The chamber had no windows.
Just high walls layered with mana-sensitive ink, a domed ceiling of spell-tempered glass, and desks made of shadowwood and whispersteel — harvested materials from forest groves that no longer existed. Sol entered with nothing in hand. The others entered like generals dressing for war.
This was "Strategic Discourse: Imperial Etiquette and Diplomacy."
It was a lie of a name.
The students already seated wore the colors of power: teal-threaded black for the House of Flames, pearl-gray for the Eastern Scriptari, red-on-gold for the capital's financial clans.
Ryne was already seated, one boot up on her desk, yawning.
Velus had his own row.
Sol found an empty seat in the center of the room — not the front, not the back, but exactly where he'd be impossible to ignore.
The instructor entered through a side door.
A woman of indeterminate age. Hair in a crown braid. No visible weapon, no visible sigils.
But the air dropped five degrees when she entered.
"You may refer to me as Instructor Liren," she said, voice dry as dry leaves. "I am not here to teach you manners. I am here to ensure you do not die to a blade you mistook for a wineglass."
She turned, waved a hand, and a glyph etched itself into the wall behind her: a spider, impaled by seven pins.
"The Imperial Academy grooms more politicians than warriors. If you think this class will be easy, I suggest you remove yourself now — or die later."
No one moved.
Liren turned, expression unmoved. "Pair off."
No other instruction.
Sol stood.
Ryne rose and gestured.
But a girl from the Eastern Scriptari moved faster.
"Revin, wasn't it?" she said, accent crisp.
Sol studied her. Pale eyes. Inked fingertips. Expression cool but eager.
"My house would be honored to evaluate your verbal reflexes."
He nodded.
Ryne shrugged and sat back down, smirking.
They stood opposite each other, no raised voices, no obvious attacks.
Just words.
"I assume your strategy in the trial wasn't improvised," the girl said. "You moved like a doctrine."
"I assume your opening here isn't bait," Sol replied. "But I'm likely wrong."
She smiled slightly.
"So he speaks in measured knives."
"So does everyone here," Sol said. "The difference is mine are clean."
"A clean knife kills faster."
"I wasn't trying to kill. Yet."
The room grew quieter.
Pairs spoke, circled, flinched.
Instructor Liren circled them like a shark, listening.
"Revin," she said at one point, pausing at his shoulder. "Your silence is too honest."
He didn't flinch. "That's not silence."
She moved on.
Later, as students filed out, Velus joined Sol at the threshold.
"Impressive," the prince said. "But dangerous."
"How so?"
"You looked like you were listening. People will think they can talk to you."
"I can always stop."
"You won't," Velus said, stepping past him. "That's what makes it worse."
As Sol turned the corner toward his next class, a folded note was slipped into his pocket.
He didn't feel it.
Only noticed it was there five steps later.
Inside, a single line written in bone-ink:
"We offer truth. Come to us. Midnight. Level B6."
It was unsigned.
But the paper smelled faintly of iron and pine.
[To be continued in Part 2...]