CHAPTER 10: THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR

The dorm tower was quieter than the arena. My boots carried me down a long corridor of stone walls and tall windows that caught the afternoon sun. Light spilled in angled beams across polished floors, painting the hall with gold. The noise of students in the galleries and courtyards below faded behind me, leaving only the echo of my steps and the creak of wood settling in the old tower.

I reached a brass plate set into an oak door. The letters on it read my new name: Armand Valcrey. The surname carried weight here. A noble line, a proud crest, a reputation already half-rotten because of what this boy had done. I touched the plate once, then turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room was larger than I expected. High ceiling, window cut deep into the wall, a bed with academy-blue sheets tucked neat and sharp. The wardrobe stood tall beside a mirror, polished enough to throw back the afternoon light. A writing desk waited beneath the window with a brass lamp and a clean quill set in its stand. A washbasin gleamed in the corner, porcelain white and ringed with brass fixtures that caught the sun. Everything smelled faintly of chalk, soap, and oil polish. No trace of life yet.

It was a room meant to make a boy feel important. A room that expected arrogance. A room the old Armand had probably enjoyed flaunting in front of others.

I shut the door behind me and set the sabre belt against the wall beside the bed. My coat followed, heavy with dust from the dungeon. The sleeve still hung torn where the lurker’s teeth had scraped past me. I stood in front of the mirror.

The face staring back was still strange. Eighteen. Skin unscarred. A noble’s jawline, hair neat even after the arena. Not the worn soldier I remembered from the hospital bed. Armand Valcrey. A boy who had everything given to him and still thought he needed to prove it by stepping on others.

I crossed to the washbasin and turned the brass valve. Water hissed clean and cold into the bowl. I splashed my face until the chill cut through the last of the arena dust, until red stains swirled pink and vanished. When I lifted my head, water dripped from a face that didn’t carry the weight of my years. A boy’s reflection, but my eyes.

Scraps of memory pressed in. The things the old Armand had done.

He had mocked a common-born student during lecture, loud enough for every ear in the room. Called him a servant playing at swords. The boy nearly left the academy.

He had turned on his own twin, Ariadne, in front of their peers. Called her second-rate Valcrey when she refused to back him in one of his displays. The wound in her gray eyes was carved deeper than any duel.

Once, he had forced a stable-hand to kneel in the courtyard until a proctor pulled him off. Laughed the whole time. Called it strength.

Cruelty dressed up as nobility. Arrogance applauded as pride. And he had believed it. Or let himself believe it because it was easier than admitting he was weak.

That was the boy whose name I carried now.

I dried my face, peeled off the dirt-stained shirt, and opened the wardrobe. Clothes hung ready, pressed and perfect. I chose a clean white shirt and pulled it on. The cotton was softer than anything I had worn in years. The trousers were dark gray, their lines cut sharp. The academy-blue coat carried the Valcrey crest embroidered in silver thread over the breast pocket. Brass buttons gleamed in two neat rows down the front.

The fit was exact. Tailored to the heir who had worn them before me, cut for posture and pride. I straightened the cuffs anyway. A soldier’s habit. Clean uniform, clean frame, clean breath.

I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself breathe. Four in, hold two, roll out three. Anchor step even when sitting. My body obeyed. The mattress dipped under my weight, softer than stone, but it held.

The plot circled in my head like wolves. Act One. Armand Valcrey, arrogant noble. Humiliated by Cael. Falls into a dungeon, dies a cautionary tale. That was the story my brother wrote. That was the script everyone expected me to play.

Not this time.

Cael was already stronger. An Artisan at seventeen. The hero of the piece. My job had been to prove the world had teeth by dying early. But I wasn’t the boy who had sneered in lecture halls. I wasn’t the twin who humiliated his sister. I wasn’t the heir who let his partner sharpen him into cruelty.

I was the man who had promised his daughter noodles. The soldier who had carried folded names in a shoebox. The husband who told his wife he would try.

If Cael climbed straight up, I would move sideways. I had tools this boy never used. Steel: boxing that turned into judo, sabre that borrowed from knife work, improvisation that refused to die. Internal Darkflow: anchor step, steady hands, more precision with every breath. External Darkflow: Marrow and Hollow were only the start. The leash would stretch with practice. Two would become three, then more. Bonds: the most fragile and most important. Promises. Trust. Choosing joy on purpose. Saints proved it carried weight here.

The old Armand had written cruelty into his record. I would write something else on top of it. Not erase. Not pretend it hadn’t happened. Redeem. Balance. One step at a time.

The light through the window shifted, slanting gold across the floorboards. For the first time since I opened my eyes in the cave, the world gave me silence.

I leaned back on the bed. The mattress was too soft, the pillow too fine. My body wanted rest, but my thoughts stayed sharp.

A sound cut through the quiet.

Knock.

Three raps. Measured. Certain.

The handle turned.

The door opened.

Someone stepped inside.

She stepped inside like the room already belonged to her. Hair pure white, falling straight as snow against her shoulders. Eyes the color of polished amethyst, bright and cutting. Academy blue trimmed with deep violet hugged her frame, tailored sharper than regulation. Her presence carried the confidence of someone who had been raised not to ask, only to take.

Lady Seraphine Duskveil.

My fiancée.