“Emperor Zephyrin dy Valensis, come forth.”

How had things come to such a pass? The question dominated Zephyrin’s mind as he stepped forth in answer to the deceptively laconic command. He advanced flanked on both sides by princes, his every movement marked by the eyes of rows upon rows of spectators—some curious, others resentful, and some awed. Reaching the front of the room, he halted in front of his baseblood superior, who nodded to Zephyrin as indication that he should assume the throne. His throne.

Zephyrin lowered himself into it. There was no doubt about it; it was an ordinary school desk, but one made remarkable by its position at the forefront of the classroom, little more than a meter and a half from the master’s. It was reserved for one student in each class, whichever had most distinguished himself in the first month since the entrance exams… which, apparently, Zephyrin had unwittingly done. An envious dy Llegellion took his own seat to Zephyrin’s left, his desk slightly behind his; to his right a Primævan mulatto named Rozarius dy Larzgô completed their triarchy.

For, modest though it was, the three of them did constitute a government of sorts, one endowed with real powers by the class’s master. As ‘Emperor’, Zephyrin had been discountenanced to learn, it was now his daunting task to monitor and assist the class’s less gifted pupils. Seconding him in this mission were the two ‘Princes’, and these in turn would make inquiries of the ‘Counts’, the third to ninth most able students charged with tracking the progress of ten of their fellows respectively.

An educational system admirably suited for raising the future leaders of tomorrow, Zephyrin found himself obliged to acknowledge… even if he could have done very well without this singular honor, which he suspected existed primarily to reduce the master’s workload.

Today that burden consisted of versing the students in mana-based heraldry, a sub-division of magical instruction. Though largely absent from the battlefield in this age, bluebloods were still expected to know how to signify their own house, and recognize at least the most prominent ones; to that end, the lesson would provide a brief overview of the principles of heraldry, then require the students to weave their own house’s emblem—otherwise known more poetically as ‘limning the aether.’

As he listened to Master Médallus’s lecture, Zephyrin silently congratulated himself on his preparations. Knowing himself extremely deficient as concerned pre-Imperial Gaulyria’s aristocracy and its inner workings, he had sought to remedy this gap in his knowledge by throwing himself unreservedly into that field of study prior to his admittance to the lyceum. Abbé Beauvran had freely lent him books from his personal collection and (in what had been a pleasant surprise) proved very helpful in the months leading up to his departure, readily answering his questions about the intricacies of upper Gaulyrian society.

Not content with explicating finer points of etiquette that half a century’s passage had done little to efface (“Excogitation makes the mind palimpsestic, my boy! It’s positively elementary!”) the priest had then shown Zephyrin the Valensi coat of arms and how to replicate it, without which knowledge Zephyrin would have surely made for a very ridiculous looking son of that ancient house. Thanks to these preparations, he was able to offer a satisfactory performance when Master Médallus called his name for a demonstration.

“Superlative work, Emperor dy Valensis. Azure, semé-de-nénuphars rose, a bordure or. See how the lotuses—octodecapetalous all—primly maintain their positions on the field.” Master Médallus stroked his chin as he appraised Zephyrin’s softly shimmering escutcheon, his eyes reflecting the pale pink light of the mana-formed lotus petals. “Your control is exquisite…” he praised again; then, with a wistful sigh, as if already contemplating the less satisfying handiwork to inevitably follow, motioned for Zephyrin to dissolve his coat of arms.

Before moving on to the next practical exercise, however, the instructor went over the all important complement to the escutcheon—the motto. Of comparatively little importance in Elysia, mottoes held great significance to Gaulyrian nobles and were granted a prominent place—in exquisitely formed floriated script—below each shield.

There were of course the obligatory mottoes inspired by that sport of nobles par excellence, the hunt (kan e korn zoun, e lébris boun; “When the horn sounds, the hare bounds”); also recurrent were advertisements to the enemy that the house in question was not to be trifled with (bodhrez dren maiàn, “Every rose has its thorn”); as a rule, however, one would be hard-pressed to identify a predominant theme. The peculiarities of each house were fairly represented, the family slogans running down the gamut of chivalric ideal, romantic sentiment, or outright whimsy; either in Old Gaulyrian or in the sacred tongue, there was a variety on display rivaling the multifarious heraldic designs.

Some were devout (zeléni evek Zelèna; “Zealous for Selena”), some self-deprecatory (A mensa et thoro), or playfully self-referential (Argumentum ad baculum); still others permitted themselves a certain listlessness, as could be observed in House Brundésale’s wary Cui bono? or House Sùnlisse’s cautionary Caveat emptor—and some were even downright insolent. As a house gained in prestige, it was not uncommon for its descendants to swap out an older motto for one better reflective of its newfound status, giving rise to memorable maxims such as House Duroc’s (Nèschi per nèsch; Fools for [a] fool)—and if the monarchs of Gaulyria successively tolerated this bit of impudence it was by virtue of that house’s martial prowess, which went a long way toward granting its members leniency.

Master Médallus covered these and other points, however tangentially they related to the lesson at hand. A veritable fountainhead of obscure minutiae ordinarily tucked away in the nooks and crannies of history, he presented them with such enthusiasm that Zephyrin wondered why Master Gwuppe rather than he was in charge of teaching the subject.

“So admirably had House Morhroz distinguished itself in the service of the Church that its members had adopted the conceit of invoking the Goddess as ‘Our Fair Sister’ rather than ‘Our Great Mother’!” Master X’s lips twisted in wry indulgence as he recounted this tidbit. “Though proof of a charming filial trust, the formula had a faintly heterodox savor to it, impelling Their Excellencies the bishops of Lutesse to remonstrate against it for the better part of the fifth century and sixth centuries—largely in vain, the historian is chagrined to acknowledge. Does anyone here claim descent from that singular house? No? Well, no matter…” Master Médallus cleared his throat. “Now, please proceed to the second practical exercise!”

Viristin shot up from his seat, his sharp sky-blue eyes immediately seeking out Zephyrin in wordless appeal for an order. Zephyrin obliged him. “Dy Llegellion, can I leave the last three rows of the class to you?”

The boy continued staring at him expectantly. Zephyrin returned him an odd look before realizing where the problem lay. Amending his request, he asked instead: “Prince dy Llegellion, can I entrust you with the mission of overseeing the fourth to sixth counts, while dy Larzgô concerns himself with the first to third?

“Of course, Emperor dy Valensis.” Viristin nodded quickly. Transparently desirous of the emperor’s seat though the boy was, he would at least defer to Zephyrin so as to not besmirch the good name of House Llegellion. Zephyrin nodded back, thinking that the word ‘emperor’ had never sounded more unpleasantly in his ear than at this particular moment. Suppressing an irrational flareup of irritation, he set himself to his task.

He wasn’t greatly solicited; mostly, Zephyrin found himself patrolling the expansive classroom while keeping an eye out for struggling students, helping out when and how he could. Occasionally he stopped at one of the four strategically placed braziers smoldering in the room’s corners to warm himself. There was something absurd in relying on this conventional method of heating the classroom while its occupants collectively possessed enough energy to power a mana train from here to Eleutheria, but he knew what the response would be if he suggested the obvious alternative: stupefaction at the very idea of using the high arts for a purpose so base.

Zephyrin surveyed the class. His father wasn’t part of it; he had been placed with the bluebloods found wanting at the start of the school year. The ability that would revolutionize continental warfare hadn’t been unearthed by the prefects or masters…

Does my father know about it?

When had Narcissin discovered the true nature of his gift during the original history…? His memoirs had been silent on that point.

Zephyrin’s eyes absentmindedly roamed over the little groups that had formed, then stopped on a familiar tawny head of hair, belonging to the boy who had demonstrated a warming spell during the entrance exams.

... Théander dy Adhrosta.

Yes, that was the boy's name. Zephyrin studied his mana, warm-hued and diffusive like the orange glow of a mist-enshrouded Far Western sunset. His aptitude was obvious; spells radiating outward come naturally to him, while tapering his mana down to a focal point would prove much more demanding. This recognition of affinities for different spell types had been becoming increasingly well known in his native era, but wouldn’t be explored to any meaningful extent over the next three decades to come. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t draw on that knowledge today.

Théander jerked his head up as Zephyrin approached, who was surprised to see the other boy’s eyes brimming over with tears. Zephyrin almost asked him why he was reacting this badly to a setback in his casting, before chiding himself for his obliviousness. No doubt the boy had faced similar struggles at home; this latest setback merely revived and reinforced his sense of inadequacy.

“Dy Adhrosta, you’re in the school’s choir, aren’t you?” asked Zephyrin suddenly, thinking that the boy seemed familiar from more than their shared participation in this magic class. He thought he recalled seeing him among the group that filed to the altar rail before the other students during the liturgical rites.

Théander nodded half-heartedly in response. As suspected. “You’ve heard Father Everard warn the older members about reaching over their tessitura and straining the voice after it breaks, hasn’t he?”

Another nod.

“Well, it’s the same with mana. Properly channeling it is a question of control, of finesse more than capacity. Your reserves may be up to the task, but your control is unequal. Seeing the boy’s lack of comprehension, Zephyrin continued: “Imagine that two opera singers are standing in an open field, a baritone and a lyric tenor. They’ve been asked to shout as loudly as possible, and though both are closely matched, we can imagine the baritone winning out—can’t we?”

Blinking back a tear, Théander wiped the corners of his eyes. “I suppose…”

“But what if instead of shouting, the two men are told to sing a G5# as loudly as possible? Which of the two do you think will produce a more powerful sound?”

“T-The tenor.” Théander regarded Zephyrin uncertainly, while Zephyrin nodded encouragingly.

“Right. The baritone’s airflow would be choked, the note being too high for him to use his lung capacity to the fullest. It’s the same with mana. Your reserves are more than adequate for this task; the problem is that you’re casting in the wrong range, so to speak.”

Théander’s eyes widened slightly, but he still had a dubious look, as if not daring to hope in the outcome that Zephyrin’s tone seemed to promise. “So… what should I do differently?” he ventured to ask.

“Imagine dropping your voice down a whole tone, but doing so with your mana instead. Right now it’s unstable because you’re straining beyond your natural range… Try making it plainer, but richer…” By way of illustration, Zephyrin wove an unassuming band of mana in the air. Rippling and ribboning in the air, it turned inside out as Zephyrin demonstrated that it was just a simple stream of mana, one any of the boys present could reproduce. At the same time, Zephyrin hummed and sustained a note through closed lips, raising or lowering it an octave as he condensed or relaxed the flow of his mana.

Théander watched Zephyrin for several moments, then experimented with producing a similar stream until it was a near match to Zephyrin’s. Knitting his brows in concentration, he then tentatively tried forming his family’s emblem again. Fortunately, the dy Adhrosta family design was a relatively simple one: azure, a chevron or between three martlets volant argent. A blueblood suitor looking to impress might produce a magically formed escutcheon with the birds fluttering their wings and fanning their tail-feathers, but stationary avians would do just fine for the purposes of this class.

It was like watching clay being molded, Zephyrin thought. The birds were eyeless, the heads and beaks a beige, undelineated blob, and the feathers as stiff as plasterwork… and yet, slowly but surely, House Adhrosta’s distinctive escutcheon took form, and this time didn’t collapse as Théander gingerly altered the flow to imbue the design with different colors. There was something indistinct but not displeasing about the final result. It was reminiscent of an impressionist painting, he thought as Théander stared open-mouthed at his own craftsmanship.

“I-I did it!” He stared at the completed shield a few seconds longer, then turned to Zephyrin excitedly. “Thank you very much, dy Valensis!… um, I mean Emperor dy Valensis!…”

“Dy Valensis will do. Or just Zephyrin, when we’re out of class.”

Théander stared at Zephyrin gratefully for a moment longer, then added, “You have a nice voice! You should join the choir!”

Seeing Théander’s lips curve into a shy smile, Zephyrin was reminded that for all the lyceum’s academic rigorism and the adult mannerisms of the boys themselves, he was dealing with children, some of which would be late bloomers. Not all of them would thrive in these conditions.

Does that include my father?

It was a curious thought. Zephyrin had been sure of his father’s succeeding in this kind of ultra-competitive environment. And yet…

“Emperor dy Valensis? May I have a moment of your time?” Another boy’s voice sounded from behind, one inflected with urgency.

‘Emperor’… Is this going to be a recurring theme in all my classes? Zephyrin turned around to see a troubled-looking Viristin. “Yes, dy Lle—Prince dy Llegellion?”

“Dy Larzgô is struggling with the exercise. Can you help him?”

“… You mean Prince dy Larzgô?” The mixed-blood boy had obtained the second highest scores in the class; how could he be having difficulties with a task so simple?

“Yes. He…” Viristin hesitated, then leaned in and whispered, “… He doesn’t know what his own house’s emblem looks like.”

“… I see.” Was it because of his Primævan ancestry? Admittedly, the mere fact that a mixed-blood boy was present at the academy had come as a surprise to Zephyrin; he had expected only pure Gaulyrian stock and a few cases like his father. And, once again, ‘dy Larzgô’ was a name completely unknown to him. Would he and his family even survive the Cleansing?

Putting aside morbid speculations for the moment, Zephyrin followed Viristin to the front row, where Rozarius was standing motionlessly, a bitter look on his face. As he got another good look at the boy, it occurred to Zephyrin that if it weren’t for his silver hair the Primævan might have passed for a full-blooded Gaulyrian; though dark, his complexion wouldn’t be all that remarkable among the sun-tanned farmhands of Baras.

They briefly locked gazes for a moment, before the boy dropped his eyes, not unreasonably concluding that Zephyrin would be equally incapable of assisting him. Zephyrin stood at a loss as Viristin unhelpfully mused aloud. “Larzgô… what do you think their shield looks like?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Dimidiated, argent, semé of blackamoors; gules, bezantée...”

Dy Larzgô’s eyes hardened; Zephyrin spun around at the murmured mockery, eying the row of students directly behind them; which one had whispered the pejorative? Three among their number were closer than the others and seemed the likeliest candidates, but they all wore the same guileless, wide-eyed looks; Zephyrin couldn’t say for a certainty which was the owner of the sly voice.

Asnerius dy Zeyn, Foudris d’Érazh, and something dy Brédyseïs… what was his first name?

The two on the left and to the right were discreet presences in the classroom; Zephyrin was inclined to dismiss them for that reason. But the slight, hook-nosed boy in the middle, d’Érazh… he had something of a reputation as a troublemaker. Zephyrin’s eyes lingered on the boy.

D’Érazh seemed to read his thoughts. He smiled beatifically, his brows creased in benign, mildly inquisitive perplexity… but his eyes…

“Emperor dy Valensis? Is there something I can do to help you?”

… his eyes gave him away.