The Uncrowned Queenmaker

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man."

— George Bernard Shaw

———

The door didn't open—it simply drifted inward without sound, as if the wood itself had decided to step aside rather than risk whatever was coming through.

Professor Isolde De Clare ambled in like she owned not just the space but the very air we breathed. Her instructor's robes hung askew across a frame more warrior than academic. Tall, powerfully built, she moved with casual confidence that spoke of someone who'd never met a problem she couldn't solve with her fists. Chestnut hair tumbled down her back, held back by what looked suspiciously like a sharpened steel pin. A thin scar cut through her left eyebrow, and her amber eyes surveyed the room with profound boredom.

In her right hand, a dented silver flask rested like a natural extension of her arm.

The room fell silent. Even Fen, mid-sentence about our abandonment, shut her mouth with an audible click. Twenty-five pairs of eyes tracked the professor's movement toward the mantelpiece, but she didn't acknowledge a single one of us.

Something's wrong here. This isn't the broken-down instructor I expected.

My instincts screamed danger. I activated [Narrative Appraisal], pushing my awareness into the skill.

Name: Isolde De Clare

Level: 5

Class: [Vanguard Strategist]

Authority: 7

Strength: S-1050

Endurance: S-1100

The numbers made my throat go dry. S-rank stats were legendary power that could level city blocks. But the next line froze my blood.

Narrative Role: [Fallen Prodigy] / ???

That flickering question mark was wrong. I'd never seen the System stutter like that. I pushed harder, funneling my Authority into the appraisal.

The letters shifted. Reformed.

[Narrative Role]: [The Uncrowned Queenmaker]

Holy shit. HOLY SHIT.

Queenmaker. Not queen—queenmaker. Someone who shaped rulers from the shadows, who found diamonds in the rough and polished them until they blinded the world with brilliance.

And she was here. In House Onyx. Teaching rejects.

Professor De Clare leaned against the mantelpiece and took a long pull from her flask. When she lowered it, her eyes swept the room with something like amusement.

"Well," she said, her voice rough-edged from late nights and cheap liquor. "Look what the academy dragged in this year. Twenty-five bright young minds, eager to learn and grow. What a load of horse shit."

Marcus Vellum made a strangled protest.

"Kid," Isolde fixed on him like a predator spotting wounded prey. "I've been teaching here six years. I've seen every type of student they produce. The golden boys with their family names. The scholarship kids who think hard work overcomes everything. The political marriages disguised as study groups. The backstabbing, the brown-nosing, the 'useful connections.'" She gestured vaguely.

"And then there's House Onyx."

Fen's ears flattened. "The dumping ground for everyone else."

"Exactly." Isolde pointed the flask at her. "The unwanted. The inconvenient. The ones who don't fit neat categories. Teaching House Onyx is considered career suicide. A punishment detail."

Thomlin Ashworth shifted uncomfortably. "Then why are you here?"

Isolde stopped pacing and faced him directly, something dangerous flickering behind her eyes.

"Because I have a gambling problem."

Silence fell so complete I could hear magical lamps humming.

"Not with cards or dice. My vice is more expensive." Another thoughtful drink. "I gamble on people. Specifically, on people everyone else has written off as hopeless cases."

Oh. This is perfect.

I kept my expression blank and nervous, but inside, my mind raced through possibilities. A queenmaker with a gambling addiction. S-rank power relegated to teaching rejects. Someone specializing in hidden potential.

"The thing about gambling," Isolde continued, pacing deliberately, "is that the biggest payoffs come from the longest odds. Safe bets are boring. But a true long shot? When that pays off..."

Mira Blackthorn raised her hand. "Professor? What exactly are you betting on?"

"You. All of you. This collection of misfits and disappointments. The academy stuck you here because they couldn't figure out what else to do with you."

The words should have stung, but there was something liberating about having truth laid bare.

"But I see raw material. Uncut gemstones. Weapons not yet forged." She stopped before Fen. "You think being unwanted makes you weak? You think having nowhere to go is a disadvantage? Kid, you have no idea how wrong you are."

Fen's golden eyes narrowed. "Enlighten me."

"When you have nothing left to lose, you're free to risk everything. When nobody expects anything from you, you can exceed every expectation. When the world has written you off...you can rewrite the whole damn story."

She knows. Maybe not specifics, but she understands what we're trying to do.

"I'm not going to coddle you or whisper sweet lies. I'll teach you to fight. To think. To turn weaknesses into weapons and disadvantages into opportunities."

She moved to the center of the room. "Some of you will wash out. But some of you..." Her gaze swept over me with something like recognition. "Some of you will surprise everyone. Including yourselves."

Theron Ashworth—my target, the boy whose death I was here to prevent—leaned forward. "What do you want from us?"

"Everything. Your effort. Your attention. Your willingness to push beyond whatever pathetic limits define you." Another contemplative drink. "In return, I'll give you something no other professor can offer."

"Which is?" Marcus asked.

Isolde's smile turned predatory. "A chance to prove everyone wrong."

The room erupted in excited whispers. Students who'd expected abandonment suddenly faced a professor who viewed their outcast status as an advantage.

This changes everything. If I can make myself interesting enough for her time... The Queenmaker could be my wild card.

"Any questions? I'll even entertain existential crises, if brief." Isolde asked.

Fen raised her hand. "What makes you think any of us are worth the effort?"

"Because you're all here. Not physically—any idiot with connections can enter the academy. But mentally. Emotionally. You're here because some part of you believes you can be more than what others see."

She pointed at Fen. "You could have stayed in whatever pack rejected you. But you didn't."

The flask moved to Marcus. "You could have given up after your family lost their fortune. But you didn't."

To Theron. "You could have hidden behind your family's scandal. But you didn't."

Then at me. Those amber eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my mask feel paper-thin.

"And you could have played the disappointing son forever. But you didn't."

She sees something. How much?

I widened my eyes slightly, playing the nervous boy. "I... I'm not sure I understand, Professor."

Isolde studied me for a long moment. "No," she said finally, "I don't suppose you do. Yet."

She addressed everyone again. "First lesson tomorrow at dawn. Combat training in the western courtyard. Don't bring weapons—we'll start with fists. I want to see what you're made of when someone's trying to break your face."

Students began filing out, conversations mixing excitement and terror. I stood slowly, playing my part, mind working through implications.

Lyra stepped beside me. "Shall I prepare your evening routine, Young Master?"

"Yes," I said loudly. "And perhaps some tea. My nerves are rather... unsettled."

As we left, I caught Isolde watching us, flask raised to her lips, eyes tracking our movement like a predator watching prey.

This isn't a prison. It's a hunting ground. And I've found the apex predator.

The question was whether she was hunting me, or whether I could convince her to hunt alongside me.