Chapter 609: Capital
Stone gave way to crystal.
From a distance, it looked like the spine of a fallen god—towers jutting into the heavens, some angular like blades, others coiled like the spirals of ancient runes. What began as a typical skyline of fortified walls and watchtowers soon unfolded into something far stranger. Gleaming pillars of translucent ore rose from the ground, interwoven with veins of blue mana-light that pulsed in slow rhythm, as if the city itself had a heartbeat.
Streets were alive with movement: spell-driven carts hummed past stone roads that reassembled themselves after every step, glowing faintly beneath the weight of enchantments. Children danced between floating lampposts that flickered with aetheric fire, their laughter mingling with the soft whir of automaton sentries patrolling the edges of the noble district.
And at the city's heart—neither a castle nor a cathedral—rose the Spiral Nexus.
Not built, but grown, the structure twisted skyward like a tree spun from glass and silver. Layers upon layers of platforms spun around its core, each suspended by leyline stabilizers, each reserved for a different order—mages, scholars, artificers, the elite. Here, gravity bent at the will of invention, and the very rules of reality folded to accommodate the ambitions of its residents.
But beneath that dazzling wonder, there was something else.
Crowded alleys nestled between old stone merchant halls, still untouched by progress. Their residents lived amidst the echoes of a time before the Empire's "Revolution of Arcanum." They watched the advancements above with eyes that knew awe and suspicion both—because magic had not come to all equally.
Just then, a voice cut through the ambient hum of enchantments and distant chatter.
"Waaah… So this is the capital."
It was not loud, yet it echoed with a kind of wonder only a newcomer could muster—unfiltered and earnest. The voice belonged to a young man seated inside a polished carriage, his face pressed just slightly against the crystal-pane window, eyes wide as they scanned the surreal skyline.
He didn't blink as a group of winged familiars soared above, trailing banners of animated ink. Nor did he flinch as a procession of spell-forged statues marched down a parallel road, each carrying the crest of one noble house or another. If anything, his curiosity only deepened.
"Isn't it dazzling?" he whispered, almost to himself.
From across the carriage, his attendant responded, a composed man dressed in sharp navy livery embroidered with the faint silhouette of a phoenix curling around a crescent moon. "Yes, young master. This is Arcania."
The young man leaned forward, fingers tapping absently on the glass. "It's… bigger than I imagined. Brighter, too. I thought cities smelled like ash and steel."
"Some still do," the attendant replied with a faint chuckle. "But not this one. Arcania's scent is different. It smells like ambition."
Outside, the roads were alive with carriages of all shapes and sigils—some bearing the insignia of ancient clans, others marked with newer, rising houses. They moved in near-perfect synchronicity, guided by glyphs etched onto the stone beneath them. Each vehicle glided without so much as a jolt, and above each noble's carriage, a small arcane seal flickered like a banner in the sky.
Their own crest—a phoenix with a spiraling crescent at its back—flashed briefly as it was scanned by an aetheric checkpoint. The light blinked green, and their path opened without delay.
"So many of them," the boy murmured, glancing at the rows of gilded carriages ahead, behind, beside. "Are they all here for the same reason?"
"Yes," the attendant answered, his voice turning more solemn. "The Arcanis Imperial Academy. Admission season has begun. And this year, the competition will be fiercer than ever."
The young man leaned back, fingers brushing against the lapel of his robe—a newer piece, tailored hastily just a week before departure. Despite his rural upbringing, he wore the garment with quiet pride. The insignia over his heart gleamed just as brightly as the ones outside, though the fabric still carried the scent of simpler lands—open grass, firewood, and ink.
He didn't speak for a long moment, gaze locked on the distant Spiral Nexus as its layers spun like an eternal hourglass in slow, calculated motion.
"…Will it change me?" he asked at last, not turning away from the view.
His attendant paused, then replied, "Everything here changes you, young master. The question is whether it bends you—or sharpens you."
The boy smiled, a subtle tug at the corners of his mouth that made him look younger than he already did.
"I want to make a lot of friends," he said simply, the earnestness in his voice standing in quiet contrast to the looming grandeur beyond the window. "Not just from the noble houses, either. I want to meet people who've seen the world—people who've bled, who've dreamed. People who look up at the Spiral and see something more than just… power."
The attendant didn't speak, but his gaze softened, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since they passed through the capital's gates.
"I came here with a lot of things in mind," the boy continued, tapping lightly against the windowpane as another carriage soared past—one marked with a golden wolf crest, its frame rimmed with enchanted bronze. "Stories. Legends. Magic. Maybe even a few childish dreams. But still, I want to see where those dreams lead."
"And they'll lead somewhere," the attendant said quietly, "if you can keep them alive."
Outside, the roads began to converge, each route spiraling inward toward the academy's entrance quadrant—an immense circular plaza paved with mana-reactive crystal. The road shimmered faintly beneath their carriage, glowing in soft gradients as other vessels passed over it.
"This year feels… different, doesn't it?" the boy asked, his voice lowering, as if the change in the wind had whispered it first.
"It is," his attendant replied. "For many reasons."
They both watched in silence as a new wave of carriages entered the city, their sigils unfamiliar. One of them, sleek and dark, bore a foreign emblem—an imperial hawk clutching a sunburst. The flag above it shimmered with a woven enchantment, its text glowing in Lorian script.
"The Loria Empire," the boy said, reading the glyphs aloud. "They're sending students?"
His attendant gave a slow nod. "As a gesture of goodwill. The war is over, but peace must be seen, not just signed. This is the first time Lorian envoys—and their youths—will step onto Arcanis soil not as invaders, but as guests. Or at least… that is what the Empire hopes."
The boy's eyes widened as he leaned forward. "Do you think we'll have class together? That we'll actually train, compete, live together?"
"If the Academy allows it," the attendant replied, a touch warier now, "then yes. But goodwill does not erase history. Some noble houses still remember the war with fresh wounds. There will be tension."
"I see…"
But the boy didn't frown. If anything, he seemed more eager now—like the possibility of challenge had only deepened his anticipation.
"I want to talk to them too," he said. "To the Lorian students. I want to understand them. What they think. Their traditions."
"Then I'll talk anyway," the boy said with a quiet laugh, "until they do."
The attendant chuckled faintly. "You'll either make many friends—or gather quite a few enemies."
"Isn't that just the same thing, but with different timing?"
But even as their laughter settled, another procession entered the plaza from a separate road—less adorned, simpler, the enchantments along their path humming differently. The carriages were smaller, made of hardened oak and spell-thread cloth. Their sigils weren't of noble houses but of towns, trade guilds, and occasionally... no crest at all.
"Those are…" the boy's voice drifted as he stared.
Chapter 610: Capital (2)
The boy leaned further toward the window, his breath fogging the enchanted glass as the scenery expanded.
Down below, carriages of goods trundled through levitation lifts—barrels of ore, crates lined with preservation runes, and canisters humming with volatile aether. They were being transported swiftly, efficiently, guided by gloved hands and flickering spell commands. All around, the pulse of magic was undeniable. But the ones directing it—these mages—were not robed in silk or gold-threaded uniforms. Their cloaks were utilitarian, their movements brisk. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, faces marked by soot and spellburn.
These were working mages.
He didn't have the words to articulate it, but he could feel it. Their magic was different—not refined and rehearsed like the ones he'd seen in noble duels, but raw, adaptive. Grit in the gears of civilization. Power not granted, but earned.
"…They're not nobles, are they?" he asked quietly.
His attendant offered a slow nod, lips thinning as his gaze followed the laboring casters below. "No, young master. They are… something new. And something controversial."
The boy turned to him.
"Commoners," the attendant clarified. "Some of them are here for labor. But others... are candidates."
"For the Academy?" the boy's eyes widened again.
"Yes. This year, for the first time in Imperial history, the Arcanis Council decreed the inclusion of select commoners into the Academy's ranks. Not as servants. Not as aides. As students."
The boy sat back, stunned. "But… how?"
At that, the attendant's expression sharpened, the barest flicker of distaste brushing his otherwise impassive features.
"Through a method befitting nobility," he said, voice even. "A grand performance. One that walks the fine line between opportunity... and spectacle."
The carriage rounded a bend, revealing a vast construction site on the northern tier of the city. Floating scaffolds hovered in place, shifting platforms assembled by arcane force, forming a colossal stadium-like structure encased in crystallized shielding. Mages soared between scaffolding beams, etching runic wards midair. Entire teams of artificers worked in perfect synchronization, preparing a space not for warfare—but for display.
"That," the attendant gestured with a gloved hand, "is the arena. It will host the 'Candidacy Trials.' An event designed to evaluate commoner applicants from across the Empire—and even beyond its borders."
"...In front of everyone?" the boy asked.
"In front of everyone," the attendant confirmed, voice low. "The event will be streamed through the aetheric arrays scattered across the city. Taverns, academies, noble salons—they will all be watching. Not just the results... but the struggle. Every test. Every failure. Every rise."
The boy's hands slowly curled into fists on his lap. "So they're not just being tested… they're being watched."
"Yes," the attendant replied. "For nobles, it's entertainment. A curiosity. A bet on which peasant might claw their way high enough to sit at our tables. But for the ones competing?" He glanced out the window. "It's everything."
The boy turned his gaze back to the gathering tower. A group of younger candidates—some no older than him—were standing outside the scaffold gates. Their clothes were plain, their postures stiff. Some bore weapons on their backs. Others, glowing spell-anchors etched into the skin. Their eyes burned with hunger. Not for food. But for place.
For recognition.
"How many will pass?" he asked softly.
"Hard to say," the attendant murmured. "Rumor says fewer than ten seats were allotted. Out of hundreds. Maybe thousands."
The boy's fingers loosened slightly, and he leaned back once more.
"It's cruel," he said, not looking at his attendant. "But… they'll still fight for it, won't they?"
The attendant didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The boy's words had already wrapped themselves in a quiet truth—one not easily dismissed. Outside, the crowd of hopefuls remained gathered, unaware of the eyes watching them from behind gilded glass.
"They won't back down," the boy continued, voice low, almost reverent. "Even with odds like that. Even when the world tells them they shouldn't even try." He smiled faintly. "That kind of resilience… it's admirable."
His gaze softened as he watched one of the candidates—a girl with a chipped blade on her back and a ribbon tying back her hair—help another to his feet after a stumble. They exchanged no words. But the bond was clear. Neither of them intended to be left behind.
"I want to speak with the ones who make it through," the boy said. "To learn from them. Be friends with them. They'll be like… like celebrities, right? Not just students—but living proof that status isn't everything."
The attendant arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I would suggest, young master, that you take care not to lose yourself in admiration. These trials are not games. And you… do tend to step past your boundaries when enthusiasm takes hold."
The boy turned toward him with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "What? You mean like that time with the owl merchant?"
The attendant exhaled through his nose. "Or the duel challenge you issued to that poor fourth-tier noble at the Harvest Ball. Yes."
"I didn't lose," the boy added defensively, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips.
"You weren't invited," the attendant muttered, under his breath.
The boy laughed quietly, his hands lifting as if in surrender. "I know my duties, I promise."
The attendant didn't respond immediately, only exhaled in that long-suffering way he often did when the young master's charm triumphed over discipline. Still, there was no real anger in it—only concern, buried beneath years of loyalty.
Then the boy's smile softened, and his gaze dropped to the orb cradled gently in his hand.
It was small—barely the size of a plum—its smooth surface etched with faint runes that pulsed with soft, mana-blue light. He turned it slightly in his palm, watching the shimmer stir like starlight in deep water.
"…I wonder if Selphine's already reached the gates," he murmured, the name slipping from his lips with the ease of old habit. A trace of fondness threaded through it—quiet, but unmistakable.
The orb in his hand flickered again, as if reacting to the sound of her name.
"Selphine?" the attendant asked, glancing toward him. "You mean Lady Selphine Elowen?"
The boy nodded. "Mhm. From the Elowen territory. Their lands border ours, remember? Our families have been allies since my grandfather's time."
"She's the same girl who once threw a spell crystal into a pond because someone called her hair too shiny?"
"That was one time," the boy said quickly. "And he deserved it."
The orb pulsed again—sharper now.
Then—
"Aurelian!"
Her voice burst from the orb, higher-pitched now with indignation.
"Where in the world are you? You said you'd arrive in the morning! I've already been waiting fifteen minutes by the north promenade and—wait, don't you dare tell me you're still inside the city's upper tier traffic queue! You promised!"
Aurelian winced, then chuckled, lifting the orb a little higher in one hand. "Well," he said with a sheepish grin, "she has arrived."
"You are fortunate Lady Selphine doesn't duel like her father," the attendant muttered, deadpan. "Or she'd have demanded satisfaction by now."
"Mm, she only threatens to throw spellbooks. Much safer," Aurelian said, then lifted his voice toward the orb. "We're close, Selphine. I can see the promenade towers from here. Just a bit of traffic, I swear."
"You always say that." Her voice was softer now, the irritation fading. "Just don't make me wait too long. I want to find the dorm assignments together."
Aurelian's smile returned, steadier now. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The orb dimmed, signaling the end of the message.
The young heir leaned back in his seat, letting out a long, contented breath as the tower gates of the Imperial Academy drew closer, glittering in the midday light like a promise carved into the skyline.
Selphine Elowen. His childhood friend. His occasional rival. And, whether she knew it or not, the calm in the storm of what was about to begin.
"I suppose that makes two reunions today," he said, smiling.
Chapter 611: First Flame
The carriage eased to a halt, its levitation runes dimming with a low hum as they arrived at the heart of the upper city.
Aurelian stepped down into the center of what the locals called Virelan Square—a vast, open plaza paved in pale silverstone that shimmered faintly beneath the mana-infused sky. Tall crystalline spires ringed the space, casting refracted hues of soft gold and lilac across the cobbles. The square pulsed with energy, the sheer press of people making the air feel alive.
Crowds swirled around them—young men and women dressed in everything from noble regalia to weathered travel cloaks. Parents clung tightly to wide-eyed children. Street vendors waved glowing banners from enchanted carts, selling everything from floating confections to illusion-silk charms that danced in the air like fireflies. Laughter mingled with spellcraft. The scent of spicebread and candied fruit filled the space between bursts of elemental displays performed by street-side mages trying to earn coin or admiration.
Aurelian's eyes widened, breath catching in his throat. "It's… incredible."
"This is the center of the capital's heartbeat this time of year," his attendant said, stepping beside him. "Virelan Square becomes the first threshold most students cross before the Academy begins."
And not just for any ordinary reason.
Above the plaza—cast upon a grand elevated panel made from woven mana crystal—floated radiant sigils and sweeping banners with gilded script that read:
"The Festival of the First Flame – In Honor of Empress Lysandra."
Aurelian stared up, eyebrows lifting.
"So it's that close already…"
"Indeed," his attendant replied. "Three days. The festival begins just before the Academy's official induction ceremony."
All around them, the celebration had already begun in smaller forms—troupes of dancers practicing in the side courts, musicians tuning instruments carved from elderwood and windbone, and elaborate constructs being prepared along the far side of the square, where the stage for the Founder's Tableau would soon rise.
"Do you know the story, young master?" the attendant asked.
Aurelian turned, curious. "The real one? Or the polished version?"
The older man allowed a faint smirk. "Let's begin with the one history books won't argue with."
He gestured toward a tall monument at the edge of the square—a towering figure carved from marble kissed with starlight, her outstretched hand holding a torch lit with eternal flame.
"That is Lysandra the First, founder of the Arcanis Empire. Mage-Queen. Flamebearer."
The fire in her hand flickered with golden light, its soft glow pulsing with ancient enchantment. People passed beneath it in reverence, heads bowed briefly in acknowledgment.
"Before Arcania was a city," the attendant continued, "this place was a shattered ruin, caught between the fractured kingdoms of the old age. Warlords, beasts, and rival mages all fought for dominion."
"And she stopped them?" Aurelian asked, already knowing the answer—but needing to hear it again.
"She united them. With nothing but her flame, her spellcraft, and a vision. She formed the Imperial Pact and founded the Imperial Academy here—on this very square—as a place where bloodlines would no longer be the only gateway to power. Where magic would be studied, refined, perfected… and used to elevate civilization, not destroy it."
Aurelian looked back at the monument, and for a moment, he could almost imagine her—Lysandra the First, her cloak billowing like storm winds, the fire in her hand not just a symbol, but a warning: Magic was not born to be hoarded. It was meant to be wielded wisely.
"The Festival of the First Flame celebrates that founding," the attendant said, voice quieter now. "Every year, the city reenacts her arrival, her speech, and the lighting of the torch—followed immediately by the Academy's gates opening to a new generation."
Aurelian watched the crowds again. Young hopefuls. Starry-eyed dreamers. And, somewhere within this sea, a few like him.
And a few like Selphine.
"I wonder," he said softly, "what Lysandra would say if she saw this place now."
The attendant said nothing. But his silence carried weight.
Not all dreams aged kindly.
A burst of laughter rang nearby—someone had conjured an illusion-dragon made of glittering glassfire, and children were chasing it as it weaved between stalls.
Then—
"Aurelian!"
The voice was unmistakable.
He turned.
And there she was—Selphine Elowen, standing at the base of the Founder's statue, arms crossed, long waves of silvery-auburn hair falling over her shoulder. She wore a traveling cloak cinched in royal violet, her eyes narrowed with mock annoyance.
"I knew you'd stop to admire something before coming straight to the square," she huffed.
Aurelian grinned, lifting a hand in greeting. "Come on, Selphine. You expect me to walk past the legacy of an empire without gawking a little?"
"Humph."
"Humph," Selphine repeated, her hands settling on her hips. "You promised you'd be here by midday. You're always late, Aurelian. Do you know how annoying it is waiting around like some lost noble's daughter?"
Aurelian lifted his hands in mock surrender, grinning with the easy charm that usually got him out of trouble. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. But this time, I swear—it wasn't on purpose. Traffic at the checkpoint was a nightmare. You know how it is during festival week."
Selphine narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced.
"Not good enough," she declared. "You still made me stand here listening to some third-rate bard talk about how Lysandra once turned a dragon into a chandelier."
Aurelian blinked. "Wait, what? That's not even close to the real—"
But she was already moving.
"Come on," Selphine interrupted, reaching forward and grabbing his wrist with a sudden, fierce enthusiasm. "You owe me for making me wait. We're exploring."
"What, now?"
"Yes, now! There's too much to see before the festival really begins—street shows, food stalls, spellsmiths showing off their junk—everything."
Aurelian glanced helplessly at his attendant, who only gave him a resigned nod. Behind Selphine, her own maid simply stepped back into the crowd like a shadow, vanishing with the quiet understanding that this wasn't a battle worth fighting.
Shaking his head with a rueful smile, Aurelian allowed himself to be pulled forward. "Alright, alright. I know I owe you."
"You do," Selphine said without turning around, her steps quick and deliberate. "So you better not start gawking at every mana lamp we pass."
Aurelian chuckled as they disappeared deeper into the square. "No promises. You know I'm just as curious as you."
"That's what worries me."
Around them, Virelan Square stretched out like a dream woven from color and light. Ribbons of floating fabric lined the walkways, casting shifting hues over the throng of wandering students, families, merchants, and street performers. Above, the projection crystals continued to shimmer with advertisements for the Festival of the First Flame, accompanied by soft chimes and recorded fanfare.
For these few days, before the Academy gates opened, the city was theirs to explore.
And the students—newly arrived from across the continent—would not yet be bound by discipline or dormitory walls. It was a tradition long upheld, one designed as much for indulgence as it was for economy. Local inns and estates profited handsomely, while the empire basked in a wave of commerce, tourism, and spectacle.
"It's clever, really," Aurelian mused aloud, weaving through the crowd beside her. "Delay our dorm placement until after the festival, and the city earns two weeks of uninterrupted gold flow."
Selphine glanced at him. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said today."
He gave her a sideways glance, a smirk twitching on his lips. "What was the second?"
"You haven't said it yet."
They laughed together, their steps light against the cobbles, trailing just behind the echoes of centuries and the warm pull of possibility.
In the shadow of Empress Lysandra's flame, two heirs of smaller names walked into the chaos—
not as rulers.
Not yet.
But as curious hearts bound to a city where legends had only just begun to stir again.
Chapter 612: A scene ?
The streets of Arcania pulsed with life.
Aurelian and Selphine strolled side by side, occasionally brushing shoulders as the crowd nudged them closer. They weaved through merchant stalls and temporary pavilions, each one gleaming with enchantments designed to catch the eye and loosen the coin pouch. Glass-spun birds chirped spellsongs overhead, darting between ribbons that floated unaided, tethered only by old ward runes glowing gently on the paving stones.
"Look at that," Selphine said, pointing to a nearby vendor who was selling sweets shaped like tiny elemental spirits—fire, water, wind, earth—all dancing along the rims of cups.
Aurelian leaned in, curious. "That fire one looks like it's got a personality."
"It looks like you when you're smug," she said with a grin.
He opened his mouth in protest, but she was already tugging him toward the stall, her fingers slipping briefly into his sleeve before letting go as if it had never happened. He didn't notice.
Their attendants followed from a distance—sharp-eyed, but unobtrusive. Selphine's maid, quiet and watchful. Aurelian's attendant, always a half-step behind, voice lowered into a speaking stone as he quietly alerted the guards assigned to watch the square perimeter.
"Too many people packed into one place," the attendant muttered. "I don't like it."
"They're just students and tourists," Aurelian replied, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Exactly," the man said. "Desperate enough. Ambitious enough. There's always one who'll try something stupid."
But Aurelian only offered a half-smile. "We'll be careful."
The caution was valid—but so far, the capital glimmered with nothing but excitement.
Children rode shimmering constructs shaped like wolves and elk, chasing one another through fountains that shot mana-lit water in rhythmic bursts. Performers stood at every third street corner, casting illusion tricks or balancing atop floating platforms while crowds clapped and tossed enchanted coins into glowing jars.
Selphine paused before one such performer—a young man manipulating thin metal wires into animals that danced midair, held up by nothing but his magic.
Aurelian leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Is he casting without a focus?"
"He's using movement-based glyphs," Selphine replied, tone impressed. "Probably carving them into the wire directly."
They lingered for a moment before moving on.
Selphine's steps grew slower, more deliberate, almost as if she were waiting for something.
When Aurelian paused in front of a bakery cart, sniffing the scent of spiced frostbread, she tugged her hood slightly lower and leaned in beside him.
Her arm brushed his deliberately this time. Light. Hesitant.
He blinked once, glanced down at her hand. "You cold?"
"No," she said, lips quirking. "But I could be."
He nodded sagely. "I suppose we can find a cloak stall next."
Her smile thinned as she turned away.
They wandered into a more shaded stretch of the plaza, where hanging lanterns floated in spirals overhead, casting warm orange light onto their faces. The crowd here had thinned—just enough for silence to take hold between them. Selphine tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then looked at him, waiting.
Aurelian looked upward instead, marveling at the lanterns.
"Do you think they're going to release those on the final night?" he asked.
Selphine watched him. "Mhm. Lanterns carry the names of the academy's founders and every valedictorian since. They're released to honor their legacy."
He nodded. "That's beautiful."
Selphine didn't reply. She was still looking at him, but his eyes were already following the lanterns, caught up in some quiet wonder, entirely unaware of how her fingers had crept closer to his again.
She let out a quiet sigh and clasped her hands behind her back instead.
"Want to see the Moonwalk next?" she asked lightly.
"The what?"
"There's a terrace along the ridge near the Spiral Nexus. They say it's the best place to see the city lights stretch to the horizon."
"Lead the way," he said with a grin.
And she did.
Behind them, their attendants gave each other a knowing glance but said nothing.
After all, some lessons were better left unspoken—and some days were better when untouched by warnings.
Even if neither of them quite said it, or even realized it just yet, this…
was a date.
*****
The walk toward the Moonwalk was meant to be quiet. Peaceful. The kind of slow evening stroll that echoed with lanternlight and half-formed laughter, set against the hum of festival magic and the soft murmur of anticipation before the First Flame.
But halfway through the upper promenade, a sharp voice cracked the air—cutting clean through the festive ambiance.
"I said, move."
Aurelian and Selphine stopped.
The commotion had gathered like a ripple in still water—people slowing, turning, backing away. A few whispered. Others simply watched.
At the edge of a café terrace overlooking the lower streets, a young boy stood—if it could be called that. He looked barely fifteen, his shoulders drawn inward, his hands clenched around a small satchel pressed to his chest. His cloak was modest, freshly cleaned but worn, marked with the humble insignia of a baronial crest. And beside him sat a girl, perhaps his sister, hair neatly tied back, her tea untouched.
Across from them stood three older boys—wannabe students, by the looks of them. Their tunics bore the ornate trim and jeweled pins of count-ranked houses, their postures exuding effortless arrogance. One had his foot on the bench beside the girl, leaning far too close. Another spun a silver coin between his fingers, letting it clink loudly against the table as he smirked.
"This section is for proper heirs," said the first, his tone cold and dripping with disdain. "Not children of baron backwaters. You want to sit, go to the lower promenade with the vendors."
"I—I paid," the timid boy stammered, his voice barely above the surrounding murmurs. "The seat was open. I reserved it through the festival pass. I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean?" sneered the second noble, his voice a little too loud. "You didn't mean to insult us? Because that's what you did, rat."
The third, still spinning his coin, gave a lazy grin. "Maybe he's just confused. Maybe we should help him understand his place."
Selphine's steps froze. Her expression shifted instantly from relaxed amusement to a glacial sharpness.
Aurelian frowned. "Do you see—?"
"I see it," she said. Her voice had gone flat.
The boy's sister tried to rise—tried to speak—but the noble leaning toward her blocked her way, his boot scraping deliberately closer along the bench.
"Hey now," he said with a mock-pleasant tone, "we're just trying to have a conversation. You're not going to run away, are you?"
Her lips pressed into a firm line, but she didn't speak. Her eyes stayed locked on the timid boy, as if silently urging him to stay calm.
Aurelian's brow twitched—just enough to betray the simmering tension tightening across his jaw. Selphine's arms had folded across her chest, her fingers curled in a way that said more than words ever could.
Yet neither of them moved.
They watched.
They listened.
And they did nothing.
Because that—unfortunately—was what they had been taught.
"You mustn't stir the nest unless you intend to burn it down," Selphine's mother had once told her during a court luncheon, voice smooth behind a glass of sapphire wine.
And Aurelian's father—pragmatic to the bone—had offered a similar lesson.
"In this world, you cannot afford to draw blades for every wounded dog, son. Especially not when the hounds you'd offend wear gold around their collars."
Still… his hand twitched.
A moment passed, then a whisper at Aurelian's shoulder.
His attendant, ever nearby, had leaned in, voice low and composed. "Young master," he said evenly, "I strongly advise against getting involved. House Crane has ties to the Western Council. The Cavendells manage three trade routes with your family's interests. And Marenholt? Their patronage funded a quarter of your entrance nomination."
Aurelian's teeth clenched. "I understand," he murmured.
Chapter 613: Young man, and a scene
"I understand," he murmured.
Yet, was it that easy for him to stand alone like this, watch this unfold….
It was not.
"I do too," Selphine said quietly, eyes locked on the girl still trying not to flinch as the noble's boot crept closer. "That doesn't mean I like it."
But that was the nature of the world they lived in. Here, in the capital, at the heart of magic's empire, justice was an abstract ideal. What mattered was power, connection, and knowing when to pick battles.
And these two—this baron boy and his sister—they were no one. At least, not yet.
The crowd around the terrace had mostly turned away. Some muttered. A few looked on with unease. But none of them acted. Because no one interfered with the sons of counts. Not when the bloodlines behind them could unravel entire estates.
The girl finally tried to speak. "Please. We'll leave—just let my brother—"
"Now you're talking?" the noble leaned further, and for the first time, his fingers brushed her sleeve.
Selphine's foot shifted forward—but her attendant, silent until now, placed a hand lightly in front of her. Not forcing. Just reminding.
"This is not your war, milady."
And then—it happened.
THUD.
A shoulder collided hard into the count heir closest to the girl.
The boy stumbled.
The coin he was spinning flew from his fingers and clinked against the ground, spinning into a drain.
"Hey—!" he snarled, turning sharply. "What the hell—"
The crowd's attention snapped back like a taut thread.
A figure stood where the collision had occurred.
His robe hung long and loose around him, dusted at the hem with the pale grit of travel, its fabric a muted charcoal gray that swayed softly with his movements. It bore no noble crest, no house sigil. No ostentatious lining of gold or gemstone clasps. Simple. Unassuming.
But to those who looked closely—truly looked—it became clear: the robe wasn't just well-made. It was precision-crafted. The kind of stitching meant for movement, for survival. Reinforced where it mattered, enchanted so subtly it might go unnoticed unless one had worn such garments before. Adventurer-grade, from a line whispered about among those who hunted monsters or explored wild zones past the Imperial border.
Yet he didn't carry himself like a hunter.
His posture was relaxed, weight balanced casually on one foot, his hand loosely in the pocket of his robe as though he'd merely brushed shoulders in a crowded hallway and was waiting for an apology. The hood of the cloak hung low over his back, revealing tousled hair parted lazily to one side, long enough to frame his face in uneven layers that gave him the look of someone who'd never quite bothered to tame it.
Unruly. At ease.
And then—those eyes.
Pitch black.
Not dark brown. Not deep blue mistaken in poor light.
Black.
Unmoving. Unblinking.
And yet, they glinted with something unreadable—like the still surface of a well that had no bottom. The kind of gaze that made people hesitate, not because of malice… but because they didn't know what lay behind it.
Resting on his shoulder was a cat, pure white and curled up like it had no interest in the tension building in the air. Its ears flicked once, its tail stretched and curled again—before it yawned, revealing a flicker of tiny fangs, and settled deeper into the crook of the boy's neck like royalty returning to its throne.
The count heir who'd been struck had recovered, scowling now as he shoved forward.
"You've got a damn nerve," he snapped. "Don't you know who I—"
The boy raised one hand.
Not fast.
Not threatening.
Just lifted it—casually—and brushed some imaginary dust from the edge of his sleeve.
His voice, when it came, was low and level. Amused.
"Not interested," the boy said, his tone dry and unhurried—like someone brushing off a fly rather than addressing three nobles with mana stirring under their skin.
He turned his gaze slowly back toward the count heir, then lazily swept it across the other two.
"Neither does it matter."
The words landed like soft footsteps in snow—but something about the stillness that followed made them heavier than they had any right to be.
A hush fell around the onlookers. Even the wind seemed to wait.
The boy tilted his head slightly, as if studying them for the first time—his black eyes sharp, yet distant. Detached.
"You're probably some count's son," he said at last, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "From one of those proud bloodlines that likes to talk about 'legacy' and 'purity' when they've never worked a day outside a ballroom."
The noble stiffened, mouth parting—but the boy wasn't finished.
"Let me guess. You belong to an elitist circle. You know, the kind that breathes heavy when someone mentions 'lineage' or 'old magic.' The kind that's been pampered so long you think mana belongs to your last name."
The coin-spinner growled. "You little—"
"And now," the boy went on, ignoring him completely, "you're out here, wagging your tails, trying to feel superior because you felt a bit of strength buzzing in your veins today. A little power, finally. So you chase after a smaller animal. Something you know won't bite back."
He nodded slightly toward the baron boy and the girl, whose hands still trembled where they rested on the table.
"Prey. That's all this is to you."
The eldest noble took a step forward, mana flaring now—heat rising in an aura of frustration. "You don't know anything about us."
That smirk deepened.
"Oh," the boy said softly. "I know enough."
He looked around then, black eyes sweeping the gathered crowd, who now stared with rapt attention—silent, motionless, the festive air long forgotten.
"This," he said, gesturing loosely to the three nobles, "is the part where you threaten me. Then puff up your mana and expect me to step aside, because 'that's how the world works,' right?"
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"You can try," the black-eyed boy murmured, lifting one brow ever so slightly. Then, with a faint flick of his hand, he stepped back and gave the most casual wave toward the nobles, as though inviting them to proceed with a parlor trick.
"Go on. Play the script. Let's see how well you know your lines."
That was it.
The trigger.
The count's heir's face twisted, the scorn falling away to reveal something rawer—something personal. His pride, already stinging, had now been torn open and mocked in front of too many watching eyes.
"You bastard!" he snarled.
And then—
His mana flared.
It erupted around him in a sharp, violet surge, crackling with refined pressure, heat curling the edges of his cloak as it expanded. The force of it pushed outward, scattering nearby streamers, rattling glassware, and causing a few in the crowd to instinctively step back. The air shimmered with the sudden density of power unleashed.
Aurelian's breath caught.
That level—he could feel it even from where he stood.
Mid-four-star. Without a doubt.
He exchanged a glance with Selphine, whose sharp gaze hadn't wavered, though he could tell even she was taken slightly aback. For someone so young to have that degree of mana mastery already—especially without the support of a magical focus—was no small feat. It wasn't just talent. It was the kind of upbringing soaked in resources, elite mentorship, and tailored enchantment regimens.
It was the magic of nobility, honed and sharpened for reputation.
"I'll end you," the noble spat, his aura pushing toward the black-eyed boy with all the grace of a descending guillotine. "You'll pay for insulting me!"
And yet—
The boy didn't step back.
He didn't even raise his hand.
He simply stood there.
Still.
That faint, unreadable smile lingering at the corner of his lips, untouched by the mana storm gathering before him. His coat rustled in the rising pressure, but not once did his eyes narrow, or flinch, or betray concern.
If anything—
He looked amused.
As if he had seen this before.
As if this wasn't tension.
This was theater.
And the real story hadn't even begun yet.
Chapter 614: Young man, and a scene (2)
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The flare of mana was too violent, too sharp—unrestrained fury coiling outward in a wave of violet pressure, knocking over trays and rattling lanterns. The air shimmered as if a furnace had opened mid-square, and a few bystanders instinctively raised weak barriers, shielding themselves from the backlash.
Someone shouted from the edge of the gathering: "Stop him!"
"That level of mana—he's going to kill someone!"
Aurelian stepped forward, his voice sharp. "Enough! He's just a mercenary, that attack could—!"
Selphine's hand moved too, not to stop Aurelian, but to reinforce him. If they had to intercept this, they'd do it together.
But they didn't take more than two steps before three uniformed figures moved in front of them—blocking the way.
The sigils on their cloaks shimmered with authority: House Crane.
One of them, a senior attendant with graying temples, raised his hand toward Aurelian and Selphine.
"Young masters," he said coldly, "this is House Crane's internal matter. Do not interfere. Let the young heir defend his honor."
Aurelian's jaw tensed. "Defend—? That wasn't dueling. That was bullying!"
Another attendant's voice cut in, sharper. "You'll find that to the noble courts, there is little difference."
Before another word could be spoken—
The noble attacked.
Mana snapped in the air like a breaking whip. Arcane sigils lit up across his forearms, crackling as a barrage of force-magic spiraled outward toward the black-eyed boy. It wasn't just a warning shot.
It was a real strike.
A blow meant to stagger, bruise, break.
The boy didn't move.
He didn't need to.
Because just before the attack could land—
Everything stopped.
Not in the literal sense.
But in a feeling.
A sensation.
Like the entire world had taken in a breath—and forgotten how to exhale.
For a split second—just one—a presence expanded into the square.
And it was cold.
Not icy, but empty.
As if space itself had forgotten its weight. The festival lights dimmed for the blink of an eye. The crowd stopped shifting. Mana hung frozen in the air like water caught mid-boil.
No one could breathe.
Aurelian's hand halted mid-reach, his fingers trembling.
Selphine's voice caught in her throat.
Even the House Crane attendants glanced around, their stances faltering.
The white cat on the boy's shoulder lifted its head.
Its golden eyes narrowed.
And then—
The black-eyed boy finally spoke again.
His voice was quieter now. But it cut through the air like obsidian.
"Exuding killing intent before me?"
"Are you ready to get killed yourself?"
In his eyes—
A flicker.
Black fire.
Tiny. Controlled.
But unmistakable.
The noble's face twisted into confusion—then panic.
Because the instant that flame blinked to life—
The pressure shattered.
His own mana buckled beneath it.
His arms jerked.
His stance broke.
And the spell he was casting collapsed mid-air, dispersing into glowing fragments like ash in the wind.
"AAAAAAH!"
He screamed.
The force hit him—not from an attack, but from within—as if something had reached into his core and cracked the flow of his magic. He stumbled back, collapsing to one knee, gasping for breath.
His two companions froze, not daring to step forward.
And all around them—
Silence.
The stillness shattered.
With a sharp clang of steel against scabbard, one of the attendants of House Crane moved—
Faster than the crowd could process.
His blade gleamed in the festival lights as he lunged toward the black-eyed boy, eyes burning with duty and outrage. "You!" he roared. "What have you done?!"
Aurelian took a step forward on instinct.
Selphine's hand tensed near her side, mana already gathering—
But before either of them could act—
The boy moved.
One blink—and he was gone from where he stood.
The white cat leapt with him, still perched gracefully as the boy landed atop a vendor's table a few paces back, his robe trailing behind him like smoke.
Mana flared around him now—
Subtle, dark, restrained.
But vast.
Like a tide held back only because the moon hadn't yet given it permission to rise.
He stood tall, one foot perched on a wooden beam, hands still slack at his sides.
"I didn't do anything," he said calmly, his voice smooth with that same untouchable edge. "As you can all see—my hands never moved."
He raised both arms slowly, palms open. Unarmed. Steady.
The crowd murmured again. People exchanged glances. Even the vendor he stood upon didn't dare speak.
"You're lying!" the second Crane attendant shouted, pointing at the count's heir, who still writhed, clutching at his own chest as if his mana had betrayed him. "Then how do you explain this?!"
The boy tilted his head, blinking once, as if genuinely confused.
"Explain it?" he echoed. "Must I?"
He crouched lightly on the beam, chin resting on one gloved hand in mock contemplation.
"Because to me," he said, voice dropping just a hair colder, "it looks like a textbook case of Arkanic Collapse."
A breath of recognition rippled across the crowd. Even Aurelian stiffened.
"You don't mean—" he muttered.
Selphine finished for him, quietly: "A mana backlash."
The black-eyed boy straightened.
"It's a phenomenon," he explained, loud enough for the crowd to hear, "when a mage loses control over his spellcasting pathways—mana swells beyond his circuit's capacity and the internal flow backfires."
He tapped the side of his head once, then his chest. "Basic mistake. Happens when you flare too hard, too fast—especially when you're... emotionally compromised."
His eyes flicked down toward the trembling noble heir.
"Tragic, really," he added, tone laced with mock sympathy. "Mid-four-star rank, and no control? Must've skipped the part of training that wasn't spoon-fed."
Gasps. A few stifled laughs. No one dared be loud—but they didn't have to be.
The humiliation burned louder than any words.
"Shut your mouth," the lead Crane attendant growled, advancing again, blade still raised.
But the boy didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
He only said, "Careful now. If you lose control next, we might start to think it runs in the family."
And again—he smiled.
That same, unreadable, unnerving smile.
And something in the crowd shifted again.
Not in favor of Crane.
The tension held for one long, burning moment—until the boy tilted his head once more, just slightly.
And grinned.
Not a friendly grin.
Not even a mocking one.
It was the kind of smile someone wore when they knew the rules better than you—and were about to use them like a blade.
"House Crane, was it?" he said aloud, voice echoing faintly across the terrace.
The attendant paused mid-step, blade still drawn but faltering ever so slightly.
The boy's gaze swept the watching crowd now—making sure they were listening. Oh, and they were.
"Interesting house," he went on. "One of reputation. Of power. Of pride."
He pointed lazily to the noble heir still groaning on the ground, clutching at the aftershocks of his own mana collapse.
"And yet its heir lacks the most basic human respect. Threatening two innocents in public, in broad daylight, no less. All because he felt a little wind in his circuits and mistook it for thunder."
Gasps rippled, scattered like dry leaves on a wind.
"Worse," the black-eyed boy added, now pacing slowly atop the vendor's table with the grace of someone who knew he was untouchable in this moment, "he did so during the Festival of the First Flame."
A stunned hush followed.
Then—
Murmurs.
Someone whispered: "He's right…"
"The capital's supposed to be under harmony law during the festival…"
"That's a direct breach—"
He paused, then leaned slightly forward, his tone softer—almost thoughtful, though each word carried weight like falling stones.
"This plaza lies beneath the protection of the royal decree. Imperial harmony. That's the rule, isn't it?"
He turned to the Crane attendants, who were now locked in place, tension flickering in their stances.
"Or… am I mistaken?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Tell me—does House Crane consider itself above the royal family's laws? Or are you simply ignoring them entirely?"
Chapter 615: Young man, and a scene (3)
"Tell me—does House Crane consider itself above the royal family's laws? Or are you simply ignoring them entirely?"
Selphine's eyes narrowed as she watched the boy finish his speech, standing now beneath the open sky, the soft flicker of festival lanterns casting elongated shadows behind him.
"He… dismantled that entire situation in under two minutes," she muttered, more impressed than surprised.
Aurelian nodded slowly, his voice low. "And he did it without touching anyone. No mana strike, no spell, no weapon."
"But what really gets me," Selphine added, "is how cleanly he invoked the royal family. No hesitation."
Aurelian glanced sideways at her. "That's not something most people dare even whisper. Especially not in public. Not unless they've got the blood or the gall to back it up."
"And yet he did." She folded her arms, frowning slightly. "With perfect timing."
Meanwhile, in the square, the tide had turned. The murmurs now favored the black-eyed boy. He wasn't just a passerby anymore. He had become a symbol—however briefly—of someone willing to challenge the entitled, and worse for House Crane, he had done so under the name of the imperial law.
Which meant he hadn't just insulted the heir.
He'd put them on the verge of insulting the crown itself.
That line—thin, delicate, deadly—had the crowd watching like it was a string soaked in oil, one spark away from becoming a blaze.
The lead Crane attendant, his face pale and sweating beneath the collar, stepped forward again.
"You dare speak like this—? To accuse a noble house of opposing the throne?"
His voice rose, desperately trying to recapture control of the moment.
"This is heresy! We, of course, hold no such intention—how dare you twist this? Who gave you the right to speak on the royal family's behalf?!"
Before the black-eyed boy could reply, a groan echoed across the plaza.
The count's heir, still kneeling but now upright, slowly forced himself to his feet.
His face was red—not just from exertion or the aftershock of mana collapse, but humiliation.
Rage clung to him like smoke.
"You little—worm," he hissed, barely holding himself upright. "You think this changes anything? You'll crawl back into whatever gutter you came from soon enough. I'll make sure of it."
The black-eyed boy turned slowly, his black eyes fixed on him again.
Not with malice.
But with ease.
With confidence.
And something deeper.
He gave a slight shrug, that same faint smile returning—too calm, too deliberate.
"Is that really the case?" he asked softly.
Then he lifted his chin and turned slightly toward the murmuring crowd.
"Then maybe…" he said, voice rising just enough to carry, "someone directly affiliated with the royal family can answer us instead."
His gaze swept over the gathering.
"Wouldn't they be the best judge here?"
A ripple passed through the crowd—slowly, heads turned. Whispered names. Questions. Was there someone here with royal ties? A witness? A higher voice?
The silence that followed was fragile—almost sacred.
Then—
A quiet shift in the crowd. A subtle parting. Whispers stilled like breath caught in the throat.
And then… all eyes turned.
Because someone had heard the challenge.
And someone was already standing there.
Not five paces away, watching the scene unfold with a composed stillness that now felt impossible to ignore.
She stood beneath the shade of an arched promenade, untouched by the tension, as if the chaos had never truly reached her. Her long white hair—like strands of starlight—fell in effortless waves down to her waist, each lock seeming to shimmer with soft luminescence beneath the golden lanternlight. A delicate circlet rested upon her brow, understated, but unmistakable.
And her eyes—
They were the color of the royal sigil itself: deep crimson, vibrant and clear like the heart of a ruby kissed by fire. Calm. Assessing.
Undeniable.
Around her, cloaked attendants in royal livery formed a quiet half-circle, their posture tight, hands near weapons but unmoving. One wore the crest of the Imperial Order of Scribes, another that of the Crown's Shadowguard.
And at her throat—
A pendant gleamed in the fading light: the unmistakable insignia of the Lysandra bloodline—flame-twined wings over an open tome. The crest of the Arcanis royal family.
It needed no announcement.
But the crowd gave it anyway.
Gasps. Murmurs. Knees beginning to buckle.
And then—
As if a single breath were shared by all—
"We greet Her Highness, Princess Priscilla Lysandra."
The plaza bowed as one, like waves falling to the shore. Even Selphine, poised and proud, dipped her head with the grace befitting her own rank. Aurelian hesitated—then followed suit, his thoughts spinning faster than his body could respond.
The wave of bodies lowering in reverence swept across the plaza—but it wasn't reverence for her.
It was for the name.
The blood.
The Lysandra line.
The people bowed, yes—but there was tension in the motion. A hesitance. A stiffness that came not from awe, but from politics. From the kind of uncomfortable loyalty that obeyed out of duty, not respect.
Because though the pendant at her throat bore the seal of the Arcanis royal family, and though the crimson in her eyes marked her undeniably as a descendant of Lysandra the First…
Her name—Priscilla Lysandra—carried with it the weight of scandal.
In noble circles, she was whispered of with tight lips and veiled sneers. The product of an affair, they said. Her mother, a commoner from a forgotten province, had been elevated to the Emperor's concubine not through political strategy or family ties—but by favor. By love, some dared to claim.
To the elitists… that made her blood dirty.
Unclean.
Unworthy.
So the nobles bowed, yes—but they did not smile.
Least of all Count Crane's entourage, whose scowls thinned into masks of forced respect, and whose heir could barely keep from trembling in rage as he dipped his head stiffly, clearly grinding his teeth all the while.
Selphine's bow was sharp and clean, but her eyes did not soften.
Aurelian kept his gaze low, but not out of disdain—out of calculation. The kind one makes when everything about the situation has just changed, and no one knows which way the coin will fall.
And among them all—
One man did not bow.
He stood still.
Unafraid.
Unmoved.
The black-eyed boy remained as he was, hands in his coat, white cat purring on his shoulder like a snow-draped crown.
And Priscilla… looked directly at him.
No annoyance.
No smile.
Only those piercing red eyes, steady and unblinking beneath lashes the color of frost, studying him the way one might study a line of ancient text they alone could read.
When she finally spoke, her voice was not loud—but it carried. Clear. Measured. Sharp as frost-glass.
"…You do not bow."
The words hung like a blade suspended in still air.
Her gaze did not waver. Crimson eyes, colder than flame, fixed upon the boy as though she were staring not at a person—but at a defiance made flesh. The wind shifted, brushing a lock of her silvery-white hair across her cheek, but she did not blink. Not once.
The boy didn't flinch.
His posture didn't stiffen, didn't brace.
He simply remained—still, grounded, as if bowing had never even occurred to him.
The cat on his shoulder lifted its head lazily, blinked once toward the princess, then stretched and tucked itself back in again, perfectly unbothered.
And for a moment, the plaza truly held its breath.
Selphine's lips pressed into a thin line. Aurelian's jaw tensed.
Even the murmurs—especially the murmurs—stilled.
Because not bowing wasn't just unusual.
It was dangerous.
The Princess of the Arcanis Empire stood less than ten paces away. The living heir of the Lysandra line. The embodiment of imperial presence in this city.
To not bow was a statement. A challenge.
And she saw it.
She studied the boy now—not with immediate fury, but with something more cutting. Like a sculptor gazing at a rough, unshaped stone and deciding whether it was worth breaking or carving.
Her attendants did not move. Not yet. But their hands twitched near their blades, and the ambient tension thickened like humidity before a storm.
And still—he said nothing.
Did nothing.
Her eyes narrowed. Only slightly.
The cold crept into her voice.
"Do you not recognize the seal I bear?"
Chapter 616: Young man, and a scene (4)
The boy stayed still for a second longer, the silence thick around him like a storm cloud—
and then, he moved.
A blur.
A gust of his long coat whipping past.
Gasps broke from the crowd as he dashed through the air with a single, fluid motion, and in less than a heartbeat—he was there.
Right before her.
The imperial guards reacted instantly—blades half-drawn, feet shifting with practiced precision—
"Stand down."
Her voice cut sharper than any sword.
And they froze.
The crowd didn't dare breathe again.
Because the black-eyed boy had not drawn a weapon. He hadn't summoned mana. He hadn't so much as flared a fraction of intent.
He stood before Princess Priscilla Lysandra with his head gently bowed—not low, not groveling, but respectful.
Measured.
Balanced.
The white cat still perched on his shoulder let out a soft rumble, as if protesting the sudden movement, then returned to its lounging silence, tail curling around the back of his neck.
And then, he spoke. Smooth. Calm.
Still holding that damnable composure.
"…Forgive me," he said, voice quiet enough for only the princess and those closest to hear. "But I must offer a tribute."
Priscilla's red eyes narrowed, the icy sheen never leaving her expression.
"I forgot to breathe," he continued, head still bowed slightly. "And it's my fault."
His voice lowered a touch more, as if confessing something terribly honest.
"I was too busy being distracted. By beauty."
A hush.
Complete and pure.
Selphine scoffed from somewhere in the back. "You've got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath, eyebrows lifting in sharp disbelief. "Of all things—he tries that?"
Aurelian blinked slowly. "Bold," he said, uncertain whether to be impressed or secondhand humiliated.
Priscilla… remained unmoving.
Her gaze, cold and unflinching, didn't falter.
Her crimson eyes bored into him—into those unreadable pitch-black irises. As if trying to see through them. As if daring them to break.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't waver.
Just stood there, composed in his silence, offering nothing else but the lingering echo of his words and the smallest curl of that half-ghost smile still clinging to the edge of his lips.
The plaza remained frozen in stillness, a delicate equilibrium poised on the edge of a blade.
Princess Priscilla Lysandra did not flinch.
Her crimson eyes, impossibly deep, held the boy in silence. The faint flutter of lanternlight brushed across her features, but nothing softened her expression. Cold. Stone-carved. Regal to the point of ice.
"…Insolent," she said.
The word fell like a blade into snow. No raised voice. No thunderous rage.
But the effect was immediate.
One of the imperial guards stepped forward with blade half-drawn, the steel glinting as he leveled its sharp edge directly at the boy's face. "Kneel," he growled. "You dare to—!"
But the boy didn't move. Not a twitch of fear. Not even surprise. He merely watched them all with those black eyes, quiet and unreadable.
He tilted his head slightly—as if listening to something only he could hear—and let the silence stretch, just long enough for discomfort to deepen.
Then… a breath.
Calm.
Measured.
His gaze flicked—once—back to the Princess.
And he said nothing.
The crowd remained bowed, yet murmurs sparked like nervous sparks under dry leaves. This wasn't just disrespect. It was bordering on the absurd. A single wrong word, a single heartbeat of misplaced defiance, and the boy's life could have been ended right here, by royal decree.
But he stood.
And she stared.
Neither moved.
Priscilla's lashes did not lower, nor did her gaze waver. Her expression remained untouched by the boy's words—if anything, colder now than before, the faintest shadow of disdain curling at the corner of her lips.
It wasn't the compliment that bothered her.
It was the calculation.
Because she saw it in him—the way he'd timed his words, the precise rhythm of his voice, the theatrical bow that wasn't quite submissive. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every gesture had been curated. Every word designed to land precisely where it would stir the most disruption.
This wasn't flirtation.
This was provocation.
A test.
A quiet blade held between gloved fingers.
She took one step forward.
The guards twitched.
The crowd held its breath again.
The black-eyed boy remained still.
And then, softly—
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice low, clipped. "What house dares to shape a son with such audacity?"
Again, silence.
And in that silence, the wind stirred.
The white cat on his shoulder twitched an ear.
And the boy, finally, moved.
He lifted his gaze just a fraction more, meeting hers fully now. No smirk. No bow.
Just those unreadable, bottomless black eyes.
"…You misunderstand," he said quietly.
A pause. Her gaze narrowed.
"I am not the son of a house," he continued. "I am not shaped by a lineage. I am shaped by the world."
And the calm in his voice—
Was the calm of someone who had stood on the edge before.
"You stand before me under the assumption that names alone determine weight."
His lips curved again—barely. No joy in the motion. Just something sharper. Colder.
"I disagree."
The crowd stirred—tiny ripples of unease moving outward like rings in dark water.
The princess did not blink.
"…You speak as though you are free," she said.
He inclined his head. "Am I not?"
Priscilla's voice lowered.
"No one born under the Empire's sky is truly free."
For the first time, his eyes changed—just faintly. The shadow of something darker passed through them.
Then—
"I see," he murmured, gaze lowering to the tip of the sword pointed at him. "Then perhaps… I'm something else entirely."
The guard's blade twitched in response, but the princess lifted a single hand.
He stopped.
Priscilla studied the boy for a breath longer. Then—
"Your arrogance," Princess Priscilla said, her voice a whisper made of glass and steel, "will earn you enemies."
The black-eyed boy gave no bow this time. No show of theatrics.
He simply answered:
"It already has."
He lifted his gaze again, steady and clean, as if the truth in that admission was not shameful—but inevitable.
"More than I can count."
A pause. Then—
"But I'm still standing here."
The words fell like quiet thunder.
Around them, the crowd was so silent that even the distant bells of the lower quarter festival seemed muffled. The wind stirred gently across the rooftops, tousling his coat and brushing past the silver fall of Priscilla's hair—but nothing moved between them.
Stillness clung to them like gravity.
Priscilla stared, unmoved.
Then, with a single, delicate motion of her fingers—barely a twitch—
The blade shifted.
The guard obeyed.
The cold steel edge slid forward with chilling grace, resting just against the boy's neck. It did not cut. But it could. The faintest push. A slip. An order.
The boy's breath did not hitch. His stance did not falter.
Even the white cat on his shoulder merely blinked.
Priscilla's voice lowered—soft and dangerous now, like snowfall before an avalanche.
"Then tell me," she said. "Why did you dare to speak in the name of Royal Family?"