Chapter 625: Tragedic Princess
While his core—[Devourer of Stars]—remained sealed, unmoving like a moon behind clouds, his flame had grown feral. Focused.
"Still," he said, voice low, "even now, I haven't broken through. Four-star peak… and stuck."
[You've absorbed more than most do in a decade,] Vitaliara said. [Monsters, spells, battle essence. But your core is different. It wasn't made to follow rules. And you—]
She gave a small huff. [You've never been good at staying on a single path.]
Lucavion chuckled under his breath. "No. I suppose I haven't."
He flexed one hand idly, watching the faint tendrils of Equinox flame swirl between his fingers—black tinged with silver, and the silver shot by shadows.
"But even if I wanted to push forward, there's nothing left that's strong enough. Nothing willing to feed me the last drop I need to crack this."
[Or maybe it's not about strength,] she said softly. [Maybe it's something else you're lacking.]
Lucavion didn't answer at first. The quiet spoke for him.
Because he'd thought the same.
All this time he'd been cultivating, growing, surviving—he'd done so without guidance, without blueprints. Without knowing what came next.
He wasn't walking a warrior's path. He was carving his own from the bones of what came before.
Blind.
"But that's what you're here for, isn't it?" he finally said, glancing sideways at her. "My second set of eyes."
Vitaliara didn't reply right away.
Instead, her voice turned almost nostalgic.
[When you reached your peak, something stirred in me, too.]
He glanced toward her now, truly listening.
[My strength is… returning. Slowly. But it's not just power. It's memory. Abilities. Reflexes I thought I'd lost in the collapse.]
Her tail brushed against the side of his jaw as she rose slightly along his shoulder.
[One of them has come back fully now.]
Lucavion arched a brow. "Oh? Do I get a name?"
[Not quite.] A pause. Then, [It's not an attack. It's perception.]
Lucavion slowed his stride.
"Go on."
[I can see vitality now, in more detail than before. Not just the shimmer of health or energy. I see… the spread. The flickers. The flow.]
Her eyes narrowed, the gold catching the moonlight.
[And I've noticed something peculiar.]
"Peculiar how?"
[In humans, emotions—real emotions—are tied to vitality. Joy makes it dance. Fear contracts it. Rage twists it. But lies… lies stall it.]
Lucavion's brow ticked.
[Lying cuts the flow off, like a false note in a song. Even skilled liars can't stop the flicker, the hesitation.]
Her tail twitched.
[And that baron? When he spoke of remembering the Princess, of old alliances, of pledges? He might as well have been spitting mist.]
Lucavion let out a low hum.
"So the performance was worse than I thought."
[It was crafted. Every word. He didn't believe it himself—but he was trained to act like he did.]
A beat of silence.
Then Vitaliara's voice turned faintly dry.
[Which, ironically, makes him more honest than most nobles.]
Lucavion laughed—quiet and sharp. "Now that's a horrifying thought."
They continued walking, the curve of the road leading them out of the tangle of narrow paths and into a broader street lined with shuttered shops.
[But it means something else too, Lucavion,] she added, softer now.
He tilted his head.
[It means I can see through more than barons.]
Lucavion's steps paused.
She looked directly at him, her golden eyes narrowed just slightly.
[Even you.]
There was no challenge in her voice.
No threat.
Just a truth.
Lucavion met her gaze.
Then smiled.
Lucavion's smile lingered—quiet, unreadable. A half-curve that didn't touch his eyes.
"I don't lie," he said calmly. "Your ability does not matter in front of me."
Vitaliara, with no ceremony, lifted a single paw and bopped him on the cheek.
He didn't flinch. But his smirk deepened.
[You may not lie,] she muttered, [but you hide quite a lot.]
"To which I say," Lucavion replied without missing a step, "that is the mystery of a man."
[A charlatan.]
"A mystery," he repeated, a flicker of amusement sharpening his voice, "of a charlatan. A fool. A wanderer. Whatever word makes the poetry easier to swallow."
Vitaliara huffed, the sound small but pointed, and settled herself once more along his shoulder, though her tail twitched like a ribbon in the wind.
But she wasn't finished.
[You still haven't answered me.]
Lucavion raised an eyebrow, glancing at her sidelong.
[You said it was all orchestrated, all arranged. And you acted before the threads fully wove together. So—how? Why did you do it? And how did you know something like this was about to unfold?]
He didn't stop this time.
Just slid his hands deeper into his coat pockets, walking through the lantern-dotted night like a man returning from a play he hadn't paid to attend.
"How did I know…" he mused, the words tasting like dust and ash on his tongue.
Then he exhaled slowly. "It's the same source as how I knew about Aeliana."
Vitaliara tilted her head. [So—Revelations? Visions? Something you can't explain?]
Lucavion's eyes narrowed faintly as a breeze stirred through the eaves above them, rustling the hanging festival streamers.
"Something like that."
[That's not an answer.]
"It is an answer," Lucavion said, voice smooth as silk drawn across a blade. "It's simply not the answer you seek."
Vitaliara flattened her ears. [Don't speak in riddles.]
"But it's the truth."
[Humph!] she huffed, turning her head with a feline flick of indignation. [You're impossible.]
Lucavion chuckled under his breath, the sound like falling coins—sharp, weighty, but faint. The quiet between them returned as they passed beneath a canopy of half-wilted lanterns, the streetlights dimming with distance.
But inwardly?
He was no longer walking the cobbled roads of the capital.
His mind had already slipped backward—sideways—into memory and fiction both.
Princess Priscilla Lysandra.
How did I know?
The answer settled in him like a stone dropped into still water, leaving ripples behind that would never quite fade.
Because I read it.
Because I remember.
The novel.
Shattered Innocence.
He could still recall the way the words unfolded across the pages. How, buried within the political spires and schoolyard rivalries of the Royal Academy, there had been mention—brief, half a paragraph at best—of a scandal that marked Priscilla's entry into court life.
"The unwanted princess," they had called her. "Who could not even protect the retainers that pledged to her."
It was never shown. Never expanded.
Just an ugly little note in the margins of the empire's tale, as told by the perspective of the heroine, Elara. And when she asked about it—when she confronted the Crown Prince about his sister's reputation—
He had answered.
"It was necessary."
"They were never hers to begin with."
Lucavion remembered that line. It had chilled him even then.
Because in Shattered Innocence, the Crown Prince was more than a political genius. He was the obsessive, possessive, perfectly controlled tyrant-in-training. Everything he did was designed to control the stage. And if a scene didn't serve his play?
He rewrote it.
Of course he had arranged the humiliation. Of course he had turned her retainers against her, then painted her as the one who failed them. The novel framed it as a piece of character lore—Priscilla's shame, her driving wedge from the imperial family. A footnote that led to her loneliness, her hunger for validation, and eventually… her downfall.
After all, she was the perfect Villainess Candidate, from the start.
Chapter 626: Tragedic Princess (2)
Princess Priscilla Lysandra.
In the novel, her name carried the cold elegance of ice formed under pressure—beautiful, sharp, and out of place.
Lucavion remembered the footnotes. The casual mentions. The whispers around her title. No one ever truly spoke of her in the narrative—not directly. Just enough was scattered for a reader to piece her together like a portrait sketched in candlelight.
But he had paid attention.
And what he remembered, what the novel implied but never quite spelled out, was far more brutal than the pretty imperial image suggested.
She wasn't meant to be there.
Priscilla's mother was a commoner. Not some secretly noble-born daughter hidden in a village waiting to be discovered. No. She was actually a commoner—a healer's daughter from a southern border province, raised among herbs and wet markets, the kind of woman who might've sung folk songs to keep the wolves away.
And the Emperor?
He had met her once.
The novel was vague—intentionally. A passing whim during an imperial inspection. A single night born of royal indulgence. The kind of encounter the Empire didn't question. Kings did what kings pleased.
Usually, such dalliances ended in silence. The women were paid off. Moved. Forgotten. And if a child came from it, they were hidden—raised in a quiet corner of the realm with a stipend and a name that meant nothing.
But this?
This was different.
Because Priscilla wasn't the result of an accident, nor was her mother some nameless concubine scribbled into the margins of a scandal.
No.
The Emperor had loved her.
That single, silent truth sat buried beneath the palace's golden veneer like a blade under silk—never spoken aloud in the novel, never expanded. But Lucavion remembered the way it bled through the dialogue, the implications between lines, in the way the Crown Prince spat her name, and the way his mother spoke of "those who steal what was never theirs."
The story never gave readers the whole picture. It didn't explain why the Emperor had loved a healer's daughter from the provinces. Whether it was a spell, or a rebellion against the constraints of imperial marriage, or something more hauntingly simple—like peace. Like choice.
But what it did reveal, in fleeting, bitter fragments, was this:
The Emperor did not cast Priscilla's mother aside.
He brought her.
Ordered her, publicly and irreversibly, to be summoned to the capital. Not as a passing mistress. Not as a hidden shame.
But as a consort.
It had been an act that set the court ablaze.
Lucavion remembered one scene in particular—a council meeting—where an aging duke muttered how "a crown should not rest near wildflowers," and another noble responded with forced laughter, "Yet some weeds take root too deep to pull."
Those were not the words of men discussing a brief indulgence.
Those were the words of a political structure threatened.
And the loudest opposition?
Came from the Empress.
The First Wife.
The Crown Prince's mother.
Lucavion could still see the image the novel painted so cleanly—her face pale with restraint, her fingers clenching the edge of her sleeve during a formal gathering, a single vein twitching at her temple as Priscilla's name was uttered in court.
The Empress was no fool. She had ruled beside her husband for decades. Her lineage was pure. Her position, absolute.
Until she came.
The southern girl with no noble blood, no pedigree, no name the Empire recognized.
And yet… she was loved.
The novel never described it outright, but the resentment radiated through every line the Empress spoke in private. Through her cold interactions with her own son. Through the silence that hung between the imperial siblings.
Lucavion remembered a single passing moment in the book -- quiet corridor and an overheard hushed conversation between the Crown Prince and his mother.
The Crown Prince stood like a statue—flawless in posture, unreadable in expression.
And the Empress, cloaked in crimson and shadow, stood beside him, her voice cold enough to freeze glass.
"A lowborn has no place in the palace."
She said it without raising her voice. But the hate behind it didn't need volume.
"I endured the merchant's daughter. I even turned my eyes from that songstress from the East. But her—"
The Empress's tone turned acidic. "That whore came out of nowhere. No name. No nobility. Nothing. And yet she wormed her way into his heart."
Lucavion had remembered the pause in her voice. That slip. That barest crack in her tone that reeked not just of disgust—but of jealousy.
Because it hadn't been political, not really.
It had been personal.
"Don't forget, my son," she said, her voice tightening like a snare. "What is ours is not to be taken. Not by bastards. Not by commoners. Not even by blood."
That line had stayed with Lucavion.
Not even by blood.
Because it was the turning point. The moment the heir—the Crown Prince—looked at his half-sister not as a nuisance… but as a threat.
From that day forward, everything that surrounded Priscilla was a quiet battlefield. She wouldn't die. No, that would've been too crude. Too suspicious. Instead—
She would be suffocated.
Every connection she formed, subtly cut.
Every retainer that swore loyalty to her, manipulated or bribed or broken.
Every public mistake magnified. Every success minimized.
And when her one opportunity arrived—the Academy—where she might've stood on equal ground, where merit and politics mingled among the elite youth of the Empire…
She was thrust into it carrying the weight of humiliation.
The scandal of the Prominence.
Fabricated.
Orchestrated.
And perfectly timed.
Lucavion could already see how it would've played out if he hadn't intervened.
Whispers would've followed her to the academy gates. Nobles would've laughed behind silken sleeves. Even those sympathetic wouldn't dare associate. Professors, bound by factional loyalty, would cast her as a cautionary tale.
The unwanted girl.
The half-blood princess who failed to protect her own.
Her days at the Academy would be filled with quiet exile. Her nights with paranoia.
And all the while—the Crown Prince would smile.
Because the Academy was his stage.
And she?
She was the tragedy he'd written long before the first class bell rang.
But Lucavion knew something else the novel had foreshadowed.
Someone was coming.
Someone who would never miss such an opportunity.
'Heh…..'
Someone he needed to get ready to face.
She would not miss such a good pawn.
Naturally.
She was far too clever for that.
In the story, it was never spelled out in flashing ink or dramatic prose. But for anyone reading between the lines—for anyone who watched the patterns rather than the plot—it was obvious.
Someone who drew paths.
And Priscilla?
She would make the perfect piece.
A discarded royal. A girl too dangerous to keep close, too disgraced to be embraced by the mainstream factions. But still a princess. Still a name with imperial weight.
Lucavion remembered the subtle arcs in the novel. How she first appeared not as a villain, but as a poised presence in the academy's political councils. Calm. Measured. Polite. She was the one who offered guidance when no one else would. The one who extended a hand to those left behind.
And in time?
She always collected the broken.
Priscilla's isolation, her anger, her sharpness—'she' would fan those embers. Not cruelly. Not even manipulatively at first. But inevitably.
Because to someone like 'her', every broken piece had potential.
And Priscilla?
She had been forged in a palace of silence and polished spite.
She wouldn't become 'her' friend. No.
She would become her instrument.
The perfect villainess.
Cold. Regal. Vengeful. Smart enough to play her role, and tragic enough for the story to blame her when it all fell apart.
That was the role the novel carved out for her.
Not because she was cruel.
But because cruelty was the only armor she had left.
And if Lucavion hadn't stepped in—if he hadn't cracked the mask early—
She would've worn that armor with pride.
He could see it now. The threads still forming. The shadow of her waiting at the edge of the academy's political battlefield. The perfect queenmaker, polishing the dagger she would sheath in Priscilla's hand.
Lucavion's eyes narrowed, a quiet breath slipping past his lips.
'Isolde…We will meet soon.'
Chapter 627: Archmage and her seeds
The moonlight spilled softly across the polished floors of the guest estate, its glow filtering through silken drapes that fluttered lazily in the evening breeze. Arcania never quite slept during the Festival of the First Flame—distant laughter still echoed faintly from the lower plazas, accompanied by bursts of light from illusionary fireworks and drifting lanterns that pulsed like stars in motion.
But high above it all, within one of the estate's upper rooms, two figures sat in quiet reflection.
Aurelian Vale lounged against a velvet-backed divan, arms behind his head, legs crossed loosely at the ankle. He stared up at the ceiling, his expression half-curious, half-lost in thought. A cooling teapot sat forgotten beside him.
Across from him, seated by the arched window, Selphine Elowen leaned against the frame, arms folded tightly across her chest. The moon lit the silver edges of her hair, catching in her eyes—which hadn't stopped scanning the horizon once since they'd settled in.
But neither of them spoke for a long while.
Because their minds were still back in the morning.
Back in Velis Prominence.
Where everything had changed.
"…That was not how I thought the day would go," Aurelian said at last, breaking the silence with a wry grin.
Selphine's only response was a sharp exhale through her nose.
"Neither did I," she muttered.
He glanced over at her. "You're still brooding."
"I'm processing."
Aurelian chuckled. "Same thing, just more dramatic."
Selphine gave him a side glance, unimpressed. "You're too casual about it."
He sat up a little straighter, his grin fading just a touch. "I just think… it was interesting. That's all. I mean—did you see how fast he moved? How quick he was with words?"
"I saw how reckless he was," Selphine replied coolly. "How completely unruly. No house name. No etiquette. He practically invited a beheading."
"And yet," Aurelian said, gesturing with his hand like unfurling a mystery, "he didn't get one."
Selphine frowned. "Because the princess stayed her hand. That doesn't mean he won."
"I didn't say he won. But he didn't lose either." Aurelian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He smiled at her, Selphine. Smiled. While a sword was at his neck."
"He's lucky he still has a neck."
"Or," Aurelian added, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully, "he knew she wouldn't strike."
Selphine went quiet again, lips pressed into a tight line.
"…I don't like him."
Aurelian laughed, softly. "That's because you couldn't read him."
She didn't answer.
He stretched again, falling back onto the cushions. "I liked him," he said with a grin. "He was fun."
"Fun?" Selphine echoed, turning to glare at him. "He disrupted the terrace, insulted the heir of House Crane, mocked a royal guard, flirted with the princess, and managed to walk away applauded."
Aurelian smiled at the ceiling.
"Exactly."
Selphine turned away from the window with a sharp flick of her hair, the corner of her mouth curling as she raised a brow.
"If you found it so fun," she said, voice dry, "why don't you try it next time?"
Aurelian blinked up at her, then smirked. "Tempting," he drawled. "But watching it was fun. Not sure about doing it."
"Oh?" Selphine tilted her head, her tone slipping into playful condescension. "Isn't it because you're scared?"
He didn't even pretend to deny it.
"I am scared," he said easily, one arm flopping over his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be? This world doesn't run on a single moment of flair. It runs on memory. On consequence." He peeked at her through his fingers. "Something you tend to conveniently forget."
Selphine leaned her back against the frame again, chin resting in her hand.
"Heh… And yet, somehow, the boy who doesn't care about those consequences walked away untouched. Meanwhile, the one who built his whole name on lineage and structure ended up eating his own tongue in front of the crowd."
Aurelian grinned. "See? I knew you liked him."
"I said nothing of the sort."
"You're talking about him a lot."
She shot him a glare. "Because you keep bringing him up."
Aurelian shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just wondering if he'll show up again tomorrow."
Selphine opened her mouth to retort—
Knock knock.
The sound echoed lightly through the chamber.
They both paused.
Aurelian blinked and sat up straighter, reaching for the teapot as if it might shield him from whatever was coming next.
Selphine stood, her posture snapping instinctively into a graceful, noble line, her eyes narrowing toward the door.
"…It's late," she said.
"Which means," Aurelian murmured, setting the pot aside, "it's either important…"
"…or interesting." Selphine finished.
They exchanged a glance—
And then, together, turned toward the door.
The door opened with a soft creak, and in stepped a woman cloaked in muted forest green, her hair braided neatly down her back, a crest stitched over her shoulder marking her as an attendant of House Elowen.
She moved with practiced grace and dipped into a quiet bow before both of them.
"My lady. Young master Vale."
Selphine nodded once, folding her arms behind her back. "Lyria. You're up late."
"I could say the same of you, my lady," Lyria replied with a faint, knowing smile.
Selphine tilted her head. "You bring news, then?"
Lyria straightened, her gloved hands gently presenting a sealed envelope from within the folds of her cloak. "A letter arrived for you both. Delivered through official channel. I examined it personally, then had it verified for enchantments—none, aside from the sender's marking."
Selphine's brows lifted. "Who?"
Lyria hesitated just a second.
Then answered, clear and even:
"Miss Eveline."
The room went still.
Aurelian blinked.
Selphine's mouth twitched open before she slowly closed it again.
"…Miss Eveline?" she repeated.
Aurelian leaned forward, frowning. "As in—our Miss Eveline?"
Lyria nodded. "The very one."
Selphine looked down at the envelope in her hand, her fingers brushing gently over the seal as a slow smile began to tug at the corner of her lips—subtle, rare, and touched with something unusually warm.
"It's been so long," she murmured.
Aurelian tilted his head, watching her. "You're smiling."
She didn't deny it. "Of course I am."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You think she's still as eccentric as ever?"
"She's probably written this letter using a spell that erases the ink if you read it too quickly." Her smile widened slightly. "Or cursed it to scold us if we forgot our mana formations."
Aurelian gave a soft laugh. "Wouldn't put it past her."
Selphine exhaled, the weight of memories settling over her shoulders like a familiar shawl. She stepped back toward the window, holding the letter carefully, reverently.
"Do you remember the first time she visited?" she asked. "The fireflies?"
Aurelian grinned. "You mean the swarm that turned into a constellation and spelled out our names? How could I forget?"
"She made the entire hilltop feel like a dream."
"She was a dream," Aurelian said. "One minute we're nothing but bored heirs stuck in our dusty little provinces… and the next, we're apprentices to a wandering archmage who showed up uninvited and told our parents we had no choice in the matter."
Selphine laughed softly—genuinely this time. "She changed everything."
They both went quiet for a moment.
Lyria, still standing by the door, spoke gently. "You were different after she left. Both of you."
Selphine nodded slowly. "She gave us a path. Magic that meant something. Not politics. Not tradition. Just… freedom. Wonder."
Aurelian's voice dropped, more thoughtful now. "She didn't stay long. A few seasons. Then gone. No goodbyes. Just that note."
"'The world waits in places no map has drawn.'" Selphine quoted the final line of Eveline's farewell, her smile tinged with nostalgia. "And now…"
"…She writes us," Aurelian finished, eyes narrowing in curiosity.
Selphine's grip on the letter tightened slightly. "She must have a reason."
"Always did," Aurelian murmured.
Only Lyria, and a handful of their closest aides, even knew the truth. That their magical training hadn't begun in the Academy. That it hadn't been shaped by tutors or scrolls or noble connections. It had started with a barefoot woman in traveling robes, who spoke to stars and laughed at lightning.
And now, she had written them.
Selphine glanced over her shoulder.
"Shall we see what the Archmage has to say?"
Chapter 628: Archmage and her seeds (2)
The moment Selphine broke the seal on Eveline's letter, a quiet ripple of mana pulsed outward, nearly imperceptible—like the hush before a summer storm.
Aurelian instinctively leaned closer, eyebrows rising. "That's not normal parchment," he muttered.
"No," Selphine agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "She enchanted it."
And not lightly.
The parchment shimmered faintly in the moonlight as she unfolded it, ink already glowing in shifting strokes of cerulean and gold. Runes pulsed in the margins, like musical notations that responded to their presence—listening, waiting.
Lyria, still standing by the door, took a cautious step forward. "Should I summon a scribe-mage?"
"No need," Selphine replied. "This is personal."
Aurelian tilted his head, squinting at the text. "Are those… riddles?"
"Ciphered patterns," Selphine said. "I've seen her use this technique before. The letter will unlock only if we activate it with the correct sequence."
"So… a game," Aurelian grinned. "Very Eveline."
But the mirth faded as the lines of mana grew sharper, denser. The enchantments were complex—woven like threads in a tapestry. Each wrong attempt would likely cause the letter to reseal… or worse.
Selphine reached for the teapot.
Not to pour.
To redirect.
The silver base of the pot shimmered with her mana, becoming a focus point. Aurelian blinked as the enchantments on the letter reacted, lines of glyphs twisting into clarity.
"Right. She wants resonance," Selphine murmured. "We have to align our signatures."
Aurelian sat upright, clearing his throat. "I'm guessing my usual 'charming rogue' aura won't cut it."
"Not unless you can convert charm into pure mana."
"Don't tempt me."
Selphine inhaled, lifting her hand, then slowly guided a stream of her magic into the letter. It danced over the paper, seeking, testing. The runes shifted, some glowing brighter, others fading—until three symbols remained, hovering above the page like pressed constellations.
Aurelian peered at them.
"A feather. A sun. And… is that a snail?"
Selphine sighed. "It's a reference. Remember the lesson she gave on tempo control using animal-based metaphors?"
Aurelian snapped his fingers. "Yes! Feather for lightness, sun for amplification, snail for pacing."
"She's testing our memory."
"And probably laughing wherever she is," he added.
Selphine aligned her mana flow with the sequence—light, then amplified, then slowly drawn out. The moment the final resonance hit, the glyphs on the page unraveled like threads, dissolving into legible script.
The letter revealed itself in full.
And Eveline's voice came not as written words, but as faint, melodic whispers—an echo of her presence, like memory translated into sound.
"To my dearest stormborns—
Selphine of the sharpened gaze, and Aurelian of the laugh that hides too much."
Aurelian blinked. "That's oddly accurate."
Eveline's whisper-ink continued to hum softly, curling around the edges of the page like smoke on the verge of laughter.
"If this letter finds you, then the fireflies have begun to stir again. You remember them, I hope. You always did shine brighter when you chased after impossible lights."
Aurelian let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Oh no," he groaned. "She's doing it again."
Selphine's lips twitched. "She always does."
"Doesn't mean she should," Aurelian muttered. "Chased after impossible lights? Stars preserve us."
"She thinks she's a bard trapped in an archmage's robes," Selphine said, shaking her head as she scanned the next few lines.
"The sky speaks, and I listen. The roots whisper, and I follow. The tides roll backward when old souls cross paths, and I am reminded of two children who turned time into ash and laughter."
Aurelian gave her a sideways look. "That doesn't even make sense."
"She once rhymed 'scepter' with 'specter', remember?"
"Gods," Aurelian whispered, feigning a shudder. "That one kept me up at night."
Still, they read on. Because buried beneath Eveline's extravagant metaphors and lyrical misfires, there was always truth. Always a message.
And soon, it came.
"I've missed you, both of you. More than my scattered musings can express. But I cannot return to the capital—not yet. My path winds elsewhere for now."
Selphine's gaze softened, her fingers brushing over the words.
"She's watching," she murmured. "Still keeping track of us."
Aurelian gave a small, wistful smile. "Typical Eveline. Always vanishing without warning… but never really gone."
They continued.
"But I've heard of your progress—your clever tongues and your sharp blades. I know you've both taken your places at the academy. Good. That place needs shaking."
Selphine chuckled. "She would say that."
"She did say we were 'stormborns,'" Aurelian added with a grin.
Then the tone of the letter shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.
"You won't be alone much longer. I've sent someone. A girl. She will be arriving soon to attend the academy—under a different name, of course. A little disguise to keep things... simple."
Aurelian leaned forward, interest piqued. "Someone she trained?"
Selphine's eyes narrowed. "A disciple."
The letter continued, Eveline's unmistakable tone now drifting into something closer to warmth—less cryptic, more personal. Like the closing notes of an old melody, remembered fondly.
"She will arrive under the guise of a newly ennobled heir, traveling from the Barony of Caerlin, due to arrive in the capital just around the turn of the moon. I've made arrangements for her to stay at the Laurelshade Pavilion—quiet, unassuming, and just removed enough from the academy's bustle that she might breathe a little."
Selphine's brow furrowed. "Laurelshade... That's only a few districts from here."
"And the moon turned three nights ago," Aurelian added, glancing toward the window where stars twinkled above the city's glow. "Which means..."
"She's already arrived." Selphine looked down at the date marked beneath Eveline's flowing signature. Confirmed.
Stamped seven days prior.
"Eveline timed this," Selphine said, voice low, as realization settled in her chest. "The moment the letter reached us…"
"…was the moment the girl stepped into Arcania," Aurelian finished. He let out a quiet whistle. "Subtle as always."
They both went still for a moment, absorbing that truth.
"She didn't do this with us," Selphine said at last. Her voice wasn't bitter, just curious. Thoughtful. "We were apprentices. Not disciples."
"True," Aurelian mused, stretching slightly. "Which makes this girl special, doesn't it?"
"She chose her."
"And now she's ours to meet."
Their eyes met, a rare stillness in both their expressions. Because Eveline didn't name disciples lightly. If this Elowyn Caerlin had earned that title, then she had to be remarkable—no matter how "unassuming" her barony might seem on paper.
Aurelian leaned back on the divan, arms crossed behind his head again, his expression drifting toward a grin. "Do you think she's like Eveline?"
Selphine tilted her head, considering. "You mean chaotic, poetic, and five seconds away from enchanting the chandeliers?"
"Yes."
"I hope not," she deadpanned.
Aurelian chuckled. "Fair. But still… she is the Archmage of Frost's disciple. Do you think the girl uses frost too?"
Selphine's fingers tapped lightly on the folded letter, mind drifting. "Probably. At least in part. Eveline wouldn't choose someone without affinity."
A pause.
Then, more quietly: "But it's not just about affinity, is it?"
"No," Aurelian murmured. "It never was."
He sat upright again, eyes gleaming now with anticipation. "I'm curious, Sel. I really want to meet this girl. What kind of person catches Eveline's eye after all these years?"
Selphine nodded slowly, her posture slipping from noble stiffness to something more... invested.
"So do I."
They both turned, almost in unison, toward the gently swaying drapes that framed the moonlit city—toward the streets beyond, where a girl named Elowyn Caerlin, born of frost and secrets, had just stepped into the story Eveline had once started.
And tomorrow?
They would begin to find her.
Chapter 629: Protagonist, and her change
The rooftop was cold, kissed with early morning frost, the wind curling between spires and stone towers as if reluctant to greet the sun. The capital—Arcania—lay sprawled below in a web of domes and arches, silvered by dawnlight. Even from this distant rooftop, the city buzzed faintly, its breath steady, its pace eternal.
Elara stood at the edge, her cloak rippling around her like a banner of shadowed ice. She hadn't spoken in minutes.
Behind her, Eveline's silhouette remained still, hat tilted low, her arms folded as she looked down at Arcania with a familiar, unmistakable expression.
Scorn.
"The outside changed," Eveline murmured, voice just loud enough to cut through the rising wind. "But the inside? Still the same gilded rot wrapped in prettier robes."
Elara turned her head, just slightly, and caught the subtle twist of her master's lips. Not quite a frown. Not quite a sneer. Something deeper, older, carried in that glance toward the city's heart.
"You don't like it here," Elara said softly.
"I detest it," Eveline replied without hesitation. "Its towers reach toward the stars, but its roots have never left the gutter. Arcania has always been a city of masks. Even revolution couldn't tear them off—just made them more fashionable."
The wind shifted, blowing strands of Elara's pale hair across her face. She didn't push them away.
Eveline stepped closer, her voice quieter now. "I won't be able to stay. Not here. Too many eyes. Too many games. And far too many people who'd like to ask questions I don't feel like answering."
Elara nodded. She understood. Of course she did.
Still…
She turned, abruptly, and without a word, stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around her master's waist.
Eveline blinked—visibly surprised. Her arms remained at her sides for half a beat longer than they should have. But then they lifted, almost awkwardly, and settled gently over Elara's shoulders.
It was a rare thing between them.
Rare… but not unwelcome.
"I'll be fine," Elara said, her voice muffled in Eveline's robe. "Don't worry about me."
Eveline exhaled, resting her chin lightly atop her apprentice's head. "Of course I'll worry. You're about to dive into a pond full of snakes."
"I know how to freeze snakes."
"Don't freeze all of them. Some of them are useful."
Elara laughed—quiet and small. "I'll try."
A moment passed.
Then Eveline stepped back, just enough to look her in the eyes. "No soft-hearted nonsense once you're inside," she said, tapping Elara's forehead with a gloved finger. "You are not there to find closure. Or guilt. Or answers. You're there to learn. To grow. And to remind them exactly what they threw away."
"I haven't forgotten."
"I'd be disappointed if you had."
The teleportation circle beneath Eveline's feet shimmered then, soft and sharp like a silver breath. The runes were almost invisible in the frost—quiet, elegant, efficient.
"You're going to do just fine, Elara," Eveline said, her tone suddenly warmer. "But don't look for me in that city. I won't be there."
"I know."
Elara will reply with a smile, though Eveline will continue watching it.
…"Commoners," Eveline finished, her voice dry as frozen ash.
She watched the stream of lesser carriages flowing in, some stuttering as they passed through the city's scanning enchantments, others slowed by the sheer volume of traffic. No banners, no proud insignias. Just plain wood, faint mana-signatures, and hopeful eyes inside windows that didn't gleam.
From this rooftop, Arcania looked like a jewel—but to Eveline, it was still the same flawed crown resting on a broken throne.
She exhaled, arms folded as her gaze swept the crystalline skyways that bridged the city's tiers. Mana formations pulsed in seamless intervals, arcane displays humming to life across mirrored towers. Each glyph cast brief illusions—diagrams of the entrance trials, details for the public, shifting brackets for the commoner examination scheduled two days hence.
Spectacles, all of it. An illusion of fairness wrapped in academic ritual.
Her nose wrinkled faintly.
"Show them lights and spinning glyphs," she muttered, "and maybe they'll forget that the weight of the gate is different for each hand that pushes it open."
Behind her, Elara remained silent—but she stepped closer.
She didn't need to ask what her master was thinking. The hatred for this place ran old in Eveline's blood, twisted deep into her bones. Elara had heard the stories, pieced together from snatches of bitter wine-drunk mutterings and sleepless nights at the tower. Arcania had never been kind to her master.
And yet here she was. Because of Elara.
"I won't be able to stay," Eveline repeated, though this time her voice was softer. Not bitter. Not cold. Just… resigned. "Not for long. And not often."
Elara didn't argue.
She knew.
This city watched too closely. Dug too deeply. Its towers gleamed with ambition, but its foundations were built on secrets and schemes. And Eveline—unapologetic, brilliant, and infamous—was a fire they couldn't help but try to bottle. If they knew she was here…
She turned toward her master, and then—without quite realizing why—she smiled.
It wasn't a warm smile. Not the kind she gave to strangers, or the quiet polite ones she offered to instructors. It was colder than that. Colder, but steady.
Her lips curved faintly, her gaze distant.
"I haven't forgotten why I'm here."
Eveline looked over, eyes narrowing with mild interest.
"I remember," Elara said, "the reason I asked to be trained. The reason I crawled out of that alley five years ago. It wasn't for comfort. Or power for power's sake."
"No," Eveline murmured. "It was for vengeance."
The word fell between them like a blade, sharp and cold.
Elara nodded.
"I was just… distracted. But that's over now."
A brief silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Eveline smiled.
"There she is," she said, tilting her head. "My little frost witch."
Elara snorted softly, looking down at the glowing paths that led to the academy district. The students would be arriving soon—those with names carved in marble, those with dreams pressed into trembling hands.
Among them, she would walk.
Not as a daughter of the Duke.
Not as a forgotten exile.
Not even as Eveline Draycott's disciple.
But as Elowyn Caerlin—a name born of necessity, and perhaps, one day, something more.
Her voice was low when she spoke again, the words barely louder than the wind curling past her.
"Will you watch me, Master?"
Eveline's smirk returned, that glimmer of magic flashing in her star-ringed eyes.
"I always do."
And then, without warning, her presence flickered—folding in on itself with no burst of light, no dramatic surge of mana.
One moment she was there.
The next, only the frost remained.
Elara stood on the rooftop alone once more, gazing down at Arcania as the Spiral Nexus began its slow, luminous turn.
The storm had come.
And this time… she would be the eye of it.
Chapter 630: Protagonist, and new identity
The rooftop remained hushed in Eveline's absence, the frost she left behind slowly fading under the soft kiss of morning light. Elara took a step back from the edge, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The moment was still—until the shimmer of teleportation magic pulsed again behind her.
Cedric stepped through, his boots crunching softly on the frost-rimed stone. He looked different. The weeks apart had hardened something in his eyes, yet when he saw her, the familiar furrow of concern appeared all the same.
"Elara," he said, his voice quiet but steady.
"Cedric." She turned toward him with a slight nod, the steel in her posture unchanged. She expected words—maybe questions. But before either could speak further, another pulse of magic flickered between them.
And just like that, Eveline returned.
She appeared mid-step, her hat settling into place as if it had never moved. This time, she carried something in her hand: a small, intricately carved box of obsidian inlaid with thin bands of starlight silver. With a flick of her finger, the box clicked open.
Inside were two rings.
They shimmered with enchantments so dense that even Elara, whose senses were well-trained, could barely follow the web of spells within. One ring was a deep cobalt band engraved with a twisting ivy motif. The other, a sleek silver with a single frost-blue gem that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Catch," Eveline said lazily, tossing them with a flick of her wrist.
Cedric caught his with a soft grunt, while Elara snagged hers in silence.
"Put them on," Eveline instructed, eyes glinting. "They'll do more than look pretty."
Elara eyed the ring warily, then slipped it onto her finger.
The change was immediate.
She felt it before she saw it—the soft ripple of illusion magic cascading over her skin like a second cloak. Her limbs elongated slightly. Her eyes, reflected faintly in a nearby frost-covered pane, were no longer their usual piercing gray-blue, but a rich hazel, flecked with gold. Her hair darkened into a shade of deep chestnut, cascading in softer waves than her usual strict braid. Even her voice, she noticed when she inhaled, had shifted—just subtly, enough to change pitch and tone.
Cedric muttered a quiet curse under his breath, startled by his own transformation. His hair had turned a muted ash brown, his features more angular, his usual knightly bearing replaced with something looser—a duelist's ease, not a noble's stiffness.
"I feel… weird," he said, adjusting the collar of his tunic. "Like I'm not myself."
"You're not," Eveline said crisply. "That's the point."
She clasped her hands behind her back, pacing a few steps as her tone shifted into something instructive. "You two will be attending the academy under new identities. The capital may have changed on the surface, but its memory runs deep. I don't intend for either of you to be dragged into noble politics before you're ready to bite back."
Elara's brows furrowed. "And who exactly are we supposed to be?"
Eveline turned on her heel, raising a hand with dramatic flair. "You, Elara, will be known as Elowyn Caerlin, the heir of a minor barony from the coastlands of the Caedrim Reach. Newly ennobled, recently returned from an extended arcane apprenticeship in isolation. Elegant. Distant. Dangerous."
Elara's eyes narrowed slightly. "So… me."
Eveline smirked. "With better hair."
Cedric cleared his throat. "And me?"
"You," Eveline said, pointing a gloved finger at him, "will be Reilan Dorne—your father is supposedly a decorated war captain, retired to his vineyards. You're his prodigious son, trained in both sword and strategy. Competitive, proud, prone to making poor decisions when your friends are threatened."
Cedric blinked. "That's… not much of a disguise."
"It's not meant to hide your personality," Eveline replied dryly. "Just your blood."
Elara looked down at her hands, now thinner, softer in appearance. "And how long will we be like this?"
"The illusion is anchored to the ring. As long as you wear it, the spell will remain stable. Remove it, and you'll revert." Eveline's voice grew more serious. "The disguise is more than vanity. It will protect you. From recognition. From unwanted questions. From people who would rather see you fail before you've even begun."
Elara nodded slowly. Cedric, too, adjusted his gloves with a resigned breath.
Eveline stepped toward them, her shadow long across the rooftop.
"This is your entry into their world," she said. "But don't let them pull you into their pace. Make them dance to yours."
She held out the obsidian box one last time, then vanished it with a flick of her fingers.
"Arcania will try to break you," Eveline murmured, almost to herself. "Just don't let it convince you you're already broken."
Then she turned, the frost whispering beneath her steps as she moved toward the rooftop's edge.
The sky above them cracked with golden light as the city stirred to life—its gears turning, its illusions spinning.
******
The soft rumble of the carriage wheels echoed faintly within the cabin, a rhythm steady as her heartbeat, though she wasn't sure if it was calmness or unease pulsing through her chest.
Valeria sat with her back straight against the padded interior wall, her hands resting loosely over her knees. Not because she wished to, but because that was the posture expected. Her armor had been left behind—her sword, too—replaced by formal attire her family had deemed "appropriate" for the entrance of a student to the Imperial Arcanis Academy.
She had argued for a horse.
But knights did not argue with family. They obeyed.
Outside, the capital unfolded like a dream tempered by reason. Stone bled into crystal. Towers spiraled and twisted in defiance of logic. Magic pulsed in the veins of the city like lifeblood beneath translucent skin. She watched it pass from behind the carriage's reinforced window, the enchanted glass flickering slightly each time a leyline pulsed near.
Her thoughts were quiet, but they were not still.
"…So this is the capital," her attendant said from across the cabin, his voice low, cautious. He was older than her by nearly twenty years—once a knight himself, now something quieter. He wore simple clothes, plain traveling greys with a faded crest of the Olarion house etched into the hem.
Valeria didn't respond at first.
Her eyes tracked a group of street performers floating midair, their instruments suspended by intricate gravity runes. Children ran beneath them, laughing, while automaton knights kept slow vigil at every junction.
It was beautiful.
But beauty often came with a price.
Finally, she spoke, her tone neutral but firm. "It's excessive."
The attendant didn't look surprised. "Yes," he murmured, "but excess is what they trade in here. Power must be seen, not just spoken."
She gave a small nod, then returned her gaze to the window. In the distance, the Spiral Nexus loomed, coiling toward the heavens like the blade of a spear meant to pierce the sky itself.
Her fingers, bare of gauntlets for the first time in years, curled slightly. "It doesn't feel real."
"Few things here are," her attendant replied.
For a while, they rode in silence.
The streets changed as they neared the academy. Gone were the worn cobbles of outer Arcania. Here, the roads shimmered with reactive glyphs. Carriages glided, never jolting. Banners of noble houses fluttered on high, each sigil brighter than the last. And hers—Olarion—flashed once as they passed a checkpoint, scanned and recorded without ceremony.
Valeria exhaled slowly.
"I should have ridden in," she muttered, not hiding her distaste. "Like a soldier. Not… like this."
"It would've made a statement," her attendant agreed, "but not the one your father wanted."
Her eyes flicked to him. "And what does he want?"
"To remind everyone," the man said quietly, "that House Olarion is still as prestigious as ever."
That made her huff once—dry amusement more than humor.
"Tell me, then," she said, gaze returning to the swirling layers of the Nexus, "am I here to study… or to prove we still have standing?"
"Both," he said. "And neither. You're here because the Empire is watching."
A beat.
Then, softer: "And because you earned it."
That was something that she couldn't say much to….
Chapter 631: Meeting
"Both," he said. "And neither. You're here because the Empire is watching."
A beat.
Then, softer: "And because you earned it."
She didn't answer.
Not right away.
Not until the carriage turned a bend, revealing the outer ring of the Academy—a plaza alive with candidates and carriages both extravagant and plain. She saw them then: the nobles dressed in flowing silk, stepping with practiced grace; the commoners in patched coats and determined gazes, surrounded by mana-tuned luggage and silence.
Her gaze lingered on the latter.
Commoners.
She had seen many in her travels—some desperate, some defiant, many forgotten by the systems that built spires like the ones surrounding her now. But these weren't beggars or rag-wrapped survivors of conflict. These were mages. Fighters. Scholars, even, by the way some of them carried themselves. Plain in dress, yes—but not in spirit. Their eyes burned.
She leaned forward slightly, just enough to catch the rising pulse in the air—the weight of ambition hanging like mist over the crystalline plaza.
A sharp breath escaped her.
"…They're here for the exam?" she asked, more to herself than her attendant.
He glanced toward her, a slow nod following. "Yes. The Candidacy Trials. They opened the gates to non-nobles this year—on decree of the Arcanis Council. The first time in history."
Valeria's brows dipped. "Trials?"
"A tournament," he explained, "of sorts. But more elaborate. Not just duels. Simulations. Arcane challenges. Even scenarios drawn from real campaigns."
That pulled her gaze fully from the window.
She had fought real campaigns.
She had unseated barons.
And she had never heard of anything like this.
Her tone sharpened slightly. "Why?"
"To appease rising unrest," the man replied without missing a beat. "And to pretend at equality. If the nobles choose the worthy from among the masses, it's still the nobles who choose. Make no mistake—this is still a stage. Just a broader one."
Valeria's lips thinned, her gaze cutting across the plaza once more. She spotted a trio of foreign students near the eastern entrance—one with skin inked in mana-thread lines, the other two bearing blades shaped in the Lorian style.
Her mind turned, slow at first, then faster.
So many changes. So much she hadn't seen.
She had been gone.
A full year, marching under the banner of her house. And of his. Carrying out sentence after sentence under the orders of a marquis who understood the game of power better than most. Her blade had delivered justice in shattered fortresses and broken halls. She had carved truth from lies, duty from privilege.
And in that time, the Academy had turned into something new.
She leaned back into the cushioned bench, her jaw tightening.
Commoners, rising?
Her instinct was to question it. What did they know of the burdens nobility bore? Of expectation. Of legacy. Of walking with the weight of a name that belonged not to you, but to your blood?
But—
She blinked.
A flicker of memory surfaced.
That bastard.
The one who hadn't cared for noble rules. Who slipped coins to guards and smirked through every reprimand. Who had challenged everything she believed in with one raised eyebrow and a handful of sarcastic comments. Who walked like the world owed him nothing and fought like he owed it back in full.
Lucavion.
Valeria's brow furrowed, her fingers curling faintly atop her lap.
She hadn't thought of him much lately.
Or—no.
She had.
Just not when she meant to.
His name had come up more than once—whispered in the camps, shouted in inn corners, traced through the stories of Cloud Heavens Sect corruption like a blade's edge hidden beneath silk. "The Sword Demon," they called him now. Foolish, arrogant… devastatingly effective.
She remembered the way he had dismantled that sect's illusion.
Not with speeches.
With action. And mischief. And that damned smile.
He'd have passed this trial, she thought suddenly, sharply.
No question. He would've stood on that stage with no house crest, no banner behind him—and still drawn all eyes.
She exhaled through her nose, gaze flicking out once more to the gathering sea of candidates.
'You'd like this, wouldn't you?' she thought bitterly, though her tone—even inwardly—lacked venom.
'A perfect excuse to irritate nobles. To prove something without ever saying it.'
The carriage slowed.
They were nearing the Nexus entrance.
Valeria's eyes lingered on one boy—plain robes, scuffed boots, a thick spellbook pressed to his chest like a shield. He looked younger than the rest. Nervous. But unshaken.
She watched as another candidate—a girl with twin daggers and a cloak too thin for the season—paused to rest her hand on his shoulder. A brief, silent gesture.
Then they moved forward, together.
She watched as the two commoner candidates disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sheer enormity of the plaza.
And for a moment—just a moment—she remembered.
The soft clink of coins in his hand. The glint of candlelight off stolen silver as they ducked into yet another questionable inn. The way their steps fell into rhythm without needing to be said. No banner. No guards. No plan, really.
Just two people—one quiet, the other insufferably smug—wandering the cracked alleys of Andelheim with nothing but stubbornness and a barely disguised mutual concern between them.
She had hated him at first.
And yet…
There were nights she'd walk beside him, listening to his schemes and half-jokes as if they mattered more than any mission.
No carriages then.
Just boots caked in road-dust, and the whisper of city wind tangled in his coat.
Valeria's fingers pressed lightly against the window frame.
"I wonder where you are right now…" she murmured, voice so low it didn't quite leave her lips.
A beat.
Then her attendant shifted beside her.
"We will arrive at the quarter reserved for noble students," he said, gently breaking the reverie. "Your rooms have been prepared. The Olarion crest has already been sent ahead to mark your quarters."
Valeria didn't look at him yet. Her gaze remained on the window, on the towering structure drawing nearer—the Spiral Nexus, rotating in slow, deliberate elegance, like it had all the time in the world.
"And after?" she asked, already suspecting the answer.
"There are… social arrangements," he replied with diplomatic tact. "Tea receptions. Light gatherings. A few walkabouts in the outer gardens, weather permitting."
She turned to him now, expression as flat as her voice. "Parties."
"Soft introductions," he corrected. "Your father has requested that you make yourself known. The nobles and merchants here have sent their heirs, their scions. These are the people who will sit beside you in class. Perhaps across from you in a duel. Or above you, should alliances form."
Valeria leaned back into the seat, arms folded across her chest, jaw tightening ever so slightly.
"I don't like such meetings."
"You rarely do," he replied evenly, not unkindly. "But that doesn't change the necessity. You represent House Olarion now. Not as a knight in armor, but as a name. A future. They will expect you to speak. To listen. To charm, even if you hate it."
"I'd rather face a wyvern."
"Most would."
He waited for a pause, then added quietly, "But this is one of your fates, isn't it?"
That silenced her.
Not because it shocked her.
But because it didn't.
She knew. Had always known. Nobility came with armor you didn't wear—it was stitched into your blood, not your uniform.
*****
The morning light in Arcania had a way of sharpening everything—edges of rooftops, whispers between crowds, the cold that settled beneath your collar even after the sun had risen. Selphine and Aurelian made their way through the upper avenues, cloaks fluttering behind them like banners of old houses no longer spoken of aloud.
Laurelshade Pavilion stood tucked between an old sculptor's tower and a vine-covered glasshouse, its charm subtle, easily overlooked if you weren't paying attention. Eveline's style, as ever—hidden power behind quiet walls.
Aurelian raised a brow as they approached, surveying the manor with a flick of his hand. "Doesn't look like much."
"Eveline never needed 'much,'" Selphine replied.
"True," he mused, his eyes trailing over the engraved woodwork, the subtle mana barriers layered over the windows like woven mist. "But she always had a way of making 'not much' explode if someone looked at it wrong."
Selphine knocked once.
Then again.
They waited.
Nothing.
No attendant. No curious peek through the curtain. Not even the hum of footsteps.
Aurelian frowned. "Strange."
Chapter 632: Meeting (2)
"Strange."
"She said she'd be here," Selphine murmured, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So she is," Aurelian said, stepping back and folding his arms. "Or will be."
They settled into a patient silence near the courtyard's edge, where morning frost still clung to the paving stones. Selphine stood straight, her eyes scanning the side garden, her posture a perfect portrait of composed nobility. Aurelian, on the other hand, sat on the low wall, legs crossed, arms draped lazily over his knees.
But his eyes weren't idle.
'Let's see what the city has offered us today…'
His mana twitched beneath the surface, a spark in his chest pulsing with rhythm. The Way of Hollow Glance, his cultivation method, wasn't designed to dazzle—it was subtle, silent, a technique rooted in observation and resonance. It allowed him to feel mana—not just power levels, but temperament, structure, intent.
One by one, he swept his perception across the people moving through the nearby streets.
A merchant—solid, mundane mana, nothing remarkable.
A few nobles—elevated, but brittle, like paper wrapped in gold.
Two students—raw, clumsy bursts of mana not yet honed. Enthusiastic. Predictable.
More people filtered past. Many were like notes in an overplayed chord—familiar, easy to read.
But then…
Aurelian's gaze caught.
Two blanks.
They stood near the far edge of the courtyard's lower garden, beside the fountain where the old moon lily vines were starting to bloom. A girl and a young man. Neither looked out of place.
And yet, from them, nothing.
No resonance.
No ripple.
No detectable mana signature at all.
He narrowed his eyes.
'That's not right.'
He focused, honing in.
Still nothing.
Not suppression. Not shielding. Just… absence.
Selphine noticed his shift and turned her head slightly.
"What is it?"
"Everyone here hums," Aurelian said slowly, voice low. "Even if it's off-key. But those two?"
He inclined his head toward the pair by the fountain.
"They're silent."
Selphine followed his gaze.
Selphine's gaze sharpened the moment her eyes settled on the girl.
Graceful—yes. Relaxed—perhaps too deliberately. But underneath that carefully casual posture was unmistakable training. Her stance had balance. The kind you didn't get from ballroom dances or etiquette tutors. The kind that was born of repetition. Sparring circles. Focusing one's breath in the dead of night while bruises bloomed under robes.
And more than that… there was pride in the way she held herself. Not arrogance, but something quieter. Sharper. A forged sense of self, honed under pressure.
The boy beside her said nothing, but he didn't need to. His presence was taut, contained, like a blade sheathed at just the right angle. His dark eyes tracked everything—Aurelian noticed that much right away. Not scanning for threats, not fearful. Just… observant. Coldly so. Like someone who had learned that silence often revealed more than words.
Aurelian didn't hesitate. He stepped off the low wall and started toward them, hands in his pockets, his grin casual, eyes sharp.
Selphine followed, her steps as fluid as drifting snow, each one measured yet elegant—ever the Lady Elowen.
As they approached, Aurelian offered the faintest of nods, enough to announce presence without fanfare.
"Hello," he said.
The girl turned at the sound—slowly, deliberately.
Up close, her features were refined, touched with illusion-crafted softness, but the glint in her eyes gave her away. Not the color—hazel flecked with gold—but the focus.
The weight of someone who had seen.
"Oh…" she murmured, her brow lifting just slightly.
Then she tilted her head, taking them both in with a glance that held more calculation than curiosity. And, oddly, no real surprise.
"Are you," she asked, voice smooth and faintly amused, "Lady Selphine Elowen?"
Her gaze slid next to Aurelian, more discerning now. "And Lord Vale, I presume?"
Selphine's lips curved faintly. "You presume correctly."
Elara—Elowyn, for now—offered a half-step forward, her posture more formal now, yet still untouched by pretension.
"Master told me you might come." A pause. Then a subtle smile. "She didn't say when."
Aurelian chuckled. "That sounds like her."
"You two don't look how she described you," Elara said, eyes dancing with a touch of mischief.
"Oh?" Aurelian leaned in slightly, smirking. "Did she describe me as taller?"
"She described you," Elara said, lifting her fingers with a touch of theatrical elegance, "as 'the storm's flirtation with disaster.'"
Selphine's brow twitched.
Aurelian looked delighted. "Now that's poetry."
Elara's gaze turned to Selphine.
"And you were called 'the sword of frost sharpened on glass.'"
Selphine blinked once. "That's… certainly her."
"Mm." Elara nodded, then gestured faintly to the boy beside her. "This is Reilan Dorne. He's with me."
Cedric gave a curt nod, arms still folded. "My Lady," he said—polite, distant, eyes unreadable.
Selphine returned the nod. "A pleasure."
For a brief moment, silence passed among them, measured and not uncomfortable. Just enough to settle something unsaid.
Aurelian tilted his head slightly, that familiar glimmer of curiosity settling into his eyes. "So then… Elowyn. What has our mutual Miss Eveline been teaching you all this time?"
Elara's eyes flicked toward him with a faint smile. "Magic, of course."
"Careful," Aurelian said with mock caution. "That almost sounded like a politician's answer."
"She told me not to overshare with nobles," Elara replied smoothly.
Selphine arched an eyebrow. "You're a noble now, aren't you?"
"Only on paper," Elara said, her tone light but laced with meaning. "The barony exists. The people do not."
Aurelian gave a soft whistle, clearly entertained. "That sounds… exactly like something she'd arrange."
Elara didn't deny it.
Selphine studied her quietly for a moment longer, eyes tracing the subtleties of her bearing—the quiet control, the restraint in her breathing, the clarity in her gaze. "You call her Master."
Elara nodded once, unbothered. "Of course I call her Master. That's what she is."
Her voice held no boast, no need for elaboration—just fact, cold and clear as her namesake magic.
Selphine's lips parted faintly in response, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.
Aurelian let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "She never let us call her that."
"Not once," Selphine muttered, half to herself. "Said it sounded like we were trying too hard."
"And that it gave her 'authoritative hives,'" Aurelian added with a grin. "But you—you get the formal title? You're telling me she gave you that look and didn't flinch?"
"She didn't," Elara replied, her tone amused. "I think she liked it. Eventually."
Aurelian put a hand dramatically over his chest. "I'm hurt. Deeply."
"She probably figured you two didn't share her affinity," Elara said, raising one eyebrow. "And you didn't."
Selphine tilted her head. "Frost?"
"Frost," Elara confirmed.
And then—effortless.
She lifted her hand, palm angled toward the morning light. No chant. No gesture beyond that simple raise. From her fingertips, ice bloomed like breath across glass—crystals weaving into one another in fractal patterns, delicate and glinting with iridescence. It didn't spread aggressively, didn't hiss or screech. It grew with eerie stillness, as if the world had paused to admire it.
Aurelian's smile faded, just a little, into something quieter. More serious.
Selphine's gaze narrowed. Not out of disapproval—but calculation. Observation.
"That's…" Aurelian began.
Elara closed her hand.
The ice vanished in a breath.
"Not bad, right?" she said, her voice lightly teasing.
Aurelian stepped a little closer, curiosity replacing his usual laziness. "That spell—did she teach you that variant? Or did you make it yourself?"
Elara gave a small smile. "Now, now. It's not the time, is it?"
Selphine's eyes gleamed. "No. Perhaps not."
"But later," Aurelian added, nudging her shoulder with a knuckle. "You are going to show us."
"Maybe," Elara replied, turning toward the path ahead. "If you ask nicely."
Aurelian grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I always ask terribly nicely."
Selphine rolled her eyes. "And you wonder why she never gave you the title."
They began walking again, slow and steady beneath the shade of the arched walkway that circled the garden.
Aurelian glanced sidelong at Elara. "So. How did it happen?"
Elara looked over, a brow raised.
"How did you meet her?" he clarified. "Miss Eveline. She doesn't just pick people out of crowds."