Harry was taken to the level one walls.
There children of his age spur. They learned the basic book works and scrolls. The walls rose pale and scarred, stones chipped by years of fists, feet, and bodies slammed against them. Chalk symbols were carved everywhere, half-erased by sweat and blood. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and something sharper. Iron, maybe. Or fear.
"Harry Jones," Master Bull's voice boomed, crashing over the yard like thunder. "Your training resumes immediately."
Harry flinched. His heart thundered louder than the voice. He had barely slept. His body still ached from the journey, from fear, from everything he did not say on the road here.
"You wouldn't even let me rest from my long journey?" Harry asked. The words escaped him before he could stop them. His voice sounded thin, almost swallowed by the open space.
Master Bull chuckled. It was not a warm sound. "In here, you only rest from three a.m to seven a.m. Nothing more."
The yard went quiet for a breath. Every child felt it. That line between before and after. Harry swallowed.
He was pushed toward a stone bench and a folded robe was thrown at his chest. White. Too white. It looked fragile, like it could stain just by breathing near it. "Change," Master Bull said.
Harry's fingers shook as he tied the robe around his waist. The cloth felt rough, unfinished. It scratched his skin, like it was reminding him where he was. When he stepped forward, the other students were already moving, arranged in loose lines, bare feet planted against the cold stone.
"Left." The command cracked like a whip. Harry turned left, late by half a breath. He corrected quickly. Right. Left again. Right again. Over and over. Their fists cut through the air, sharp, precise. The sound of movement filled the yard. Breath snapping in and out. Fabric snapping. Skin brushing skin.
Harry tried to copy them. His arms felt heavy. His shoulders burned almost immediately. Sweat formed at his temples, slid down his face, blurred his sight.
"Faster."
The word was not shouted. It was worse than that. Calm. Expecting obedience. Harry's feet slipped on the stone. He stumbled but did not fall. A boy beside him glanced over, eyes hard, and shifted slightly farther away. No one wanted to be near weakness.
They struck again. Invisible enemies. Endless enemies. Harry's lungs burned. His chest tightened. Each breath felt like it came through a narrow crack. He remembered Monica's hands on his face. Remembered the way the king had looked at him. Not with hate. But worse. With judgment.
"Again," the master echoed.
Harry's arm trembled. He forced it up. His knuckles cut the air. Pain shot up his wrist. He bit his lip to keep himself from crying out.
A staff slammed into the ground near his feet. The crack echoed. "Eyes forward," Master Bull said.
Harry obeyed. Ahead of him, the wall loomed. He noticed dark stains near its base. Old ones. New ones. Some looked like they had been scrubbed and failed.
A scream tore through the yard. Harry's head snapped toward the sound before he could stop himself. On the far side of the wall, a boy was on his knees. Another student stood over him, fist drawn back. An instructor watched, arms crossed.
"Continue," Master Bull said, without even looking. The fist came down. Bone cracked. The sound was unmistakable. The boy screamed again, higher this time, until his voice broke.
Harry's stomach twisted. "Left," Master Bull continue
He moved. "Right." He moved.
Time stretched thin. His muscles screamed. Sweat soaked the robe, turning the white into gray. His vision tunneled. He did not know how long they trained. He only knew that stopping was not an option. Stopping meant being noticed.
A shadow fell over him. Harry looked up. Master Bull's eyes were on him now. Cold. Measuring. "You," Master Bull said. "Again."
Harry nodded quickly and struck. His arm nearly gave out. "Pathetic," someone muttered behind him. Harry pretended not to hear. He could not afford to turn.
The training finally broke at the sound of a horn. Not relief. Just pause. The students froze where they stood. "Hold," Master Bull said. They held. Harry's legs shook violently. His knees begged to fold. Sweat dripped from his chin, splashed onto the stone.
"Dismissed," Master Bull said at last. The lines broke instantly. Some students walked away calmly. Others limped. Two boys were carried off between older trainees. One left a trail of blood behind him.
Harry stood there, frozen, until his legs finally buckled. He caught himself on the wall, breathing hard. The stone was cold against his palm.
"So this is level one? If level one is this hard. How would the other levels be?"
Meanwhile at the palace, Queen Harriet celebrated Harry's departure. She reclined on silk cushions, sunlight spilling through tall windows and painting her skin gold. A tray of fruit sat untouched beside her. Wine shimmered in crystal cups.
"He would definitely die there," she said lightly, as though discussing the weather. "That sickly boy will not be able to survive the pressure of the academy."
The maid Delia tilted her head. Her fingers hovered near the wine jug. "What if he survives by chance. You cannot leave everything to fate."
Harriet paused. The smile faded, just a little. She tapped one finger against the cup. Once. Twice. Then she nodded. "You're right," she said. The smile returned, sharper now. "I will send a letter to Gabriel."
Delia's lips curled. "He will be delighted."
"Yes," Harriet said softly. "He will be delighted to be the one to end the bastard's life ."
She lifted her cup. Delia did the same. Crystal touched crystal. They drank.
The next morning, Queen Harriet sent a letter to her son through a carrier. The parchment was sealed with wax, pressed hard with the royal mark. The carrier rode without stopping, trading horses, sleeping in short bursts. By nightfall, the Academy loomed ahead, its towers black against the sky.
Torches burned along the walls. Screams drifted out, muffled but constant. The letter changed hands twice before it reached its destination.
It found itself in Gabriel's hand. He stood alone in a dim chamber, shirtless, his shoulders broad, skin marked with old scars. His eyes were red. Not from crying. From something else. Something deeper.
Gabriel had been sent to the academy because of his brutality and ruthlessness. He thrived here. The walls did not scare him. They respected him. Everyone pays allegiance to him in order to live. Because when Gabriel goes against you, you are dead.
He broke the seal with his thumb and read. A smile crept across his face. "Harry is in this academy?" he chuckled. The sound was low, pleased. "He has walked into his own grave."
He did not rush. He folded the letter carefully and placed it on the table. Then he reached for his sword and cleaned it slowly, methodically, as though the thought alone was enough.
But he did not do the job himself. He moved through the corridors like a shadow, stopping where the torches burned low. Whispers followed him. Doors opened. Heads bowed.
He connected to his loyalists in level one. "Kill the new boy," he instructed. His voice was calm. Certain. "He must not leave level one alive."
One of the boys stepped forward. Kelly. Narrow eyes. Crooked smile. His knuckles were raw, skin split and healing poorly. Kelly bowed. "Consider him dead, my prince." Gabriel nodded once. That was enough. Back at the level one walls, night settled in.
Harry lay on a thin mat in the barracks, staring at the ceiling. His arms throbbed. His ribs ached. Every breath reminded him of the day.
Around him, boys whispered. Others cried quietly into their sleeves. Somewhere, someone laughed. Harry closed his eyes.
Footsteps passed outside. Then stopped. A voice murmured his name. Harry's eyes snapped open. The night was very quiet. Fear clogged his spine but the night passed.