Opening Night

"The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel."

— Horace Walpole

———

The morning bells chimed five times across the academy grounds, their bronze voices carrying the crisp bite of autumn air through my open window. I stood before my mirror, methodically buttoning the simple white tunic Lyra had prepared—cotton, not silk, with sleeves that wouldn't restrict movement. The fabric was soft against my skin, unremarkable in every way that mattered.

Opening night, I thought, adjusting the collar with steady fingers. Time to see if the audience appreciates good theater.

My reflection stared back with Alex Chen's sharp intelligence hidden behind Kaelen Leone's carefully cultivated mediocrity. The face everyone expected to see crumple under Vance Thorne's fists in a few short hours. I ran my thumb along my lower left ribs, feeling the exact spot where I'd take the hit that would change everything.

The door opened without a knock—Lyra's privilege, earned through three weeks of perfect service. She carried a tray with tea and toast, her crimson eyes scanning my appearance for any detail out of place. The morning light caught the red highlights in her dark hair, making them gleam like polished copper.

"Your sparring clothes are laid out," she said, setting the tray on my desk. Her voice carried the proper deference expected of a servant, but I caught the subtle tremor beneath. "Professor Blackthorne requires leather padding for all non-lethal combat."

I picked up the tea—chamomile, to keep my hands steady—and took a measured sip. "How does the crowd look?"

"Eager." She moved to the window, peering down at the Central Training Amphitheater visible through the trees. "House Aurum has claimed the eastern stands. House Argent fills the northern section. Vermillion keeps to the shadows on the west side."

"And Onyx?"

"South stands, as always. Separated from the others." Her fingers tightened on the windowsill. "They think they're watching an execution."

In a way, they are.

I finished the tea and moved to examine the sparring gear. Reinforced leather vest, padded bracers, simple canvas trousers. Everything designed to absorb impact without looking impressive. Perfect for a third son who couldn't afford proper equipment.

"The Academy Chronicles will cover this," I said, pulling on the leather vest. The padding felt thick around my ribs—protection that would make the break clean instead of messy. "Vance will want his moment of glory documented."

Lyra's reflection appeared beside mine in the mirror, her hands smoothing invisible wrinkles from my shoulders. "You could still change your mind. I could arrange for Vance to suffer food poisoning. Or a fall down some stairs."

"And miss this opportunity?" I turned to face her, noting how the morning light made her pale skin seem almost translucent. "Besides, what would that teach our audience about the price of underestimating the overlooked?"

She nodded, though her jaw remained tight. "I'll be watching from the servant's gallery. If anything goes wrong—"

"Nothing will go wrong." I caught her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up until those crimson eyes met mine. "Trust the plan, Lyra. Trust me."

The walk to the amphitheater took me through the heart of the academy, past students clustering in excited groups. Whispered conversations died as I passed, replaced by barely concealed snickers. A few first-years pointed openly, whispering about the "charity case" who'd bought himself a beating.

===

In the faculty viewing box, Professor Gideon Blackthorne settled into his chair like a mountain taking root. His pale blue eyes surveyed the gathering crowd without interest, noting the way students segregated themselves by House colors. Twenty-three years of teaching had shown him every variation of this particular dance.

The amphitheater filled with the easy cruelty of youth. Aurum students lounged in their eastern seats like golden peacocks, their expensive robes catching the morning sun. Leo von Valerius held court among them, his sapphire eyes reflecting what Blackthorne recognized as genuine concern beneath layers of noble propriety.

The boy has principles, Blackthorne thought, watching Leo's uncomfortable posture. Pity that makes him weak.

Argent claimed the northern stands, led by Prefect Alistair Valerius. Where Leo showed discomfort, Alistair displayed the cold satisfaction of a man watching his investments pay dividends. His dark eyes scanned the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield he'd already won.

That one understands power. Dangerous in a different way.

House Vermillion scattered across the western stands like shadows, their burgundy robes blending into the morning gloom. They watched everything and committed to nothing—a survival strategy Blackthorne respected if not admired.

And there, isolated in the southern section, House Onyx huddled in their worn grays and blacks. Twenty-five students who'd learned early that hope was a luxury they couldn't afford. Their faces carried the resigned acceptance of those who'd watched too many of their own fall.

All except one.

Blackthorne's gaze found Rhys Blackwood in the third row, the boy's weathered hands gripping his father's spear like an anchor. The commoner's green eyes held something Blackthorne rarely saw in these soft academy halls—the hard glint of someone who'd killed to survive.

That one knows what steel tastes like. Shame he's wasting it here.

The crowd's murmur shifted as Vance Thorne emerged from the northern tunnel. House Argent's heir strutted across the sand in polished leather armor that probably cost more than most families saw in a year. His practice sword caught the light, the steel bright and eager. He raised his weapon to acknowledge the cheers from his section, playing to his audience like a born performer.

Blackthorne had seen a thousand Vances come through these halls. Rich, entitled, competent enough to hurt someone weaker but lacking the spine for real violence. The type who'd fold the moment they faced genuine consequence.

Predictable. Boring. Useful for exactly one thing.

The southern tunnel remained empty.

Minutes crawled past. The crowd grew restless, their excited chatter turning to confused murmurs. Vance paced the center of the arena, his earlier confidence beginning to crack around the edges.

Then the tunnel disgorged its offering.

Kaelen Leone stumbled into the sunlight like a man walking to his own hanging. His borrowed sparring gear hung loose on his slight frame, making him look even smaller against the amphitheater's grand scale. He carried a practice sword that seemed too heavy for his grip, the blade wavering as he tried to find his balance on the sand.

The crowd erupted. Jeers and laughter from three of the four Houses, while Onyx watched in uncomfortable silence. Someone in the Aurum section started a chant—"Leone! Leone!"—that sounded more like mockery than encouragement.

Blackthorne leaned forward slightly, his scarred hands gripping the stone railing. Something about the boy's movements nagged at him. The stumble looked perfect—too perfect. The trembling in his sword arm followed a rhythm that suggested control rather than fear.

Interesting.

Leo von Valerius stood as Kaelen entered the arena, his golden hair catching the morning light like a crown. The sight of his distant cousin's pathetic figure stirred something uncomfortable in his chest—not quite pity, but close enough to taste bitter on his tongue.

"This is wrong," he said, turning to address the Aurum students behind him. "Whatever Kaelen's failings, he doesn't deserve this spectacle."

Marcus Blackwood, resplendent in cloth-of-gold, shrugged with practiced indifference. "He accepted the challenge. Honor demanded it."

"Honor?" Leo's voice carried the edge of command that made lesser nobles snap to attention. "What honor is there in watching a lamb led to slaughter?"

"The lamb chose to bite the wolf," Elena Morgenthorne observed from her seat beside the railing. Her frost-blue eyes studied the arena below without sympathy. "Actions have consequences, even for third sons."

Leo wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat. Kaelen had brought this on himself through his treatment of Rhys Blackwood. The public humiliation, the gold pressed into unwilling hands—it had been beneath the dignity of their House.

Perhaps this shame will teach him what words could not.

Still, watching Kaelen shuffle across the sand like a broken thing left Leo's stomach twisted in knots. This wasn't justice. It was theater, and a cruel one at that.

"He won't learn anything if Vance breaks him," Leo said quietly.

"Some lessons require breaking," Marcus replied. "Your cousin will survive. His pride might not."

Leo settled back into his seat, jaw tight. He'd tried to guide Kaelen toward honor, toward the behavior expected of their blood. If gentle words had failed, perhaps harsh truth would succeed where kindness could not.

Let this be the last such lesson he needs.

===

Three Houses down, Rhys Blackwood watched the proceedings with the detached interest of someone who'd seen too much death to be moved by theater. His calloused fingers traced the leather wrapping of his spear's shaft, feeling every familiar groove and scar.

The boy in the arena—Kaelen Leone—had bought him. The gold still sat heavy in Rhys's strongbox, enough to keep Elara in medicine for months. Blood money, earned through public humiliation and the careful destruction of his reputation.

Smart, Rhys thought, studying Kaelen's apparent terror. Give them what they expect to see.

Because that's what this was—performance. Rhys had grown up watching his father negotiate with merchant caravans, had learned to read the subtle tells that separated genuine emotion from calculated display. Kaelen's fear looked perfect because it was perfect, crafted with the same care a blacksmith brought to folding steel.

The question was why.

Beside him, Thomlin Ashworth shifted uncomfortably. "Poor bastard doesn't stand a chance."

"No," Rhys agreed. "He doesn't."

But not for the reasons Thomlin thought.

Rhys had seen real terror in the goblin raids that plagued his village. Had watched grown men soil themselves when the horns sounded and steel rang against steel. Terror was ugly, graceless, human. It made people do stupid things, desperate things.

Kaelen's terror was too clean. Too controlled. Like everything else about the third son of House Leone.

What are you really after? Rhys wondered, watching Kaelen raise his sword in a salute that managed to look both proper and pathetic. And why do I get the feeling I'm about to find out?

===

The morning sun climbed higher, casting sharp shadows across the amphitheater's sand. I stood in the center of the arena, every inch the terrified failure my audience expected to see. The practice sword trembled in my grip—not from fear, but from the careful muscle control required to make weakness look authentic. Each quiver was calculated, each nervous shift of my feet choreographed to perfection.

Vance Thorne circled me like a predator, his polished leather armor gleaming. His practice sword moved through lazy figure-eights, showing off technique while building the crowd's excitement. Everything about his posture screamed confidence, from the set of his shoulders to the smirk playing across his lips. He was strutting, preening, putting on a show for his admirers in the stands.

Perfect. Exactly as predicted. The arrogant bastard couldn't resist a public execution.

"Last chance to yield, Leone," Vance called out, his voice carrying across the amphitheater. "Save yourself some dignity."

I let my shoulders hunch further, making my voice crack when I replied. "I... I can't. The Prefect's orders." I even added a slight stammer, watching with satisfaction as several students in the stands snickered.

"Then you'll learn why third sons should know their place."

The crowd roared its approval, the sound washing over the sand like a wave. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Lyra in the servant's gallery, her crimson eyes fixed on me with laser focus. She'd positioned herself perfectly—close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to avoid suspicion. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap, but I knew she had at least three blades concealed beneath her maid's uniform.

Trust the plan. She knows her role.

Vance raised his sword to the faculty box, acknowledging Professor Blackthorne's presence. The scarred instructor gave a curt nod, his expression carved from granite. To him, this was just another lesson in the harsh realities of combat—another weakling about to be crushed under the heel of talent and birthright.

If only you knew what you were really about to witness, Professor. This isn't a lesson. It's an audition.

The bronze bell mounted above the faculty box caught the morning light, its surface gleaming like polished gold. In moments, it would ring and the real performance would begin. Three weeks of careful planning, countless hours studying Vance's fighting style, meticulous staging of my own public humiliations to set expectations—all of it would either pay off spectacularly or end with me truly broken on the sand.

I adjusted my grip on the practice sword, feeling the weight of it in my hands. Inferior steel, poorly balanced, designed for safety rather than effectiveness. A weapon no serious fighter would choose—which made it the perfect prop for my charade. The sword's very mediocrity would become my greatest advantage.

The bell's bronze voice rang out across the amphitheater, clear and final as a death knell.

The crowd held its breath.

And the dance began.