The "small celebratory dinner" was, of course, nothing of the sort. It was a statement.
Damien had reserved the most exclusive private dining hall in the Academy's upper spires, a room rarely used by students, with a single, sweeping crystal window that overlooked the entirety of the floating island, the lights of the campus twinkling below like a fallen constellation. The table was long, carved from a single piece of dark, polished weirwood, and set for a dozen with the finest silver and crystal.
I was not just an attendee; I was, as Marcus had promised, the guest of honor. Damien had seated me at his right hand.
The other guests were the absolute elite of the academy's nobility, the core of Damien's inner circle. Marcus Thorne was there, his usual sneer replaced with a look of fawning, almost nervous respect for me. A few others, whose names I barely knew but whose family sigils I recognized as ancient and powerful, filled the other seats.
The atmosphere was thick with a cloying, obsequious energy. They were all here to celebrate my work.
"A toast," Marcus said, rising to his feet before the main course had even arrived, his glass of expensive, ruby-red wine held high. "To Lucian Greyfall!"
I flinched, the sound of my name in his mouth like a physical blow. A dozen pairs of aristocratic eyes turned to me.
"A man who has done what the rest of us only dreamed of," Marcus continued, his voice full of a sycophantic, manufactured zeal. "He has cleansed the academy of its commoner filth! He has, with skill and subtlety, removed the cancer in our midst. To Lucian! The hero of the nobility!"
"To Lucian!" they all echoed, a chorus of voices that made my skin crawl. They drank.
I just sat there, my own glass untouched, my arm in its elegant black sling, a prop for my performance as 'the victim.' A hero. They were calling me a hero. The word, in their mouths, was a vile, twisted thing, a mockery of everything Leonidas had stood on.
I forced a thin, cold smile and raised my own glass. "You flatter me, Marcus. I was simply... following orders."
I directed the last words to Damien, a deliberate, public show of my fealty. It was the only move I had.
Damien, seated at the head of the table, smiled, a slow, approving, and utterly proprietary gesture. "Nonsense, Lucian. You are far too modest. You were given a task, and you executed it with a level of artistry that I, myself, found instructive."
He turned to the rest of the table, his voice carrying the weight of a king. "Let us be clear. What Lucian accomplished was not a simple brawl. It was a masterpiece of strategy. He identified the targets' emotional weaknesses, he applied precise, psychological pressure, and he orchestrated a scenario where our enemy—for that is what he was—would be forced to destroy himself. He did it all without breaking a single academy rule that could be traced back to him. That is not the work of a thuggish brawler. That is the work of a general."
A cold, appreciative silence fell over the table. They were all, in their own way, processing this. They were processing me. I was no longer the sidekick. I was the hidden blade, the spymaster, the intellect behind the throne.
And in that moment, I realized the true, terrible genius of Damien's plan. He was not just celebrating me; he was re-branding me in front of his most powerful followers. He was elevating me, and in doing so, he was binding me to him with chains of status and respect that were a thousand times stronger than fear. Fear can be overcome. But reputation? Reputation was a cage of its own.
The dinner was an agonizing, three-hour performance. I had to listen to nobles—who, a month ago, wouldn't have spit on me if I were on fire—congratulate me on my "brilliant" mind. I had to accept their toasts to my "courage." I had to play the part of the cold, ruthless strategist they all now believed me toB be.
By the time it was over, I was not just physically exhausted. I was spiritually hollowed.
Damien and I walked back to the dorms together, the others having peeled off. The night was cool, the twin moons casting a pure, silver light on the pristine stone paths.
"You were quiet tonight," Damien observed, his hands clasped behind his back as we walked.
"I was... contemplating the victory," I lied.
"Good," he said. "It is a victory. A total one. With Aris gone, the commoner faction is leaderless and demoralized. The professors who favored him have been silenced. The entire board is now... clean. We can begin our real work."
A new, cold dread, something I hadn't thought possible, found a way to seep into my already-frozen heart. "Real work?"
"But of course," Damien said, as if it were obvious. "This was never just about a single, annoying student. That was pest control. My ambitions, our ambitions, are far greater than this island."
He gestured to the world around us. "This academy, this kingdom... it's a stagnant pond, Lucian. It is ruled by old, sentimental fools who believe in 'honor' and 'the balance.' They are weak. And they will be swept away. The Heartstone... the Crimson Syndicate... these are the tools we will use to build a new, stronger world. One based on true power."
He stopped me, just outside my dorm room. He was no longer a school bully. His eyes, in the moonlight, held the fervent, chilling gleam of a zealot.
"You have proven you are a creator, an architect. And I have a new project for you," he said, his voice low and excited. "Something worthy of your talents. We'll discuss it when you are fully healed."
He gave me one last, appraising, and deeply proud look. "Get some rest, Lucian. You've earned it."
He left me at my door. I watched him go, his shadow long in the moonlight.
I entered my room. It was the same as I had left it, but it all looked alien. The fine-quality furniture, the plush rug, the silk sheets. The spoils of war. The gilded cage.
I walked to the silver mirror, the one that had shown me my new face on that first, terrifying day. I looked at the reflection.
I saw Lucian Greyfall, his silver hair, his aristocratic features, his arm in a sling—the very picture of a wounded noble.
But for the first time, I didn't see the ghost of Aiden Verne cowering behind his eyes.
I saw a stranger. A cold, pale, and monstrous thing that looked back at me with the same, chilling, intelligent approval as Damien. Seraphina was wrong. The prisoner hadn't just been rattling his chains. He was gone. And the monster he had been forced to become was all that was left.