	Arquinsiel stood in front of his father's desk, head bowed, arms rigid by his sides. He could feel his face burning, showing plainly the full extent of his embarrassment, his shame. His failure. His back still ached from his fall, and in the morning his joints complained with fire everytime he tried to move. And that fall, indirectly, was the reason he was here. His father had summoned him for an audience in his study to discuss the matter of Arquinsiel's dismal peformance at the flight school, his dramatic fall from the flight deck being seen as the final proof needed for his unsuitability for the arial wing of the council's armed forces and gronds for his expulsion.
	He resisted the urge to let his eyes wander around his father's office, a room filled with lavish furnishings and years worth of trophies, reports and other sundry items aquired during his father's long service to the household. And through the household, the council of six.
	At length his father looked up from the report he was reading. 	"So," he said, "Unable to deal with heights are you?" Arquinsiel remained silent, knowing the answer to that question would infuriate his father more. "Well, I am sure you know what position this puts me in." He paused, looked back at the report, folded it carefully and put it inside a ledger. Then he stood and looked back at Arquinsiel. 
	"I am equally sure that I do not have to explain the full ramifications of your failure..." he let the word hang in the air between them for a moment, watching it sink in, before turning and walking to a shelf on his right. He picked up an object, a bridle, turning it in his hands. 	
"Do you see this? This was my first Wyvern bridle. It is almost three hundred years old. It was given to me on the day I joined the Sky Riders, by my father," He turned it in his hands slowly. "Do you know that you will be the only first son of this house in almost four milennia to fail to become a Sky Rider? Of course you do. Our family has a long history, nay, tradition," he stressed the word, shaking the bridle for emphasis  "of serving the Council in the skys above it's armies. On both wyvern- or dragon-back. And you, son, have broken that tradition." 
	He stopped. Closing his eyes for a moment. Replacing his momento on the shelf he turned again to face his son. "But, all is not lost just yet. You are to be taken into the Field Officer's Academy, where you shall learn to command the ground troops of the council. You leave in the morning.  Do you understand?"
	"I believe I do sir," Arquinsiel replied carefully.
	"Good," his father continued. "And, to aid you in this endevour I have provided you with a parting gift," he indicated the long mahogany box on his desk. "Open it."
	Arquinsiel reached in front of him and lifted the box. Cradling it gently with one arm he opened the lid with his free hand. The inside was lined in red velvet. And on the velvet rested a blade scabbarded in the sheathe of the officer's school.
 	"Draw it," his father commanded. He did so, replacing the box on the desk carefully beforehand. The blade slid smoothly from the scabbard. It was about four feet in length, and shone brightly even in the dim light of the room. Perfectly straight, as Arquinsiel prefered, disdaining the loosely welded barbs favoured by others his age or the serrations of his father's generation.
	"The blade and is pure mithral," his father said, breaking Arquinsiel's rapt examination of his reflection in it "the hilt, pommel and quillions hardened black-steel, the grip finest wyvern-scale and the gemstones in the hilt moonstone from the far east. I do not need to impress upon you the cost of such a weapon," he raised an eyebrow slightly. "I expect you to use it well, and to redeem the family name as best is possible given the circumstances."
	"I will do my very best, father," he relied.
	"Good. Now go and ready yourself to leave in the morning. You will be collected at dawn."
	It was seven months later. Arquinsiel again stood in front of his father's desk. He had used his blade well, far better than any of his classmates. His grasp of strategy and tactics was barely adequate, far short of anything special. In short, he was competant but not remarkable. His temper, however, was not so finely controlled. He has killed one of his peers. Ordinarily this was not an issue, conditions were tough at the Academy, and fatalities through training, dueling and plain old murder were expected and sometimes applauded. However, the student Arquinsiel has been the first son of a higher house. A house which already bore a grudge against his. He was again cast out.
	"I do not wish to know why the duel happened," his father said, "or any of the other details of this sordid little affair. I do not even wish to dwell upon the shame which you have brought to this house. I wish only to give you this," He raised the box which had been on his lap. It was identical to the previous one. Arquinsiel's eyes widened in shock. He had not expected this.
	"I see from your reaction that you are aware of what this means." Arquinsiel certainly did. To wear two blades was a sign of greatest lack of regard for honour, a sign of a willingness to resort to the basest of tactics to succede. Few dared to do it openly, although most carried at least a knife in addition to their sword. To be presented with this could mean only one thing: Arquinsiel was to attend the Shadow School. 
	"You see, you are too great a disgrace to the family to be allowed to stay. It will be circulated that I had you executed for you failure in a most painful manner. A battered corpse will be hung from above our gates. All will think you dead. And no, it is not a myth, although the masters do like to encourage that line of thinking. You will train in the Shadow School and return after you have completed your time there. You will then assume a commoner's name, have your features altered and have your loyalty guarenteed with magic. Then you might serve the family in the capacity of spy or assassin as we see fit. Take the sword and leave. You will be collected whenever the masters deem most appropriate."
	Arquinsiel did as he was bade. As he stood in the hallway outside his father's study he affixed his new blade onto the right side of his belt. It matched his old blade perfectly. He dropped the case casually onto the ground. At a time when his life was falling apart, when all his dreams had shattered, when his mind should be reeling with the shock of it's future prospects being so curtailed all he could think about was the simple act of adding a second blade to his belt. 
	And how nothing else had ever felt so right.....