The Main Gate of the Royal Knight Academy
The main gate of the Royal Knight Academy was bustling from early morning. Tire marks from carriages stretched long across the stone path, now that the spring rain had ceased. Lion statues engraved with swords flanked the gate, and between them hung the admission roster. Sheets of parchment were pinned to a black wooden board, and the roster clerk was verifying the names of arriving cadets with the wet tip of his brush.
Ronan stood before it. At his waist hung a worn scabbard—a thing scarcely worthy of the name. The leather had faded in patches from age, and the end was wrapped in patched cloth. Inside wasn't even a proper longsword. Just the hilt of a broken practice sword. The one whose tip had vanished years ago in the rain-soaked Hunting Forest.
Ronan folded his admission permit once more. A bell tolled from inside the gate. Dong. The low, resonant sound echoed off the academy's stone walls. Cadets looked up. Some glanced at Ronan. Then snickered.
"Isn't that the kid?"
"Who?"
"The one who dropped his wooden sword during the winter prelims."
"Ah. Couldn't even hold a practice sword?"
Their words were soft, but loud enough to carry. Ronan didn't turn. He scanned the roster for his name. Ronan. A small dot marked beside the ink-written characters. Prelim caution. The clerk's eyebrow twitched as he saw it.
"Ronan. Son of Supply Clerk Lowen, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"You attended the winter prelim muster?"
"I did."
"Your basic fitness record..."
The clerk's voice trailed off. Laughter rippled from behind again.
"Record? What record? Dropping the wooden sword—if that's a record."
"Heard his hands froze up like he'd seen a magic beast."
"Magic beast? Nah, the supply clerk's kid just got scared holding a heavy sword."
Ronan drew a slow breath. Wet stone. Horse dung. Oiled leather. And faintly, the memory of rain-muddied earth from that long-ago Hunting Forest. The scrape of claws through mire. He flexed his fingers. They didn't stiffen. Not today.
"Clerk."
He spoke first.
"You can leave the dot by my name."
The clerk looked up. "You sure?"
"If it could be erased on request, it wouldn't be there in the first place."
A few snickers from behind. Mocking or surprised—it was ambiguous. Ronan shrugged.
"Instead, from today, I'll add a few strokes myself. A spotless roster would make academy life too dull."
The clerk's lip quirked faintly. But the smile didn't last. Heavy footsteps approached from the stone stairs—deliberate and loud. Clack. Clack. Fresh leather boots. A cloak embroidered with silver thread appeared first. Then a gleaming scabbard, a small silver ornament dangling from its tip. Polished smooth, with a blue glass bead embedded at the end.
Ronan knew the face. Raoul Berk. The noble cadet who'd picked a fight behind the warehouse during winter prelims. Raoul had dragged Ronan's father into it then. Lowly supply clerk. A position that could vanish overnight on a single stamped ledger error. Ronan had backed down that day. Not from fear. But to keep his father's name from the mud first. No one to explain it to, though. Raoul had spun the rumors instead. Cowardly broken sword. The kid who bowed behind the warehouse. Today, they followed him to the gate.
"Still lugging that scabbard around?"
Raoul laughed. "Got a sword in there, Ronan?"
Ronan glanced down at his own. "The scabbard's the student. I'm just the guardian tagging along."
Low chuckles erupted around them. Not all mockery this time. Raoul's face tightened.
"Got a mouth on you now."
"Not much training over winter. Arms are slow; mouth's light."
"So you're planning to talk your way through today too?"
Raoul stepped closer. "Like behind the warehouse?"
Ronan didn't answer. His gaze shifted to the gate's side. A girl stood there. Brown hair neatly tied, a worn healing bag slung over her shoulder. Old thing—frayed edges, stitched lid. But the strap was clean, small herb pouches neatly tied. She edged sideways, avoiding the commotion at the roster.
Raoul's shoulder clipped her bag deliberately. Ting. A small vial dangling from it swayed. She caught it hastily.
"Sorry."
She spoke first. Raoul laughed at that.
"Healing department? Nice bag. Thought I was at a poorhouse gate, not the academy."
Her hand froze on the strap. The laughter faltered—some cut short, others averted eyes. She gripped tighter. Not from shame. Choosing her words. Ronan saw it. Raoul wanted a spectacle. But if she spoke now, they'd fixate on the bag over her reply.
Ronan shifted one step aside—just enough not to block her. He met Raoul's eyes.
"Young Master Berk."
Ronan's voice was low. Polite. It carried better for it.
"My scabbard's worn, true. My shoulders narrow, true. Entry ceremony humor—we can laugh that off."
Raoul's brows furrowed. Ronan pressed on.
"But mocking a bag that saves lives? Too shabby for the Royal Knight Academy gate."
The air stilled. The girl glanced at Ronan. He didn't look her way—no need to draw more eyes. "Don't apologize to me," he said. "To the bag's owner."
Raoul flushed. "Who are you to order me?"
"Not an order."
Ronan smiled. "Chance to look noble on your first day at the gate."
No laughter now. Eyes on Raoul. That stoked his rage more. He half-drew his sword. The blade flashed white in the sun. A distant instructor turned. The clerk paused his brush. Raoul didn't stop.
"Broken sword trash."
He bared his teeth. "A ledger-keeper's brat playing knight won't know where the blade points."
Ronan's smile vanished. Father. That word scraped his throat. Same as behind the winter warehouse. He'd yielded then. But this was the gate. Roster here. Cadets watching. Lia's worn healing bag.
Ronan curled his fingers slowly. Thumb and index drew close. An unseen thin line rose from his fingertips. Atmospheric pure mana gathered. One breath. One heartbeat. Too fine for a sword's form. He kept it small. Big meant shaky. Shaky meant harm. Today called for precision, not power. Half an inch. Enough.
"One's fine. But dragging others down? Mistake."
Raoul yanked his sword fully. Crack. Small sound, like a dry twig snapping. Everyone at the gate heard. Raoul's silver ornament spun in the air. Blue glass caught the sun once. Then clattered to the stone. Severed. Precisely half an inch. Blade untouched. Raoul's hand unharmed. Just his arrogance hit the ground.
Laughter died. Raoul stared at his sword. "Wha..." His voice cracked. "What did you do?"
Ronan uncurled his fingers. The thin light gone. Fingertips chilled. He hid it. "Entry ceremony," he said. "Blood wouldn't suit the mood."
No one spoke at first. Cadets exchanged glances. Some eyed Raoul's tip. Others Ronan's empty hand.
"Did you see that?"
"Didn't even draw."
"Magic?"
"Magic needs incantations."
Whispers spread. Not mockery now. The clerk slowly rechecked Ronan's name. Prelim caution. The dot. He lifted his brush.
"Ronan."
"Yes."
"Official admission confirmed."
The clerk drew a fresh ink line under Ronan's name. Thin but clear. Then he reached for the placement board by the gate. New cadets' initial assignments. Bottom ranks from prelims, Ronan's name small among them. He wiped it—ink still wet, smearing easily. Pasted fresh parchment. Ronan. Letters bolder now. Ronan's name reappeared on the board.
Raoul bit his lip. "Cheating."
"Which part?" Ronan asked. "Not hurting anyone? Or leaving room for an apology?"
Raoul sheathed his sword. Hand trembling. He reached for the ornament—stopped. Too many eyes. Finally, he looked at the girl.
"...The bag."
Forced words. "I spoke too harshly."
She met his gaze a moment. Didn't bow her head. "Next time, don't call herb scent poorhouse stink."
Her voice soft. Ending firm. "When you're hurt, you'll seek that smell first."
Brief silence blanketed the gate. Ronan looked at her then. She adjusted her strap. Shoulders straighter.
Raoul had no reply. He left the severed ornament and slipped through the crowd. The buzz didn't fade. Just shifted.
"Broken sword, huh?"
"Saw the tip fly?"
"Couldn't hold a wooden one, but cuts without touching?"
"How?"
Ronan heard. Believed none fully. "Hey." The girl called softly. He turned. "Thanks for earlier."
"Didn't stand in for you," Ronan said. "Just quieted the noise so you could speak."
Her eyes widened briefly. She understood. He kept his gaze from her bag—no embarrassment. She touched the strap first. "Lia."
"Ronan."
"I know. Big on the board now."
He shrugged. "Name grew on day one. Usually for good reasons."
Lia smiled faintly. Short-lived. Her eyes dropped to his fingertips. He rested his hand on the scabbard naturally. Too late. She drew a thin handkerchief from her healing bag. White cloth. Faint herb scent.
"Spring breeze still chills."
She said. "Blame that for cold hands."
Ronan paused, looking at her. As he'd shielded her embarrassment, she hid his tremor from the crowd. He liked her way. He took the cloth. "Good excuse."
"Healing department prescribes excuses too."
"Then I'll ask again sometime."
Lia folded the handkerchief's edge once more instead of replying. Light, careful touch. Not pity. Ronan noted that too.
An instructor's voice rang from inside the gate. "All new cadets, assemble at the Training Grounds!"
Cadets moved. Noble heirs from carriages straightened cloaks. Commoners pocketed permits. Some avoided Ronan. Others glanced. He checked the board once more. Ronan. Ink half-dry. Might smear in wind. But there now. He stepped inside. Lia a step beside. Awkward silence between. Not bad.
On the gate's stone stairs, a girl stood apart. Black hair tied high, neat scabbard at her waist. Uniform pristine, posture straight. Cadets parted around her naturally. Seris. New cadet from a knightly house. She'd watched the gate below since the start. Ronan's fingertips especially. And Raoul's fallen ornament.
Seris's eyes narrowed. Not interest. Assessment. She unfastened her scabbard slowly. Heavy end met stone. Thud. Small sound. But sharp in Ronan's ears. Lia glanced too. Seris met Ronan's eyes, head tilting faintly. As if marking her turn next. Ink dried on the gate board. Far off, Seris quietly set her scabbard down.