Chapter 633: Is he alive ?
Elara's gaze softened—her steps didn't falter, but something in her presence did.
The slight drop of her shoulders. The way her eyes shifted—not away from Aurelian, but somewhere past him. Somewhere distant.
"When I met her," she said, her voice low, quiet as frost on stone, "my life was already breaking. Or maybe it had already broken. I was just… picking through the pieces."
A pause. The wind stirred the ivy overhead.
"I had nothing. No name worth keeping. No home. No warmth. Just a numbness that didn't go away."
Aurelian's expression sobered. Selphine's steps slowed, not from hesitation, but instinct.
"And then," Elara continued, "she appeared. Out of nowhere. Like she'd been watching all along. She didn't offer me comfort. She didn't offer sympathy." Her lips curved faintly. "She offered a door."
"To power?" Selphine asked gently.
"To meaning," Elara replied. "She said, 'You don't need saving. You need sharpening.'"
Aurelian exhaled, his usual levity slipping from his voice. "I see… I didn't mean to pry."
Elara glanced at him, the melancholy still in her eyes, but the sharp edge returning. "It's alright. You weren't wrong. She doesn't just pick people out of crowds."
And with that, her gaze turned forward again—silent, but unshaken.
A moment passed between them, fragile as snow caught mid-fall.
Then Selphine's tone shifted, light but purposeful. "Well. Now that we've fulfilled our daily quota of shared trauma—"
Aurelian snorted softly, grateful. "Let's talk about something easier."
His eyes flicked toward the boy beside Elara.
"Like your charming shadow here."
Elara raised a brow. "Ah….Ced-….Reilan?"
"Reilan Dorne," Aurelian said with a grin, clearly enjoying the name as he turned to Cedric. "You've been awfully quiet for a man with a vineyard and a war hero father."
Cedric looked over slowly, his face unreadable, arms still folded.
"…I don't drink," he said flatly.
Aurelian blinked. "That's tragic."
"I was going to offer him wine later," Selphine added.
Cedric's mouth twitched, just barely. "I'll try not to disgrace your offer."
"Elowyn," Aurelian stage-whispered. "Is this his charming side?"
"It's his extroverted side," she deadpanned.
Selphine smiled, faint and elegant. "You don't speak much, but you listen well. That's more useful than most."
Cedric gave a short nod, his gaze steady. "I've heard the same."
Selphine smiled—cool, composed, but with a glimmer of something far more playful beneath. "You've got the look for it," she said lightly, folding her hands behind her back. "Stalwart, silent, brooding. You'd pass for a knight at court without even drawing your sword."
Aurelian raised a brow, casting her a sideways glance. "Was that a compliment, or a recruitment pitch?"
"Both," Selphine said with a smirk. "We could use a few less chatty ones in the palace circles."
Cedric's mouth twitched again, just barely, and for a second, something like a smirk almost surfaced—but Elara cut in before it could settle.
"He might look the part," she said dryly, "but trust me, he gets winded halfway through protocol drills."
Cedric glanced at her. "One time."
"You tripped over a ceremonial rug."
"It moved."
Aurelian leaned forward, grinning. "Wait—he tripped?"
"He tripped," Elara confirmed, with just a trace of satisfaction.
Selphine laughed softly, and for a moment, the air around them seemed lighter, warmer than the crisp morning breeze.
But then Aurelian tilted his head toward Elara again, shifting the topic with practiced ease. "So, Elowyn. How much do you know of the capital? The academy?"
Elara tilted her head slightly at Aurelian's question, then glanced toward the distant towers piercing the sky like jeweled spears. "I don't know much," she admitted. "This is… actually my first time here."
Aurelian blinked. "Seriously?"
Elara nodded. "I've studied maps. Heard stories. Read reports. But no—never set foot in Arcania until now."
Selphine gave a slow, knowing smile. "Then what do you think of it?"
Elara took a moment before answering. Her eyes lingered on the gilded arches above, the sprawling gardens trimmed with flawless precision, the floating carriages gliding between spires like birds in formation. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
"It's majestic," she said. "Overwhelming. Like someone built a dream… and forgot how much it cost."
Aurelian chuckled. "Now that is the most poetic thing anyone's said about Arcania in the last year."
"She's not wrong," Selphine added, her tone more reserved. "It was designed to impress. To dazzle. But beneath the marble, it's all gears and debt."
Aurelian waved a hand, dismissive but smiling. "Let her have the wonder, Sel. It's her first time."
He turned to Elara, grinning. "This city's got everything—enchanted opera halls, midnight duels, markets that sell stormglass trinkets from the edges of the world. Oh—and illusion parlors that'll make you forget your name and your bloodline in two seconds flat."
Selphine folded her arms. "And poison in the wine if you pick the wrong dinner party."
Aurelian gave her a mock-scandalized look. "You are terrible at recruitment."
"I'm realistic."
"I'm inspiring."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Are all your conversations like this?"
"Only the good ones," Aurelian replied with a grin.
They eventually found their way to a quiet pavilion nestled along the garden's edge—a spot shaded by flowering branches and warded by old charms meant to keep the air temperate and the noise outside.
"Let's order something," Selphine suggested. "If you're going to see Arcania properly, Elowyn, you should start with a real breakfast."
Aurelian waved a hand, summoning one of the waiting staff. "Bring us the firefruit tarts, glazed amber rolls, and the goldleaf quiche. And—oh, bring something 'this guy' can not drink."
"Water?" Cedric deadpanned.
"You're no fun."
Breakfast was placed before them not long after—delicate dishes that shimmered faintly with minor enchantments to keep them warm and fresh. The scents of sweet spice and roasted herbs filled the air as the group began picking through their food.
It was the kind of quiet that only came after laughter—a silence not born of tension, but of contentment.
And then—
"I wonder what happened to that guy yesterday," Selphine said suddenly, mid-sip of her tea.
Aurelian looked up. "Hm?"
"The one from the terrace," she clarified. "You know—the one who smiled at the princess with a sword to his neck."
Elara paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "...What?"
Aurelian brightened immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the excuse.
"Oh, that," he said, placing his cup down with a clink. "You missed a performance, Elowyn. I'm still not sure if it was a diplomatic disaster or the best street play I've ever seen."
Selphine smirked, swirling her tea gently. "It was both."
Cedric looked up from his plate, chewing slowly. Elara set her fork down, eyes narrowing with interest.
"Explain," she said simply.
Aurelian sat forward, gesturing animatedly. "Alright, picture this: morning sun, high terrace—Velis Prominence, you know the one with the view of the Nexus? Dozens of nobles, festival energy, elegance and entitlement dripping from every gold-trimmed sleeve."
"A public scene," Cedric murmured.
"Oh, very public," Selphine replied. "And right in the middle of it, House Crane's heir decided to throw his weight around. Thought it'd be fun to intimidate a baron's son. Almost took the girl's seat by force."
Elara's brows furrowed. "And no one intervened?"
"No one wanted to," Aurelian said. "Because Crane was involved. Everyone was too scared of making enemies… too busy watching and pretending not to."
Selphine leaned in slightly. "And then he appeared."
Aurelian held up a dramatic finger. "A boy. Long coat. Black eyes. White cat on his shoulder, I kid you not. Walks right into the scene like he's looking for a snack and accidentally wandered into a brawl."
"Didn't bow, didn't shout," Selphine added. "He just... bumped the Crane heir. Intentionally. Casually."
And to that description…..
Elara froze.
Chapter 634: Is he alive (2)
Elara froze.
It was subtle—barely more than a twitch of the fingers around her cup, the faintest shift in her breathing—but to someone like Selphine, who was trained to read court tension as easily as runes, it stood out like thunder in a snowfield.
"Elowyn?" Selphine asked, her tone still casual, but now dipped in curiosity. Her sharp eyes narrowed just slightly. "What is it?"
Elara's gaze had drifted to the middle distance, her pupils dilated—not with fear, but something far deeper. Recognition.
"A white cat?" she repeated, her voice softer than before. "Perched on his shoulder?"
Aurelian blinked, nodding. "Yeah. A smug one, too. Looked like it thought it ran the city. You know the type."
"And the boy?" Elara asked, not touching her food anymore. "Black eyes?"
"Black as ink," Selphine confirmed, watching her now more than the memory. "He didn't wear a crest. Looked like he didn't belong—until he made everyone else look out of place."
Elara didn't respond immediately.
She didn't need to.
Her face, normally so composed—elegant, restrained, unreadable—had faltered. Just a flicker, a tremor behind the eyes. But it was enough.
Cedric had seen it too. His fork paused mid-cut, his entire frame tightening in subtle defense, gaze slipping toward Elara as if ready to act on whatever came next.
"Elowyn," Selphine said slowly, her voice lower now. "Do you know him?"
Elara's hands curled faintly against her lap. The sounds of the garden—birdsong, rustling leaves, distant laughter—suddenly felt too far away.
"…Maybe," she said at last, though the word was barely a whisper.
Aurelian and Selphine exchanged a glance, something passing between them silently. A flicker of understanding. Or perhaps, of instinct.
Aurelian leaned in, his voice quiet. "He vanished before we could speak to him. Guards tried to catch him after the Crane boy tried to retaliate. But the guy just… disappeared."
"Disappeared," Elara echoed.
"Slipped through a ripple of space like it was his front door," Selphine murmured, her expression contemplative now. "Not a standard blink spell. Something older. Deeper."
Elara's chest tightened. Her thoughts moved faster than her heart.
It can't be.
It couldn't.
And yet… that description. That smile. That presence.
A boy with ink-black eyes and a white cat on his shoulder—walking into danger like it was a game. Smiling like the world's chaos was nothing more than a dance step he'd already memorized.
Elara's head lifted slowly, like the movement cost more than it should have. Her fingers tightened just once around her tea cup, then uncurled—graceful, careful, as though her body were remembering how to mask what her soul couldn't.
Her voice came a beat late, trailing the weight of withheld breath.
"What was his name?" she asked, though she already feared the answer.
Aurelian glanced to Selphine, uncertain. "He didn't say. Just appeared, threw the whole garden into a storm of rumors, and left before anyone could pin him down."
Elara's throat worked around the silence. She tried again.
"Did he… have a scar? Over his right eye?"
Selphine shook her head. "Not that I saw. His face was clean. Almost too clean. The kind of face you forget because it refuses to give you anything to hold onto."
A tension unraveled in Elara's chest—not relief. Not disappointment. Something stranger. Like a thread cut loose from an old tapestry she didn't realize was still hanging in her mind.
"And weapon?" she pressed, a little more sharply this time. "Was he carrying one?"
Aurelian's brow furrowed in thought. "Yeah. Actually. Long, thin blade—barely looked like it weighed anything. One of those dueling swords, maybe. Elegant, but strange."
"Like an estoc?" Elara's voice dropped lower, almost to herself. "Long blade, no edge, meant for piercing?"
Selphine's eyes lit with recognition. "Yes, that's it. Now that I think of it—it was an estoc. Not common these days. Not unless you're trained somewhere old. Or foreign."
Elara's lips parted slightly, then pressed shut again. Her pulse tapped like frost dripping from a windowsill. Every piece lined up, but not quite. The boy she remembered had been just as wild—but marked, scarred, loud in ways this one was not.
'But they always change, don't they? When you leave them behind. When they choose to leave you behind.'
Selphine's voice came again, this time quieter—less curious, more deliberate.
"Elowyn," she said, tilting her head slightly, eyes sharp. "Do you know him?"
Elara didn't answer at first.
Her gaze had drifted again—this time not into the garden or toward the horizon, but somewhere far more distant. Somewhere inside.
Aurelian leaned forward a touch, the last of his easy grin gone, replaced by something thoughtful. Cedric's eyes hadn't left her once, his posture still and steady, but attentive.
Finally, Elara's lips parted.
"I'm not sure," she said, the words slow and careful. "But… he may be someone I once knew."
Selphine's eyes narrowed. "Really?"
Elara didn't flinch at the weight behind the question.
"…He reminds me of someone," she admitted, fingers brushing the rim of her cup. "From long ago. Or… not so long, really. It just feels that way."
Aurelian exchanged a glance with Selphine, brows lifting, but neither interrupted her.
Elara's fingers drifted from the porcelain cup and folded gently into her lap, her gaze still lost in that untouchable middle-distance—as if some thread had snapped, or perhaps, reconnected in a place she'd buried it long ago.
'Luca.'
The name came not as a thought, but as a ghost.
It struck like a bell through her mind, reverberating in the marrow of her bones. The sound of it carried something dangerous—familiarity laced with ache, memory sharpened into blade. Her breath caught before it could finish.
She had thought—
He's dead.
She had been sure of it. The vortex, the Kraken, the silence that followed. No one survived that kind of vanishing. Not unless—
Her eyes flickered, not with tears, but with disbelief.
Is it really him? That maddening grin, that impossible cat, that blade like a joke until it wasn't—
"Is it really you?" she whispered. Not to them. Not to the garden.
To herself.
And perhaps—to a shadow.
Then, gently, a hand nudged at her arm.
She startled—just slightly. But enough. Enough for her mask to fracture, for the moment to contract back into the present. Cedric.
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
His hand was warm, steady. But his eyes—those ocean-colored eyes—held a storm barely restrained. His jaw was tight. His brow drawn. But there was no anger in his touch.
Only warning.
Only memory.
And pain.
She turned to him slowly, and the look they shared was not one of surprise.
It was recognition.
They had fought about this. About him. About the way she kept chasing ghosts, kept reopening old wounds like they were pages in a story she didn't know how to close. Cedric had never told her to forget—only that she was losing herself in what could be, instead of what was.
The silence stretched taut.
Then, like a second whisper layered behind her thoughts, another voice rose.
Eveline.
Sharp. Measured. Merciless as starlight on steel.
"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."
Her master's words flared in her chest, twin to the ache Luca's name had reopened.
'You don't get to look back, not yet.'
Elara blinked slowly, pulling herself inward. The wind in the garden stirred her hair, tugging at the dark chestnut waves of her illusion.
She had to remember.
What she was doing here.
Why she had come.
When she looked up, her face had changed. The flicker of vulnerability was still there, but beneath it—steel. Tempered. Cold. Real.
"I don't know if it's him," she said aloud, for all three to hear.
"But, it would be nice to see him again, I guess?"
A breath of silence passed between them, light as the garden breeze, but heavy with things unsaid.
Elara let the tension settle in her chest for one final moment before it melted—just slightly. Her lips curved. Not fully. Not enough to be called a smile by anyone who hadn't known her before—but to someone like Cedric, it was unmistakable.
A soft, private tilt of her mouth. A breath of warmth in the winter of her restraint.
She was smiling at herself.
Barely.
But still.
'I thought you were gone. But if you're not… isn't that a kind of mercy?'
Chapter 635: Is he alive (3)
'I thought you were gone. But if you're not… isn't that a kind of mercy?'
She reached out absently to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, the movement smooth, unthinking. Her voice, when it came again, was quieter. Not fragile—just less armoured.
"It would be nice," she murmured, eyes drifting to the garden's far path where the sun broke through the lattice in trembling patches. "To see him again."
She didn't look at anyone when she said it. She didn't have to.
Selphine tilted her head slightly, but said nothing. Her expression unreadable—but her fingers, folded in her lap, had stilled completely.
Aurelian studied her, some echo of old grief flickering in his eyes. He understood longing. The kind that tasted more like rust than sweetness. But he didn't press. He never pressed when it mattered.
And Cedric…
Cedric was still.
His gaze remained fixed on her, but there was no accusation in it. Only the weight of shared history. Of a thousand moments they never named.
Elara exhaled slowly.
"He was… impossible," she said, more to herself now. "Wild. Arrogant. Sharp as broken glass and twice as likely to cut if you weren't paying attention. But…"
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup again, this time not out of tension, but memory.
"…he listened. Even when I didn't want him to."
A pause.
A breath.
"I still have a lot to say to him," she finished softly. "Things I never got the chance to."
The wind shifted.
And for a second, the garden didn't feel quite so far from the past.
But then her shoulders straightened. Her spine lifted. The illusion might have changed her face, her voice, even her presence—but this? This was purely Elara.
She turned back to the others with that same faint, amused edge that always marked the end of vulnerability.
"But he probably still owes me a duel," she added dryly.
Cedric blinked.
Aurelian grinned.
Selphine's eyes narrowed with faint, curious delight. "Now that sounds like a story."
Elara didn't deny it.
But she didn't offer the tale either.
Some things were best saved for when ghosts turned real.
And if he was here—if Luca truly had come back—
She intended to make sure he didn't vanish before hearing everything she'd kept inside.
One way or another.
******
The room was quiet.
Too quiet, by Valeria's standards.
Not the tense quiet of a war camp after a battle, nor the focused silence of a knight's barracks before a duel—but the kind of curated hush that came with expensive materials and servants trained to move without sound. Polished stone floors. Mana-laced curtains that shifted their opacity depending on the time of day. A bed far too soft for someone who'd grown used to tents, cots, or—at times—the floor.
She stood near the window, one hand resting on the carved frame, eyes scanning the city beyond. Even from here, she could see the Spiral Nexus, rising like a monument to ambition and arcane power. In its shadow, the plaza shimmered with movement—students arriving, supply carts humming along their tracks, and glimmering sigils pulsing faintly over archways.
The capital pulsed with magic and design.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that every wall here listened. Every hallway whispered.
A knock came at the door. Not too loud. Measured.
Her attendant entered when she gave the signal.
"Your belongings have been arranged," he began. "Wardrobe as requested. Your armor has been cleaned and placed in the secondary closet. And the bath is already drawn, should you want it."
Valeria gave a short nod. "And my schedule?"
He stepped further into the room, holding a thin folio. "You have been formally invited to three tea gatherings over the next six days. The invitations came under separate seals, but each carries familiar affiliations."
Valeria arched a brow, voice dry. "Marquis Vendor?"
"Not directly," he replied with a faint smile. "But the hosts are... appreciative of his recent alliances. And naturally curious about you."
She turned away from the window.
"Three," she echoed. "Not high."
"No," he agreed. "But not low either. For someone who's spent the last year on horseback, dragging barons out of their fortresses? It's practically a crowd."
Valeria didn't return the smirk, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
She knew how this worked. She had lived among nobles long enough to recognize the arithmetic of status. A year ago, no one would have invited her to anything but a battlefield. And now?
Now she was Vendor's chosen sword. And the daughter of House Olarion—the house that had clawed its way back into relevance by aligning itself with power at just the right time.
If she had arrived with her old name alone, the invites would be fewer. Maybe none.
"The Candidate Trials?" she asked.
"Begin in seven days," her attendant replied. "You'll be expected to attend the opening ceremony as a formal guest of the Academy, given your status. The tea parties will coincide with preliminary rounds. Private observation lounges—most likely filled with speculation, subtle wagers, and attempted courtship disguised as compliments."
Valeria exhaled sharply through her nose. "Lovely."
"Until then, you are free to do as you please," he added. "Explore the city. Or perhaps… rest, for once."
She shot him a glance, the kind that said don't push your luck.
"Noted," she said flatly.
He bowed slightly. "I'll leave the invitations on your desk. You can respond at your discretion."
He paused at the door, then added, "They will expect you to come. Even if you hate the wine."
Then he left her alone with the room again.
Valeria moved to the desk, where the three sealed letters lay in a neat stack. She recognized one sigil immediately—a stylized sunburst, gold on black. Subtle, but unmistakably Vendor's shadow.
She didn't touch them right away.
Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the window.
Three tea parties. Not much in number, but weighted. Every one a test wrapped in silk and niceties. Every cup of tea another conversation with veiled intentions.
But she would attend.
Because that was her role.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd learn something useful.
About the other students.
About the trials.
And about the kind of world she was stepping into—not with a sword, but with her name.
Still, part of her itched for something else.
Something unexpected.
Something with a grin and a reckless streak and—
She cut off the thought with a sharp exhale.
No use lingering.
The room, pristine and perfectly tailored, already felt like it was pressing in around her. Too clean. Too polished. As if it was meant to frame her into something delicate. Decorative. Contained.
Valeria turned away from the window and reached for her coat—dark, travel-worn, its collar still bearing the faint fray of wind-beaten roads. Not the silk shawl her family had packed. Not the fitted, embroidered cloak the attendant had draped across the chair.
She fastened the coat herself.
Then slid the sword belt over her shoulder.
Not her full gear—not the ceremonial blade.
Just the one she always kept hidden, strapped discreetly along her back beneath the folds of her coat. Shorter than a knight's standard weapon. But faster. Meaner. It never left her side, not even during diplomatic visits.
Because the world did not always knock before it bared its teeth.
She stepped toward the door and paused just long enough to scribble a note beside the stack of invitations: Out. Will return before dusk. Don't wait.
Then she slipped out, letting the quiet seal itself behind her.
****
The city unfolded slowly.
Arcania was not a place one could see in a glance. It had layers—like a spell spun over centuries. Some parts were as ancient as the Empire itself: stone bridges arched over crystal rivers, and statues of long-dead archmages loomed beneath ivy-covered towers. But others were new, gleaming with ambition—translucent roadways that pulsed with leyline energy, floating stairways that adjusted their height based on rank and passcodes.
And then there were the people.
So many.
Scholars and street performers. Foreign emissaries with shimmering robes that sparkled in the afternoon light. A baker enchanting loaves with preservation glyphs while a child tried to swipe one unseen. A pair of spell-engineers arguing heatedly over the color of a summoned flame. Tower guards whose helmets hummed faintly with detection runes.
Valeria didn't walk like a tourist.
She walked like a knight without an escort.
Which, in truth, she was.
And yet, no one stopped her.
Some glanced her way—drawn by the bearing, maybe the gait. Or maybe the hint of a sword hilt beneath her coat. But they moved on.
It wasn't until she passed through one of the older merchant corridors—cobblestone paths flanked by rune-etched glass—that she let herself slow.
This, she thought, brushing a gloved hand along the edge of a stone railing, feels real.
The upper circles of Arcania were beautiful. Elegant. And false.
Here, though—among the murmurs of trade, the sharp tang of iron dust from the smithy two stalls over, and the scent of roasted roots wafting from a side alley—was a different pulse.
Something more grounded.
She stopped at a street vendor's stall. Not because she needed anything, but because the scent caught her attention.
Her eyes flicked to the fire-roasted skewers being turned slowly over an aether-flame. The vendor, a thick-shouldered woman with tattoos across her arms, offered her a nod.
"City's best, traveler," she said. "Charred mana-fish. Cheap."
Valeria quirked a brow. "How cheap?"
"Two crescents."
Valeria handed her three.
The woman blinked, then grinned. "Noble?"
Valeria took the skewer, expression neutral. "Traveler."
A pause. Then a small, amused grunt from the vendor. "Well. Welcome to the real Arcania."
Indeed, it was a welcome.
Chapter 636: Entrance Exam
The streets of Arcania never truly slept. Even now, in the lull between sun's descent and moon's full dominion, mana-lit lanterns pulsed like quiet hearts along the arches of silverstone roads, casting elongated shadows over ever-moving silhouettes. And amongst it all, boots striking cobble without urgency nor aim, Lucavion walked.
Not with a purpose, per se. No destination. Just the luxury of time—something he hadn't known the taste of in a long while.
Vitaliara perched lightly on his shoulder, tail wrapped loosely around his neck, her presence half-feline, half-forgotten royalty. She glanced at the passing noble banners, the flickering lights that rose from the taverns and candidate lounges nearby.
[You seem… pleased with yourself.] Her voice was soft, but not without edge—like silk draped over a blade.
Lucavion's smile curved, faint but unmistakable. "Is it that obvious?"
[Only when you try to look too casual.]
'I suppose I've earned it.' His eyes wandered upward, past the crest-lined spires and into the distant silhouette of the Spiral Nexus. 'Twenty days. Long enough to see the city's rot. Short enough to remain unbothered by it.'
He had arrived early, earlier than most would consider proper. But propriety had always been something he wore when convenient—never when necessary.
'Besides…' His gaze dipped, scanning the ever-thinning line of hopefuls by the Trial Pavilion, some still curled beneath their wagons, asleep with blades at their sides. '…bribes wouldn't work this time.'
[You didn't bribe anyone this time,] Vitaliara noted with a hum, feigning innocence.
Lucavion scoffed, brushing an errant wisp of her hair from his collar. "Bribes solve problems when systems are flawed. This one, however…" He gestured lazily toward the Trial Grounds with a tilt of his chin, "This one's different. In the capital, a different currency speaks."
[Let me guess, prestige? Bloodline? Or perhaps… showmanship?]
"All of them." He rolled his shoulder gently to reposition her weight. "But more than that… this time, it's narrative."
Vitaliara blinked, her golden eyes narrowing with interest.
Lucavion didn't comment further.
Some thoughts were best left unsaid—especially the ones that gave too much away. And besides, the moment felt too quiet, too rich with evening lull, to ruin it with philosophy.
Instead, he slid his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, glancing toward the slow bustle that still echoed near the far end of the Pavilion grounds. Just past the curve of the stoneward steps, the enrollment boards glowed faintly—dim now that the sun had fled, but still active. Still humming with residual signatures.
"I registered early," he said absently, voice half-laced with mischief. "Mostly because I hate queues."
[Doesn't that make you sound a bit too noble?] Vitaliara asked, but there was a wry note in her tone—more tease than critique.
"Perhaps," he said, tilting his head. "But tell me, do you remember that line yesterday?"
[Of course I do.] She twitched her tail once, curling it tighter around his shoulder. [Some waited the entire day just to hand in their forms.]
Lucavion let out a low, mock-sympathetic whistle. "A whole day," he echoed, shaking his head with exaggerated pity. "All for a paper that might get incinerated the moment the Trials begin. Poetic, in a cruel way."
[Serves them right,] Vitaliara said, and for once, her voice held no pretense. [Leaving something that important to the very last moment… That's not ambition. That's arrogance.]
"That," Lucavion murmured, "is something I can't agree more with."
He turned another corner, past the dim glow of rune-lined fences and toward the plaza where candidates were gathering now—quiet, orderly, though a subtle tension crackled in the air like kindling before a storm.
The marble checkpoint ahead shimmered with soft arcs of mana, filtering every entrant through a magical scan. Just past it, white-robed officials moved efficiently, directing people by number, by zone.
Lucavion reached into the inner fold of his coat, withdrawing the small paper he'd received upon registration. At first glance, it looked mundane. Thin parchment, off-white, with inked lines and a seal in violet wax.
But then—pulse.
The paper flickered. His name glowed faintly at the top:
Lucavion
Contestant No: 02893
Zone: Six
"A magic token," he muttered, holding it up to catch the shimmer. "Simple in design, but refined. I like it."
[You would like anything that glows,] Vitaliara quipped. [You're worse than a crow.]
"No, no. Crows lack taste." He smirked, flipping the paper between his fingers. "This is efficiency woven into aesthetics."
Then he recalled the entrance exam from the novel. The examination would be held not here, not even within the city's bounds, but in a constructed realm: a zone fashioned by the very hands of the Magic Council and overseen by the Headmaster of the Imperial Arcanis Academy himself.
Because, of course, when you're testing thousands of contenders, there is one single type of method that most writers would think of.
[So… this is the teleport point?] Vitaliara asked, lifting her head slightly.
"Looks like it." Lucavion nodded toward the marked pedestal ahead. Already, groups were being escorted into the glowing rings one after another, each flare of magic consuming them in pulses of pale violet.
[Thousands of people…] she murmured, watching a cluster vanish in a single blink. [I wonder how many of them will come back whole.]
He glanced at her. "Do you mean whole in body… or mind?"
[Both.]
The method was simple. Efficient. Brutal.
Battle royale.
A classic—timeless, even. The kind of solution that only ever changed names across the centuries, but never its function. Toss hundreds—thousands—into an isolated, conjured space, strip away their status, their sponsors, their comforts… and let nature—and mana—sort the rest.
Lucavion watched as another cluster of contestants vanished into the aether-ring, their bodies swallowed by light, their expressions a cocktail of fear, focus, and that faint, feral glint one only gets when survival is on the line.
"This is what most writers would've chosen," he said, more to himself than to Vitaliara. "And you know what? For once, they weren't wrong."
[Efficient, yes,] she replied, hopping down to rest on the curve of his arm as they neared the stone podium. [But predictable.]
"Predictable isn't always a flaw," he countered, offering the glowing paper to the white-robed official stationed at the front of Zone Six's entry ring. "It just means you can plan three steps ahead while everyone else is still figuring out the rules."
The official nodded curtly, pressing his palm to a crystal disc embedded in the podium. The disc lit up, and Lucavion's token flared in answer. A pulse, a shimmer—his number now linked to the zone's spatial anchor.
[So how does it work exactly?] Vitaliara asked, watching with narrowed eyes as mana surged through the pedestal. [They fight until only a few are left?]
Lucavion gave a lazy shrug, but his eyes were sharp. "Something like that. The space itself is unstable—by design. Created by the Magic Council, sustained by massive leyline cores. But the mana expenditure is absurd. They can't keep it running for long."
[So they force it to collapse over time.]
"Mm." His smirk returned, faint and knowing. "The zone begins wide—plains, hills, ruins, maybe even forest sections. Enough room to hide, flee, ambush. But it shrinks. Slowly. Relentlessly."
[A shrinking death-box,] Vitaliara mused. [Charming.]
"And very, very fair," Lucavion said, stepping onto the designated ring as his number was called.
"And very, very fair," Lucavion said, stepping onto the designated ring as his number was called.
Zone Six.
Each teleport ring was calibrated to a specific sub-space, a fractured shard of reality compressed into a manageable pocket dimension. And this one? It would be his proving ground. His theatre. His hunt.
"Last man standing?" he asked the official casually.
The robed man didn't so much as blink. "Top five survivors. Additional evaluation for those with distinguished performance. Zones will collapse within two hours."
Lucavion gave a low whistle. "Efficient and dramatic."
[They want blood and spectacle,] Vitaliara murmured, her claws lightly pressing into his sleeve. [And if you don't give it to them… you'll be forgotten.]
"Then I'll be unforgettable."
The teleport ring ignited beneath his boots. Lines of arcane script glowed in a radial pattern, winding inwards like a summoning circle. The air grew thick with pressure—not heat, not cold, but intention. As if the space itself knew it was about to be torn and rewoven.
[Be careful,] she said, softer now, the teasing edge gone from her voice.
Lucavion glanced down at her, and for a rare moment, the smirk faded—replaced by something quieter.
"I'll be more than careful," he said, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "I'll be precise."
The world flashed.
Color inverted—sound vanished—and in an instant, Arcania was gone.
And Zone Six opened like a hungry maw.
Chapter 637: Entrance Exam (2)
The shift was instantaneous.
One breath, he stood on Arcanian marble—gleaming, anchored, familiar.
The next… gravity twisted.
Lucavion's boots touched down on soil that didn't belong to any nation, any realm he knew. The sky above shimmered with a dusk-colored hue, not quite night, not quite day. Two suns drifted lazily across opposite ends of the sky, creating a constant twilight effect, casting jagged shadows in every direction. The very air was alive—charged.
He inhaled, slowly.
The mana here didn't just exist—it moved. Swirled beneath the surface like rivers under glass. It responded to his presence, subtle shifts running along his skin like strands of static brushing over old silk.
'Interesting,' he thought, glancing at his fingertips as they glowed faintly with latent energy. 'So it was going to feel like this?'
In the novel, this world—the fabricated space for the entrance exam—had been described with flair, but even the most poetic lines hadn't done it justice. The Aetherfold, as it had been briefly named in lore notes, was supposed to be volatile, alive, and ever-changing. And now? It felt like it was watching him.
"Clever design," he murmured.
His boots shifted against the ground—a strange mixture of hardened clay and crystalline dust. A soft crunch echoed around him. No structures, not yet. Just sparse terrain, a line of hills in the distance, shadows moving along them like predators hunting the horizon.
[You're quiet,] Vitaliara said from his shoulder, her fur bristling slightly. [I can feel it too. The ground, the air—it's breathing.]
He gave a subtle nod. "And it's hungry."
For combat. For emotion. For story.
His eyes drifted to the faint outline of floating runes in the sky above, swirling just fast enough to indicate that the zone's perimeter was already beginning to shift inward.
'So the countdown's begun.'
Naturally. The test wouldn't waste time.
In the novel, this trial had been Elara's moment. Her emergence. Her frost magic cutting through illusion and doubt alike. It was here she'd faced the first of the named contenders, laying the foundation for the camaraderie—and rivalries—that defined her arc.
'Where are you now?'
The thought echoed through Lucavion's mind, half-formed, unfinished, like a question with too many answers. His eyes lingered on the shifting horizon, tracing the shapes of the warped hills and fractured spires jutting from the ground like the ribs of some long-dead god.
In the story—the original one—Elara had started in Zone Nine. That much he remembered with clarity. Her arc was precise, methodical. She was always destined to cut her way through the ranks here, standing above the carnage as proof that determination could outmatch privilege. Her story.
But this?
This was no longer just her tale.
Lucavion took a slow breath, the air humming with unstable mana that bent around his presence like ripples around a stone. 'How much of it have I already broken…?'
He couldn't help the question—not now, not after everything.
He'd done too much. Not small things, not just ripples. Waves.
Aeliana was supposed to die. Quietly. Offscreen, almost. Her name a footnote in another's pain. But he'd pulled her back from the edge—torn her from the jaws of narrative closure and made her something else. Something more. A heartbeat now entangled with his own.
And Stormhaven…
Lucavion's lips curled slightly. That city was meant to burn. The Kraken was supposed to emerge in the dead of night, tear through the coastal wards, drag half the navy into the depths, and leave the Duke limping into irrelevance—arm lost, morale shattered.
But it hadn't.
He had stopped it.
Stopped fate, if such a thing existed.
'The butterfly effect,' he thought, flexing his gloved fingers slowly as the mana danced across his skin. 'It should've torn the narrative to shreds already.'
Then there was the Cloud Heavens Sect. They weren't supposed to fall—not until Act Two, when Elara and her allies would face them as one of their first major enemy factions. Their defeat had been a milestone, a moment of unity, sacrifice, and triumph.
Instead, Lucavion had walked into their hidden citadel months ahead of schedule, left the halls smeared with ash and silence… and met Valeria there.
'That wasn't supposed to happen either.'
But it had.
And that changed everything.
Not just because of what he'd done—but because of who he'd affected. The ones that were supposed to cross paths with Elara. The ones destined to become her companions, her rivals, her burdens. Many had met him first.
'So the question is…'
He let his gaze fall to the strange soil beneath his boots, where faint patterns of leyline residue flickered with purpose—guiding all contestants toward inevitable confrontation.
'…does the main scenario still exist? Or did I already kill it?'
The sky overhead shifted subtly, one of the suns dimming as if listening.
[You're spiraling again,] Vitaliara said, the dry curl of her tone wrapping around the edge of his thoughts.
"My bad," Lucavion said with a breezy exhale, brushing a speck of glimmering dust from his shoulder. "You know me already."
[Well, you're certainly alive enough to attract attention,] Vitaliara noted, her ears perking up. [Seems you have some guests.]
His smile didn't falter.
"Guests, huh?" He flexed his fingers, letting the dormant mana in his palm flicker to life, then closed it slowly. "Tch. I was hoping for at least ten more minutes of existential dread."
But the luxury of brooding was over.
From the ridge just ahead, a shadow flickered—then exploded forward with a sharp gust, a blur of speed carried by wind magic, legs pushing off from the stone with precision far above novice level.
A sword—long, straight-edged, gleaming with enchantment—sliced through the air, aimed directly for Lucavion's chest.
CLANG!
Lucavion moved without hesitation.
His own blade met the strike with clean precision, steel on steel ringing through the twilight air. Sparks scattered as the opposing force crashed against his guard.
For a moment, the two stood—locked, swords pressed, gazes clashing with equal intensity.
Lucavion tilted his head, a wry grin forming.
"Speed," he said, his voice calm, light, and mocking. "Not bad."
He twisted his wrist slightly, redirecting the pressure, his foot gliding to shift his weight with surgical control. The enemy staggered half a step, clearly not expecting such seamless redirection.
Lucavion's smile widened—just a touch cruel now.
"But luck…" he leaned in, letting his voice brush the edge of arrogance, "quite not there."
With a smooth snap of motion, he broke the deadlock and kicked the challenger backward—just enough to force distance, not to injure. Not yet.
The young man stumbled back, boots skidding across the coarse crystalline dust, barely keeping his footing. His blade dipped instinctively into a guard position, but his breathing had quickened—just enough to show.
His clothes were plain. Threadbare at the sleeves, dust-stained at the cuffs. No crest. No insignia. Just the sort of gear someone would wear if they'd spent their coin on steel and nothing else.
A commoner. But not just any—a trained one. His stance was balanced. His strike had been fast. He hadn't come here just to survive.
"...Why unlucky?" the boy asked, narrowing his eyes.
There was no arrogance in the question. Just genuine confusion. Maybe even curiosity.
Lucavion's brow arched.
"Why?" he echoed, stepping forward, blade trailing loosely in his hand like it weighed nothing at all. "Because you chose me as your first target."
He stopped, tilting his head, pitch-black eyes gleaming with dry amusement.
"I can't let myself get eliminated, can I?"
Chapter 638: Entrance Exam (3)
"I can't let myself get eliminated, can I?"
The boy blinked.
There was a beat of silence—just long enough for it to settle in.
Then his eyes narrowed, not with anger, but exasperation. "...You're joking."
Lucavion didn't deny it. He smiled. The kind that didn't reach the eyes, the kind that carried too many layers to be understood all at once.
"Took you long enough to notice."
That did it.
The boy moved.
Anger or pride—perhaps both—spurred him into motion. His mana surged, a clean pulse of wind-infused strength gathering around his legs as he dashed forward, kicking up a swirl of dust behind him.
Not bad. Fast again. His footwork was refined, pressure low and blade poised for a horizontal feint.
But too eager.
Lucavion stepped into the swing—not away from it—and in that instant, the boy's momentum turned against him.
First move.
CLANG.
Lucavion's sword met his at an upward angle, diverting the boy's strike just slightly to the right. Not enough to look like a failed attack, but enough to throw off his center of gravity.
Second move.
Lucavion pivoted his heel, blade twisting in an elegant spiral, not just knocking the opposing sword aside but guiding it upward—and leaving the boy's flank momentarily exposed.
Third move.
CRACK.
Lucavion's knee came up, fast and clean, slamming into the boy's wrist with just enough force to send the blade flying from his grip. It spun once in the air, catching a flicker of violet sky, before clattering to the ground behind them.
The boy stumbled back, eyes wide, teeth clenched. He didn't speak—couldn't. His body tensed, prepared to lunge for the weapon or unleash some desperate spell.
But Lucavion was already there.
With one smooth step forward, he pressed two fingers to the boy's chest—just two—and released a flicker of force, a condensed pulse of mana woven with surgical precision.
A ripple of impact flashed through the boy's body.
THUD.
He crumpled to one knee, coughing, his internal mana circulation disrupted in a single, brutal point-strike.
Lucavion stood over him—not cruelly, but inevitably.
The young man looked up, breath ragged, eyes still blazing with effort. There was defiance there—a final flicker of will refusing to surrender, even when his body no longer responded.
He tried to move.
Tried to force his limbs to obey.
But Lucavion's strike had been too precise. The threads of mana within him—the pathways every warrior relied upon—were disrupted. Not severed, not broken beyond repair. But locked, frozen under pressure that choked his control.
His fingers twitched uselessly at his side.
He wasn't getting up.
Lucavion sighed quietly, not in contempt, but in quiet resignation. "You'll learn," he said, tone neither cruel nor kind. "But not here."
He reached down, brushing a single fingertip across the boy's contestant token. The sigil etched into it pulsed once, then dissolved in a flicker of light.
Elimination confirmed.
Teleportation engaged.
A soft glow surrounded the boy's collapsed frame, and a moment later, he vanished—safely removed from the battlefield, his hopes carried with him to wherever the disqualified were sent.
Silence settled again, heavy and unbroken.
Then—
[You just wanted him to attack first, didn't you?] Vitaliara's voice curled into his thoughts with bemused clarity, tone equal parts sly and accusing. [A chance to show off.]
Lucavion didn't turn. He merely lifted an eyebrow as he slid his sword back into its sheath.
"You're assuming things now."
[Am I?]
"Absolutely." He dusted off the hem of his coat, not a wrinkle on him. "Would've been rude not to entertain him a little."
[A little?] She huffed, but the glint in her eyes was impossible to miss. [You dismantled him like you were giving a lesson in swordplay.]
Lucavion glanced toward the horizon, where the boundary lines of the trial zone were beginning to flicker again—closing in, squeezing them all closer together.
"I'm considerate like that."
[Heh…] Vitaliara purred, stretching out her limbs as she perched once more on his shoulder. [I know the kind of person you are.]
Lucavion tilted his head, smirk playing lazily at the corner of his lips. "Do you, now?"
[Oh yes.]
He chuckled under his breath and stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the crystalline dust. "Then you'll understand why I plan to make the next one even more educational."
Lucavion's smile lingered as he moved, a slow, deliberate curve that said more than any flourish of steel ever could.
"Still," he murmured, voice softer now, "the boy wasn't bad."
[Hmph, high praise from you.]
He shrugged lightly. "Peak 3-star. That's not something most commoners reach, let alone master with that kind of control. Good instincts. Composure, too—at least until I ruined it."
[Vitality and hunger. That's what I saw.]
He nodded once. "Exactly. But…"
The smile faded, if only slightly. His gaze drifted toward the skyline, where the boundary pulse continued its gentle contraction—like a heartbeat narrowing in a dying chest.
"…it was never going to be enough. Not for the Academy."
[No.]
Vitaliara's voice had dropped, tinged with that particular resonance she only used when something truly meant something. When death, or unfairness, or power met its ugly mirror.
He continued walking.
"You know," Lucavion said, more thoughtful now, "most of the commoners in this trial? They aren't here for the Academy. Not really."
[They want visibility.]
He nodded. "The broadcast. The arena eyes. Every enchanted lens and mirrored feed will be streaming this mess to noble salons and merchant towers and city taverns. They're not chasing titles—they're chasing names."
[They want to be seen.]
"Exactly." He flicked a pebble with the tip of his boot, watching it bounce once, twice, before disappearing into a shadowed crevice. "Not everyone here wants to study under dusty old Archmagi. Some just want to survive in a better way. Bodyguards, guild contracts, security details for trade fleets. As long as you've got the stats and a little screen time, someone'll come knocking."
[It's mercenary work, really.]
"But mercenary work with benefits."
His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it was something else—something harder to name. A subtle understanding of the game. Of the system. Of the way people twisted their dreams around desperation and still managed to walk forward.
"They want to matter," he said simply. "Even if they don't know how."
[And you?]
"Can't say I am a normal one, can you now?"
"Can't say I am a normal one, can you now?" Lucavion said, half-turning his head with that usual gleam in his eye—too amused to be humble, too knowing to be innocent.
[Vitaliara] didn't miss a beat.
[No, you're just a pretentious idiot.]
He blinked, then laughed, low and unapologetic. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"
[Harsh?] She flicked her tail against his jaw. [You walk around quoting yourself like you're the final draft of a philosopher's memoir. Pretentious is the generous word.]
Lucavion lifted both hands in mock surrender, grin crooked. "Well, better a poetic fool than a forgettable one."
[Hmph.]
Vitaliara's snort was regal, but the warmth curled just beneath it—a softness only someone like Lucavion might notice. She was always watching. Always judging. But she stayed.
And that meant more than words.
The wind shifted, brushing dust and mana-slick air across his coat as he stepped forward again, following the slow curve of a ridge that led deeper into the collapsing zone. The terrain here was beginning to distort—edges of old ruins bent sideways, gravity twisting slightly as the fabricated space strained against its own artificial limits.
Far ahead, faint clashes of steel echoed like distant thunder.
Lucavion adjusted his gloves.
"You know," he said quietly, the grin fading just enough to make room for something sharper, "for all its drama, this little game of survival has its charm. Different paths. Collisions waiting to happen."
[You're hoping something interesting stumbles into your blade.]
"I'm expecting it."
His boots struck stone again—firmer this time. The path narrowing, the tension in the air tightening, like a string drawn across a bow.
"And if I'm lucky…" Lucavion smiled to himself, voice nearly a whisper now, "maybe I'll get a real contender this time."
He didn't say Elara.
He didn't need to.
The game was still unfolding. And Lucavion?
Lucavion was ready.
Sadly, what he envisioned in his mind didn't happen directly at all….
Chapter 639: Central nobles
The clink of porcelain.
The muted rustle of silk.
The kind of laughter that didn't reach the eyes.
Valeria sat with her back straight and her hands folded politely over her lap, the gold-threaded edge of her sleeve catching faintly in the light. The salon was, of course, exquisite—gleaming with polished marble floors, skyglass chandeliers that shimmered with captured daylight, and a ceiling enchanted to reflect the cloudless Arcanian sky beyond.
The tea was perfectly brewed. The pastries were delicate, airy, probably woven by aether-fed ovens and kitchens that never saw dust.
She hadn't touched any of it.
Her eyes were fixed on the projection hovering above the center table.
It was shaped like a disk of water suspended in midair—one of the newer scrying enchantments. She didn't understand the theory, not really. Something about binding a directional lens to a stabilized leyline thread, layered with an observing sigil tuned to broadcast.
All she knew was that it worked.
She could see the arena.
Or at least, the artificial space carved from reality where the Candidate Trials were being held.
At first glance, it resembled a forest.
At second glance—it didn't.
The trees shimmered. Moved subtly. Like they weren't made of bark or leaf, but light and intention. Some floated, untethered by root. Others rearranged their own canopies to provide cover or cut off escape. The ground was shifting too—slowly, steadily shrinking.
Not visibly.
But you could feel it.
The pressure. The urgency.
From the sky's-eye view offered by the broadcast, it looked like a calm expanse. But Valeria knew better. She could see it in the way the contenders moved—always glancing over shoulders, always repositioning, knowing the space would only get smaller.
The rule was clear.
Survive.
And to survive?
You fought.
"They've structured it cleverly, this exam," one of the nobles beside her commented. "Much more dynamic than anything I had ever expected. Let the commoners cull themselves. Natural selection, but with glamour."
"They've structured it cleverly, this exam," one of the nobles beside her commented. "Much more dynamic than anything I had ever expected. Let the commoners cull themselves. Natural selection, but with glamour."
The voice belonged to Lady Serette Valcarrini.
Valeria turned her gaze just slightly—enough to see the woman without offering her full attention.
A high noble, first daughter of House Valcarrini, whose holdings stretched from the eastern mineral provinces to the Aetherglass coasts. Well-bred, immaculately dressed, and recently appointed as a junior patron of the Arcanis Cultural Circle—a meaningless title used to inflate court visibility. Her family ranked high. A whisper beneath the inner circle of the imperial court itself.
She was also the host of this tea gathering.
The hall they sat in wasn't hers, not technically—it belonged to a historical embassy villa—but everything in it bore the subtle fingerprints of Valcarrini taste. Pale lavender drapery enchanted to catch the sun at a flattering angle. Imported harpists playing too softly to matter. Dishes trimmed in lapis threadwork. A performance of elegance, through and through.
And yet, Valeria thought, none of it masks the rot.
Lady Serette smiled faintly at her own remark, sipping from her cup as though she'd just observed the weather.
Valeria said nothing.
She watched the projection instead—saw a young boy with no crest dodge a bolt of ice and immediately retaliate with a flare of crimson fire that nearly scorched the trees above him. Quick. Adaptable. The strike lacked polish, but not instinct.
"I suppose they'll let a few through," Valcarrini added, her tone light. "A token handful, to keep up the appearance. But truly, what could they hope to gain by flooding our halls with untrained mongrels?"
Before Valeria could reply, another voice joined from her left.
Softer. Sweeter. But worse for it.
"Indeed," said Lady Clyenne Montellara, her gloved fingers brushing idly against the rim of her cup. "We will be attending the same academy as those people. I truly wonder what the Council was thinking."
She leaned forward slightly, the pearls in her earrings catching the enchanted light.
"Honestly, I've seen horses with more decorum. Some of these 'candidates' barely know which end of a spell crystal to hold. It's going to feel more like a stable than a school."
Valeria's cup hadn't moved.
Her posture remained perfectly straight, perfectly unoffended.
But her eyes were still locked on the scrying disk above the table.
Where another contender—a girl with patchwork armor and a jagged blade—had just caught a casting rune mid-air, ripped it from the space between them, and turned it back on her attacker in a burst of unexpected brilliance.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't noble.
But it was precise.
And it worked.
Stable, Valeria thought bitterly. These women wouldn't last five minutes on a real field, and they dare compare them to beasts.
She didn't speak.
Not yet.
She didn't speak.
Not yet.
But silence, in rooms like these, was never allowed to last for long.
Lady Montellara turned her gaze toward Valeria with a smile far too practiced to be genuine.
"And you, Lady Olarion," she said lightly, as if requesting a fashion opinion and not treading into a minefield. "Surely you've dealt with… people like them?"
There was a touch of something sharp beneath the sweetness—a goad wrapped in silk.
"Yes," Valcarrini chimed in, tilting her head ever so slightly. "You've spent the last year swinging blades on the Empire's behalf, haven't you? Marshes, baronies, border disputes—how do you manage such company? I imagine it must be… character-building."
A few quiet laughs circled the table.
Valeria's fingers remained still around her cup.
The projection above them shifted again—now showing a clash between four contenders over a single raised platform. Spells collided mid-air, shattering into scattered light. One boy was already on the ground, unconscious or worse, while the others moved like wolves circling a wounded beast.
Valeria exhaled.
And then, at last, she looked up.
Her voice, when she spoke, was even. Polite. Sharpened only by what wasn't said.
"People like them," she repeated, as if tasting the phrase.
She turned to face the two women, her tone measured and calm. "I've marched alongside all kinds, Lady Montellara. Highborn, lowborn, mages, sellswords. And yes—commoners."
She paused, letting the word settle.
"In my experience, titles rarely stop arrows. Or fire. Or hunger."
The room quieted—not out of shock, but because the words were spoken with too much weight to be dismissed outright.
Valeria's gaze lingered on the scrying disk, then returned to Valcarrini.
"I have seen cowardice in velvet and loyalty in rags. And I've seen fools—noble and not—die the same way: screaming, and far from home."
Montellara blinked.
Valcarrini's smile stiffened, just barely.
Valeria offered neither apology nor elaboration.
Her voice, still calm, dropped just slightly. "If the Academy has decided to open its gates to them, then I can only assume it is because someone finally realized that power doesn't care where you were born."
A beat passed.
Then Lady Valcarrini lifted her chin, her smile returning—tight, composed, and gleaming like a dagger under fine lace.
"How very noble of you, Lady Olarion," she said, voice dipped in elegance and edged in disdain. "Truly. But perhaps that's the difference between those of us born to lead… and those raised to follow."
Her teacup clinked softly against its saucer as she set it down with calculated grace.
"You speak of hunger and fire as if they are the great equalizers," she continued. "But power is not simply about survival. It is about refinement. Control. Elegance. And those things, I'm afraid, are tied to blood."
She gestured vaguely toward the scrying projection. "Let them prove themselves. Let them claw and scramble through mud and illusion. But they will still be what they were—children of dirt, dressed in borrowed light."
Her gaze drifted toward Valeria with the smallest arch of a brow.
"And no matter how sharp a blade becomes, it cannot change the ore from which it was forged."
Chapter 640: Central Nobles (2)
Valcarrini's words hung in the air like perfume—cloying, expensive, and suffocating.
Valeria said nothing.
She could feel the pressure building just beneath her collarbone, like a knot she couldn't quite cut. The argument was clear in her mind, sharp and instinctive. But the words to frame it? They eluded her. She was a knight, not a diplomat. Her strength lived in action, not the slippery finesse of noble rhetoric.
And Valcarrini knew it.
She leaned back in her chair, perfectly composed, voice velvet-smooth as she continued, "Some are born to rule, Lady Olarion. Others are born to serve. That is not cruelty—it is order. A structure ordained not by law, but by blood. By history. You of all people must understand that."
Valeria's jaw flexed slightly.
But the noblewoman wasn't finished.
"No matter how strong the lower castes become, they will always lack something. Not just training. Not refinement. But instinct. The gravity of command. There is a weight to leadership—true leadership—that cannot be learned. One must be born beneath it. Shaped by it. Named by it."
She let her gaze drift lazily toward the scrying disc.
"You can give a dog a sword, but it will never know how to wield it like a lion."
Valcarrini's words floated above the tea table like incense smoke—thin, perfumed, toxic.
But Valeria wasn't listening anymore.
Not truly.
Because that phrase had pulled her backward.
Back to a smaller arena. One not suspended in an arcane projection, but built from real stone and sweat. The tournament of Andelheim—a proving ground more brutal than anyone had expected. Not because of the rules. But because of who had broken them.
Lucavion.
She remembered the way the Cloud Heavens Sect disciples had strutted through the tournament grounds—draped in expensive charmcloth, ringed with enchanted jewelry, speaking as if the outcome had already been decided. Every motion they made was deliberate, their arrogance thick enough to choke a man.
Until Lucavion stepped into the ring.
No crest.
No sponsor.
Not even proper dueling attire.
Just that tattered coat and the eyes of someone who didn't care for their rules—and who fought like someone who knew they were rigged.
She'd watched, stone-faced, as he dismantled the Sect's prized disciples one by one.
Not with elegance. Not with showy flourishes.
With precision.
He didn't toy with them. Didn't monologue.
He cut through illusions like they were nothing. Broke their posture. Exploited their overconfidence. And when it was over—he didn't celebrate.
He just walked away.
And that—that—was what had rattled her more than anything.
Because she had been raised on the edge of rules. Discipline. Measured duels. The idea that power must be earned, refined, trained.
And there he was—proof that some people didn't need refinement.
They were already sharp enough to bleed the world dry.
She remembered what had happened after.
How whispers spread like wildfire.
How her father—ever the cautious opportunist—had begun entertaining correspondence from the newly rising Marquis Vendor, who had taken a sudden and strategic interest in the sect's failings.
And then?
The alliance.
The signature.
The sword she now carried, not in her hand, but in the weight of her presence.
It all began there.
With a nobody.
A rogue.
A bastard with no name worth speaking, but a blade that forced the empire to listen.
The irony curled faintly at the corners of her mouth.
She almost laughed.
Truly—if this was what Valcarrini called "a dog with a sword," then she hoped the whole kennel broke through the gates.
But she said nothing.
She simply sipped her tea, her posture as refined as any in the room.
Because even if they mocked the forge—
They had never felt the heat.
And she had.
******
The scent of roasted chestnuts and spell-sparked incense mingled in the air, thick with the chatter of too many voices speaking at once.
Elara stood beneath the stone arch of the public plaza's viewing gallery, her arms loosely folded and her eyes fixed on the massive projection hovering above the crowd. It was woven from illusion threads and light-tuned mana, anchored between the marble columns of the broadcast tower. The image shimmered, clear even in daylight: the Candidate Trials, second phase. Combat zone active. Formation fracturing.
They'd chosen to watch from the ground this time.
It was crowded. Loud. Alive in a way that pressed in from every direction—children on shoulders, vendors shouting over one another, brass-voiced fortune readers hawking quick readings between commercial breaks, lovers sharing shawls and candied sparks. The festival had cracked the city open like a ripe pomegranate—colors spilling across every flagstone, music catching on balconies, fireworks humming low like breathing spells, just waiting to be loosed into night.
But the broadcast still dominated everything.
Even above the din, the pulse of the trial's clash echoed through the illusion display—spells colliding, terrain shifting, voices shouting over tactical calls. The city might have dressed itself in silk and song, but its eyes were here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Weighing.
"Elara," Aurelian murmured at her side, fingers flicking absently as he traced sigil-notations in the air, half-translating the formation structure overlay. "Do you see the central compression field? They're herding them inward. It's not just survival—it's territory control."
"Cruel," Selphine noted, her tone cool as always. "But efficient. That's how you flush out the improvisers from the trained. I'd wager the ones clinging to their dueling forms will break first."
Elara didn't answer right away.
Her gaze was fixed on a girl darting across a clearing on the projection—mud-streaked, breathless, but fast. She hurled a low-tier spell not as a threat, but as cover, drawing fire long enough to reposition into the shadow of a shifting tree. Another candidate followed, taking the bait. The girl pivoted. A blade in the gut. Precise. Messy. Real.
Elara exhaled slowly. "She'll make it," she murmured.
Aurelian glanced at her. "You think so?"
"I recognize the way she moves," Elara said. "That's not something you learn at court."
On the side, Cedric's arms remained crossed, but his stance had shifted.
Not tense, exactly—just engaged. His weight leaned slightly forward, blue eyes tracking movement in the broadcast as if the projected field were a real battlefield and not a spectacle cast above a festival plaza.
The murmuring crowd had faded in his ears.
It was the rhythm he'd locked into—the cadence of steps, the glint of steel, the half-seconds between defense and retaliation. It was raw. Chaotic. Real.
This wasn't theory or rehearsal. It was desperation wrapped in instinct.
And it showed.
Selphine noticed the change in him. Her gaze flicked from Elara to Cedric, and though her voice remained smooth, there was a curious slant behind her tone.
"You're quiet," she said. "What do you think?"
Cedric didn't look away from the projection. "About what?"
She tilted her head. "Their swordplay."
He didn't answer at first. His eyes narrowed, following a fast exchange between three contenders—one disarmed, one eliminated, the third staggering but victorious.
Finally, he spoke. "It's good. Their timing's sharp. They're not afraid to take hits."
A pause. Then a faint frown.
"But their technique is basic. All fundamental forms. Nothing past Stage Two, maybe three. No refined stance memory. Footwork's too wide in soft terrain."
Selphine arched a brow, intrigued. "How perceptive of you, Reilan."
Cedric glanced sideways, mouth twitching with dry amusement. "I know how to spot a dying stance."
"They're commoners," Selphine offered, half-absent as her gaze returned to the illusion feed. "Most of them probably trained in dirt fields and stone yards. Still, some of them move like they've tasted real fights."
Aurelian hummed in agreement. "Which makes them more dangerous than the dueling club boys. Too many heirs mistake rehearsal for readiness."
Then the image on the projection shifted again—and the noise of the crowd rose with it.
"Oh," Selphine murmured. "Now he's interesting."