The carriage came to a smooth stop, the hum of city life falling away like a curtain drawn between acts. I could feel it in the way the wheels no longer jolted, in the sudden stillness of the wind, in the absence of birdsong. The Imperial Academy was a city unto itself—silent, watchful, and sharper than any blade.
"Lord Ashenlance," my aide murmured from beside me. "We've arrived."
"I can tell."
He didn't speak again. He knew better.
I stood slowly, letting my boots touch the carriage floor with deliberate precision. I adjusted my white blindfold, the fabric soft but firm against the bridge of my nose. Some people wore blindfolds out of shame. I wore mine like a banner. Proof of what I'd sacrificed. A warning of what I'd become.
Outside, the courtyard was hushed.
Even without sight, I could feel the pressure—hundreds of eyes, breaths held just a fraction too long, boots shifting slightly on polished stone. Students and staff alike had gathered, pretending they weren't staring. The air smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and polished steel.
I stepped down, my silver-tipped black cane clicking once on the white marble beneath me.
I walked with the ease of someone who had memorized cities. I didn't need vision. My world was built from sound, pressure, memory, and instinct. Each echo off the stone courtyard gave me shape and depth. The silence gave me location. The murmurs gave me hierarchy.
As I passed, the crowd parted.
No herald had announced me. No fanfare played. But I did not need ceremony.
I was Aren Von Ashenlance—Imperial Arbiter of Finance, Head Instructor of the Imperial Academy, and the man the nobles feared more than the Emperor himself.
I heard a voice whisper behind me, too soft for most.
"That's him... the Blind Strategist."
"He's younger than I thought."
"He's the one who ruined House Belvar last year, isn't he?"
"Shh! Do you want to be next?"
Their fear was... acceptable.
A boy brushed my shoulder as I passed. He whispered an apology, barely audible.
I stopped.
"What's your name, student?" I asked calmly.
He froze. "A-Alec, my lord."
"Third-year?"
"Yes."
"You're too heavy on your right foot. You favor the sword."
"H-how did—?"
"Your boots. The wear is uneven. Your breath shortens when you're on my left, not my right. And you smell of iron, not ink."
He was silent.
"Your instructors are teaching you to fight, yes?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then find better instructors."
I walked on.
Inside the Hall of Instructors, a group waited—thirteen of them, cloaked in black and gold, bearing the seal of the Academy. Behind them, rows of stone pillars loomed, each inscribed with the names of past Archons and Emperors.
They didn't bow.
But they didn't speak first, either.
"Welcome, Lord Ashenlance," said a tall man with a voice like polished steel. "I am Chancellor Varent. On behalf of the Imperial Academy, we welcome your... unexpected presence."
I tilted my head.
"Unexpected?"
"You are the Empire's chief economic authority. To accept a position here is... unusual."
"The Emperor asked."
"And you obeyed."
"Only when it suits me," I said. "And when I grow bored."
Several instructors shifted. One let out a quiet snort.
"Will you be teaching a course, Lord Ashenlance?" another asked.
"I will be teaching all of them."
A pause. A breath held.
"I was instructed to oversee the reformation of curriculum, conduct evaluations of current staff, and ensure the Academy's output aligns with the Empire's future. Which means"—I raised a hand and pointed—"you report to me."
One of them stepped forward. A woman in her forties, sharp-featured, proud voice.
"We have centuries of tradition, Lord Ashenlance. Your military and bureaucratic achievements are impressive, but education requires—"
"Results," I interrupted.
Another silence.
"I've fought wars. Crushed rebellions. Rebuilt economies. I've brought provinces back from the brink and ended three noble houses without drawing a sword. You teach nobles how to wave sticks and speak in circles. I teach people how to win."
I turned my head slightly, blindfold still flawless.
"Now. Which of you is responsible for the Political Theory department?"
A hand slowly rose.
"Good. You're dismissed. Report to the outer ring as an assistant. If you do well, I'll restore your title next term."
"You can't just—!"
"I can."
And I did.
They learned quickly. I wasn't here for debates.
I was here to correct.
The office they gave me was high in the eastern spire, overlooking the city and the inner campus. A desk of darkheart oak. A wall lined with documents, ink, and scrolls. A silver tea service sat untouched on the sideboard. I traced the room with my cane, measuring every echo, every step.
Someone had left a stack of records for me. Student profiles. Staff evaluations. Course outlines. And beneath that—a curious note.
Sponsorship Ledger: Noble House Contributions and Influence Web
I smiled faintly.
Of course. Even knowledge had a price.
The bell tolled outside.
One hour until my first lecture.
I picked up a red quill and began to write across the first document.
One by one, I crossed out names.
Unfit.
Incompetent.
Corrupted by power or dulled by pride.
They would not last long.
---
Let the real education begin.