Ken didn't even get a second to breathe.
The moment they crossed through the gates of Velden Academy, Alistair clapped his hands once — sharp, commanding — like he was calling a flock of very stupid birds to order.
"Welcome back," Alistair said, that smug old-man-smile curving his mouth. His silver hair glinted in the afternoon light, and his long black coat snapped in the wind like a war banner. "I see you survived."
Barely, Ken wanted to snarl. Instead, he wiped a streak of dirt off his cheek and said flatly, "Thanks for the welcoming committee. You really know how to make a guy feel loved."
Alistair's smile sharpened. "Love? No, Mr. Ken. Preparation. You should be thanking me."
Riven coughed so hard it sounded suspiciously like the word "Psychopath."
Ken caught Elysia's quick, worried glance. Lysa looked like she was one bad word away from punching Alistair in the face. Honestly? Ken wasn't sure he'd even stop her.
But there were too many eyes now — students, faculty, strangers in sleek robes with gold-threaded collars. They lined the Academy's courtyard like vultures at a wake, pretending not to watch.
Pretending.
Ken's skin prickled. Every instinct he had — the ones that kept him alive in alleys and battlefields alike — buzzed with warning.
Something's off.
Alistair turned and started walking toward the central building — Velden Tower, a crooked spire of stone that stabbed at the sky — like he expected them to follow.
"Come," he said over his shoulder. "There's still much to be done. The trials were only the first step."
Ken didn't move.Neither did the others.
For one perfect, breathless second, it felt like a standoff.
Then Ken exhaled — slow, controlled. If they walked away now, they'd be hunted like dogs. That much was obvious. Velden wasn't a school. It was a game board.
And they'd been shoved onto it without even being asked if they wanted to play.
"Let's get this over with," Ken muttered.
The others fell in behind him, shoulders squared, jaws set.
They walked through grand, crumbling halls, past ancient statues that seemed to watch them from the corners of their broken eyes. Past portraits whose painted faces shifted when you weren't looking.
Velden smelled of dust, cold stone, and something sweeter underneath — like rotting flowers at a funeral.
Finally, Alistair led them into a circular chamber. The ceiling soared overhead, lost in shadows. In the center of the room stood a massive table carved from dark, twisted wood. Its surface shimmered with sigils and shifting maps — the world laid out like a patient on an operating table.
Around it sat seven figures.
Ken felt his stomach drop straight into his boots.
The Council.
He'd heard of them in whispers — the ones who truly ruled Velden behind its pretty lectures and shiny scholarships. Not teachers. Not administrators. Predators.
"Students," Alistair said grandly, "meet your benefactors."
One of the Council — a woman with hair so white it hurt to look at — leaned forward, folding her pale fingers. "You did well in the Wildwood," she said, her voice low and musical, like a knife being drawn from silk. "Better than most."
"Congratulations," another murmured. A tall man with gold rings on every finger. His smile was made of razors.
Riven actually whimpered under his breath. Lysa elbowed him sharply.
Ken said nothing.
He knew bait when he saw it.
They wanted gratitude. Deference. Worship.
They weren't getting it.
After a long moment, the white-haired woman laughed softly. "Cautious. Good. We'll need that."
Ken's knuckles whitened where he gripped the strap of his satchel.The amulet pulsed again — a faint, angry heartbeat.
"From this day forward," Alistair announced, voice echoing through the vast chamber, "you are initiates of Velden. You will be trained, tested, broken down and reforged. You will face enemies within and without."
Enemies within. Ken caught that.
Hard not to, when most of the danger in this place wore smiles and spoke in honeyed voices.
"And," Alistair added, almost lazily, "you will serve."
Ken stiffened. "Serve who?"
"Velden," the white-haired woman answered. "The world. Yourselves."
Each answer was a leash, disguised as a gift.
Ken's heart thudded a slow, heavy beat.
He could almost see it now — the path ahead. It wasn't lined with gold and glory.
It was bloodstained. Twisted. Set with traps disguised as triumphs.
But he smiled anyway — a slow, dangerous smile that felt like drawing a sword inside his own ribcage.
"Bring it on," Ken said.
Because if Velden wanted to turn him into a weapon?
Fine.
They better pray they could still control him once they sharpened the blade.