"Nobles don’t fight fair. They don’t have to. The rules were written by their ancestors specifically so they’d never have to."
***
The scramble for partners began.
Nervous glances everywhere. Students sized each other up like they were negotiating treaties. The politics were complicated. Partner with soone too weak and you looked like a coward hunting easy wins. Partner with soone too strong and you risked public humiliation that would follow you for sesters.
So went for familiar faces. People they’d known before the academy or t during orientation. The comfort of the familiar beat strategy every ti.
Others scanned for targets. Easy marks they could dominate without real risk.
The unlucky ones, the kids with no friends and no social instincts, ended up standing alone like rocks at low tide. Waiting for Blackthorne to assign them partners with all the care of soone dividing firewood.
Fen, obviously, claid the biggest opponent available.
Her target was a thick-necked boy from one of the minor rchant houses. He looked like he’d been raised on raw at and rocks. A mountain of muscle topped by a face that suggested his family tree might not have many branches.
He seed torn between pride at being chosen by the notorious wolf-kin and terror at what that choice might an for his continued health. Fen’s tail lashed behind her. Her golden eyes held the kind of gleam that promised soone was getting hurt today.
Marcus paired with Theron. Both looked relieved to find soone who wouldn’t try to leave permanent bruises. They exchanged nods that said ’let’s just survive this’ and claid a practice space at the edge of the yard. Far from Blackthorne’s patrol route.
Mira found another shy girl. Slight thing with autumn-leaf hair and eyes like a cornered rabbit. Their mutual terror created its own solidarity. Anxious smiles that said ’maybe the professor won’t notice us if we stay very quiet.’
I hung back.
Playing the boy too nervous to make a move. Too socially awkward to navigate the complex web of status that governed these pairings. My shoulders stayed hunched. Eyes darted around without landing anywhere. Hands fidgeted with the hem of my robe.
Inside, I tracked the patterns. The formation and reformation of pairs. Predictable if you understood teenage hierarchy. Sa in every world, magic or not.
Then Vance Thorne made his move.
"Blackwood, isn’t it?"
Vance’s voice was warm. The sticky warmth of poisoned honey. His smile matched. The expression of a predator that had learned to mimic friendly overtures.
"I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Vance Thorne, of House Thorne."
The "House Thorne" addition was a masterpiece of casual cruelty. A reminder of everything Rhys didn’t have, wrapped in polite introduction. I have a House. A legacy. A na that ans sothing. What do you have?
Rhys turned slowly. His expression settled into careful neutrality. The kind of mask commoners learned to wear around nobles. Armor against a world that considered them lesser by birth.
"Rhys Blackwood. No house."
Three words. No inflection. No apology. No subservience. Just a statent of fact offered like a closed door.
"Ah, yes. I heard about your family’s... situation."
Vance let the pause stretch. Just uncomfortable enough. Just short enough to maintain innocence.
"Terrible business, that. A scholarship student, if I recall correctly? It’s really quite admirable, how you’ve managed to... adapt."
Another pause. Another knife between the ribs.
"Still, I’m sure you’ll find your proper level here at the academy. Not everyone is ant for the sa heights, after all. So of us are born to climb, and so..."
He gestured at Rhys. At the worn uniform. The commoner origins. The entire existence.
"So are ant to serve those who do."
Poisonous sympathy in every word. The kind of insult that required sophistication to deliver properly. Too obvious and it reflected poorly on the speaker. Too subtle and it lost its impact.
Vance had clearly practiced this routine. Probably on servants. On the children of minor retainers. On anyone unlucky enough to cross him when he felt like being cruel.
"Perhaps we could spar together?" He continued with that empty smile. A cat that just noticed an entertaining mouse. "I’d be happy to show you so proper techniques. My family has maintained relationships with so of the finest blade-masters in the kingdom, and I’ve picked up a few tricks that might help soone with your... background."
Background. Loaded with everything Vance thought about commoners. Which was to say, beneath his notice except as entertainnt.
There it is. The trap.
Elegant in its simplicity.
Refuse, and Rhys looks like a coward in front of everyone. A commoner too intimidated to face a noble in honest competition. The whispers would start imdiately. Did you see? The scholarship boy backed down. Knew his place.
Accept, and Vance gets to demonstrate the gulf between expensive tutoring and whatever desperate self-teaching Rhys had cobbled together. A public humiliation dressed up as friendly sparring. With Blackthorne right there to witness.
Either way, Rhys gets marked as weak. Isolated. Vulnerable. A target for anyone wanting easy prey.
Exactly where the novel needed him for Chapter fourteen. The "training accident" that would claim his life and fuel the protagonist’s character developnt.
Eighteen days. That’s how long this plays out in the original story.
Vance picks at him. Goads him. Pushes until Rhys snaps and does sothing stupid. Then the accident happens. Everyone shrugs. Commoner got above his station. Tragic but predictable.
And I’m standing here watching the first domino get pushed.
Rhys’s jaw tightened. His hands stayed at his sides but I could see the tension in his forearms. The battle between pride and survival instinct.
He’s going to accept. He has to. Backing down would destroy him socially. And Rhys Blackwood, for all his survival skills, hasn’t learned that sotis losing the battle wins the war.
That’s the tragedy of heroes in these stories. They can’t help but be heroic. Even when it gets them killed.
"I’d be honored to learn from you, Lord Thorne."
The words ca out flat. Neutral. But Rhys’s eyes said sothing else entirely.
Vance’s smile widened. The cat had caught its mouse.
"Wonderful. Shall we?"
They moved to claim a practice space. Right in the center of the yard. Right where everyone could see.
First move complete. Vance establishes dominance. Rhys takes the bait.
Now the slow humiliation begins. Day after day. Week after week. Until sothing breaks.
Unless soone interferes.
I watched them take their positions. Vance loose and confident. Rhys tight with barely contained anger.
The question is: do I want to be that soone?
Well, I made that choice already when I saved Lyra, haven’t I?
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