They were halfway across the quadrangle, heading towards the imposing central tower that housed the administrative offices and the Headmaster’s study, when a voice, loud and cheerful, cut through the murmuring crowd.
“Lloyd? Lloyd Ferrum, is that really you?”
Lloyd turned to see a group of final-year students approaching. At their head was a young man with a shock of sandy-brown hair, a friendly, open face, and a wide, almost goofy, grin. He was tall, well-built, the captain of the Academy’s gravity-ball team, if Lloyd’s mory served him correctly. His na was Marco, a minor baron’s son, and one of the few people from his forr life at the Academy who had ever shown him any genuine, uncomplicated kindness.
“Marco,” Lloyd acknowledged, a faint, genuine smile touching his own lips. “It’s been a while.”
“A while?” Marco laughed, clapping Lloyd on the shoulder with a hearty, familiar gesture. “It’s been years! We all heard you’d gone back to your father’s estate to study… economics or sothing. What brings you back to the old stomping grounds? Don’t tell you’re re-enrolling! Ready to give the magical theory exams another go?” His tone was teasing, yes, but good-natured, devoid of the malice that usually accompanied any ntion of Lloyd’s academic past.
Before Lloyd could formulate a response, another voice, sharp and dripping with a cold, familiar condescension, cut in.
“Re-enrolling, Marco? Don’t be absurd. He’d have to start over from the first-year introductory classes. And I doubt even he has the stomach for that level of public humiliation again.”
The group parted slightly to reveal the speaker. Victor. The na, the face, the sneering, arrogant expression—it all slamd into Lloyd with the force of an unwelco mory. Victor was the heir to a powerful Viscounty, a house that had long been a political rival to the Ferrums. He was talented, handso, and acutely aware of it. In their Academy days, he had been one of the primary torntors of the ‘drab duckling’, his sharp wit and casual cruelty a constant, grating presence. He had been the one to defeat Lloyd so soundly in that duel in the quadrangle, a humiliation he had clearly not forgotten, and had no intention of letting Lloyd forget either.
Victor sauntered forward, his arms crossed, a cruel, mocking smile on his face. He looked Lloyd up and down, his gaze lingering on Lloyd’s simple, non-uniform attire with exaggerated disdain.
“Well, well, well,” Victor drawled, his voice loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. “Look what the cat dragged in. Lloyd Ferrum. I’d almost forgotten you existed.” He chuckled, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Co back to haunt the halls where you so spectacularly failed, have you? Or perhaps you’re here to give the new first-years a cautionary lecture on the importance of actually possessing a modicum of talent?”
Marco frowned, his friendly deanor vanishing. “That’s enough, Victor. Leave him be.”
Chapter: 416
“Oh, I’m just curious, Marco,” Victor replied, his sneer widening. “I’m sure we’re all curious. What brings the great disappointnt of House Ferrum back to the scene of his many, many failures? Are you hoping so of the ambient magical energy will rub off on you? Because I assure you, it doesn’t work that way. Believe , you’ve tried.”
A ripple of cruel, suppressed laughter went through the small crowd of onlookers. Lloyd felt a familiar, hot flush of sha, the echo of his nineteen-year-old self’s humiliation. The old Lloyd would have stamred, would have shrunk back, would have fled from this kind of public, verbal assault.
But the old Lloyd was gone.
He simply looked at Victor, his expression calm, almost bored. He let the silence stretch for a beat, letting Victor’s taunts hang in the air, stale and childish. Then, he spoke, his voice quiet but carrying a strange, new weight, an authority that was utterly at odds with the failed student Victor rembered.
“It’s always the ones with the least actual power, Victor,” Lloyd said, his tone mild, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather, “who feel the need to shout the loudest about it.”
Victor’s sneer faltered, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. This was not the reaction he had expected. He had expected stamring, or anger, or a hasty retreat. Not… this. This cool, almost pitying, dismissal.
“What was that?” Victor snarled, taking a step forward, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of the practice sword at his belt.
“I said,” Lloyd repeated, his voice still perfectly calm, yet with an underlying edge of steel that made the hairs on the back of Victor’s neck stand on end, “that your need to publicly re-litigate a practice duel from three years ago suggests a deep and rather pathetic, insecurity. Most people, when they achieve sothing of actual note, tend to move on. You, however, seem to have peaked rather early. It’s a little sad, really.”
He shook his head, a gesture of profound, almost clinical, sympathy. “But don’t worry, Victor. I’m sure your father is still very proud of you.”
The insult was a masterpiece of subtle, psychological warfare. It was not a direct challenge, not a counter-taunt. It was a dismissal. It frad Victor’s aggression not as strength, but as a pathetic, childish weakness. It questioned his accomplishnts, his maturity, his very worth, all with a tone of calm, almost therapeutic, concern.
Victor stared, his face turning a furious, mottled red. He was speechless. He had co prepared for a fight, for an argunt, for a satisfying round of bullying his old victim. He had not co prepared to be… psychoanalyzed. And dismissed. As sad.
He opened his mouth to retort, to roar, to challenge Lloyd to a real duel, right here, right now. But before he could utter a single, furious word, a new voice, dry and sharp as winter frost, cut through the tense silence.
“Lord Victor,” Master Elmsworth said, stepping forward from behind Lloyd, his usual impatient frown now honed to a sharp, disapproving point. He had been observing the entire exchange with a kind of grim, academic fascination. “I do believe your presence is required in Advanced Runic Theory on the other side of the campus. Unless, of course, you feel that accosting a new mber of the Academy’s faculty in the middle of the main quadrangle is a more productive use of your ti?”
The words—a new mber of the Academy’s faculty—landed with the force of a physical blow.
Victor stared, his jaw slack. Marco’s friendly grin was replaced by a look of utter, comprehensive astonishnt. The surrounding students gasped, their whispers suddenly ceasing, replaced by a stunned, disbelieving silence.
Faculty? Lloyd Ferrum? A professor?
Victor looked from Elmsworth’s stern, disapproving face to Lloyd’s calm, almost smiling expression. The world seed to tilt on its axis. The drab duckling, the failure, the disgrace… was a teacher here? It was impossible. It was ludicrous. It was… a humiliation far, far greater than any simple duel could ever have been.
He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could only stare, his own arrogant taunts, his own cruel jests, turning to ash in his mouth.
“I thought not,” Master Elmsworth said with a sniff of satisfaction. He gestured dismissively. “Run along now, Lord Victor. The Headmaster is waiting.”
Without another word, his face a mask of stunned, impotent fury, Victor turned and stalked away, the stunned silence of his friends and the quiet, incredulous whispers of the crowd following him like a shroud of sha.
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