Chapter 15—Kin

“There is no fate more inevitable than blood”

Morning light crept differently now. Without stable duty, Raiden and Randall awoke in silence, no clatter of pails or snorts of restless beasts waiting to be tended. The absence was strange—like a missing limb. Randall admitted once, over a hurried breakfast, “I almost walked toward the stables out of habit.” Raiden nodded, saying nothing. For him, the stillness made the day feel hollow, as though dawn no longer had a purpose.

Only Tadari remained bound to that rhythm. Now that the other hands had returned, his work grew lighter, but when Raiden and Randall passed him on the way to their lectures, he seemed unchanged: rake in hand, hair falling into his eyes, shoulders already damp with sweat. “Work’s easier now,” he said one morning, leaning on the rake. “But quieter. Was better when you three were in the stalls. Horses liked it too.” His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. Then he went back to his chores.

The three still shared another rhythm—the infirmary. Each day, they took turns at Ophelin’s side. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, the air heavy with the quiet rasp of her breathing. She stirred at last on the third night, not fully awake but no longer lost to darkness. Her lips moved with whispers none of them wished to hear.

“Father… I… can… prove…”

Raiden froze, leaning closer. Randall’s brow furrowed, but neither spoke. Only Tadari broke the silence, his voice steady. “Dreams reach deeper than walls. Whatever drives her runs older than the three of us.” He glanced at the bandages covering her arms and leg. “Maybe that’s what the Ironmane senses. It’s been restless every day since.”

The thought lingered after they left: even unconscious, she was not truly still.

The Academy itself resettled, yet uneasily. Whispers drifted through lecture halls and courtyards—questions about the attack, about why blades had been drawn on Academy grounds. Some whispered of Barowen. Others denied it flatly. The ruling masters gave no statement, and silence only fanned the rumors.

Randall grew sharper in practice, his arrows faster, cleaner, his silence deeper. Tadari kept to the stables, but he joined them in evening meals more often now, less distant than before. Raiden tried to study, yet his mind often drifted back to the storm, to the memory of Weldin’s magic, to the blood that nearly claimed Ophelin.

No one spoke of Garid, but his shadow lay long.

On the fourth morning, Raiden found a letter waiting at his door. The seal of Arkantez glimmered in silver wax, and for a moment his breath caught. He broke it open with stiff fingers.

Raiden Rymboven. By order of Ledios Arkantez, Heir Apparent, you are to attend the Audience Hall. You will come alone. Matters require inquiry.

That was all. No reason, no detail, only inevitability.

Randall noticed the letter before Raiden tucked it away. “Bad news?”

Raiden forced calm into his tone. “Summons.” Nothing more.

The walk to the Lecture Building felt heavier than any trek across battlefield or storm. Every step echoed on the flagstones, as though the summons itself rang in his bones. The Audience Hall loomed at the far end of the east wing, tall doors carved with sigils of Houses past. Few students had ever seen inside; fewer still wanted to.

He thought of Laudenfel, his home. His father’s tired hands, his mother’s warning voice: Every favor Arkantez gives is a chain, even to family.

Raiden reached the broad double doors of the Audience Hall, each carved with the crest of the Academy: a circle of ten runes, each representing an element of magic, entwined around a flame. He hesitated. His fingers brushed the iron handle, cold despite the summer air. The summons weighed heavy in his pocket, heavier in his chest.

He pushed. The doors swung open on oiled hinges.

Light from tall windows spilled across the chamber’s polished floor. At the far end, seated on a raised dais, was Ledios Arkantez—his cousin, heir apparent to House Arkantez. Raiden had not seen him in years, and yet the gulf between them was wider than blood could bridge. Ledios’s bearing was unmistakable: composed, sharp-eyed, authority worn as naturally as breath.

Beside him lounged Rudo Arkantez, younger but broader, his expression edged with disdain. On the other side sat Naia Arkantez, her age showing not in frailty but in a gaze that seemed to weigh every soul in the room. Standing nearer the windows was Halia, youngest of the siblings, sharp features softened by youth but already carrying the same regal posture.

Four pairs of eyes turned toward him.

Raiden swallowed, the air thick as stone. His boots echoed against the hall as he stepped inside.

The doors closed behind him with a final, heavy thud.

Raiden stepped forward, each pace echoing in the wide chamber. His boots struck the polished stone as he approached the Arkantez delegation seated near the dais. When he reached the proper distance, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head, his right arm crossing over to rest on his left shoulder.

“My lords, my lady,” he said, voice steady despite the thrum in his chest, “Raiden Rymboven pays respect to the envoys of House Arkantez.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the floor. In the silence, he thought of Laudenfel—the quiet fields, his father bent over the forge, his mother laughing by the hearth. What was he doing here, on his knees, before the most powerful blood of his line? He had always been Rymboven, never Arkantez. But here he was, summoned like a pawn.

Ledios Arkantez rose slightly, acknowledging the bow with a gracious nod. His expression bore both authority and familiarity. “Cousin. It has been long since we’ve spoken, though your name has reached me more than once these past weeks. I am pleased to see you standing before me.” He let the words linger a heartbeat, then deferred with a small gesture of his hand. “But this summons is not mine to explain. Aunt Naia will speak.”

Naia Arkantez leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Raiden. Her voice was measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of decades of command.
“Raiden Rymboven, you are here for four matters. First, to recount the events at the stables—fact alone, not speculation. We are less concerned with who raised blades, and more with what currents stirred beneath.”

So it is politics, Raiden thought, tightening his jaw. They don’t care that Ophelin nearly lost her arm. They don’t care that Tadari bled to shield her. Not names, not faces—just currents.

He swallowed the words and recounted plainly. The ambush, the numbers, Weldin’s ice, Randall’s arrows, Tadari’s steadiness, Ophelin’s fall. His voice stripped the emotion from memory, leaving only fact.

Naia inclined her head faintly when he finished. “Second. You are to excuse yourself from all classes, beginning tomorrow, until House Arkantez states otherwise.”

His chest tightened. Stripped from classes? After all the years clawing through drills and lectures?

“Third. You are advised to keep arms upon you at all times, even within these walls. This is not suggestion, but necessity.”

Arms at all times. Was this the Academy he had known? Or had the storm at the stables changed everything?

“Fourth. You will relocate to Arkantez lodging in the city of Altheria. You will not remain in the dormitories. This is for the foreseeable future.”

Raiden’s fingers curled against his knee. His friends in the dorms—Randall, Tadari—what would they think? What would they say when he disappeared to the city?

Naia rose, her robes whispering as she turned. “That is all. You must want to catch up.” She left with a final glance, a quiet command in her stride.

Rudo followed soon after, rigid as iron. No farewell, no warmth, just duty.

That left Ledios and Halia.

Raiden braced for more, but Ledios strode across the hall and clasped his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. The sudden weight startled him more than any blow.

“I am glad you’re in one piece,” Ledios said, warmth breaking through the tension.

For a moment, Raiden froze. He had expected interrogation, not kindness. The last time anyone embraced him like this had been his mother.

Then Halia’s smaller frame struck him like a hammer, tackling him to the floor. Her tears were hot against his damp sleeve.

“You’re fine—you’re really fine,” she cried.

Raiden’s throat locked. He didn’t know how to answer. Words failed him as the weight of her relief sank in.

Ledios helped him up, chuckling. “Forgive Rudo. He is stiff in matters of family. Too concerned with form, too little with blood.” His hand lingered on Raiden’s shoulder, steady. “It was Halia’s idea you stay with us in Altheria. She insisted your safety comes before propriety. I agreed.”

Raiden blinked, looking at her. “You…?”

Halia sniffed, crossing her arms though her gaze softened. “Of course I did. If something happened to you again—” She broke off, then reached up to inspect his sleeve, his jaw, searching for hurts he’d hidden. “You’re not hiding wounds, are you?”

He shook his head, smiling faintly despite himself.

Ledios’ voice lowered, firm. “To Naia, this is politics. To me—it is you. I do not act merely because a vassal was threatened, but because your life was placed in danger. I could not stand idle. Still, I must walk carefully while she watches. But when you stand with us, you are never alone.”

Never alone. The words pressed against Raiden’s chest. Yet his thoughts twisted—if that were true, why had he felt so utterly alone at the stables? Why had it been Randall’s arrows, Tadari’s grit, Ophelin’s blood, instead of Arkantez banners?

He forced a nod.

“House Zoven has long been our ally,” Ledios continued. “That bond is why you walked freely with Ophelin. And you were right to trust it. Remember that.”

Raiden’s mind stirred. If bonds like these were real, why had Garid dared? Or was it precisely because bonds were fraying?

Halia softened the moment, tugging his sleeve. “Just don’t make us worry like that again.”

Ledios smiled faintly, guiding her to the doors. He paused, his tone steady but heavy with promise. “We will wait for you at the Arkantez lodging. Make ready, cousin.”

Their footsteps faded into silence, leaving Raiden alone beneath the carved circle of ten runes entwined around the flame.

He stood there, heart unsteady. Orders. Warnings. Pleasantries. For all their words, he could not shake the thought twisting in his gut: Was he being protected—or being moved as a piece in a game too vast for him to see?