He floated in darkness shot through with burning light, flashes so bright they left afterimages across his closed eyes. He saw fragments of the battle: claws lashing, teeth snapping, his blade cutting through smoke and shadow.

He heard the echo of a voice not his own, deep and terrible, promising power in exchange for surrender. He felt the heat in his veins, scorching, splitting him apart from the inside.

And through it all, warmth pressed at the edges. The faint touch of hands he knew, familiar, gentle, refusing to let him slip. He clung to that warmth as though it were the only real thing left.

xxxx

Far from the ruin of the academy, the throne room was lit with gold. The morning sun poured through windows tall enough to dwarf men, its light glinting off polished marble floors.

Banners embroidered with the royal crest hung in dignified symmetry along the walls, their crimson fabric untouched by smoke or ash.

Where the academy stank of blood and ruin, here the air carried only the faint perfume of flowers imported from distant provinces.

Courtiers gathered in measured ranks, their silks crisp, their faces polished into masks of composure. Behind those masks, curiosity and hunger simmered.

News of the shadow general's defeat had spread fast, but stories changed depending on the mouth that told them. Here, in the throne room, truth mattered less than which version of the tale the court chose to believe.

The war outside the academy had become politics here, and it was politics that would decide how the story was remembered.

At the center of it all stood Sun. The prince's posture was perfectly straight, his hands folded with practiced calm.

When he spoke, his voice carried easily across the chamber, measured and resonant, each syllable sharpened by intent.

"The shadow general's attack was sudden and devastating," Sun said, his tone calm but edged with authority. "But the academy did not fall because we held the line. I directed the wards, I maintained the order, I gave structure when panic threatened to undo us."

He paused, letting the words ripple outward before continuing. "Yes, Jae fought fiercely. No one denies his strength.

But strength without control is a danger to all. He disobeyed formation, disregarded coordination, and recklessly tore into the heart of the battle.

If not for the safeguards I ordered, the damage would have spread even further."

The courtiers nodded, some hesitant, others eager to align themselves with the prince's narrative. None missed the subtle balance in his phrasing.

He praised Jae enough not to seem envious, but undermined him enough to plant doubt. The boy was powerful, yes, but too wild to be trusted.

And where Jae's recklessness threatened, it was Sun's steady hand that preserved them.

The King listened silently from his throne, his face a mask carved from stone. Age and crown alike weighed heavily on his brow.

He leaned one hand on the throne's arm, eyes fixed on his son, but gave nothing away.

It was the Queen who rose first.

Draped in silks the color of deep crimson, the Queen's presence commanded the chamber without effort. Where Sun's authority was practiced, hers was instinctive.

Every noble eye followed her as she lifted her chin and swept her gaze across the hall.

"You showed composure and foresight, Sun," she said, her voice ringing clear. "That is what true command requires. The court should understand this clearly."

Her words settled over the room like a decree, undeniable in their weight.

Then her gaze sharpened as it turned to the assembled lords and ladies. "Do not be blinded by spectacle.

Jae's strike against the shadow general was desperation, not mastery. Without my son's steady hand, there would have been nothing left to save."

The room shifted subtly in her favor. Murmurs rose in agreement, courtiers eager to echo her certainty. The Queen's authority pressed as firmly as the weight of her crown, brooking no dissent.

A few lords exchanged uneasy glances, hesitant to let the boy's rumored heroics be erased so easily, but none raised open objection.

The King finally spoke, his voice deep, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of rulership. "The academy survived. That is what matters. But survival is not enough. Order must be restored, and discipline must be remembered. Sun, your account has been heard. Let it be known."

The words fell like a gavel strike. There was no mistaking the finality in them. The chamber held its breath, waiting for more, for mention of Jae, for acknowledgment of the boy who had unleashed fire that turned night into dawn. But nothing followed.

He did not refute his son's claims. He did not speak Jae's name. And in the silence that spread after his pronouncement, the version of events began to harden like cooling wax.

Each nod from a courtier, each whispered agreement, carved the narrative deeper: Sun the strategist, the savior of order. Jae, reckless, a loose torch that could set the kingdom aflame if left unchecked.

The courtiers shifted in their places, their silks whispering against marble. Some looked relieved, others calculating, a few still doubtful but unwilling to break the growing consensus.

The Queen's gaze swept the room once more, sharpening like a blade at anyone whose expression wavered. With her presence, resistance withered into silence.

The King leaned back against the throne, his heavy crown glinting in the golden light, and closed his eyes briefly. Whether it was weariness or acceptance was impossible to tell.

Sun bowed deeply, the motion perfect in its execution, before stepping back into the line of assembled nobles. His lips curved into the faintest smile, almost hidden, but not enough to escape the notice of those who watched for advantage.

The story of the battle was no longer in Jae's hands. It belonged to the court now, molded and twisted by power.

xxxx

The infirmary was quiet except for the occasional groan of the injured and the soft shuffle of healers moving between beds.