“It’s so unfair,” Deon complained. He downed his purple goblet of wine and promptly gestured for a servant to refill it. “I finished in eighth place. Eighth! How come I can’t make a request but everybody else can?”
No one answered as they all knew the answer, including Deon himself. After classifying for the King’s Tourney, he immediately stopped putting an effort. At the fifth and sixth duels, he yielded after a single hit and didn’t even bother to show up for the last one, something that had never happened in the academy’s history. His frustration was completely unjustified.
Jon followed the rest of the group’s example and tuned out Deon’s complaining, turning his attention to the white trays of food in front of him. He settled on a meaty pork chop, his favorite dish. It was what he often cooked for his little brother after their parents died. It’s what he cooked for his mother the day she died. And begrudgingly, he had to admit that this one tasted better than anything he could make on his own. It was tender, without feeling too soft, and the spices were evenly spread in and out.
“What would you even ask for?” Aeron asked, seemingly fed up with Deon’s constantly complaining about the same thing. “You already live like a spoiled brat with enough money to pay for all of your expenses.”
“I don’t know… a bigger stipend? Or better yet, a decree exempting me from having to pay for wine and courtesans. Yes, that’s it. I mean, that’s what I would ask for if I could. Lanard even said that I would be expelled if I don’t change my behavior for the King’s Tourney.”
Aeron only grunted in response. Jon remained focused on his dinner. As for Nevil and Bella, they were too engrossed in their own conversation. After a year together, they each came up with different ways of putting up with the promiscuous nobleman.
Jon left only a clean bone on his plate. He washed it down with half a goblet of wine, a rare indulgence. He hadn’t touched alcohol even once in his whole year at the academy. Now, he figured he could allow himself this moment to relax.
His gaze traveled further up the table covered in purple and white utensils. Rather than the usual red, the table was decorated with the colors of house Porford to honor Tavion, the first-year champion. Around his head, multicolored leaves fashioned into a wreath.
Other students instead had medals inscribed with their names and the Phoenix Academy’s emblem. They ranged from platinum to gold, silver, and finally bronze, this last one hanging proudly from Bella’s neck. After defeating Jon, she lost against Tavion but then won the next two matches, earning her fifth place.
The other tables were all decorated in the same manner, honoring each year’s champion. Most notably were the third, sixth, and seventh-year tables, all colored in the Olsandre’s green and orange.
Even the high table at the end of the hall, where the teaching staff ate, had notable differences. The headmaster, usually at the table’s center, found himself one chair to the left. In his seat was an imposing man with a thick cloak over his shoulders. A mane of red hair flowed from under his jeweled coronet.
To his other side sat the duchess, a thin woman with long dark hair, thin lips, and a perky nose. Coupled with her high cheekbones and freckled face, she bore a striking resemblance to her daughter Evelyn, the third-year champion.
To varying degrees, the teaching staff was a mix of celebrating the end of the year, and apprehension at being so close to Somerford’s ruler. The headmaster looked unfazed, using this opportunity to ingratiate himself with the duke.
Others, like the Breckon siblings, looked completely out of their element. Professor Cedrick might as well be a statue given how little he moved. Same for Willow, though she also looked very different from usual. Her hair, usually rolled up in a messy bun, gently cascaded past her shoulders, and the dark circles under her eyes were hidden under a layer of makeup.
Jon didn’t imagine she’d be too pleased to learn of his choice of boon. Given that the siblings were also two of the academy’s alchemists, they might have been the ones tasked with brewing it. Still, he had a goal and nothing nor no one would get in his way.
As the evening advanced and the various foods started to get cold, the duke stood up and finally addressed the room. “Good evening,” he said, “and welcome to the last feast of the year. Congratulations to all of you for another year concluded. This is my eighty-fourth year ruling over Somerford, Alistown, and the Phoenix Academy. And what a year it has been. Quarrels, conflict, even bloodshed. But after many a hardship, I convinced my wife to change our dinner table’s decorations.”
The joke elicited a few chuckles from the crowd. The duchess shook her head with a bemused smile, and the duke leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek.
“In all seriousness, Somerford takes most of my time, but I still make an effort to keep informed about everything happening here at the academy. After all, you are Somerford’s future. And I must say that this year at the academy has been quite eventful.”
Jon didn’t need to be mentioned to understand he was a large part of why the year was eventful. Maybe entirely so.
“Eventful can be good, though. Struggle and adversity lie at the heart of the war academies. It’s the chance for the truly great to rise above the mediocre. In victory, the mediocre turn complacent. In defeat, they are crushed, never to rise again. The truly great don’t allow yesterday’s defeat to shake their conviction, using it as motivation to achieve victory today. They might celebrate. But never forgetting that there’s always another fight to be had tomorrow. So don't ever fear adversity. Use it as the grindstone that will keep your blade sharp.” The duke raised a golden goblet encrusted with dozens of little gemstones that glinted under the lights. “I propose a toast. To the many great people who have studied in this academy. To the many more who are still to come.” He raised the goblet and took a sip, everyone following his example.
“But you have not gathered here to listen to my ramblings and poor attempts at jokes. You are here first to celebrate the end of the year, and second to see all the boons handed out. So I shall no longer delay.” He clapped once, and a door behind the high table swung open. Dozens of servants walked into the hall, some holding items as light and small as a letter while others carried swords, full suits of armor, and even large crates.
The duke effortlessly hopped over the high table. “I shall start with the tenth place from each year, then work my way to the champions. So let us begin with the first-year’s tenth place, lord Garrel Vypren.”
Everyone clapped in response. Garrel stood up, his previous arrogance and posturing nowhere to be seen. With his head almost as low as his shoulders, he made his way towards the front of the hall.
“Lord Vypren, congratulations on qualifying for the King’s Tourney,” the duke said after Garrel bowed down. He then pointed to his left, where two servants carried a training dummy dressed in dark blue plates. “You requested for a suit of armor that was at the same time light, durable, and spell-resistant. I present to you an armor of rippled steel merged with triotium. It weighs only as much as a full suit of steel armor, and is capable of disrupting any mage spell near it.”
As a demonstration, the duke took one step back and raised an arm towards the dummy. A thin jet of fire erupted from his hand and disappeared inches from touching the metal. “It won’t be able to fully stop anything stronger. But it’s enough to protect you during the King’s Tourney. It shall be delivered to your dormitory room.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Garrel bowed down, and everyone applauded again. He turned around and Jon was finally able to see his face. The nobleman looked tired, with shallow skin and sunken eyes looking down to the floor. The mediocre are crushed, indeed.
After Garrel sat back down, the duke called for the next student. “Second year’s tenth place, lady Fridda Brask.”
The ceremony proceeded with the duke calling each year’s tenth place. Most of them requested better swords with their own design in mind. There was only one other student who, like Garrel, chose a suit of armor rather than a weapon.
“And now something that few would have expected at the start of the year. First year’s ninth place, Jon of Rochdale.” Most of the applause that followed was slow, spaced out, and unenthusiastic. Offered more out of obligation than anything else, it was almost drowned out by the sheer energy coming from Deon, Bella, Nevil, and Aeron.
Jon stood up and walked towards the end of the hall, his heart beating harder with each step he took. He stopped in front of the duke and bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”
Somerford’s ruler said nothing at first. He stared Jon up and down, measuring him. “These robes seem a bit too large, don’t you think? Even for one of your height.”
“My apologies, Your Grace. It was the only one available for me.”
“Don’t be sorry. It is the academy’s responsibility to provide uniforms. I’m sure lord Pyle won’t allow this mistake to be repeated,” he said, glancing back to the headmaster. “After all, you’re part of this academy. And if you’re still with us next year, then you’ll need to properly look the part.” The duke gestured for the next servant and received a polished wooden box the size of a tome. He removed the lid and displayer its contents, two thick vials lying inside a red velvet enclosure. “Kollion’s Concoction is meant to improve an Archmage’s cultivation. Your plan is to drink it to force a breakthrough. Time will tell if it is a stroke of genius or a completely foolhardy endeavor.” He put the lid back and then extended it to Jon.
From the corner of his eye, Jon noticed the change in Willow’s expression, as if wanting to say something but not daring to. He knew that she feared for what might happen to him, but there were no other options. And so he took the box, holding it tightly as if it were the most precious object in the world. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He bowed again and then walked back to his seat.
The ceremony continued for more than an hour. Throughout it, the duke handed out prizes to almost all of the students who qualified, the only one excluded being Deon. To Jon’s surprise, many of the better-placed students asked for things completely unrelated to the tourney. Things such as their own private residences at the academy, a lowly but official position for a relative, and even for the duke to arbitrate a minor dispute. It made Jon wonder about everything he could ask for if he did well at the next tourney.
After the last prize was delivered, students started to leave the feasting hall. Jon remained engrossed by the box in his hands. His first impulse was to rush back to the dorm room and drink the potions. Before that, he needed to sleep, eat breakfast, and make sure that he was in the best condition possible for the breakthrough. He would only have one chance, so he needed to make it count.
“So where do we go next?” Deon asked.
“I’m going back to the dormitory,” Jon answered, not taking his eyes from the box as if it would disappear the moment he looked away. He pushed the chair back and made to stand up, but Deon tugged on his sleeve, pulling him back.
“Will you stop being so reclusive? Just tonight at least. We should be celebrating the end of the year.”
“Didn’t we already do that just now?” Bella asked.
“Yes, but I’m talking just the five of us. With you and Nevil going back to your homes, and Jon preparing to kill himself, this will be our last time together. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
Bella pursed her lips. “As much as I hate to agree with Deon, he is right.”
“Thank yo—”
“Shut it,” she snapped at the nobleman before turning to Jon. “Listen, you will have seven free weeks to try your breakthrough. A single night won’t make much of a difference.”
Jon looked around and found everyone waiting for his answer. Although Nevil and Aeron didn’t say anything, it was clear that they agreed with the idea. Jon sighed, somewhat annoyed. “Fine.” He hid the box inside of his robes. “Where to then?”
“Oh, I know the best place in this city,” Deon said with a devious smile.
TFTC!