Chapter 1—Looming Dawn

“Dawn is not always promise; sometimes it is warning”

“Still with us?” Ophelin’s voice came sharp as ever. She stood at the bedside, arms folded, ponytail swaying with the slight tilt of her head. Her chainmail peeked beneath the leather of her academy doublet.

Randall leaned nearby, calm as stone. “You looked worse earlier. At least you’re talking now.”

Raiden rubbed his temple. “I… don’t remember the dream. Just the feeling it left. Anxious. Like I should know something, but it slips away.”

Ophelin smirked. “You’re dramatic, Calamity Child.” Then, softening, “If it makes you sick, see the healer.”

Raiden gave a dry chuckle. “You think they’d bother? I’m lucky if they don’t call me a bad omen and throw me outside the walls.”

Randall’s steady voice broke the silence. “They don’t have to care. We do. So stop pretending you’re alone.”

Raiden let the words sit. “Thanks.”

They spoke longer than expected. Houses and legacies were brushed past quickly, as if names and sigils mattered less in that quiet room. Instead, Randall steered the talk toward rumor: tomorrow’s field practice.

“They say it won’t be the usual formations,” Randall remarked. “Something new.”

Ophelin’s eyes gleamed. “About time. I’m tired of circling the same dirt.”

Raiden raised a brow. “Rumors are rumors. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ophelin groaned at the passing of time and adjusted her ponytail. “Classes,” she muttered, and walked for the door. Before leaving, she tossed back a grin. “Don’t die while I’m gone.”

Randall stayed. “I’ll skip mine. Someone has to make sure you don’t keel over again.”

“You’re reckless,” Raiden said.

Randall began straightening Raiden’s scattered books without reply. “Reckless is letting the Academy chew you alive. I’ll fetch food. Rest first.”

When he left for the kitchens, Raiden lay back down, letting the silence swallow him whole.

Visions surged again. An army of countless races — elves, dwarves, orcs, demi-humans, dryads — all standing together, banners flapping in a wind Raiden couldn’t feel. A bow and arrow. A hammer and anvil. Claw marks painted black on red.

And higher than them all, a banner of an eight-pronged golden star over ocean blue. Not one race’s mark, but all of them united beneath it. The sight brought tears before Raiden knew why.

At the front: ten figures, with ten vast beings looming behind them. His lips whispered, “The Ten Legendaire…”

The scene cracked, giving way to fragments: silver towers scraping the heavens, carriages without horses, birdlike machines leaving trails in the sky. Strange, impossible. Then the vision tore away.

Raiden woke drenched in sweat, chest heaving. His pillow was wet where tears had fallen. Exhaustion pulled him under again.

By dawn, Raiden stirred before Randall for once. “I beat you today,” he muttered at the still-sleeping archer. “Mark it down.”

He dressed, pulled on his leather boots, and made his way down the stairwell. The dormitory’s entry hall stretched above him, banners of House Lynthor rippling across the beams. The bronze statue of Lord Regnalion glared down, staff raised skyward, unyielding as ever. Raiden ducked his gaze and passed into the dining hall.

The hall was half-empty, steam rising from pots while cooks moved briskly. Students straggled in. Ophelin barged through a knot of them without hesitation. One boy staggered sideways, another stumbled to the floor. She didn’t so much as glance back as she claimed her seat.

Raiden shook his head as he approached. “Morning, juggernaut.”

She smirked. “Morning, weakling.”

Raiden collected two bowls, stopping at the counter. “Grain porridge, vegetable soup. And—what’s that?”

“Boar,” the cook replied.

Raiden frowned. “Shame. If it were deer, maybe.” He took the bowls and sat beside Ophelin.

“You look fine already,” she said. “Field class later?”

“I’ll be there.”

Their quiet exchange ended with the arrival of Garid Barowen, flanked by five students. His House Olwen sigil gleamed, his swagger too loud for the half-empty room.

“Well, if it isn’t the Calamity Child.”

Raiden lifted his spoon calmly. Garid’s smirk widened. A faint white vapor curled from his hands as frost spread across Raiden’s soup. The porridge froze solid, the table rim frosting with it. A messy, shallow trick.

“Even your food doesn’t want you,” Garid sneered. “And your roommate? He must be just as useless if he wanted you as company.”

Ophelin’s spork clattered down, her fist tightening. She leaned forward — only for Raiden to stop her with the barest shake of his head. She sat back, jaw tight.

Across the hall, one of the professors’ aides paused at the sight, expression pinched. He lingered a moment, lips pressed thin, then turned back to his duties.

Garid smirked at the silence. “No answer? Thought so. Look forward to today.” He swept away with his entourage, not bothering to look back.

Randall entered a moment later, eyes scanning until they met Raiden’s. He hurried over. “You two alright?” His glance flicked briefly toward the doorway Garid had left through, piecing together the trail.

“We’re fine,” Ophelin snapped. “Garid just picked a fight. Raiden didn’t take it.”

She glared at Raiden. “Which he should have.”

Raiden exhaled. “Thanks for caring. But it’s fine.”

Randall sat, folding his long frame neatly. “It’s the same every day. Words, stares, nothing new.”

Ophelin frowned. “Why would you get the same treatment? You’re Crotis.”

Raiden answered softly. “Because he’s with me.”

The words left the table heavy.

Randall broke the silence with a shake of his head. “Garid acts like he owns the place because he’s Olwen’s branch. Right now, there’s no Olwen heir here to rein him in. Barowen struts because no one’s above him, and Tarin—his House’s equal—should be keeping him in check. Instead, they stay quiet, and his arrogance smears Olwen’s name as a whole.”

Ophelin’s voice went cold. “House Tarin won’t stop him. They’ll look away. The lot of them.”

Raiden leaned back, recalling what he knew. “Tarin and Barowen are both Olwen’s retainers. Tarin avoids entanglement — they keep to themselves and avoid squabbles. Barowen, though, lick Olwen’s boots for favor. That’s the difference.”

The gloom thickened. Randall excused himself for food. Ophelin soon stood, waved once without a word, and left.

Raiden waited for Randall to finish, then they departed together.

They found Ophelin waiting atop a grassy ledge, scuffing her boots in the earth. When they approached, she looked at them both calmly. “Let’s go.”

Confused, they followed her to the training grounds.

Students milled about, sparring with wooden weapons, some weaving spells. Raiden froze when he saw Garid already there with his group, mingling with students from other classes.

“Ophel…” he began, but she slammed her fist into her palm with a grin.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s beat them up silly.”