“How could you let him push you so far?”

  “I did not let him do anything. He simply fought well.”

  “He is a peasant, Vincent! He should not be able to hold a candle to you!”

  “Perhaps, and yet he does. We are not infallible, Astra. If we are overconfident, we will lose.”

  Vincent glanced down at his sister. Her brow was furrowed in an intense glare. Those around them gave them a wide berth, lest they catch her ire. He suppressed a sigh and picked up the pace, eager to escape the crowds before Astra could draw too much attention. After their display on the first day, they were already being scrutinised more than usual.

  “It is honestly preposterous that they were allowed into the academy,” Astra mumbled.

  “They were let in under the direct recommendation of the Archmage and the Commander, presumably with the blessing of King Cedric,” Vincent said. “I do not understand why, but I will not question their judgment.”

  “We were supposed to be the ones earning their recommendation, Vincent!” Astra spat. “They eclipsed us because of their extravagance during the tournament. You saw as well as I did. Roland has only the most fundamental skill in swordsmanship, and that worm…” She gritted her teeth, her anger threatening to boil over. “He made a mockery of the arcane arts.”

  “He shattered a runically reinforced wall, Astra,” he said firmly. “And it seemed like an accident. His arcane power is not negligible. It is certainly stronger than mine, and it might even be comparable to yours.”

  “That cockroach can not even come close to me,” Astra refuted.

  “I thought he was a worm,” Vincent commented, the faintest hint of a smirk dancing across his lips.

  “I am going to crush him,” Astra said, glowering at the ground. “I will win the Archmage’s favour once again.” Vincent did not respond. In his mind's eye, he replayed the events of the past few days, attempting to make sense of them. He knew there was more to the two peasants than he could see.

  They were involved with the Saint and seemed to be in a very close relationship with the royal court, even for apprentices. The Archmage was known to be eccentric, but the Commander was steadfast and reasonable. It did not make sense for him to abandon a prospect like Vincent for a wildcard like Roland without good reason. Perhaps he could request an audience with the Commander to get some clarity.

  “Father is going to be upset.” The statement drew Vincent from his contemplation. The harsh edge in Astra’s voice was gone. Replacing it was not fear or concern. Just a hollowness. Resignation to the fact. “He likely already knows of what happened today.”

  “It would not surprise me,” Vincent confirmed. “Father is always… informed. Especially concerning us.”

  “Even he was caught off-guard by those two,” Astra said. She glanced down the street. Not much longer before they would be home. “Perhaps we should go for tea? It would give him time…”

  “No, it is best if we do not keep him waiting,” Vincent said, shaking his head. He glanced at his sister again. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her jacket. “Everything will be alright,” he added, trying to reassure her.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way to their home. The estate was large, and it blended seamlessly with the surroundings, making it impossible to tell where the city ended and the estate began. The Ashtons owned many businesses all over Aidelon. Even beyond the capital city, their influence stretched into the farthest reaches of Angenia. An empire, by any other measure, grafted into the fabric of the kingdom.

  As they approached their manor, the population around them shifted. Shoes became cleaner, shirts were tucked into place with greater care. Casual dress became formal attire, which in turn became uniforms. Finally, they reached the massive dark wood double doors that marked the entrance to their home. Vincent entered first, holding the door open for his sister to follow.

  “Father will be in his study. I will go speak with him,” he said. “You should start your training immediately.”

  “Vincent, you should not-” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Astra, go do your training. I will speak with Father,” he insisted, leaving no room for argument. Astra stared him down for a moment, then turned and stormed off to her room. Vincent watched her go, waiting for her to turn the corner before continuing in the opposite direction.

  He tried to empty his mind and enter the meditative state his tutors had tried for years to teach him. Once again, the gnawing at the back of his mind kept him from knowing inner peace. The gnawing became more prominent with every step he took, until his whole mind felt like it was pressed against a jagged wall as he reached his father’s study. He knocked, firmly but quietly, and waited to be acknowledged.

  “In!” A voice inside called. Vincent unclenched his jaw and pushed open the door, entering the vast room in which his father did his work. His eyes never drifted, remaining locked forward as he made his way to the desk where his father sat. The desk was sparsely decorated. Papers were neatly organized about it. A lamp occupied the top right corner. In the center at the far edge, facing the room, a golden plaque read “Morgan Ashton”.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” Vincent greeted, bowing his head slightly. His father said nothing, scribbling on a piece of paper for a few more lines before he set down the pen and leaned back in his chair, finally looking at his son. Seconds ticked by. Vincent could feel his heart pounding in his ears, but he kept his face calm and composed.

  “Where is Astra?” Morgan asked.

  “I told her to start her training,” Vincent responded.

  “You knew I would want to address you both,” Morgan said. “This is tantamount to disobedience.”

  “My apologies, Father,” Vincent said, bowing his head again. “I thought it would be prudent-”

  “That was your mistake, boy,” Morgan said. “You thought.” He stood from his desk, turning to face the large window that framed him from behind. “After losing your apprenticeships to some gutter rats, you have allowed yourselves to be outshone in the Academy as well? How much more do you wish to besmirch the Ashton name?” Morgan’s voice was level, conversational even, but his son knew all too well the fury that drifted beneath those calm waves.

  “Father, I can assure you-” Vincent began, but he immediately stopped when his father raised a hand.

  “Vincent, I will not tolerate any more of this,” Morgan said. “See to it that you and your sister remedy the problem. Take care of those two peasants.”

  “Yes, Father,” Vincent said. He turned around, moving as quickly as decorum allowed to get out of the room.

  “Oh, and Vincent?” Morgan called out. Vincent froze in his steps. “If you fail, it will not be you that faces punishment.” Vincent did not respond. When it was clear his father was finished speaking, he left the room. A small tremor took hold of his hand. Vincent clenched his fist tightly, walking as fast as he could to his room and closing the door behind him. He looked at his hand, now open, watching his fingers tremble.

  His breathing also threatened to escape his control, but he forced it under control along with his hand. The trembling stopped, frozen under his icy gaze. When he was sure he was composed, he shed his jacket and grabbed his sword, heading towards the small gravel field his father had designated for his training.

  Astra listened as Vincent stormed past. Her eyes were locked on a theoretical magic book that she had all but memorised long ago. Her pupils tracked the words on the page, but her mind was nowhere near its contents. As Vincent’s steps dimmed, he pulled her thoughts along with him. She silently cursed him, standing from her desk and sitting on the ground, her back against the foot-end of her bed.

  He was always so protective of her, taking all the weight of their father’s expectations on his shoulders, and accepting responsibility for both of their failures. He thought he hid it well, but Astra could see the toll all of it took on him. When she was younger, she idolised her brother. He was her hero. The wall between her and the harshness of reality. She was not that small girl anymore, though.

  Her hands were raised in front of her. Gentle swirls of multicoloured light danced between her fingers. She pictured shaping the light into sharp daggers and embedding them in her father’s chest. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she shook her head, sending her platinum hair flying all around as she tried to dispel it. She found herself drawn to images like these more and more.

  She wanted to prove that she could protect Vincent, too. Every time she thought of doing so, however, her father’s voice coiled around her heart, and she found herself unable to act. It had happened again today, but this time the voice came from Vincent's mouth. For an instant, the picture in her mind shifted, Vincent taking the place of their father. Astra recoiled at this, closing her eyes tightly, as if it would close her mind’s eye as well.

  She quickly stood, throwing off her jacket and heading outside. The halls of her home flashed by in a blur. She hardly noticed the staff she passed by as she made her way to her training area. Her mind was laser-focused on one thing. The person who changed everything. Their father was proud of them, Vincent was unwinding, and Astra felt like she could breathe in her own home.

  Then he came along. She could see his shit-eating sneer, that gaunt frame, entirely ill-suited for the prestigious uniform he had dared to don. Most of all, she could see his eyes. The look he gave her when he boasted about stealing her position. Sparks of orange began dancing around her as her rage built.

  Who did he think he was? That illiterate nobody, who could not even muster a family name, and he acted like it was a point of pride? The energy began moving more erratically around her as it built.

  His name crossed her mind. Even thinking it left an acidic taste on her tongue. Their encounter in the square replayed in her mind. That abhorrent roach tried to hurt her, and she just defended herself, but the world just saw… The energy cracked around her, whips shooting out.

  The witch. Her eyes glistened as the looks of the commoners in the city bored into her from her memories. She knew what people called her behind her back, but he was the first person to say it to her face. He was only in the capital for a few days, and he already knew. How quickly had the commoners pulled him into their fold and told him about her? Why was he the one who was welcomed by them? And to have the gall to throw that in her face, and to act like she was the villain? Like she was some monster for looking for a connection from the one person with status her father would accept?

  “Astra.”

  She would beat him.

  “Astra!”

  She would kill him.

  “ASTRA!”

  Hands closed around her shoulders, and eyes matching her own entered her view. She caught a staggered breath. When did Vincent get there?

  “Astra, calm down, please,” he said, his eyes wide with worry.

  “What do you…” she began, clanging around. The ground around her was scorched, patches of dirt torn from the earth. The damage extended almost five meters away. In the distance, a small group of their servant staff watched her with looks of fear and horror. She reached up, wiping away the moisture on her face. Looking back at Vincent, she froze. His clothes were torn and burned. All across his body were bruises, small cuts, and patches of burnt skin. His arms looked worse, having protected his head. “What happened?”

  “Everything will be okay, just breathe,” Vincent said, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “You are hurt!” she said, quickly staggering back. “Vincent, did I…”

  “Astra, I am fine,” he assured. “What happened?”

  “I do not know,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice. “I just…”

  “It is alright,” he insisted. “You are alright. You are safe.”

  “I am sorry,” she choked, her eyes glimmering with tears. Vincent quickly closed the distance between them, hugging her tightly.

  “Astra, I am alright,” he insisted. “Please, tell me what is going on. Whatever it is, I swear, I will help you.”

  “Alright,” Astra relented. She took a deep breath. “It is about Aldric…”