Ingrid Calderalth, the High Judicar of House Calderalth. His sister.

She stood at attention on the platform alongside three others, overflowing with confidence and regality, as she always did. Yet Zephyrion failed to understand.

She had attended the Academy and become a Tempered. She had served in the military and risen through the ranks. She had earned the title of High Judicar at such a young age.

At Calderalth, holding one of the most influential positions as the High Judicar, there was nowhere better for her to be. So why was she here?

He couldn’t understand what was going through her head. So many illogical moves. He hated it. He hated not knowing.

Then he realized this was why she hadn’t said anything to him before he left the house. The thought somehow filled him with warmth, but he crushed it immediately.

For all he knew, her reason for being here could be sinister. After all, what better place to sabotage him than by infiltrating the Academy? As an heir, if he couldn’t complete the Academy and become Tempered, he would never amount to anything.

Not in the Ferran Empire.

Zephyrion stared at her. Yet Ingrid never looked his way. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, as though he didn’t exist. He frowned. Fine, then. It wasn’t like he cared whether she acknowledged him or not.

He looked away, expression icy.

The appearance of the four figures had silenced the cadets. Yet the silence deepened the moment he appeared. Suddenly. Abruptly. Standing before the four, as though he had always been there.

Zephyrion felt gravity increase.

The man was a head shorter than him, but broad, his figure strangely burly. His head was shaved clean, while a thick black beard streaked with ash swallowed most of his face. His features were hard, half his face covered in healing burns, his eyes calm and cold.

But to Zephyrion, his most striking feature was the bloodlust. It clung to him like a storm. He doubted the other cadets could see it, yet he could. The irrevocable evidence of someone who had spilled blood. A great deal of it.

A legend.

Growing up, Zephyrion had read the man’s exploits as though he were witnessing the battles firsthand. During the last war against the Pyrians, decades ago, he had shown them hell. A man who belonged to neither dynasty nor high house. A man who refused to stop, refused to surrender despite impossible odds, who never abandoned the hunt.

The Hound of the Ferran Empire.

Now, such a man led the Ferran Military Academy.

"I am High General Rathen. You will address me as High General. Nothing else."

His voice was hard. Heavy. His gaze met every cadet, pressing down on each of them.

"I will be brief. Today, I have four things to say. First, every one of you comes from somewhere. Houses where you’re kings and queens. Where you’re treated like you’re special. Where you’re free to do as you please. I want you to take all of that, the title, the identity, the privilege, and crush it beneath your feet."

Silence fell.

The weight pressing on the clearing intensified.

"Now."

The cadets exchanged confused glances. But a handful moved immediately. Zephyrion, along with the other Primes from each region, tossed an invisible object to the ground before crushing it beneath their feet.

Realizing what was expected, the remaining cadets hurriedly followed suit.

Zephyrion resisted the urge to sigh as Lumi enthusiastically stomped the ground with both feet, as though making sure it stayed crushed. She lifted her head and smiled smugly at him.

Soon, they were done, and the clearing fell silent once more.

"You’re cadets. Nothing more. And I am your god. Your houses cannot reach you. Your powerful, esteemed parents cannot reach you. I am the law here. You will obey every order I give, or you will be thrown out. Am I understood?"

"Yes, High General!"

Rathen gave a single nod.

"The second thing concerns your placement. Every cadet will be assigned to one of four houses. North. South. East. West. Your region determines your house. Each house answers to its House Commander."

He gestured behind him, and the four figures stepped forward.

"Introduce yourselves."

"I am Major Rhydan Sarakhel. I oversee the Northern House."

A tall man with long, flowing hair struck a fist against his chest.

"I am Major Ingrid Calderalth. I oversee the Southern House."

Zephyrion watched his sister strike her chest in salute. He resisted the urge to scoff.

"I am Major Sera Fe Eryndor. I oversee the Eastern House."

A woman with black hair streaked with white, pairs of vertical golden lines tracing beneath her eyes, struck a fist against her chest.

"I am Major Dargan Kharadun. I oversee the Western House."

A bald man with golden tattoos running across his face and arm struck a fist against his chest.

’Each from dynasty houses.’

"These people will be your instructors. Your enemies. Your friends. Your parents for as long as you remain in this Academy. They are your everything. They oversee your training. Need something? Go to them. Want to cry? Go to them. Want to complain? Go to them. Everything you do reflects on them."

"Third, Temper Points. You’ll learn the details on your own. What matters is this: here, Temper Points are everything. They determine your worth in this Academy. Anyone with more Temper Points than you is your superior officer. They have the authority to command you, and you, as the junior soldier, will obey or lose points. Reach zero, and you’re out."

A deathly silence settled. A pin drop would have sounded like a bomb.

"I also want to correct a misconception many of you probably have."

His gaze settled on Zephyrion before moving to the other Primes.

"I know every region holds a grand competition to choose its Prime. The Academy does not recognize that title. There will be a Prime. One who leads each house. But that person will be whoever has the most Temper Points at the end of the elimination round."

Zephyrion felt the determined gazes of the city lord descendants settle on his back. Even Kaelion and Kaiden stared at him fiercely.

He was recognized as the Prime of the South, but within the Academy, they still had a chance to become Prime and lead the Southern House. They had known this was coming. That was why they hadn’t acknowledged him at the gates.

They wanted the title of Prime.

Zephyrion’s back remained ramrod straight. A chilling pressure seeped from him like a current. Not a hint of weakness would be shown. No hesitation. They want the title...

Let them come.

Across the clearing, oppressive pressure radiated from the other Primes as the cadets of their respective regions met them with defiant gazes.

An even heavier silence settled over the clearing.

For the first time since he had appeared, High General Rathen smiled.

"Lastly, you cadets. You’ve all come from different parts of our great Empire. Different backgrounds. But every one of you is still a baby wet behind the ears. You think you know the world. You don’t. You know nothing of its cruelty. Nothing of war. Nothing of its horrors. You’re infants brought here to learn.

"Here, you’ll be tempered. Again. And again. You’ll be pushed beyond your limits. There will be days you’ll wish you were dead. We won’t stop. Not until you become unbending.

"Not until you become steel."

A moment of silence passed.

"Many of you won’t make it. Many will quit. Many will drop out. But those who endure this hell and survive will become the Tempered. Men and women entrusted with the honor of protecting our great Empire. You will be remembered. You will be revered. You will bring glory to your house name. So give me everything you’ve got.

"Dismissed."

He hadn’t spoken about those who failed. The shamed. Because the last speech wasn’t meant for them. It was meant to rouse the trainees, to ignite them and ensure they gave their absolute best.

Yet, though it went unsaid, there wasn’t a soul present who didn’t know the consequences of failure.

To be shamed.

The Ferran were one people. They took tradition seriously. The shamed were ostracized by society. No house would hire them. People would point at them in the streets, holding them up as examples of what not to become.

To be shamed in the eyes of the Ferran was to have failed as a Ferran.

And failures were treated accordingly.

Zephyrion watched his sister leave alongside the others. He suppressed a scoff.

If she wouldn’t acknowledge him, then he wouldn’t acknowledge her either.

Moments later, he and the other Southern cadets were led toward a massive walled fortress within the Academy.

A/N: I apologize about the one Chapter upload that has been occurring for some days now. It’s only until Atticus is finished, which is very soon. After that, upload would return to normal. I hope you’re enjoying the academy arc so far. There’s so much in store and I’m excited for it. Cheers, and thanks for reading!