The capital city of Eidryon.
A place where power, prosperity, and order form the face of the world.
White stone streets cut through grand buildings with artistic arches and golden pillars standing firm like unshakable vows of glory.
Normally, this city is alive. Full of laughter, merchants, palace servants, carriages, and commoners searching for meaning under the shadow of the Empire.
But today is different.
Today is the day the Imperial Thaumaturgical Academy opens admissions for new students.
The usual bustle shifts into tension.
Carriages of nobles glide slowly toward the academy located at the eastern foot of Orthellon Hill. Not every noble sends their child, and not all who send them truly believe their child will return.
Citizens stand along the streets, not cheering.
They watch with cold eyes and silent lips.
Because they know the academy is not a place of learning. It is a field of selection—a silent stage to eliminate the weak and sharpen the Empire's new tools.
This year, there is something different.
A black carriage with no insignia appears.
Accompanied by four riders cloaked in darkness and empty gazes that freeze the air around them. People immediately give way, as if their bodies react automatically to an ancient threat.
They are the Four Horsemen of the Empire.
No one speaks.
No one greets.
Because everyone knows who is inside that carriage.
Inside sits a man. Upright. Calm.
His eyes closed.
A long cloak envelops his body like night shrouding dawn.
His name is Soren Voltaire Duval, Archon Duval, the Empire of Eidryon's absolute protector.
Not an ordinary noble. Not an ordinary official.
But the symbol of power and fear that sustains the Empire's existence.
In front of him sits a boy.
A teenager. Dark uniform. Sharp, rigid eyes.
Darian Duval.
Not by blood. But given the family name.
Not a biological heir. But the heir of will.
After several minutes of nearly sacred silence, Soren opens his eyes.
Red. Cold. Like embers seeking no light, only destruction.
"Do you know why you were sent to this place?"
Darian answers without hesitation.
"Because Lord Duval wants it."
"Not because you're great. Not because you're special. But because I decided so."
"I don't need to be special. I just need to win."
Soren stares at him briefly. Then closes his eyes again.
"Prove it."
The carriage stops.
The door is opened by Silvain Arcrois, the Rider of Conquest.
He bows slightly, silent.
Soren stands.
He steps out first, followed by Darian.
No announcement. No escort. Only will walking.
Academy staff stand before obsidian gates.
Senior mages, chief instructors, even representatives of the academy's directorate—all bow their heads.
Not out of protocol. But because they know, one step from Archon Duval could end their lives.
Soren looks at the massive building ahead. Black glossy walls, towering spires piercing the pale sky.
He then turns to Darian.
"If you fail, I will be the one to close this door for you."
"Then that door will never close," Darian replies without emotion.
Soren walks slowly, passing the frozen staff line.
Darian follows, measured steps, no trace of childhood in his gait.
They step inside the Imperial Thaumaturgical Academy.