Chapter 20—The Summons

The notice came on parchment thick enough to outlast a decade. Raiden stared at the heavy fold, the seal of the Archmagister pressed deep into scarlet wax, and knew before he broke it open that nothing good could wait inside.

The messenger had delivered it before dawn—an adept in gray livery who bowed without warmth, left the scroll on the low table, and vanished as if the corridor itself had swallowed him. Ledios had been awake already, hunched over correspondence, the lamplight sharpening his already sharp profile. He had not looked surprised when the seal glinted in the dim.

“They didn’t waste time,” Ledios said, voice clipped. He rose and slid the scroll across the table toward Raiden. “Read.”

Raiden broke the wax. His eyes skimmed the words—formal, deliberate, edged in ceremonial politeness that could not soften their weight.

Summons issued. Raiden Rymboven is required to appear before the Council of Faculty and Lords. Matters under review: the incident at the stables, the disturbance of peace, injuries inflicted on House heirs. Testimonies to be heard. Attendance compulsory. Charges pending.

He stopped reading. The words charges pending seemed to press through the parchment into his skin.

Tadari, who had been leaning against the wall with arms crossed, spoke first. “They’re putting you on trial.”

Ophelin shifted her weight on the walking stick beside her chair. She had insisted on joining them that morning, despite her leg still bound. Her jaw was set like steel. “Then we’ll speak the truth.”

Raiden wished it were that simple.

“Not trial,” Ledios corrected without warmth. “They won’t call it that. They’ll call it review. Inquiry. Anything but what it is: a stage where Houses speak their cases, and truth drowns under who speaks loudest.”

Randall, perched on the sill with one leg drawn up, let out a low whistle. “So, the wolves dragged you into their circle. Congratulations, Raiden. You’re interesting enough to chew.”

Raiden set the parchment down carefully. His hands felt steady, though his chest had tightened. “What happens if I don’t go?”

Ledios’ laugh was humorless. “Then you’ll never walk into the Academy again. And Barowen will spread word that you fled. They would carve coward into your name before anyone heard your side.”

The thought tightened Raiden’s jaw. “Then I’ll go.”

“You won’t go alone.” Ledios’ tone allowed no argument. “You walk in as Arkantez’ ward. My name shields you. My presence tells them they cannot do as they please.”

“Will that be enough?” Tadari asked.

“For today,” Ledios said. “That is all we need.”

The Assembly Hall towered like judgment carved in stone. Its ceiling soared higher than the Academy’s spires, banners of each Great House and faculty discipline suspended in unmoving air. Every bench of the faculty tier was filled—Archmagister Furgalion at the center, his hair silver as frost, Bergalion and Carn to his right, stern Lorig to his left.

Einfried Zoven walked at their side, leading them into the chamber with the solemnity of a knight escorting condemned men. His amber shield glinted in the morning light, drawing whispers from the students crammed in the upper galleries.

Raiden tried to breathe, but the air weighed thick in his lungs.

At the center, Sir Falden, acting as prosecutor, stepped forward, his Barowen robe sweeping the floor. His presence filled the hall as though the proceedings already belonged to him.

“On this day,” Falden intoned, “we inquire into the disturbance of our hallowed grounds. Allegations rise against one Raiden Rymboven and his companions, concerning the ambush at the stables, the injuries inflicted upon House heirs, and the breach of Academy peace. Witnesses shall speak. Truth shall be tested.”

The echo of his words lingered too long.

The first witnesses stood: Rad and Weldin, Barowen’s faithful. They spun their tale with rehearsed ease.

“We were passing through the woods, my lord,” Rad said, feigning humility. “Returning from patrol. We stumbled upon Rymboven’s group, who set upon us without cause. We only defended ourselves. The fight escalated by their brutality.”

Weldin nodded eagerly, adding, “Ophelin Harg struck with ferocity unbecoming of her station. Raiden incited it.”

Their words dripped smooth as oil. Falden pressed them gently, only enough to let their story gleam as practiced truth.

Then came Ms. Lila, the faculty Mender, her face drawn tight. She wrung her hands as she spoke. “We tended the wounded, yes. But the wounds Lady Ophelin suffered were more severe”

Students were called next—Maron, Lynda, others. Raiden’s heart twisted when Garid himself entered, chin lifted as though none of this touched him. He gave testimony like one rehearsing lines on a stage. “I was accosted, forced to defend. The rest escalated. Lies wound around me, but I was the victim.”

Gasps rose from the gallery. Falden’s lips curved faintly.

And in the back row, Yuka Olwen sat silent, her pale eyes watching. She hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t been called, but Raiden felt her gaze like a brand.

When his turn came, Ledios rose to speak for Raiden. His voice cut clean, unyielding.

“My cousin did not strike first. The ambush was Barowen’s craft. Ophelin Zoven’s injuries speak to her defense of him, not aggression. Their claim rests on trails they themselves laid after the fact.”

Falden pressed forward at once. “And why, Lord Ledios, was your cousin there? Why were they gathered in that place, if not for ambush? Why did violence escalate if not by their hand?”

Ledios answered, but Raiden could feel the ground slipping. Every explanation twisted back under Falden’s questions. Why were you there? Why draw steel at all? Why should the Council believe children of rumor over heir of Barowen?

Then Ophelin stepped forward, leaning on her stick. Her voice wavered but held. “I saw it. Raiden was unarmed. He fought bare-handed. I, too, was unarmed. That is the truth.”

Falden’s eyes gleamed. “And yet, Lady Zoven, witnesses claim your strikes were savage. That your wound is proof of your recklessness. Do you deny that your temper flared beyond reason?”

Falden accused Ophelin of accounts which happened during Raiden and Garid’s team mock battle, trying to weave half-truths into a verdict against Raiden by undermining his allies.

Ophelin flustered, stumbling over words. “I—I fought as I could. It was them—”

“Enough,” Falden said smoothly. The damage was done.

Maron was called to testify on previous accounts. She stood with quiet dignity, her hands folded. “I was present on the day of mock battle. Raiden borrowed my technique in the training. He used it defensively, never to injure. What happened was survival.”

Her testimony landed clean, but it shifted little. The Council’s faces remained stone.

Finally, Lynda took the floor. She looked smaller than usual under the hall’s scrutiny, but her voice carried. “I saw Barowen men days before—slinking near the woods, scouting. The trails they show you now, they had time to lay them false. This was planned. Not chance.”

A ripple tore through the chamber. Suspicion, sharp and sudden. Even Carn leaned forward, frowning.

Falden’s composure cracked for the briefest instant. Then his voice rang out. “If the truth remains contested, let it be decided as it was in ages past. Not by words, but by honor. I demand Court Duel”

The hall erupted in murmurs.

Falden turned to the dais. “Raiden Rymboven against Garid Barowen. Duel under the Council’s sanction. Honor against honor, truth against truth. Only blade and skill shall decide.”

Raiden’s chest froze. Court Duel.

Archmagister Furgalion tapped his staff once, the sound echoing like a hammer striking stone. “So be it. One month hence. Duel to resolve the matter. The Council decrees it.”

The words fell like chains.

They left the hall under a sky already dimming toward storm. Raiden’s steps felt heavy, as though he had walked carrying someone else’s verdict.

Beside him, Randall muttered, “They don’t want truth. They want blood.”

Tadari’s hand clenched around his scabbard. “Then we’ll give them fight.”

Ophelin’s face was pale, her grip tight on the walking stick. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t—”

Raiden shook his head. “No. You stood. That was enough.”

But in his chest, the words of the Archmagister reverberated.

One month hence. Duel to resolve the matter.

Justice staged. Truth obscured.

And now, the blade would speak where words had failed.