Chapter 6 Nikolaj
Nikolaj
He breaks when I push.
Not with fists, or with rage; Vincenzo Vieri doesn’t crack the way other heirs do.
He’s not built for tantrums or shouted threats thrown across the room like glass.
No, he fractures in silence—jaw clenched, eyes on fire, blood simmering under that perfectly tailored skin until it boils.
Until he loses control. Until I get to see what he really is beneath the Vieri polish.
Underneath the silk and silver and silent commands, he’s chaos barely chained. And I want to watch those fucking chains snap.
I don’t look at him as we walk side by side down the marble hallway, toward the headmistress’s office. I can feel him, though. He’s trying to hold on to that mask, but I already peeled an edge loose. Next time, I’ll rip it clean off.
There’s dried blood on my shirt from where his knuckles split open against my jaw.
My mouth tastes like iron and pride, and I haven’t stopped smiling since he hit me.
He doesn’t know how much I like this—how every punch he throws, and every curse he spits, is proof that I’m inside him now.
Deep enough to linger. Deep enough to fester.
The double doors loom ahead, black oak with iron hinges. Vintermoor doesn’t do offices the way normal institutions do. There’s no carpet, no pastel-painted walls with shelves of books and framed diplomas.
No, this place treats leadership like a throne room. And the woman waiting behind that desk isn’t a teacher; she’s the fucking executioner.
Cecilia Mavre—The Knife of Naxos. Mercenary.
A legend among killers. The kind of woman both mobs and governments paid in diamonds and silence.
When she retired, she didn’t fade into obscurity; she came here, built this place on the bones of her reputation, and molded it into neutral ground. A fortress disguised as an academy.
The guards open the doors with a quiet nod, and we step into the room without a word. It’s cold in here—the kind of cold that eats through bone and memory. Tall stained-glass windows line the far wall, frost already blooming along the edges, and the air smells like ash and old books.
Headmistress Mavre stands behind her desk, black robes flowing to the floor, her hair coiled into a crown of silver braids.
She doesn’t speak at first as she looks at us.
Eyes like obsidian, sharp enough to peel skin and scan the damage with surgical precision.
She sees the blood, the bruises, and feels the tension vibrating off our bodies like static before a lightning strike.
When she finally speaks, her voice is as smooth as polished marble and twice as unforgiving. “Vieri. Dragovich.”
Even our names sound like threats when she says them.
“You’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and I’m already getting reports of blood on my floors.”
Vincenzo’s jaw tightens, his voice controlled to the point of breaking. “He provoked me.”
“I encouraged you,” I correct. “Big difference.”
Cecilia’s gaze flicks to me, unimpressed. “And yet you’re both still standing. That’s either restraint or incompetence—I haven’t decided which.”
For a split second, I swear I see the glimmer of the woman she used to be. The mercenary. The strategist. The one who taught an entire generation of heirs how to wage war without getting their hands dirty.
“Tell me,” she says after a beat, walking around the desk slowly. “What part of ‘do not draw weapons in a sanctioned simulation’ escaped your understanding?”
I open my mouth to answer. She slices the air with a hand, and I snap it shut.
“Don’t. You’ll have your moment, Dragovich.” She stops in front of Vincenzo, who stands taller, chin tilted, trying to wear that same royal disdain he always does. But she’s not impressed by either of us or our bloodlines and reputations.
“Mr. Vieri,” she says softly, almost gently, “your father paid for a wing of this school. Not for me to excuse your behavior.”
“I wasn’t the only one who brought a knife,” he replies, voice even, cold. “I only defended myself.”
“Defended,” she repeats, lifting a brow. “You pinned him to a wall and threatened to break his jaw.”
“He insulted my brother.”
“Did he?” she asks, turning to me. “Mr. Dragovich?”
I smile and shrug. “I might have mentioned the traitor twin.”
“You also broke his nose,” she adds.
“He bleeds pretty.”
Her hand moves fast as she grabs my chin and lifts it, fingers like iron. I don’t jerk away, I just keep grinning. “You’re not charming,” she murmurs. “You’re not dangerous in here; you’re just another boy with a knife and a death wish.”
“Does that make you my guardian angel?”
“No,” she says. “It makes me your last chance.”
She releases me and steps back. “You boys don’t seem to understand where you are.
This isn’t a playground, it’s a proving ground.
Every step you take here is watched, and every mistake is marked.
You think you’re important because of your names, but this academy doesn’t bend to bloodlines.
You bleed here, you bleed under my rules.
No killing on campus. No assassinations, no sabotage, no disappearances.
This is neutral ground. You settle your scores after graduation, or you settle them in my arena under sanctioned conditions. ”
Her eyes narrow on me. “Do you understand, Dragovich?”
I grin wider, because defiance is the only thing that feels like breathing right now. “Perfectly, ma’am.”
“Good.” She turns her attention back to Vincenzo. “And you, Vieri? Are you clear on the rules?”
His voice is steady, but I see the tension coiling under his skin. “Crystal.”
Mavre nods. “Your fathers once stood in this same office, bleeding from each other’s knives. The only reason either of you exist is because I put a bullet in the wall instead of their skulls.” She pauses, letting the silence choke the room. “Don’t make me regret that mercy.”
We both watch her as she walks to the wall behind her desk and pulls a panel aside, revealing a black steel box embedded in the stone. She presses her palm to it. There’s a hiss, then a click, and the door swings open.
Inside is a brand with the iron rod glowing faint red at the end. A symbol carved into the metal—three intersecting daggers inside a circle of thorns.
I stop smiling. For once, I don’t have a smart remark. Vincenzo doesn’t either.
Mavre turns to us, holding the brand with a gloved hand.
“Vintermoor has three warnings,” she says. “Three marks. After that, you’re done. Exiled with no protection, no graduation, and no empire waiting at the end. Just a one-way ticket home and the knowledge that you failed in front of every family who mattered.”
I clench my fists.
She gestures to Vincenzo first, and he steps forward without arguing. He doesn’t ask for leniency as he peels back the sleeve of his right arm. The brand hisses as it touches skin, and he doesn’t scream, but I hear the breath leave him.
When it’s my turn, I don’t hesitate. I step forward, unroll my sleeve, and meet her eyes. “Make it count.”
The heat punches through flesh and sears straight to the bone. I see white for a second. My body jerks once, but I don’t cry out. When it’s done, she places the brand back into its case and closes it. The room smells of burned meat and metal.
“One mark,” she says. “That’s all you get without consequence. Two, and you’ll be monitored. Three, and you’re gone.”
We don’t respond because we already know what three marks mean, and it’s not just a one-way ticket home—death, if we’re lucky. Exile, if we’re not.
She returns to her desk and folds her hands. “You will return to class. You will not speak to each other, and you will keep your blades sheathed. If you cannot, you will not survive here.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
Vincenzo echoes me, barely audible, and we leave without another word.
The hallway is colder now, the brand is still burning under my skin. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his presence beside me; tight and bitter, rage simmering under every perfect inch of him.
“Don’t say it,” he mutters.
I tilt my head. “Say what?”
“Whatever smart-ass comment you’re dying to make.”
I smirk, but keep my eyes forward. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good.”
“She likes you,” I say anyway.
He cuts me a sharp look. “She liked my father. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I murmur, slowing my steps just enough to catch his gaze. “Back when she was still taking contracts. Word is, she saved his life once.”
Vincenzo’s eyes narrow. “You know a lot of things you shouldn’t.”
“That’s kind of my specialty.”
He stops walking, turning to face me fully. The hall is empty now, shadows stretching long between the pillars. “Then here’s something you should know, Dragovich,” he says, the timbre of his voice dangerous. “People who dig into my family history tend to disappear.”
I smirk, leaning in just enough that he can feel the heat of my breath when I whisper, “Guess you’ll have to keep me close, then.”
His nostrils flare as he steps back and walks away again, likely before he does something he’ll regret. I want him to regret me, so I let the silence stretch just long enough to bait him. Then I add, “You know… it was worth it.”
He stops walking again, and he turns, eyes like gunmetal. “What?”
I take a step closer, close enough that he can feel it. The heat. The brand. The war that I’m still daring him to finish.
“That look on your face,” I mutter. “When you realized you were about to lose control? When you thought I was going to win?” I lean in. “I’d get branded a dozen times just to see that again.”
His hand twitches as if he wants to hit me. Instead, he turns and walks away.
And that means I’m winning.