The gates of the Academy swung open, and the newly minted Junior Squires marched through in uneven, ragged lines. They were bruised, bandaged, limping, and profoundly sleep-deprived—but they were home.

  They had survived the Crucible. They had awakened their Veins. And now, they had a month of holiday stretching out before them like a promise.

  Ray’s heart fluttered with a strange mix of relief and dread as he and the boys trudged toward the dorms. The moment the Academy’s courtyard disappeared behind the barracks walls, the adrenaline of the past week finally started leaking out of them like water from cracked pots.

  Inside the Knight Division barracks, the moment Draevin dismissed them, the silence vanished.

  Boots thudded against stone. Trunks slammed. The halls shook with the chaotic energy of a hundred teenagers who had just been given their lives back. Groans of pain turned into shouts of laughter as cadets stuffed their belongings into travel bags, already planning their first real meals.

  Ray stepped into his room and looked around with a sudden, sharp ache of nostalgia. The familiar bunk beds, the cluttered shelves, and the faint, permanent smell of sweat and effort. This room—this battlefield—had become more of a home than he realized.

  Calen was already shoving clothes into a pack with the grace of a localized tornado. Rian was neatly folding his spare tunics with monk-like precision. Harel sat on his bed, hugging his water flask like a beloved child.

  Ray exhaled and knelt by his own trunk. He was going back to the Avery Estate. A part of him was excited for a real bed; a part of him was terrified of the politics; and a much larger part wondered what kind of trouble awaited him the moment he stepped through those front gates.

  “Finally going back…” Ray murmured.

  Calen flopped onto his bunk, panting from the effort of packing. “Yeah, lucky you. That palace of yours probably has servants feeding you grapes while you soak in a marble tub.”

  Ray snorted. “I’m not royalty, Calen.”

  “Close enough,” Harel added, peering over his flask. “You’re engaged to the future of House Avery. You're practically a prince-consort in training.”

  Ray froze mid-fold. “…I’m not sure that makes things better. Have you met Elaine? The 'pampering' usually involves intense staring and logic puzzles.”

  Rian slung his bag over his shoulder. “At least you will rest. I have heard noble houses treat their returning warriors with great honor.”

  Ray remembered Garret’s strict drills, Isolde’s sharp eyes, and Lord Sebran’s heavy expectations. He sighed. “…Sure. Great honor.”

  The room fell into a comfortable, quiet rhythm. Ray tucked away his Academy uniform and his travel cloak, then finally—carefully—the silver sigil charge Elaine had sent him via Celestine. He patted the pocket, ensuring it was cushioned.

  Safe. Unexploded.

  “Alright,” Calen said, hopping to his feet with a surge of renewed energy. “Before we split and go our separate ways for the month… group hug?”

  “No,” Harel said immediately.

  “Absolutely not,” Rian added with a shiver.

  Ray considered the offer. “How about a fist bump?”

  They all nodded. A simple bump of knuckles—four hands coming together in the center of the room. It was a small, shared victory. A reminder that they had survived a literal monster together.

  “See you guys after the Founders Festival,” Ray said as they headed for the exit.

  “And don’t die on the way home!” Calen called out.

  Harel waved. “Try not to let Lucien find your address!”

  Rian added, “And try not to blow up the Avery Estate by accident.”

  Ray winced at all three warnings—mostly because each one felt like a spoiler for a very stressful month ahead. He stepped outside into the afternoon sun, the heavy gates of the Academy finally closing behind him.

  Carriages were lined up across the Academy courtyard, bearing the proud banners of noble houses and merchant families. Servants bustled to collect trunks, parents embraced returning children, and the air buzzed with a joyous, chaotic energy.

  Then Ray spotted it. The Avery crest, embroidered in silver on a black carriage. The horses stood with an unnerving, military discipline. A footman bowed deeply. “Young Master Raymond. Welcome back. The estate awaits.”

  Ray gulped. Here we go. He took one last look at the Academy towers, then stepped toward the carriage—toward home, toward trouble, and toward whatever awaited him next.

  Ray stepped inside—and froze.

  Elaine was already there, sitting with perfect, spine-stiffening posture. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and her blue eyes lifted to meet his the moment the door clicked shut. “What took you so long?”

  Ray opened his mouth to answer, but his face soured instantly. Seated right beside her, relaxed as if he owned the velvet cushions, was Prince Cassian Draegor. His platinum hair was immaculate, and his silver eyes were half-lidded in a state of bored superiority.

  Ray’s soul deflated. Cassian glanced up, his expression sharpening into a polite nod that felt suspiciously like an insult. “Melborne.”

  Ray stared at him, then at Elaine, then back at the Prince. “…Why is he here?” he muttered under his breath.

  Elaine blinked, genuinely confused. “Because the Prince rides with the Avery family when returning from Academy events. It is protocol, Ray.”

  Ray sank into the seat opposite them, defeated. Of course, it was protocol. He was sitting across from a handsome, perfect Prince while he still smelled faintly of campfire and failure. It was as if the universe had a personal quota for bullying him today.

  Elaine tilted her head, studying his face with faint amusement. “…Are you pouting again?”

  Ray looked out the window, aggressively crossing his arms. “I am not pouting.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Cassian arched a single, elegant eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”

  Ray glared at a passing tree. This carriage ride was going to be a slow-motion hell.

  “I heard from Celestine today,” Elaine began, adjusting a stray lock of raven hair. “She said you used an… unusual technique on the march back.”

  Ray immediately puffed up. His ego bloomed like a rare, beautiful flower. “Oh? So you heard about that?”

  “Yes,” she said serenely. “I heard you flew across the field and impressively defeated a monster.”

  Ray’s smugness doubled. He leaned back, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well, you know—when you’re the protagonist, certain things just come naturally.”

  “Then,” Elaine added calmly, “I heard you crashed into a cedar tree.”

  Ray’s ego folded in on itself like a dying star. Cassian looked out the window to hide a smirk.

  Elaine’s gaze remained on Ray—curious and clinical. “Did you name this technique as well?”

  Ray brightened instantly. He thrust a fist forward, his voice full of shōnen righteousness.

  “煙拳?ロケットパンチ！！ — ENKEN: ROKETTO PANCHI!!” (Smoke Fist Rocket Punch!!)

  The carriage went silent. For three full seconds, the only sound was the rhythmic thud of horses' hooves. Then Elaine spoke in the flattest voice Ray had ever heard.

  “…Ray. Why do all of your attack names sound like utter nonsense?”

  The question hit Ray like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of his heroic posture.

  Then Elaine followed up with another question, “I am also curious about the phonetic structure of your… noise.”

  Ray sat there, breaking into a cold sweat. It wasn't because of the judging glares; it was because of a sudden, catastrophic revelation. He had been shouting all his attack names in…日本語。(Japanese.)

  Oh no. OH NO.

  If they realized he was speaking a language that didn't exist in Aetherion, they’d start asking questions. And questions led to secret underground facilities and needles. He had to pivot. Now.

  Ray’s chest puffed out with a tragic, desperate pride. “It’s a language I invented,” he said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. “From scratch. It’s personal. Deep. Emotional.”

  Silence. Cassian tilted his head slowly, as if trying to figure out if Ray had been dropped as a baby. “…You,” Cassian said flatly, “invented a battle language.”

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself.”

  “Yes. It helped me cope,” Ray said, channeling every soap opera he’d ever seen. He put a trembling hand over his heart. “After… after the trauma.”

  Cassian’s smug expression cracked. He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with the "emotional" turn. Ray internally screamed with triumph. YES. The Guilt Card works every time!

  “I didn’t want anyone to understand it because… it’s embarrassing,” Ray added, pushing his luck.

  Elaine leaned in, her eyes softening—not with pity, but with a terrifying, investigative heat. “…Ray,” she said gently, “what trauma?”

  Ray’s soul tried to jump out of his mouth. SHIT.

  “I—uh—it was—when I was seven—my… my toy horse…” His voice trembled pathetically. “—it broke.”

  The silence that followed was like a guillotine being raised. Elaine stared at him without emotion. Cassian stared at him like he was witnessing a crime against common sense.

  “I loved that horse,” Ray whispered weakly.

  Elaine leaned back very slowly, her gaze never leaving his. “…Ray.”

  “Yes?”

  “That isn't trauma.”

  “IT WAS TRAUMATIC TO ME!” he snapped, doubling down into the abyss of his own lie.

  Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. Elaine exhaled—a long, slow, disappointed sound. But she didn't press further.

  Ray clung to that victory with both sweaty hands. Inside his mind, he whispered: Crisis averted. For now.

  The carriage wheels crunched over familiar gravel, and Ray exhaled a long, shaky breath of relief. Home. The Avery estate rose before them, grand and imposing, its white stone walls gleaming beneath the late afternoon sun. Tall banners fluttered in the breeze—Avery blue and silver—giving the whole place a regal, slightly terrifying vibe. But before Ray could fully process the comfort of returning, the front doors burst open.

  Two small comets launched themselves into the courtyard.

  “RAY!” “BIG SIS!”

  Niva and Alden—now seven years old, slightly taller, and significantly more chaotic—bolted across the gravel at terminal velocity. Niva, her bright silver hair tied in bouncing twin braids, slammed into Ray’s midsection like an affectionate missile. Alden grabbed Elaine’s hand, his eyes wide and vibrating with joy.

  “You’re back!” Niva cheered, hugging Ray with the strength of someone who had absolutely no idea he’d been beaten half to death repeatedly for weeks.

  Alden tugged on Elaine’s sleeve, his hope practically a physical force. “Did you come to stay? For real?”

  Elaine paused. Then, in one of those rare moments where the "Ice Duchess" facade cracked, her lips softened into a warm, genuine smile. “Yes,” she said quietly. “For the entire festival.”

  Alden brightened like a lantern. Niva spun toward Ray next, her braids bouncing like coiled springs. “Then you’re staying too, right? No more forest?”

  Ray nodded, puffing his chest with exaggerated, shōnen-hero pride. “Yes, yes—your brother finally gets to rest. Becoming a legend at the Academy is hard work, you know.”

  Niva clasped her hands together. “Then can we have fun now? Like, right now!?”

  Ray’s shoulders sagged. “Uh… not yet,” he said quickly. “I have to unpack. And take a full day of rest. And maybe sleep for eighteen hours straight. And then—if I’m not in a magic-induced coma—we can have fun.”

  Niva pouted, her lower lip trembling with tactical precision. “But you just got home…”

  Ray knelt and poked her forehead gently. “Exactly. And heroes need recovery time. If I don’t rest, I might collapse in the middle of hide-and-seek. Do you want to be the one who has to drag my body back to the house?”

  Alden gasped as if this were a dark, tragic prophecy. Elaine, clearly amused, stepped between them. “Give him one day,” she told the children. “Ray survived the Crucible. That’s worth at least a small grace period.”

  Niva sighed deeply, defeated but understanding. “…Fine. One day.”

  Ray saluted weakly. “Yes, ma’am…”

  As the children began to chatter, the air in the courtyard suddenly chilled. The Prince stepped out of the carriage.

  Cassian Draegor descended with the effortless grace of someone born to be admired—his platinum hair catching the sun, his posture perfect, his expression bored yet razor-sharp. Alden instinctively moved closer to Elaine’s side. Niva’s small hand tightened around Ray’s sleeve.

  Neither child liked the Prince’s presence, but they had both been raised in House Avery. They knew the stakes.

  They straightened their backs. They lifted their chins. And they bowed with a chilling, flawless precision.

  “Your Highness,” they said in near-perfect unison.

  Niva’s voice was soft but steady—years of Avery etiquette training showing in every syllable. Alden’s bow was smaller, a little awkward, but impeccably respectful.

  The Prince regarded them coolly, his silver eyes masking whatever emotion flickered behind them. “You may rise,” Cassian said. His tone was perfectly polite, but to Ray, he sounded like a collector giving instructions to a pair of expensive porcelain dolls.

  Niva lifted her head, keeping her expression calm even though Ray could feel her discomfort through her grip on his arm.

  “That was well done,” Elaine murmured to the children, her voice full of quiet approval.

  Cassian glanced at her—his gaze softening for a fraction of a heartbeat—before returning to his royal aloofness. Ray watched the exchange and felt a pang of annoyance. Great. Even the kids tense up around him. What kind of 'boss aura' does this guy carry?

  Then Niva grabbed Alden’s hand and began dragging him back toward the front doors, casting one final, commanding look over her shoulder.

  “Tomorrow,” she declared, pointing dramatically at Ray, “you’re ours!”

  Ray watched them go, a small smile finally reaching his eyes. He was home. The Prince was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, there was only a soft bed and the silence of a house that didn't have monsters in the walls.