The silver pendant thrummed, vibrating with the same mechanical rhythm that beat beneath the flagstones. Mila adjusted her grip on the chain, her thumb tracing the filigree as silver light bled across her knuckles. Anka stepped closer, a hand on her sword hilt. Stasiek, for once, looked less eager to conjure fire and more... perplexed. They stood in the training yard, the last vestiges of twilight clinging to the academy spires, the air thick with anticipation. The courtyard carried the cold tang of iron and wet stone. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Institute’s newest ‘heroes’,” a sneering voice cut through the tense quiet. The young heir to House Orlov, flanked by his usual sycophants, strode into the yard. Behind him, a much older man, impeccably dressed in a fur-trimmed velesht, his face etched with sharp angles and an even sharper disdain, surveyed them. This was Borislav, patriarch of the clan, an imperial magistrate whose influence was rumored to span half the province. The boy stopped a few paces away, his gaze flicking from Anka’s reforged armor to Stasiek’s faintly glowing hand, then to Mila, still holding the silver keepsake. “What’s this, then? Found some new trinkets, F-ranks? Or did your mysterious sponsor bless you with more of his… *special* vitamins?” His voice carried across the terrace, drawing the attention of peers lingering nearby. Anka’s grip settled firmly over her crossguard. “Orlov,” she said, her voice steady. “Clear out before you get trampled.” The magistrate chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Foolishness? No, young knight. My son speaks only the truth. You three, known failures, suddenly leaping to competence? It’s an insult to every hardworking applicant here.” He swept his gaze across the gathering crowd, his voice rising, imbued with the practiced cadence of a public speaker. “The Hero System rewards merit, not backdoor deals! Not… unholy pacts with unknown entities!” Whispers erupted among the onlookers. The word ‘cheat’ began to circulate. Anka felt a familiar heat rise, not of shame, but of fury. She had trained, she had bled, she had *struggled*. And Zoryan, in his own strange way, had given her the means to succeed. Not a cheat, but a chance. The arrogant duelist, emboldened by his father’s support and the murmuring crowd, took another step forward. “Admit it, Volkov! Your little ‘friend’ is a fraud, a charlatan empowering you with dark arts. You don’t deserve your victory. You don’t deserve to be here!” He pointed a finger at her, his face twisted in a smug sneer. Anka looked him dead in the eye. The memory of him tripping her, of her armor clattering uselessly, of the laughter, flashed in her mind. But it wasn’t her old self, the clumsy F-rank. It was Anka, the Shield of Veles, the one who bore a shard of something ancient in her very essence. She moved. Not with the frantic, flailing motions of old, but with a fluid, terrifying grace. One moment, the boy was sneering; the next, Anka closed the gap. Her left hand, open, slapped his pointing finger aside with a sharp crack. Her right hand, a steel blur, plucked his ornate ceremonial dagger from its sheath at his hip before he even registered the touch. He stumbled back, mouth dropping open. “What–?!” the duelist stammered, his skin draining of color. Before he could regain his balance, Anka’s foot swept out, a low, precise arc that caught him behind the knees. He went down hard, a humiliated grunt escaping his lips as his armor rattled against the cobblestones. The dagger, a gleaming arc of silver, twirled in her fingers before she plunged its tip into the ground right beside his ear, pinning him where he lay, face pressed into the dirt. [ANNOUNCEMENT: ANKA VOLKOV HAS ACHIEVED RANK C! NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: ‘IRON GRACE’] [ANNOUNCEMENT: ANKA VOLKOV HAS ACHIEVED RANK B! NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: ‘SHIELD DANCE’] The glowing blue frames drifted like pollen, ignored by everyone except the spectators who backed away in disbelief. Anka stood over Kazimir, breathing steadily, her gaze unwavering. She hadn’t broken a sweat. There was no triumph in her expression, only a quiet, resolute satisfaction. The magistrate turned a mottled purple. “You… you dare?!” he roared, lunging forward as his fingers clawed beneath his velesht. Just then, a familiar, slightly bored voice drifted into the yard. “Ah, good. You’re all gathered. I assume you’ve finished your pre-match stretches?” Zoryan Veles strolled in, a teacup balanced precariously in his hand. He took a sip, oblivious to the tableau of the prone Kazimir, the furious Senator, and the stunned crowd. “The automaton should be here any moment. It tends to be rather punctual when it’s purging continents.” Borislav froze, glaring at Zoryan. He drew a metallic medallion from beneath his robes—an identical twin to the one Mila still held, though this one pulsed with a dull, malevolent crimson. “You,” the magistrate hissed. “You’re the one who tinkers with forces beyond your understanding.” Mila pulled her pendant against her collarbone. Borislav sneered, hoisting his crimson talisman aloft. “This, boy, is the true key. A relic passed down through generations. A control mechanism for the ancient colossi of this world. I know of the titan. And I intend to put it to its rightful use.” He looked at Zoryan, a triumphant glint in his eyes. “It will serve *me*.” Zoryan merely blinked. “Ah, yes. The fetch-toy. Rather useless for its intended purpose, I’m afraid. Unless you’re trying to impress a particularly dim-witted griffin.” He took another sip of tea, completely unconcerned. The magistrate scoffed, raising his talisman higher as its crimson sheen flared into the sky, answering the bass drone vibrating the flagstones. “Silent Colossus! Hear my command! Submit to House Orlov! Recognize your true master!” The thrum intensified, vibrating through the bones of every living thing in the courtyard. The air crackled. A shadow, vast and monolithic, fell across the academy. The monolithic figure, an impossibly tall titan of ancient, moss-covered stone, descended from the darkened sky, its core burning through weathered granite. It landed with a tremor that shook the very foundations of the Institute. Borislav, his face drawn tight in triumph, thrust his medallion forward. “Colossus! I command you! Purge these anomalies! Purge this entire, pathetic academy! Serve your master!” The entity's twin lenses scanned the courtyard. They passed over Borislav without lingering, treating him like dust on the flagstones. They swept past the spectators, past the boy pinned in the dirt, past Zoryan, who merely raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity. And then, its gaze settled on Anka, Stasiek, and Mila. On the three figures standing together, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. The silver heirloom in Mila’s hand chimed, harmonizing with the titan’s core. The harsh glare within its optical sockets softened, turning to a deep, resonant amber. Its colossal stone head lowered, slowly, deliberately, until it bowed before them. Its voice, a deep, rumbling chord that resonated not in the ears but in the soul, echoed across the silent, awestruck courtyard. “Heirs recognized. Protocol transferred. Awaiting command.”

A Humiliation in Three Acts