ShadowBound: The Need For Power

No sooner had Serah left her father's study than she'd made her way to the front gates of the royal estate, summoning a carriage for herself and setting off toward the Crimson Knight Academy in Ilios.

She now sat comfortably inside a sleek black carriage adorned with elegant gold designs, drawn by two imposing black stallions. At the helm sat a middle-aged coachman, reins in hand, guiding the horses at a steady pace through the city of Ilis and onward toward its twin, Ilios. Serah lounged back into the velvet-cushioned seat, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, her gaze fixed outside the window, following the blur of people and buildings as they passed.

'From the way he reacted, I'm pretty sure he believed me,' she mused, her expression unreadable as her eyes remained out the window.

Her father had expected a report the moment she returned, and she'd known he'd probe about the blood demon encounter. He always did. She had considered several lies beforehand—plausible ones—but truth be told, Tharion was an annoyingly difficult man to deceive... or at least, that's what he liked to believe.

For Serah, hiding the truth from her father came as naturally as breathing or drinking water. King Tharion had one fatal flaw—his pride. If his ears caught wind of something that pleased them or aligned with his assumptions, then he could be bought with words alone.

She had seen the unknown dark mage's face clearly. And more than that, she knew his name and age because the idiot had blurted it out during their brief chaos. She still wasn't even sure if he'd been serious or just messing with her, but regardless, she remembered.

Marcus. That was the name.

However, Serah had crafted a report that was half-truth, laced with a few strategic tweaks that erased Marcus from the narrative completely.

It had worked better than expected—smoother, even. Far less trouble than she'd prepared for.

Even if she had told the entire truth—that she'd fought the demon alongside a dark mage, that his name was Marcus, that he had told her of two kinds of Blood Demons—her father's reaction would've been predictable.

"A dark mage is still a dark mage," she could almost hear him say.

"Nothing can change that old man's mind," Serah muttered, leaning back fully into the seat now, arms folding beneath her chest.

'I need to find that insufferable bastard,' she thought with a slight scowl. Her thoughts drifted back to Marcus. 'Now that I think about it... when he does tell me about Purebloods, how the hell do I pass that to the rest of the kingdom? I can't just say a dark mage gave me intel. They'd think I was either compromised or delusional—and Father, he'd start probing deeper into things I don't even fully know myself.'

"Ugh," she groaned, rolling her eyes with an annoyed shake of her head. "I guess I'll just have to come up with something later."

Her expression sharpened into something between exasperation and amusement.

"For now… time to deal with that loverboy brother of mine."

***

The moment the carriage wheels creaked over the stone bridge linking Ilis to Ilios, Serah straightened her posture, reaching up to brush a loose strand of red hair from her face. The spires of the Crimson Knight Academy rose ahead like jagged blades of polished marble, catching the glare of the noonday sun. Tall, proud banners bearing the academy's crimson insignia swayed lazily in the wind—honor, valor, strength. All those polished virtues they hammered into recruits like verses in a war hymn, etched in sweat and bruises.

But Serah wasn't here for the grand ideals.

She was here for her idiot brother.

As the carriage rolled to a gradual stop in the outer courtyard, her crimson gaze scanned the familiar scene beyond the windows. Students in black and red uniforms moved like a disciplined swarm across the field—some engaged in sparring, others yelling, some laughing like fools between blows, most of them bloodied in one way or another. They were all putting on performances. Whether it was for instructors, for their comrades, or for themselves, they played the part.

Serah's eyes narrowed, not with contempt, but with the practiced precision of someone searching for something—or someone. She found him quickly.

Galen.

Her dear little brother stood leaned back against a marble column, posture relaxed, uniform shirt only half-buttoned like rules didn't apply to him. Both hands were stuffed casually in his pockets as two girls clung to his every word, giggling like they'd stumbled into the middle of a fairytale. Which, technically, they had. He was royalty. With a flick of his snowy white hair and a grin sharp enough to start fires, Galen looked like he was deep into one of his exaggerated tales—probably involving a wyvern, a cliff, a dagger, and his own devastating charm.

Serah stepped down from the carriage without hesitation, every step crisp, every movement smooth—royal but dangerous. And, more importantly, pissed.

She didn't waste time with greetings.

"Well, if it isn't Lord Lips himself," she called out, loud enough to cut through the hum of courtyard noise.

Galen froze like someone had yanked his soul straight out of his body. The girls turned, one blinking in confusion while the other tried—and failed—not to laugh.

Galen slowly looked over his shoulder, wearing the exact expression of a guilty cat caught mid-heist.

"Serah. What a... shocking delight," he said, flashing a grin that screamed: please don't kill me in public.

She gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. "Still haven't figured out what buttons are for, huh?"

"I was testing airflow efficiency," Galen replied smoothly. "Strategic ventilation."

Serah's eyes rolled so hard they nearly hit the back of her skull. She marched up and jabbed a gloved finger into his chest.

"Strategic stupidity. You're gonna catch a sword to the lung—or a cold. Whichever works faster."

One of the girls cleared her throat, her cheeks pink. She bowed respectfully. "Princess Serah."

Serah gave her a small, tight smile. "Go hydrate."

That was all it took. The girls scattered like startled birds, grateful for the excuse to flee.

Serah turned her attention back to her brother, her expression softening—barely. "You do realize Father's going to combust if he finds out you're flirting your way through basic training."

Galen lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Charm's a weapon like any other. I just make sure all mine stay sharp." He paused, then smirked. "Besides, we both know I'm way above all this training nonsense."

Serah let out an audible groan and smacked him lightly on the forehead with the back of her hand.

"Just because you're naturally gifted doesn't mean you get a free pass to slack off and seduce half the academy."

"Ow," he said, rubbing his head with a smirk. "Still your way of saying I missed you, huh?"

"Why would I miss you when Tharionson's around to keep me entertained?" she shot back with a daring grin.

Galen clutched his chest in mock betrayal. "Wow. Betrayed in daylight. Abandoned by my own flesh and blood."

They began walking side by side toward the carriage, Serah's smirk refusing to fade.

"You're so dramatic," she said, shaking her head with a quiet chuckle.

"Dramatic?" Galen gave her a sidelong glare. "You just disowned your one and only brother in broad daylight."

"Disowned?" she repeated, raising a brow. "Really, Galen?"

"Yes, really," he said as the carriage door was opened for them.

The siblings stepped inside, still trading exaggerated looks and snide comments as the door closed behind them, sealing the rest of the world out for a little while longer.