CHAPTER 163: CHAPTER 163: SHOCKED...

Cassian froze.

Court language during consort selection ceremonies?

His heart gave an immediate lurch...sharp and unexpected, like a blade slipping too close to bone. He turned fully to Veyce now, eyes wide. "Wait. You mean demon court language?" he asked, voice low but urgent.

Veyce gave a single, effortless shrug. "Obviously. What else did you think they’d be teaching? Human wedding vows?"

Cassian’s mouth opened, then closed again. "But... I don’t even know demon language. Not really. Not beyond the basic phrases for greetings and apologies, and—gods—I failed the last test because it was written in demon language."

And this wasn’t just language. It was court language. The kind laced with formality, specific conjugations, and subtle word choices that could elevate or insult depending on tone alone. Not something one could just guess their way through.

He felt the panic rising, curling its sharp fingers around his throat. His pace slowed as they approached the doors, suddenly unsure, fumbling his way through lessons meant for someone who belonged here. He’d never belonged...he had just arrived here; how could they expect him to know everything?

But he couldn’t tell them that he was basically brought from the demon realm, the place all demons hated with all their might.

"Shouldn’t she—shouldn’t she teach it first?" Cassian muttered, almost to himself. "I mean, it’d make more sense to go over the basics instead of dropping a test on us like we’re fluent scholars..."

He trailed off when Veyce glanced at him sidelong.

"You think logic applies here?" The demon said dryly, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. "She probably assumes you’ve been studying. After all..." His lips curled faintly. "We are the chosen candidates from our houses, who should have been trained from birth."

Cassian gave him a look. "Not helping."

"Didn’t say I was trying to."

Before he could muster a retort, the doors creaked open in front of them. A cool rush of air from inside carried the faint scent of incense and ink—calming, in theory. But Cassian’s spine went rigid as soon as he crossed the threshold.

The etiquette hall was cavernous and circular, bathed in muted golden light that filtered through latticed windows. Cushions lined the floor in a perfect semi-circle, each embroidered with the royal crest. At the far end, near a scroll-laden desk, stood the instructor—her tall form wrapped in stiff indigo robes, eyes already fixed on the late arrivals.

Her voice cracked through the silence like a whip. "Both of you are late."

Cassian flinched. He hadn’t even made it to his seat yet.

The instructor’s tone held no malice—just an exhausted disdain, the kind honed over decades of dealing with disappointing students. "If you show this kind of behavior in the Concubine Hall," she continued, lifting a single pale brow, "you’ll be cast out in minutes and bring disgrace to your house before you even kneel for the first bow."

Cassian opened his mouth, heart thudding, throat dry.

But beside him, Veyce shifted, barely a breath of movement. His eyes flicked to the instructor, and then he rolled them skyward very subtly, very silently, and muttered under his breath, "It’s not like we’re late... You just came early."

He didn’t say it loud enough to be heard.

But Cassian heard it. Clear as bells.

And for the briefest moment, all that pressure clamped tight around his chest loosened.

His lips twitched. Then curved upward—just slightly, but genuinely.

He ducked his head quickly, hiding the smile as he stepped forward and murmured, "Apologies, Instructor. It won’t happen again."

Veyce offered no such humble words. He simply followed Cassian’s lead and sank into his cushion, spine as straight as ever, face unreadable.

Cassian sat calmly , though his nerves felt anything but graceful. His gaze flicked up toward the scrolls displayed at the front, then to the intricate glyphs inked onto the massive blackboard behind the instructor.

Demon court language.

He didn’t recognize a single line.

The words blurred together, foreign and ancient, and his stomach sank like a stone. This is a mistake, he thought, pulse thudding.

She was going to ask questions, wasn’t she? Maybe pull him up to recite a passage. Maybe...

"Today," the instructor began, turning sharply toward the board, "we will begin with the primary forms of address used during consort negotiations—phrases that will appear in the royal binding contracts and during formal declarations of intent. You are expected to memorize each and understand the nuance behind their use."

Cassian swallowed.

Begin. She said, Begin. Not test.

The relief that poured through him was so sudden it left him light-headed.

Veyce shifted beside him, one hand already ready to pull out a notepad and a quill. Cassian did the same, if a bit slower and more clumsy. His fingers were still shaking.

But for once... he wasn’t entirely lost. He thought today his mood would be entirely ruined, or worse, he would start questioning his ability...which he did not want to at all.

Now his only focus was on wanting to do good in everything, whether it was fighting or court politics.

Cassian took a breath and forced his focus onto the glyphs being scribbled across the board. His hand moved slowly, mimicking the instructor’s strokes, trying to make sense of the elegant yet brutal script. Each character felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit...beautiful, strange, and loaded with meanings he didn’t yet understand.

He wanted to learn it. God, he needed to. If he was ever going to stand beside Dorian—not just as a pretty face or a worthless human, but as someone who was equal to him...then this language, this culture, this place...it had to become his too.

Cassian bent low over his notepad, brows furrowed as he copied the glyphs stroke by stroke.

His handwriting wasn’t flawless, but it was graceful in a strange way—fluid, sharp at the edges, and too precise for someone still learning.

Veyce had already filled half his page. Cassian had barely made it through three lines.

Still, he pressed on.

Somewhere in the back of the room, the instructor paced, muttering something about tonal inflections and ceremonial phrasing. The other two also scribbled in silence, quills scratching softly against parchment like a lullaby of discipline.

And then...

Silence.

Cassian looked up.

The instructor had stopped walking. Her eyes were locked on his parchment. Not even blinking.

He followed her gaze, confused, his quill hovering midair.

Then, barely audible, the whisper slipped from her lips.

"...Impossible."

Cassian blinked. "Pardon?"

But she didn’t answer him.

Her fingers trembled as she stepped closer, eyes narrowed now, scanning the loops and slashes of his writing as if she were seeing a ghost.

"No," she whispered again, and this time her voice cracked.

Something cold crept through Cassian’s spine.

"Lady?" he asked, uncertain.

But the instructor didn’t seem to hear him. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard, color draining from her face.

As if she had seen this handwriting before. Not in a student’s notebook.

But in a record... A signature penned in blood. A name erased from history.

Cassian’s hand clenched reflexively around his quill.

"What is it?" Veyce asked from beside him, brow furrowed.

The instructor slowly lifted her gaze to Cassian. And then, with a voice barely steady, she said:

"Where did you learn to write like that?"