The announcent ca during morning assembly at Ashmar’s Crownspire Academy, delivered by Headmaster Kelvan with all the enthusiasm of a man reading a death warrant.
"Effective next month, twenty selected students will participate in a joint educational exchange program with the Republic’s Sparkshire Academy."
The reaction was imdiate and divided.
So students leaned forward with barely contained excitent—the chance to study at the Republic’s most prestigious institution, to learn from elites, to see Central with their own eyes. These were the pragmatists, the ones who understood that opportunity mattered more than pride.
Others sat rigid in their seats, jaws tight, eyes burning with thinly veiled contempt. Patriots who’d been raised on stories of Ashmar’s independence, who viewed the Republic not as an ally but as an arrogant neighbor that believed itself superior simply because it controlled more territory and resources.
The Federation of Ashmar had never bent the knee to the Republic. It was a point of national pride, repeated in every history class, carved into monunts throughout the capital. They were equals. Partners in the defense of humanity against the Crawlers.
And now they were being sent to the Republic like students going to learn from their betters.
Johnmark felt neither excitent nor contempt.
He felt hunger.
Seated three rows from the front, the seventeen-year-old Initiate cracked his knuckles slowly, thodically, working through each joint with practiced precision. Around him, other students whispered and speculated. He ignored them.
Sparkshire Academy. The Republic’s elite training ground for their future Champions and Adepts. Ho to the strongest young combatants in the known world, or so they claid.
Johnmark wanted to test that claim personally.
He was one of only seven students in Crownspire’s entire program with a Soul Talent—a rarity that had earned him both respect and isolation. His talent, Kinetic Absorption, allowed him to absorb and redirect physical force. Every punch that landed on him, every blade that struck his skin, fed energy into his reserves that he could release in devastating counterattacks.
It made him nearly impossible to defeat in direct combat.
It also made him arrogant.
"You think you’ll get selected?" The question ca from Petra, seated beside him. She was watching him with the careful neutrality of soone who’d learned not to provoke him unnecessarily.
"I don’t think," Johnmark said. "I know."
"The selection criteria haven’t been announced."
"Doesn’t matter." He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar thrum of stored energy beneath his skin. He’d taken a beating in morning combat practice specifically to charge his reserves. "They’ll send the strongest. That’s ."
Petra didn’t argue. She was smart that way.
Headmaster Kelvan continued his announcent, outlining logistics and tilines, but Johnmark had already stopped listening. His mind was elsewhere, cataloging what he knew about Sparkshire Academy.
Elite instructors. Tier 3 Shroud deploynts for advanced students. Access to rare cores through their rit system. Political connections that could launch careers.
And students who believed they were untouchable.
Johnmark smiled.
He couldn’t wait to prove them wrong.
-----
Across the room, in a corner seat that attracted minimal attention, Jas listened to the announcent with an entirely different kind of dread.
He should have been excited. This was an opportunity most students would kill for—literally, in so cases. Sparkshire Academy represented advancent, connections, power. Everything he’d been scraping for since he’d entered Crownspire two years ago.
But excitent required freedom, and Jas wasn’t free anymore.
He’d sold that freedom three months ago for 15,000 gold coins.
At the ti, it had seed like salvation. His family was drowning in debt—his father’s failed rchant venture, his mother’s dical expenses, his younger siblings’ basic needs. Jas had been one failed sester away from expulsion, unable to afford tuition, watching his future collapse while his family starved.
Then the offer had co.
A representative from Goldenleaf Trading Company, a subsidiary rchant operation with interests throughout the Federation. They’d approached him quietly, professionally, offering financial backing in exchange for "minor assistance with information gathering."
Jas had known it was too good to be true.
He’d taken the deal anyway.
What choice did he have? Watch his mother die? Let his siblings go hungry? Abandon his own advancent and spend the rest of his life in poverty?
The money had arrived within days. His debts were cleared. His family was stable. His tuition was paid through graduation.
And then the correspondence had started.
Not from Goldenleaf Trading Company.
From Valdris.
The rchant Republic of Valdris, to be precise. The kingdom built on comrce and coin, the nation the Republic had deliberately excluded from this exchange program.
Jas had been played from the beginning.
Goldenleaf wasn’t just a subsidiary—it was a front. A carefully constructed shell company that existed solely to funnel Valdris intelligence operations into foreign territories. And he’d signed a contract binding him to their service for five years.
Five years of "minor assistance."
The latest letter sat in his pocket now, delivered this morning by a courier who’d disappeared before Jas could ask questions. He didn’t need to read it again. The instructions were burned into his mory.
Your assignnt at Sparkshire Academy: Docunt. Learn. Disrupt.
Docunt all political factions, power structures, and interpersonal dynamics among students and faculty. Weekly reports required.
Learn the Republic training thodologies, core integration techniques, and any classified information you can access.
Disrupt cooperative efforts between Republic and Ashmar students where possible. Sow discord. Make the exchange program fail.
Failure to comply will result in imdiate cessation of financial support and exposure of your contract to Ashmar authorities.
Jas closed his eyes, nausea churning in his gut.
He wasn’t a spy. He was barely a competent student—a mid-tier Fledgling with diocre cores and no particular combat talent. The only reason he’d survived this long was through careful risk managent and knowing when to retreat.
Now Valdris wanted him to infiltrate Sparkshire Academy and sabotage an international program.
The consequences of failure—or discovery—would be catastrophic.
But the consequences of refusal would destroy his family.
Jas exhaled slowly, forcing his expression into neutrality. Around him, students continued their excited speculation about the exchange program. Nobody looked at him. Nobody ever did.
He was forgettable. Unremarkable.
Maybe that would keep him alive.
-----
Fifteen hundred kiloters south, in the Theocracy of Solhaven’s Sacred Heart Academy, a similar announcent was being delivered.
The reaction here was more subdued. Solhaven’s students were raised in devotion and discipline, taught that the Great One’s death was a divine sacrifice and that humanity’s struggle against the Crawlers was holy work. Politics were secondary to faith.
Still, fifteen students would be selected for the exchange program.
Jara sat in the third pew of the academy’s chapel-turned-assembly hall, hands folded in his lap, listening with the quiet intensity that had beco his default state over the past six months.
He would be selected. He’d made certain of it.
Not through skill—he was adequate at best, a low-tier Initiate with standard cores and unremarkable talent. But through necessity.
His younger sister was dying.
Lightburn Sickness, the healers had called it. A rare condition where the soul began cannibalizing the body, consuming vitality faster than it could regenerate. There was no cure within Solhaven. The Theocracy’s healers were skilled, devoted, compassionate.
They couldn’t save her.
But there were experintal treatnts in Valdris. Alchemical compounds that could stabilize soul-body integration, bought at prices that would bankrupt most noble houses.
Jara’s family wasn’t a noble house. They were rchants—middle class, comfortable, but nowhere near wealthy enough to afford what his sister needed.
So when the offer had co, Jara had accepted without hesitation.
A rchant contact, claiming to represent dical interests in Valdris, had approached him two weeks ago. They could provide the treatnt his sister needed—fully funded, no questions asked.
In exchange, he would participate in the Sparkshire exchange program and provide "cultural observations" to his benefactors.
That’s what they’d called it. Cultural observations.
Jara wasn’t naive. He knew what they really wanted. Intelligence. Information. Leverage.
But his sister was twelve years old, and she was dying, and he would do whatever it took to save her.
The letter in his pocket was brief:
Attend Sparkshire Academy. Observe political dynamics. Docunt faction alignnts. Report weekly. Your sister’s treatnt continues as long as your cooperation does.
No threats. No explicit demands beyond observation.
But the implication was clear.
Jara had sold his integrity to save his sister’s life, and he would never know if he’d made the right choice until it was far too late to change course.
Around him, other students whispered prayers of gratitude for being selected to serve the Great One’s purpose through cooperation with the Republic.
Jara whispered a different prayer.
Forgive .
-----
In a nondescript office in Valdris’s capital city, a rchant Prince reviewed the latest reports with satisfaction.
Jas of Ashmar: Secured.
Jara of Solhaven: Secured.
Four others across both nations: Secured.
The Republic had excluded Valdris from their precious exchange program, believing their exclusion would isolate the rchant Republic and weaken its influence.
Fools.
Money didn’t respect borders. It flowed where it was needed, purchasing loyalty, exploiting desperation, turning idealists into assets.
The rchant Prince set down the reports and poured himself wine from a crystal decanter worth more than most families earned in a year.
The exchange program would proceed as planned.
And Valdris would know everything that happened within it.
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