The Cursed Extra-Chapter 58: [2.6] Our Carriage Looks Like a Funeral Procession at a Wedding

"First impressions matter. Which is why mine is going to be terrible on purpose."

***

Our carriage crested the final hill.

The academy sprawled before us in impossible grandeur. A monument to concentrated power and architectural excess that made even the Leone estate’s faded majesty seem quaint by comparison.

The wheels of our modest conveyance groaned as they rolled over worn cobblestones. Each rotation carried us closer to what the original novel had described as "the crucible where Aethelgard’s future was forged."

Four towers pierced the sky like spears thrust into the heavens. Each one a monument to its respective House. Each one a declaration of dominance written in stone and magic.

The Sunstone Spire of House Aurum caught the morning light and threw it back in golden cascades. White marble walls seemed to glow from within. The entire structure radiated warmth and power. Even from this distance, I could see intricate filigree work that traced patterns of lions and suns across every visible surface.

Anor Londo before the fall, I thought, watching the light dance across those perfect stones. All that beauty built on the bones of the forgotten. All that radiance casting very convenient shadows where things like me can learn to hide.

To the east, House Argent’s Lyceum twisted upward in elegant spirals of silver and blue. Crystalline windows refracted rainbow patterns across the grounds below. The building itself seemed designed for conspiracy. All hidden angles and reflective surfaces. Balconies that jutted out at odd intervals, perfect for whispered conversations.

House Vermillion’s Obsidian Manor crouched in shadow despite the bright morning. Black stone drank in light like a predator in wait. Mist wreathed the structure with no earthly reason to exist in mid-summer. Weirwood trees surrounded it like sentinels. Pale bark and blood-red leaves created a barrier that felt more psychological than physical.

And there, set apart like a fortress preparing for siege, stood the West Bastion. House Onyx’s domain. Charcoal grey and dull bronze. Solid. Functional. Utterly devoid of the artistry that defined the others.

It squatted on the academy’s western edge with grim acceptance. A structure that had long since given up on being loved.

Home sweet home. The dumping ground. The afterthought.

Perfect.

Waterfalls of pure mana cascaded down the academy’s central spire. Liquid magic glowed with ethereal blue-white radiance as it fed into pools that pulsed with rhythmic light. Students and faculty moved across floating bridges. Robes billowed in winds that carried whispers of ancient magic and the faint scent of ozone mixed with jasmine.

The entire scene looked like something ripped from a fantasy novel’s most indulgent cover illustration.

Which, of course, it was.

Our modest carriage looked like a funeral procession arriving at a wedding. The leather of our seats was cracked in places. The brass fittings had long since lost their shine despite Lyra’s polishing.

Ahead, Leo’s golden carriage rolled through the main gates to actual cheers. Because of course it was literally golden. The protagonist never did anything by halves.

Servants in pristine livery rushed to attend him like he was visiting royalty. The crowd parted for him with smooth automaticity. Faces turned toward his radiant presence like flowers following the sun.

Behind him, Lucius arrived in a sleek black vehicle that drew respectful nods. The carriage was new. Paint gleaming without a single scratch. Its silver serpent emblem caught the light with each turn of its wheels.

His carriage bore House Argent’s insignia now. A declaration of new allegiance that probably burned Father’s pride like acid on an open wound.

Then came us.

"Master," Lyra murmured. Her voice was barely audible over the clatter of our wheels. Her red eyes remained fixed on the window, cataloging the crowd with the intensity of a hawk surveying a field of mice. "The stares."

She was right.

Every eye tracked our approach. Not with curiosity or welcome. With that particular expression aristocrats reserved for measuring the distance between themselves and failure.

I could see them calculating. Weighing our worth against the currency of their attention and finding us wanting.

Our carriage’s worn leather and modest brass marked us clearly. "Declining house." "Charity case." "Probably shouldn’t even be here."

I felt their gazes like physical pressure. Cataloging every scuff mark. Every outdated design element. Every visible sign of our reduced circumstances. The way the wheel squeaked on every third rotation. The slight list to the left where a spring had begun to weaken.

"Let them look," I said quietly. I maintained my slumped posture. My downcast eyes. The subtle tremor in my hands that suggested chronic nervousness. "They see exactly what I want them to see."

Through the window, I activated [Narrative Appraisal] and cataloged the crowd with detached focus.

Students clustered in obvious hierarchies. House Aurum’s golden children surrounded Leo like planets orbiting a sun. Uniforms immaculate. Postures radiating the kind of confidence that came from never once being told they were insufficient.

House Argent’s minds formed tight discussion groups. Already networking. Already scheming. Silver-trimmed uniforms caught the light as they leaned in to share whispers and knowing glances. I could practically see information changing hands. Favors being promised. Debts being incurred in real time.

House Vermillion’s ancient bloodlines maintained aloof distance. Watching everything with patient superiority. Their crimson accents seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. They moved with the unhurried grace of people who measured time in generations rather than semesters.

And there, scattered throughout like afterthoughts, the members of House Onyx.

They stood apart even from each other. United only by their shared status as unwanted.

Some bore the hollow look of fallen nobility. Fine features marked by quiet desperation. Clothes of good quality but dated fashion. Remnants of better days that had slipped through their families’ fingers.

Others had the hungry gaze of commoners who’d clawed their way up only to discover they still weren’t welcome at the table. New uniforms sat awkwardly on frames more accustomed to practical clothing.

A few carried themselves with brittle defiance. Chins raised. Shoulders squared. Daring the world to mock them one more time.

My people.

Whether they knew it yet or not.