Lucien headed back toward the dormitories, the weight of the day’s events settling in his bones. He had accomplished the impossible: he had secured his position, shocked the faculty, and tethered himself to the future's most powerful woman. But a singular, jagged question remained: What turned Ray Melborne into the monster? If it was a slow rot of the soul, Lucien could fix it. If it were a sudden break, he needed a fallback.

  While sifting through the chaos of the coming decade, a specific memory had surfaced—not about the Academy, but about a "Sleeping Calamity" hidden far beyond these walls. It was a trump card he deemed absolutely vital. If Ray Melborne did, in fact, turn into the Ashborne, Lucien needed something that could match that world-ending heat. He needed a safeguard that could stop the monster in his tracks when everyone else failed.

  To get to it, however, he needed to leave. And he needed to leave now.

  It was then that he saw Headmaster Merinth Vallog walking the silent, moonlit path near the central gardens. Perfect timing.

  “Headmaster Vallog, good morning, sir,” Lucien said, approaching with a casual gait that belied his age.

  Vallog turned, his silver beard catching the light. Surprise flickered across his weathered face. “Hello, Lucien.”

  “You know my name, sir?”

  “Of course,” Vallog replied, his voice a deep baritone. “You are our top student this year. Not to mention the... theatrical scene you made this morning during the Ceremony.”

  “That is actually why I came to talk to you,” Lucien said.

  “Oh?” The Headmaster’s interest sharpened.

  “I want you to give me a two-year release,” Lucien stated flatly. “I need to leave the Academy to deal with some private business.”

  The Headmaster’s face didn't just drop; it darkened into a mask of cold fury. “Arrogance,” Vallog hissed. “Just because you managed to become the top student of your year, you have let pride blind you to the world at large. You are a child. You do not get special privileges just because you did better than most of the other children. You are just a speck compared to everything else. You do not know the types of monsters that exist beyond these walls.”

  Lucien let out a short, dry laugh. “I bet you that I do.”

  The sheer audacity of the response caught Vallog off guard, but only momentarily. The air around the Headmaster began to vibrate with a low, dangerous hum—the pressure of a high-level engraver.

  “Lucien D’Roselle,” he said, his voice dropping to a lethal register. “Do not push me further, young man, if you do, then you will force me to come to the heavy decision of expelling—”

  “Would you like to make a bet with me, Merinth Vallog?”

  The Headmaster stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at Lucien, then scoffed, the sound full of pity. “Boy, you are delusional. You have nothing I want, and you have no standing to bargain.”

  “It’s a shame,” Lucien said, reaching into the hidden pocket of his tunic. “I know someone like you would have appreciated this Aether-Stone, but I guess I will just have to auction it off in the Capital.”

  The Headmaster’s eyes grew comically wide. He froze, his breath hitching as an iridescent, rainbow glow erupted from Lucien’s palm, reflecting off the old man's pupils. An Aether-Stone was a mythical catalyst—a battery of pure, unrefined energy that could bridge the gap between human limitation and the divine. For a man of Vallog's age and ambition, it was worth more than the Academy itself. For an engraver like him. The uses are practically limitless. He has been stuck in his studies because he has not had sufficient materials for his research, and now that material was staring him in the face.

  Vallog’s anger vanished, replaced by a desperate, scholarly hunger. He stared at the stone, his hands twitching.

  “What... what type of bet?” he asked, his voice now barely a whisper.

  Lucien held the stone just out of reach, watching the light dance across Vallog’s greedy, scholarly face. It was time to reel in the biggest fish in the Empire.

  “You, sir, will engrave me,” Lucien stated. “I know that your hands are the most skilled in the Empire. Some say Marla—the Emperial families personal engraver—is superior, but I find that hard to believe.”

  Lucien was buttering him up, and he could see the old man’s ego swelling despite his irritation.

  “For this bet, I will wager you this.” He tilted his hand, letting the Aether-Stone pulse. “When I come back in two years, I want you to be the one to open my path. And the bet is this: once engraved, I will connect to my Origin Vein in less than one year.”

  The Headmaster’s eyes grew wide with genuine shock. Then, he threw his head back and started to laugh—a booming, incredulous sound.

  “Hahaha! Arrogance! Pure, unadulterated arrogance!” Vallog wiped a tear from his eye. “You might as well hand me the stone right now, boy. Are you insane? No student—not even the Emperor himself in his youth—has connected to their Origin Vein in under three years. It is impossible for a child to find that connection in twelve months.”

  Lucien’s smile didn't waver. “Is it arrogance, sir? Or is it confidence?”

  The Headmaster stopped laughing, his gaze turning sharp and suspicious. “I don’t understand, Lucien. If you want my hands to engrave you, why not now? Why wait until you return from this... 'business'?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be fun,” Lucien said, his voice dropping to a cool, dark register. “Three years is what you give the rest of the students. I say the last year makes it more exciting. Besides, this stone isn't going anywhere.”

  Vallog’s eyes followed the iridescent gem with a hunger that bordered on physical pain. He was a man who had dedicated his life to the study of mana, and here was a power source that shouldn't exist, offered up on a silver platter by a child who seemed to be begging to lose.

  “And if you lose?” Vallog asked. “What is in it for you besides the embarrassment of expulsion?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “My reward is simple,” Lucien said. “If I win—if I connect to that vein in a year—I stay in the Academy with full honors, no questions asked about my absence. And of course, I get the prestige of being engraved by the Headmaster himself. If I fail, you keep the Aether-Stone, and I leave Velhraine forever, a nameless commoner.”

  The Headmaster looked at the stone, then at the boy. He saw a child, but the eyes staring back at him had the depth of an experienced gambler.

  “Two years of absence,” Vallog mused. “One year to connect. A master-level engraving by my own hand.” He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from the light. “You have a deal, Lucien D’Roselle. I will draft the magical contract myself. But mark my words... you have just handed me the greatest treasure in the world for a dream you cannot possibly achieve.”

  “We shall see,” Lucien whispered.

  "By the way," the Headmaster asked, his voice regaining some of its scholarly edge. "Isn't getting engraved by me a violation?"

  "Violation?" Lucien asked, tilting his head slightly.

  "I mean, with your proposal," Vallog prompted, watching the boy's face closely for any sign of a hidden agenda.

  "What proposal?" Lucien asked again, his expression one of genuine, wide-eyed confusion. He looked like nothing more than a student who had just made the gamble of his life and was now struggling to keep up with the conversation.

  The Headmaster stared at him for a long moment. He searched for a flicker of deceit, a twitch of a muscle, or a shift in the boy's expression. He found nothing but blank innocence. A slow, knowing smirk spread across Vallog’s face as he shook his head.

  "Nevermind," the Headmaster chuckled, tucked his hands into his voluminous sleeves. "You may leave. I will handle the official records regarding your absence. Consider yourself 'on a specialized field study' for the next two years."

  "Thank you, Headmaster," Lucien bowed deeply, the perfect picture of a respectful student.

  As he turned and walked away into the moonlit shadows of the garden, the mask of innocence evaporated. A sharp, predatory smile took its place. It was time to find Sebas.

  Lucien strolled through the bustling thoroughfares of the Capital, the sights and sounds of a thriving Empire washing over him like a half-remembered dream. The last time he had walked these streets, they were choked with the smell of wet soot and the desperate cries of the dying. The "Great Collapse"—sparked by that unknown group—had turned this jewel of civilization into a graveyard.

  Elaine had always been tight-lipped about who had actually pulled the strings. Whether she was hiding the truth from him or she was genuinely in the dark, it didn't matter now. He wasn't going to wait for the fires to start this time.

  He eventually found himself drawn into a high-end wine merchant’s shop. His eyes immediately locked onto a dusty, deep-green bottle in the corner: Aethelgard Reserve. He had tasted it once, years into the future, salvaged from a nobleman's ruined cellar. It was the finest thing he’d ever drunk.

  He reached for it, his fingers brushing the glass, when a hand snatched it away.

  "Wine is not for children!" the shopkeeper barked, pulling the bottle to his chest as if Lucien were about to smash it. "I don’t sell to brats. If your parents want a vintage this fine, tell them to come themselves."

  Lucien glared up at the man. He was about to explain exactly how many lifetimes of experience he had over this merchant, but then he caught his own reflection in a nearby silver tray.

  Small. Youthful. Round-faced.

  The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. Right. I'm twelve. He left the store dejected, the phantom taste of the wine fading from his tongue. He made his way to the upscale inn where he’d sent Sebas. After a quick exchange with the clerk, Sebas appeared, descending the stairs with his usual composed gait—but his expression was... off. He was looking at Lucien with a squint, as if he were trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.

  "What is wrong with this guy?" Lucien muttered under his breath. He didn't have time for whatever internal crisis his butler was having. "Let’s go to your room."

  Once the door clicked shut and the privacy of the room was secured, Sebas turned to him, his hands folded neatly behind his back, though his brow remained furrowed.

  "Young Master," Sebas began, his voice hesitant. "I assume the... 'Ceremony' went well? Or should I be concerned that you are currently standing in an inn in the middle of the city instead of the Academy barracks?"

  Lucien threw himself into a chair, crossing his legs with a sigh. "I'm on a two-year sabbatical.' The Headmaster and I reached an agreement. We have work to do, and it’s not going to happen behind a desk."

  Sebas went still. "Two years? You've been a student for less than twenty-four hours, and you've already convinced Merinth Vallog to let you leave? Truly, your talent for disruption is your greatest attribute."

  "Save the flattery," Lucien said, his eyes turning cold and focused. "Prepare yourself. We will be traveling to the Kingdom of Solennea."

  "The Holy Realm?" Sebas asked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

  "Yes. I’ll be joining the clergy."

  Sebas went quiet, processing the absurdity of Lucien—a boy who currently looked like he wanted to fight the entire world—donning the robes of a peaceful priest. But then, a strange, knowing smile touched the butler’s lips. "Then I must offer my congratulations, Young Master."

  "For what?" Lucien asked, suspicious of the sudden shift in tone.

  "You decided to fight for your old love, did you not?"

  Lucien stood frozen, the gears in his head grinding to a halt. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "I have already heard the rumors, sir. News from the Academy travels faster than a courier bird when it involves a scandal. Your... 'great proposal' to Lady Elaine of the House of Avery?"

  Lucien felt a cold sweat prickle his neck. He looked at Sebas with genuine horror. "What do you mean, proposal? I was showing deference! Is it not noble for someone to bend their knee to a lady of a higher house? It was a political maneuver!"

  "That is true," Sebas said, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "But then, why did you tell her—and the entire valley—that she is the only one allowed to engrave you? In the Empire, Young Master, that is a declaration of eternal intimacy. You didn't just ask for a favor; you effectively asked to be her property. Or her husband. Or both."

  Lucien slumped back into his chair, the weight of his own calculated brilliance crushing him. He had been so focused on securing her attention and manipulating her into being his patron that he had completely forgotten how the dramatic, high-strung nobility of this era would interpret a twelve-year-old boy kneeling and begging for a "personal touch."

  "I needed her to remember who I am," Lucien hissed, rubbing his temples. "I needed to anchor myself to her future power."

  "I think she remembers you now, sir," Sebas said, moving to pack their bags. "In fact, I believe everyone knows who you are now. The commoner prodigy who claimed the heart of the Ice princess before the first day of classes was over."

  Lucien let out a groan so deep it sounded like it was coming from his very soul. He buried his face in his hands, the tips of his ears glowing a vivid, humiliated crimson.

  "I can't believe I proposed to a child," he muttered into his palms. "My reputation... my dignity... gone in a single afternoon."

  "You are a child too, sir," Sebas reminded him helpfully, his voice smooth and entirely too dry.

  "Shut up!" Lucien snapped, grabbing a feathered pillow from the bed and hurling it at his butler’s head with practiced, though frustrated, accuracy.

  Sebas caught the pillow with a single hand, his expression unchanged. "I am merely stating the facts, Young Master. In the eyes of the public, it was a precocious display of youthful passion. Very romantic. Very 'tragic hero.'"

  Lucien stared at the ceiling, wondering if it was too late to actually go and join the clergy for real.

  "Solennea," Lucien muttered, pulling his hood over his face to hide his burning ears. "We're leaving for Solennea immediately. Before the gossip reaches the border."