The silence inside my head was louder than the screaming of the first years outside in the hallway.

  The Callus was a tomb. The blast door to his consciousness remained sealed tight. I had spent the last hour trying to coax him but he simply wasn't responding.

  So I stopped knocking.

  Assuming he was their at all - If he wanted to sit in the dark and watch the world go by through a keyhole, let him. If he wouldn’t drive, I would.

  I was Ronan Sunstrider. It was time the Empire was reminded what that name actually meant.

  I turned my attention back to the glass. The reflection staring back was no longer the scrawny, dishevelled boy from the slums. I straightened my spine, feeling the phantom weight of a hundred battles settle onto my frame.

  The tailor had earned his triple fee. The uniform was a perfect fit.

  It was Imperial White—the colour of High Marshals and the shroud of the honoured dead. The fabric was a heavy, military-grade weave that refused to wrinkle. The tunic was stiff, double-breasted, and cut with a precision that turned my silhouette into a rigid line of martial authority. Gold braiding coiled across my chest in the heavy Hussar style, catching the mana-light like liquid fire. The epaulettes were massive, adding a broad, commanding width to my shoulders that demanded space.

  I looked at the embroidery on the left breast.

  A golden sun, split down the middle by a vertical blade. The Sunstrider Sigil.

  It was a flag. A challenge. It was a declaration that House Sunstrider had returned from the ash of history. I was not a student at an Academy; I was a General occupying a hostile territory and it was time I acted like it.

  ‘If you’re watching, Murphy, take notes,’ I thought, though the silence didn’t even ripple. ‘This is how you command a room.’

  I didn't need his snark. I didn't need his clever tricks. I needed the military way. Precise. Absolute. Discipline.

  I reached into the Inventory, the conceptual weight of the void shifting as I bypassed the junk and the laundry.

  SHING.

  I drew a proper sword. This wasn't a decorative piece; it was a heavy, double-edged blade of tempered star-steel, the cross guard simple and functional. It had weight. It had history. I slid it into a blackened leather scabbard and clipped it to my belt with a sharp, metallic CLACK.

  I walked toward the door, my polished boots striking the stone floor with the rhythmic finality of a drumbeat.

  I marched out of the room. My boots—polished to a mirror shine—cracked against the stone floor like pistol shots.

  The House Argent Common Room was already filled with the smell of cheap perfume and panic. Students were milling about in various states of formal distress, adjusting ill-fitting doublets and tugging at hemlines.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the conversation died.

  It didn't taper off; it was severed. Heads turned. Eyes widened. A few people actually took a step back, their instincts recognizing authority before their brains caught up.

  I ignored them, scanning the room for my team.

  They were huddled near the fireplace. Finn was... visible. He was wearing a crushed velvet suit in a shade of purple that could only be described as a crime against eyesight. He looked like a decorative pillow that had gained sentience and deep-seated anxiety.

  Pippa and Kael were more subdued. Kael looked like a boulder forced into a suit, looking ready to burst the seams if he flexed, while Pippa wore a simple green dress that made her blend into the curtains.

  "Murphy?" Finn squeaked, his voice cracking. He stared at the gold braiding on my chest. "You look..."

  "Like a general" I interrupted, stopping in front of them. "Which is the point."

  “Where is Grace?"

  "She’s coming," Pippa whispered, pointing to the girls' dormitory stairs. "She was... struggling with the fit of her dress."

  I turned.

  Grace Voss stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell.

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.

  Gone were the grease-stained overalls. Gone were the heavy tool belts and the smudge of oil that permanently lived on her nose. In their place was a stunning creature of cold, industrial elegance.

  Her gown was silver—not the bright, flashy silver of new coins, but the dark, burnished gunmetal of high-grade steel. It clung to her frame like liquid armour, structured with sharp, angular pleats. Her hair, usually a chaotic bird's nest, had been tamed into a sleek, severe knot held in place by two long pins that looked suspiciously like lock-picks.

  She didn't look pretty. She looked formidable. Beneath the mechanic’s grime, she had always possessed the sharp, high-cheeked bone structure of the Ancient Nobility, and tonight, she was weaponising it.

  She descended the stairs, her eyes fixed on the floor, clearly terrified she was going to trip.

  Finn made a noise like a dying kettle. His jaw was literally hanging open.

  Grace reached the bottom step and looked up, catching us staring. She immediately crossed her arms, a flush rising on her pale neck.

  "If anyone says a word," she hissed, "I will dismantle your kneecaps."

  "Understood," I said, fighting a smirk. "You look formidable, Voss."

  "Thank you," she snapped, though she looked relieved I hadn't complimented her looks. "Also, I’m suffocating."

  "Enough gazing," a voice cut through the air.

  Vespera Wintermoon glided into our circle. As expected, she was terrifyingly perfect. She wore midnight blue velvet that seemed to absorb the light around her, accented with silver frost-patterns that moved slightly as she breathed. She looked like a winter storm given human form.

  She scanned us, her gaze lingering on my uniform, then Grace’s gown. She nodded once—a sharp, jerky motion of approval.

  "Good," Vespera stated. "We do not all look like charity cases. We might actually survive the night."

  "You make it sound like we’re going to war," Finn muttered, tugging at his purple collar.

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  "We are," Vespera corrected

  "Shoulders back," I commanded, my voice dropping into the lower register. "Chin up. You are not students tonight. You are expensive, high-yield assets. Act like it."

  I turned toward the heavy oak doors.

  "Move out."

  ---

  The Celestial Hall was a monument to the Empire’s love affair with gold leaf and intimidation. Carriages lined the grand promenade in a rigid, expensive queue, disgorging students in a steady stream of silk and velvet. The air smelled of roasted nuts, expensive wine, and the distinct, ozone-tinged scent of raw mana being flaunted by teenagers with too much money and too little discipline.

  Our carriage rattled to a halt. The footman reached for the handle, wearing a sneer he had likely practised in the mirror.

  'Wait,' I ordered.

  I looked at my squad. They were terrified. Finn was vibrating so hard he was blurring at the edges. Grace looked like she was about to face a firing squad.

  'We are walking into a market,' I said, my voice calm and carries the weight of a divine decree. 'And in a market, silence is a vacuum. If we don't fill it, they will fill it with their own narrative.'

  "What does that mean?" Finn squeaked.

  'It means we need a soundtrack.'

  I knocked on the ceiling, giving the signal to the small clone on the roof I had secretly created before we left the dorms. He sat cross-legged hiding behind some large luggage chests, holding the heavy brass-horned gramophone—an identical twin to the one we had used to fight the Prime. He wound the crank—CRRRK. CRRRK.—and dropped the needle.

  The ethereal, synth-heavy intro of Dire Straits' Money for Nothing began to drift over the crowd.

  It started soft. A haunting, otherworldly sound that had no business in a world of lutes and lyres. The chatter outside the carriage faltered. People turned, searching for the source of the strange, vibrating hum.

  'I’ve always wanted to do this,' I muttered, checking my cuffs.

  Then, the drums kicked in. BUM-BUM-BUM. TISH.

  I kicked the carriage door open.

  The footman jumped back, his eyes wide. I stepped out, my boots hitting the pavement exactly as the iconic, distorted guitar riff shredded the atmosphere. DEER-NEER-NEER-NEER. DEER-NEER-NEER...

  It was aggressive. It was loud. It was the sound of capitalism arriving to kick down the door.

  The effect was instantaneous. The polite murmur of the promenade died, strangled by the sheer auditory violence of an electric guitar. Hundreds of heads snapped toward us. I stepped onto the red carpet, the Imperial White uniform glowing under the mana-lamps. I didn't look at the crowd. I adjusted my gloves, the golden Sunstrider sigil catching the light.

  "Formation," I commanded.

  Vespera and Grace stepped out, flanking me. Finn and Kael took the rear.

  We began to walk.

  The music thumped from the carriage roof behind us, a rolling wave of sonic arrogance. The crowd parted. Not out of respect, but out of sheer confusion. They stared at the uniform. They stared at the girls. They stared at the audacity of a First-Year squad arriving with their own theme music.

  'Look at them,' I thought, scanning the sea of stunned faces. 'They don't know what to make of us. I have established dominance before we even drew a weapon.'

  Somewhere deep in the Callus, a tiny part of Murphy’s consciousness was likely screaming that I was painting a target on our backs the size of a barn door.

  But I wasn't Murphy. I was a General. And Generals don’t hide.

  "Look at the Argent dorm rift squad," a voice whispered, audible only because the music had dipped for a verse. "Is that... is that music coming from the air?"

  "Are they that arrogant after winning one match?" another muttered, the tone dripping with offence. "Who do they think they are?"

  I kept my eyes forward, my stride measured. 'Chin up, Finn. You’re worth a thousand of them.'

  We reached the massive archway of the entrance, the grand threshold where the Empire’s vanity was on full display. At my mental command, the clone perched upon the roof dispelled, cutting the music mid-chord. The sudden silence was heavy, ringing with the sort of expectation that usually precedes an execution.

  A herald, draped in more gold braid than was strictly necessary, stepped forward. He cleared his throat and announced the lineages of the group, pointedly omitting Finn, Kael, and Pippa, as the Imperial tongue had no room for those without a pedigree.

  "House Sunstrider, House Voss, House Winter-Moon, and associates!".

  The name Sunstrider flowed over the lips of the nobles in the courtyard like a river. A whisper rippled through the crowd, a viral thing that carried more shock than awe. Rumours were one thing, but this was definitive proof—a formal declaration from the academy itself that I had a legitimate title.

  "Don’t make me laugh," a voice cut through the tension, thick with the slur of expensive wine and unearned confidence. "That house is just a myth…"

  We stopped.

  Leaning against a marble pillar was Peter Vanderbrook, a Third-Year student and seventh in line for the Lordship of the Vanderbrook territory. He was a bored creature who would be handed a military rank without ever serving in the legion, surrounded by a flock of sycophants. His tunic was unbuttoned with a sloppiness that annoyed the shit out of me, revealing a chest that had clearly never known the weight of plate armour or the sting of a day's labour.

  "Look at him," Peter sneered, pushing off the pillar with a practised arrogance. "A stray dog wearing a stolen uniform. You think a song and some embroidery makes you an officer? It just makes you a clown. Why don’t you show us a few more tricks, clown?"

  He shifted his predatory gaze to Vespera. "Hey! Winter-Moon!".

  Vespera stiffened, her fingers tightening on my sleeve with a cold, sharp tension.

  "Why are you shackled to the clown?" Peter shouted, gesturing loosely with his goblet. "Ditch the fool, darling. I’ll buy you for the night. You and the Voss girl".

  Finn surged forward, his face flushed with a rare, reckless anger. "You piece of—".

  I caught Finn’s shoulder, my grip as immovable as the walls of Aethelgard.

  "Hold."

  I stepped forward. I didn't draw my sword, nor did I reach for the Art. I simply inhabited the space with the weight of a century of command. The Commander in me cut through the air. It wasn't a shout; it was a cold statement of fact that carried the weight of a divine decree.

  "Your tunic is undone," I continued, my voice flat and arctic. "And you are accosting two noble ladies like a commoner".

  Peter froze. He looked at me, he was expecting a student who would stutter or rage. Instead, he found an General who looked at him like a particularly offensive recruit.

  The crowd watched, breathless.

  "I..." he stammered, his face flushing a vivid, undignified red. "I was just..."

  "You were about to apologise," I corrected. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. "Apologise and leave. If you do anything else, I will demand a duel to the death for the offence you have caused, right here and right now".

  I paused to let the words sink in, watching the arrogance drain from his face like wine from a cracked cask. "And before you decide this is a good idea, Peter, take a moment to remember who I am. The noble families have no sway over mine. My family has no allegiance, we own nothing, and I am the only heir. No amount of bribes would stop me from killing you.".

  Peter turned a sickly shade of pale, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the buttons of his tunic. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to faint, but then his fear curdled into a frantic, aristocratic rage.

  "You… my family would send assassins," he hissed, his voice trembling with the effort of maintaining his station. "You wouldn't even last the week."

  "But you would still be dead, Peter," I replied, my voice as cold as a mountain spring. "While my house is under the Emperor’s direct protection. Do you for one second think your father could lie to Vaelos?".

  I leaned in closer, my eyes locking onto his. "No. The Emperor would break every mind in this empire to find the killers. He would peel the memory of the contract from your father's skull before your body was even cold, and then he would wipe your house from the face of the continent as if you had never existed.".

  He realised the trap I had laid. In the Empire, duels between nobles are governed by a strict etiquette of survival. Retainers are the wall between the 'Suns' of the nobility and the commoners; if a commoner insults a Lord, the retainer breaks them. But between two nobles, retainers are legally barred from interference. The blood of the foundation must answer for itself.

  Noble disputes are typically settled with the cold exchange of blades or riches to avoid the all out war. High-ranking houses actively discourage their underage heirs from fighting to the death; a lineage is a massive investment, and a corpse is a poor return.

  But I was a Sunstrider—a jagged anomaly in their polished records. I had no sprawling estates to protect, no mercantile fleets to seize, and a blood-claim that superseded Peter’s petty grievances. If I killed him, a few noble houses would surely band together to try and bankrupt my family, using every legal lever at their disposal. Such threats carry immense weight when you have a legacy to protect, but they are hollow when levelled against a man who owns nothing but his sword and his honour.

  Peter Vanderbrook was a man of collateral. I was a man of consequence. To a creature who measured his worth in gold and hectares, a man with everything to gain and nothing left to lose was more terrifying than a dragon.

  He looked at Grace, his face a mask of humiliated fury.

  "My apologies... Lady Voss," he mumbled, his eyes fixed firmly on his boots.

  "Dismissed," I said.

  The noble turned and fled, vanishing into the crowd like a beaten dog. I adjusted my cuffs, feeling a surge of grim satisfaction. I had protected my unit and re-established the hierarchy.

  However, as I stepped across the threshold, I realised the Third-Years weren't looking at me with respect. They were looking at me with cold, narrowing eyes. I hadn't just humiliated a drunk; I had challenged the pecking order of the entire elite.

  I had just painted a target on our backs that could be seen from space.

  "The shark tank is open," I said to the squad, fully aware of the blood in the water. "Try not to bleed."