The transition from the ballroom to the Garden Terrace was like stepping into a livestock auction.

  The Celestial Hall’s rear doors were thrown open to reveal a sunken amphitheatre of manicured hedges and stone colonnades. In the centre of the garden stood the Rift Gate—a large black circlet where a jagged tear in reality was framed by humming obsidian.

  Floating above the garden were massive mana-glass screens, their surfaces flickering with the perspective of the ancient scrying orbs drifting inside the pocket dimension.

  On the largest screen, two First Years were trying to kill each other. Or at least, they were pretending to.

  A pyromancer from House Vermilion was throwing sheets of flame at a kineticist who was running up the walls of the obsidian arena. It was flashy. It was loud. It was entirely performative. They were shouting the names of their spells, posing after every strike, hoping the Commanders were watching.

  "What the…" I muttered, watching the pyromancer miss a clear kill shot to charge up a visually impressive but tactically useless fireball. "These kids are dancing, not fighting."

  Below us, on the terraces, around a hundred First-Year students were milling about. They were posturing, laughing too loudly, and drinking too much. They were cattle trying to look like prize stallions before the hammer fell.

  Above and behind us, on the raised stone balconies—the High Seats—sat the Commanders. They lounged on velvet cushions, drinking from jewelled goblets, looking down at the Pit with bored, predatory eyes. They were the Caesars of this little empire, and we were the entertainment.

  A sudden, resonant BOOM shook the leaves off the manicured hedges.

  "SILENCE!"

  The Herald stood on a raised dais in the centre of the terrace. He was a towering figure, wearing a heavy Inscribed Torc of star-steel around his throat. The collar pulsed with a deep violet light, magically amplifying his voice to command the air itself to vibrate.

  "Tonight, the architects of the Empire’s future select their tools!" the Herald bellowed, his magically amplified voice rattling the teeth in my skull.

  He swept his heavy staff over the Pit, gesturing to the shivering First Years. "You stand upon the precipice of a sacred duty, a bloody tithe paid by every great institution in this Empire! Fifteen years ago, the Eastern Flank was brutally exposed to the Fae. The Imperial Legions were fully engaged, with no army left to pull back. The Emperor himself called upon the academies to step into the breach, to seek out the Rot in the uncharted wilds. And we answered!"

  The Herald paused, letting the Imperial propaganda settle over the crowd like a heavy blanket.

  "Since that blood-soaked winter, the Vanguard Expedition has forged legends," he continued, his throat-runes burning a vibrant violet. "Every academy in the Empire bears this weight, rotating to man the frontier for four brutal weeks of the year. The Solstice rotation is the harshest deployment of them all, and that honour falls to the Spire! To sit in these High Seats for our rotation is not merely an academic achievement; it is the first step toward immortality. Look to history! Commander Boris Grayson sat in the First Chair just a decade ago; today, he is the High General of the Seventh Legion! The Vanguard Commander of the Eighth Expedition now sits on the Emperor’s own War Council! This is where the rulers of the next century are chosen, and this is where you prove your worth."

  He unrolled a scroll of heavy vellum with a sharp snap.

  "But before the Draft commences, let the true stakes be known," the Herald declared, his voice dropping to a resonant, dangerous rumble. "The Merit Points wagered tonight are the only currency accepted within the Grand Academy Vault. And for the squad that proves their supremacy in blood—the unit that achieves the highest Merit score in the Mist Valley—a bounty of ten thousand Merit Points awaits!"

  He let the number hang in the air, watching the greed sharpen the eyes of the Commanders in the High Seats.

  "The distribution of this wealth rests entirely at the discretion of the victorious Vanguard Commander," the Herald continued, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Reward your loyal subordinates as you see fit, or hoard the entirety of the spoils for your own legacy. The choice is yours. Furthermore, the winning Commander will be granted the Vanguard Primus Prize—the absolute right to claim one of three legendary artefacts from the deepest Vaults!"

  Two Enforcers marched onto the dais, wheeling a heavy stone pedestal draped in black velvet. They pulled the cloth away, revealing three artefacts resting on silk cushions.

  "First," the Herald announced, pointing to a heavy star-steel ring. "The Titan’s Coil. An Old World band capable of dynamically altering the mass of any object the wearer touches. A sword that strikes with the weight of a boulder. Armour that weighs absolutely nothing."

  I watched the High Seats. Titus Thorne leaned forward, his golden armour clinking against the stone balustrade. His eyes were locked on the ring. The perfect frontline tool.

  "Second," the Herald continued, gesturing to a milky, opalescent sphere. "The Void-Pearl. A tactical vacuum creator. Feed it mana, and it violently removes all gas from a targeted area. It suffocates enemies, extinguishes flames, and generates lethal, implosive winds upon collapse."

  Commander Isolde Tyrell stopped swirling her wine. She stared at the pearl with a terrifying, calculating hunger.

  "And finally," the Herald said, pointing to the centre cushion.

  It held two halves of a fractured, dark-metal amulet. They hummed with a sympathetic, silvery light.

  "The Twin-Soul Ciphers," the Herald boomed. "A remote-puppeteering relic. The master stone is worn by the mage. The proxy stone is placed upon a golem or a fresh beast corpse, seamlessly transferring the user's consciousness into the disposable vessel. Should the proxy fall, the tether instantly returns the stone to its master."

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  The ambient noise of the garden faded into a dull, rushing hum in my ears.

  I stared at the fractured amulet. I recognised the dark metal. I knew exactly what it was designed to do. The Herald described it as a scouting tool, a toy for a coward hiding safely behind a meat-shield.

  He was an idiot.

  If I constructed a high-fidelity, flesh-and-blood clone and placed that proxy stone upon it, the artefact would act as a permanent bridge. I could transfer my soul into the clone, leaving Murphy in absolute control of our original body. For as long as the clone survived, we would have two separate bodies. It was the holy grail we had been silently hoping for.

  ‘Wake up, Kid,’ I projected against the heavy blast doors of the Callus. ‘We found it.’

  Silence answered me. I was entirely alone in the driver's seat.

  The cold, ancient paladin inside me took complete control. I did not care about scrubbing pots. I did not care about the vanity of the Vanguard or the politics of the nobles. I looked at the Twin-Soul Ciphers, and a singular, unyielding imperative settled over my mind.

  I was going to possess that amulet.

  And anyone who stood between me and that pedestal was going to deeply regret being born.

  "Report," I said.

  Vespera had just marched back to our group from the High Seats, her movements stiff with suppressed rage. The colour had completely drained from her face, leaving her looking like a porcelain doll that had been dropped on a hard floor.

  "We are dead," Vespera whispered, her voice trembling. "We might as well be rot carriers."

  "She refused the bribe?" Grace asked, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles.

  "It is not money," Vespera hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling us into a shadowed alcove away from the milling crowd. "It is Vex."

  "Explain."

  "Professor Vex is the Faculty Overseer for the Third-Year Commanders this term," Vespera said, her eyes wide with horror. "He grades their leadership modules. He controls their academic ranking. Isolde told me the truth. Vex issued a memorandum this morning. Any Commander who selects House Argent receives an automatic twenty percent deduction on their final grade."

  "Academic extortion," I mused, the tactical map in my head violently recalculating. "Clever."

  "It is a blockade, Murphy!" Vespera snapped, her composure cracking. "It doesn't matter how good we are. It doesn't matter if we are the best squad in the history of the Academy. Drafting us is academic suicide for them."

  I looked up at the balconies. Professor Vex stood near the edge of the High Seats, his hands clasped behind his back, a thin, satisfied smile playing across his lips.

  The implications snapped into place with mathematical precision. First Years were strictly barred from the Strike Squads. If we failed to secure a Vanguard slot, we would be relegated to the Rearguard. Kitchen duty. Logistics. We would not set foot in the Mist Valley.

  And if we did not go to the Mist Valley, the Twin-Soul Ciphers would go to someone else.

  I clenched my jaw. The Paladin was fully awake now, and he was completely intolerant of bureaucratic red tape standing between him and his objective.

  "The first Draft is absolute!" the Herald bellowed, drawing all eyes back to the dais. "Four Vanguard Commanders. Five rounds of selection. Let the architects be recognised!"

  He unrolled the rest of his vellum scroll.

  "Presiding over the First Chair... The Golden Aegis! Viscount of Solara and Vice-Captain of the Spire’s victorious squad at the Imperial Under-Nineteen Rift Combat Cup! The only student to maintain a perfect Merit Standing for three consecutive years, with a sanctioned duel record of fifty-two wins, one loss, and zero draws... COMMANDER TITUS THORNE!"

  Titus Thorne stood. He was a statue of martial perfection, encased in plate armour that seemed to be woven from sunlight itself. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword, acknowledging the roar of applause with a nod that suggested the statistics were merely a formality.

  "The Second Chair!" the Herald continued. "The Weaver of the Green Hell! Valedictorian of the Alchemical Sciences and the youngest recipient of the Emerald Quill! The strategist who secured the highest efficiency rating in the Academy’s simulated war-games... Holding a challenge record of Twenty-six wins, three losses... " COMMANDER ISOLDE TYRELL!"

  Isolde didn't stand. She sat amidst a bower of living vines that she had coaxed from the stone table. She wore emerald silk that looked like liquid moss. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and utterly devoid of warmth. She raised a single, long-stemmed glass of white wine, her expression bored by the recitation of her grades.

  "The Third Chair!" The Herald’s voice dropped an octave, becoming a rasp that shivered the spine. "The Shadow-Walker! Head of the Dark Arts Society! The only student to score a perfect mark in the Void-Manipulation practicals! Holding a challenge record of thirty wins, two losses... COMMANDER MALAKOR BLACKBURN!"

  Malakor sat in a pool of unnatural darkness. He was pale, his face a geometric nightmare of stark black stripes tattooed against porcelain skin. He stared at the crowd with eyes like burning amber coals, surrounded by floating runic circles that buzzed with necrotic entropy.

  "And the Fourth Chair..."

  The Herald paused. He looked at the parchment, then at the dark corner of the balcony. A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the crowd.

  "Holding the seat by technicality of accumulated Merit Points... Commander Vorian Grendell. Holding a challenge record of Sixty-five wins, zero losses... "

  ‘That’s it?’ I thought.

  No titles. No academic honours. No applause. Just a murmur of disgust.

  In the deepest shadow of the balcony, a figure slumped in a chair. He was a mountain of tattered grey wool and bad smells. He didn't stand. He didn't look up. He sat with his gloved hands folded perfectly on the table, staring at the wood grain with intensity.

  "Round One! The Lieutenant Pick!" the Herald shouted.

  Titus Thorne didn't hesitate. "House Thorne claims its own blood. I select... Lysander Thorne."

  The crowd erupted. Lysander stood, raising his goblet. It was the expected move. The Golden Boy securing the family legacy.

  "Commander Isolde!"

  "I select Harold Spines," Isolde said, her voice cool and crisp. A Ranger from a powerful merchant family. A strategic alliance.

  "Commander Malakor!"

  "Vane Lowtide," the Warlock whispered. A Necromancer. The crowd shivered as the pale boy was marked.

  "Commander Vorian!"

  The Garden went silent. Vorian didn't look at the Pit. He didn't look at the expectant faces of the First Years.

  He reached into his robe and produced a pristine, white silk handkerchief. He wrapped it carefully around the heavy iron lever built into the side of his stone table—ensuring his glove made no contact with the rusted metal—and yanked it down.

  CLUNK.

  Above his station, a rune flared into existence, burning with a harsh, crimson light: AUCTION.

  "Commander Vorian invokes the Right of Barter!" the Herald bellowed, the amplification runes on his throat pulsing. "The Fourth Selection is open for bidding! The floor is open to the High Seats!"

  "Five hundred points," Titus called out immediately, his eyes locked on a massive brute of a Kineticist in the front row.

  "Six hundred," Isolde countered, swirling her wine.

  "Eight hundred," Titus barked, leaning forward. "And not a point more."

  Vorian didn't speak. He simply pointed a swollen, grey finger at Titus.

  "Sold!" The Herald announced. "The pick transfers to Commander Thorne for eight hundred Merit Points!"

  The crowd gasped, then murmured in understanding. Vorian wasn't refusing to draft; he was scalping. He was liquidating his command authority for currency.

  Titus smirked, having bought a second pick in the first round to secure a heavy-hitter for his frontline.

  The draft continued. Round two. Round three.

  It was a meat market. Runners sprinted between tables, verifying point transfers. We watched as the "Golden Squads" were assembled—teams of high-born, powerful mages drafted into units that were designed to look good on a parade ground.

  Every time it was Vorian’s turn, the scene repeated. He would sanitize the lever with his silk cloth, pull it, and sell the slot.

  CLUNK. The red rune flared.

  "Four hundred!"

  "Sold!"

  He was stripping the draft for parts. He was selling his pick of the First Years to buy Vault currency for himself. And by the end of the third round, the full weight of the "Vex Blockade" was glaringly obvious.