Chapter 700: Dispensed
The sun had barely crested over the far spires of Arcanis when Selphine and Aurelian claimed their usual corner table at the terrace café near the upper promenade.
It was quieter than usual—at least, in the way noble haunts quieted during deep intrigue. The kind of quiet that carried the weight of speculation beneath every clink of porcelain and overly polite exchange of words.
Selphine sliced into her honeyed fruit with surgical calm. "So," she said, not looking up, "are we all just pretending the world didn't get rearranged yesterday?"
Aurelian, halfway through dunking a piece of spiced bread into his tea, snorted. "Oh no. We're absolutely pretending." He popped it into his mouth, chewed, then added, "We're nobles. It's what we do when we don't know what the hell just happened."
The corner of Selphine's mouth twitched. "Lucavion."
Aurelian's expression sobered. "Lucavion."
The name had already carved itself into Arcanian conversation like a brand. Not whispered. Not avoided. Spoken with awe, suspicion, bitterness—depending on who you asked. A commoner, yes. But no one was calling him 'just' that anymore.
"Peak 4-star," Selphine said, tapping her fork once against her plate. "They thought he was mid-range. Safe. Strong, but within expectation."
"He was playing all of us," Aurelian muttered, eyes on the steam curling from his cup. "No. Not even playing. He just didn't bother showing more until he had to."
"And when he did," Selphine added, "he shattered one of the strongest projected picks of the exam."
Reynald Vale.
The Bastion.
A name people had been chanting in the streets not forty-eight hours ago.
He had stood at the edge of the last convergence, surrounded by monsters, unwavering. He had shielded the helpless, carved paths for the wounded, rallied fractured groups into order.
He had become, for a moment, the people's hero.
And he had lost.
Aurelian's voice lowered. "That duel…"
Selphine didn't speak immediately. She remembered it vividly. The moment Lucavion had accepted Reynald's challenge—quietly, without grandstanding. The moment their blades met.
And the moment Lucavion's sword stopped looking like a weapon and started looking like intent incarnate.
It hadn't just been a duel.
It had been a dissection.
They both fell silent for a moment, each replaying the final exchange in their minds: the sudden shift, the step through space, the black flame that didn't explode—but erased the final blow.
Reynald hadn't screamed.
He'd simply dropped to one knee, lowered his blade, and nodded once—like a knight conceding to a king.
Aurelian looked up toward the tower line in the distance, where banners of gold and blue now flew in anticipation of the Imperial Academy's opening banquet.
"He'll be one of us now," he said. "Lucavion."
Aurelian had just begun to speak again—something about the way Lucavion's black flame had cleaved straight through Reynald's barrier, something about how even a peak-tier reinforcement artifact hadn't saved him—when the quiet rhythm of footsteps caught his ear.
Not rushed.
Not tentative.
Just present.
He turned first, then froze mid-sentence.
"…Elowyn?"
Selphine's knife paused just above her plate, and she looked up sharply.
Elara stood at the edge of the terrace, framed by sunlight pouring in through the tall arches behind her. Her hair caught the light—still in its subtle illusion of chestnut and gold—but something about the way it moved, the way she moved, felt less like illusion and more like clarity. Her robes were simple but sharp, her stance relaxed, and her expression—
Not unreadable.
Not guarded.
But glowing.
There was a softness to it. Not weakness—no, never that. But something unburdened. A brightness in her posture, a glimmer in her gaze that had been missing for days—months, even.
And beneath that light… was the trace of something far more complicated.
Aurelian blinked. "You—uh. You're out."
"I am," Elara said, her voice light and even. And then she smiled. Softly. Almost lazily. "Am I late for scandal and judgment?"
Selphine leaned back in her chair, studying her. "You missed the bloodbath."
Elara approached and pulled out a chair without asking. "I didn't need to see it."
"No?" Aurelian asked carefully. "It was... intense."
Elara's gaze flicked between them both, catching the hesitation in Aurelian's tone, the curiosity buried under Selphine's restraint. She nodded, almost to herself, and folded her hands in her lap.
"I heard," she said. "He won."
They didn't need to ask who.
And when she looked down briefly, blinking against the sunlight, there was a faint shine to her eyes. Not tears. Not grief.
Just a glaze of something impossible to name.
Selphine tilted her head. "You seem… fine."
Elara looked up again. And this time, her smile widened—not in defiance, not in performance.
Just honest.
"I am."
Aurelian watched her for a long beat. "You didn't even want to see how he fought?"
Elara exhaled softly, her voice lower now, not secretive, but distant. "I've seen it before."
And there, in the space between those words, something ancient passed between the three of them—acknowledgment without explanation.
Elowyn—the sharp girl with precise spellcraft and a measured voice—had disappeared for days.
But the woman who sat here now?
She had known Lucavion before he was a legend.
And seeing him again—alive, whole, terrifying—hadn't broken her.
It had freed her.
She looked up at the flags waving over the towers in the distance. Blue. Gold. Imperial.
The beginning of something new.
And maybe, just maybe—
Something unfinished.
The wind shifted over the terrace, stirring the edge of Elara's sleeve, and with it came the faint sound of bells ringing from somewhere deeper in the city—the high, melodic chime that meant another hour turned, another festival procession winding toward its end.
Selphine, ever precise, took it as her cue. She set down her fork, dusted her fingers with a napkin, and said, "Well. We've had our existential unraveling."
Aurelian raised a brow. "Already? I was hoping to spiral at least once more before lunch."
Elara huffed a soft laugh.
Selphine ignored him. "Now we have more practical matters to attend."
"Such as?" Elara asked, already suspecting the answer.
Aurelian grinned. "The Banquet."
Elara blinked. "That's already happening?"
"Two nights from now," Selphine said crisply. "You've been… resting."
She gave no judgment to the word, though Elara heard it anyway. She didn't mind. Not now.
"The Imperial Academy Entrance Banquet," Aurelian echoed, making it sound absurdly grand, as he always did. "Where freshmen get paraded around like peacocks under a chandelier while the nobility exchange thinly veiled threats disguised as compliments."
"It's tradition," Selphine said dryly. "You'll like it."
"No, I won't," Elara said without hesitation.
Selphine smirked. "Still. It's mandatory. All freshmen attend. Commoners and nobles alike. Even the Loria delegates will be there."
Aurelian added, "And more importantly, it's the only time before classes begin that the Academy lets everyone see who's aligned with who. Early alliances. Patron interests. House ties. It sets the tone."
"More importantly," Selphine cut in, "you'll need to wear something that doesn't look like you just fought your way through a thunderstorm."
"I'll have you know," Aurelian said, mock-wounded, "my dueling ensemble is very stylish."
"It has burn marks," Selphine said.
"Battle scars."
"It smells like stress."
Elara shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "So. We need outfits."
"Not just outfits," Selphine said, rising smoothly from her chair. "Statements."
Aurelian nodded. "Wealth, elegance, power. Or if you prefer—mystery, menace, and being left alone."
"And you, Elowyn?" Selphine turned to her with a tilt of her head. "What do you want to wear?"
Elara thought about that for a moment.
Not what would make her look strong. Or untouchable. Or cold.
She thought of the dome that had glowed above Lucavion's head, gilded with his name.
She thought of the night he pushed her through the vortex.
And the person she had become since.
And the word 'Lorian Delegates'.
'Not yet.'
She would love to show everything, but she can't.
It is not the time yet.
"I want to wear something that doesn't flinch," she said quietly.
Aurelian and Selphine exchanged a glance—then nodded.
That was fair.
Because in two days, they would all walk into the banquet as equals in name only.
And some ghosts didn't show up in the guest list.
But they showed up all the same.
Chapter 701: Elayne
The morning air was clean in a way that felt almost unnatural.
Lucavion stepped onto the open balcony just as the dome above began its slow dissolution, the night illusion peeling back like silk drawn from glass. Pale streaks of dawn bled into the horizon, painting the upper eaves of the city in soft rose-gold.
No crowds yet. No echoing steps from the others. Just stillness—and the quiet hum of the capital beginning to stir.
He leaned against the smooth marble railing, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight below.
Arcania City—the Arcania City—spread out beneath him in grand layers of arcane ingenuity and impossibly planned symmetry. From this height, he could see it all: the spiraling towers of the High Mage Quarter to the east, the glimmering waterways of the Artisan's Loop cutting through the city like silver veins, and the soft trails of magical lifts rising between platforms as the city awakened with purpose.
And just beyond it all, across the lower terraces and past the gold-inlaid bridges—the outer edges of the Imperial Borough. Private. Elevated. Gated by design and mana alike.
He'd spent a month in this city before. Hidden corners, back alleyway food stalls, antique weapon shops tucked between shadowed plazas. But up here, he could see the truth of the divide laid bare.
Same city. Different reality.
Still barefoot, he padded silently across the suite's polished floor, grabbed his coat from the chair, and shrugged it on loosely over his tunic.
No summons yet. No nobles waiting to whisper plans behind velvet fans.
Which meant one thing.
Time to move.
Lucavion exited the suite through a side arch—one that didn't lead toward the opulent central halls but instead down a curving path along the edge of the outer balcony. The tiles beneath his feet shifted with his steps, subtly adjusting for comfort and silence, the enchantments woven into the very ground responding to his presence.
He found the training space easily—it wasn't marked, but it didn't need to be. A wide, open ring of smooth whitestone nestled within the hanging gardens, bordered on three sides by floating hedges and open air on the fourth, giving a clear view of the entire lower city.
Aether shimmered faintly in the space.
So even their sparring circles are bathed in stabilized mana. Tch.
Lucavion stepped into the ring, and the array flared once in recognition—welcoming him. Mana pooled softly beneath the surface like mist caught under glass.
He drew his estoc in one smooth motion.
No spectators.
No rival eyes.
Only wind. Morning. And the blade.
He began slow.
Stretches first—then flow.
His footwork traced the old sequences, not flashy, but drilled deep into muscle memory. Each slash painted purpose into the air. Each pivot broke the stillness like a signature—sharp, precise, his own.
The estoc carved arcs of silver through the soft light, and his breathing synced with the tempo of his movements. Gradually, his mana began to stir, pulled from his core and threaded into his limbs—not for spellwork, but for refinement.
Lucavion turned into a tight downward parry, his blade sliding clean through the air, before pulling into a low, controlled stance—his breathing sharp but calm, precise. The training ring echoed with the rhythm of his footwork and the faint pulse of mana cycling through the ground beneath him.
Then—
He felt it.
A pause in the wind.
The slightest pull in the mana field.
Subtle. Like shadow over breath. Most wouldn't have noticed.
But Lucavion wasn't most.
He straightened without finishing the final form, blade pointed low, and turned his head just slightly—eyes narrowing toward the edge of the hedges that ringed the arena.
She stood there.
Still. Quiet. Half-blended with the wall of soft green behind her like the shade itself had decided to take a form.
Elayne Cors.
She didn't announce herself. She never did.
No rustling of cloth. No flare of magic. Not even the pulse of hostility.
Just… presence.
Her cloak still clung to her like a veil of fog, hood lowered, silver-gray eyes watching without demand. The thread of her name no longer floated above her head—those glyphs were gone—but Lucavion didn't need help recognizing her.
He tilted his head slightly, lips curving.
"Well," he said, voice casual, breath still steady from the routine. "Didn't think I'd get stalked before breakfast."
Elayne didn't reply.
Not immediately.
She stepped forward once, slow and without any hint of aggression. The training ring didn't flare in warning—it recognized her mana, quiet as it was. Allowed her entrance.
Lucavion watched her move like the wind wasn't quite sure it wanted to disturb her.
"Here to train?" he asked. "Or just enjoying the view?"
Elayne's eyes didn't waver.
They held his gaze with a stillness that wasn't cold—but unrelenting. Like a thread pulled tight across a blade's edge, stretched not to cut, but to test its strength.
Then, finally—
"Who are you?" she asked.
Lucavion blinked once. The question didn't sting—it didn't even surprise him. But it did amuse.
He tilted his head, wiping the back of his wrist along his jaw as though brushing away the words.
"I'm called Lucavion," he said lightly, lips quirking. "If that's what you're asking?"
Elayne didn't move.
Didn't nod.
She just looked at him—longer this time. Not past him. Not around him.
Through.
"I know that's what you're called," she said at last.
Then she stepped forward again—slow, deliberate—closing a bit more of the space between them. Not threatening. Not invasive. Just… closer.
The wind tugged at the edge of her cloak, and for a moment it looked like she was made of dusk and breath.
"But," she continued, voice quieter now, "why do you have such an energy?"
Lucavion let the question hang in the air for a moment, like morning mist refusing to burn away.
Then—he smiled.
That familiar, half-lidded smirk that always seemed a touch too casual for the weight beneath it.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, voice light, almost amused. "I do wear very good cologne."
Elayne didn't blink.
Didn't move.
"You…" she said quietly, eyes sharpening. "That flame."
Her words were slow now—cutting. Not because they were meant to wound, but because she was peeling something back with each one.
Lucavion tilted his head just slightly, but didn't interrupt.
Elayne's gaze narrowed further. "What is it?"
She took another step forward. Close now. Not within striking distance—but within feeling distance. Where the pressure that coiled around him like quiet thunder could be sensed.
"It's a bit special, isn't it?" she murmured.
Lucavion's smile didn't change.
But his fingers flexed once.
And Elayne said it:
"It reeks of death."
The words didn't echo. They didn't need to.
Because the moment she spoke them, the mana in the ring reacted—just slightly. The air dipped in temperature. Not cold. Not frost. But a hollowing.
Like something somewhere had noticed its name.
Lucavion exhaled, slow and even.
Then shrugged.
"Well. I wouldn't call it perfume."
Vitaliara stirred in the back of his mind—silent, but present.
And Lucavion—still smiling—met Elayne's steady gaze.
"No one ever told you?" he said, voice low.
"Some fires burn hotter…"
He stepped forward, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his shadow.
"…when they come from the other side."
"...Other side," Elayne murmured under her breath, the words barely audible, like the thought had escaped before she'd meant to give it form.
Lucavion caught it, of course.
But he didn't chase it.
Instead, he smiled—wider this time. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… playful.
And, as always, deflecting.
"In for a spar?" he asked, casually stepping back into the center of the ring.
Elayne blinked, the abrupt shift in tone catching her—but not fully derailing her. "Spar?"
Lucavion gave a small roll of his shoulders, the estoc swinging lightly in his hand.
"Yeah. Isn't it better to clash weapons instead of wasting time speaking cryptically like this?" he said, glancing over his shoulder with the faintest grin. "You're clearly dying to hit me. Might as well give you the chance."
Elayne's expression didn't change.
Not a twitch.
But after a breath, she gave the smallest nod.
And stepped into the ring.
No flash of mana. No dramatic unsheathing.
Just stillness.
Poised. Centered.
Ready.
Lucavion twirled the estoc once and brought it to rest behind his back, one hand sliding up the flat of the blade as if greeting an old friend.
"Try not to disappear halfway through this time," he murmured.
Elayne drew a single knife from beneath her cloak—short, crescent-edged, matte-steel.
She said nothing.
But her eyes gleamed.
Lucavion smiled.
Perfect.
Chapter 702: Talking with blades
Mireilla lay on the edge of the massive bed, not under the covers, but atop them—as if too much comfort might swallow her whole.
The mattress was too soft. The air too still. The silence too curated.
She had grown up learning that even quiet came with price tags. And this one felt… steep.
The suite around her was all pale opal and woven light—walls that pulsed with barely-contained enchantments, surfaces that didn't just gleam, but glowed, gently reflecting the aether that laced the air like perfume. It was all beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, it unsettled her more than a blade at her back.
This wasn't a place meant for someone like her.
And yet here she was.
'Maybe that's why it feels like walking inside someone else's skin.'
She'd used everything available. She wasn't above that—not after clawing her way through years of scarcity and silence. The message interface had been her first experiment: a brief communication with the attendant assigned to her, asking for a list of nearby library networks.
It had answered instantly, with a tone so politely efficient it made her teeth ache.
Meals came next. She ordered something basic—root-vegetable stew, grain porridge, a tea blend labeled "focus enhancement"—and it had appeared on a gleaming tray without a single creak of a serving cart. Every item was perfectly balanced, perfectly hot, perfectly... impersonal.
Then came the real test: the cultivation chambers.
There was one embedded into the suite floor, but a secondary chamber had been listed—a room three floors down, accessible only by attuned glyphs, its walls laced with silver-threaded runes that heightened the ambient mana density by nearly forty percent. It wasn't just opulent—it was ideal.
She'd stood inside it for almost an hour.
Breathing.
Feeling.
Letting the mana wash over her like it never had before—not in slums, not in rented guild bunkers, not even in field camps where ambient energy was a privilege you fought over.
And now?
Now she couldn't sleep.
Because resting here—truly resting—meant believing she belonged.
And she wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
So she sat on the bed, cross-legged, back straight, fingers curling lightly over her knees as she drew a slow breath. Cultivation pattern: second spiral, variant five. A gentle rotation. Mana flowed into her limbs, uncoiling like roots from an old scar.
She let it move.
Let herself feel what it was like to not struggle for it.
To not bite her tongue and choke back nausea as magic resisted her.
The chamber responded with subtle pulses of reinforcement—mana encouraging her, bolstering her rhythm, syncing with her patterns.
'This is how nobles train,' she realized. 'No distractions. No hunger. No fear that if you falter, someone else will take your spot by force.'
And that truth, more than the luxury, more than the shimmering walls or spellborn linens, made something bitter twist in her throat.
It wasn't just that they'd had more.
It was that they never had to fight just to begin.
She stayed like that until morning.
And when she opened her eyes, the chamber lights had already adjusted themselves to mimic the soft glow of sunrise—though no true sun shone here.
Still, it was enough.
She rose, quietly.
She bathed. Dressed. Tied her hair back with deliberate care.
There was no one to impress, not today.
But habit was another form of armor.
Mireilla stepped lightly into the corridor, her boots making almost no sound against the enchanted tiles. The air here still smelled faintly of lavender and mage-oil, as though the very walls exhaled refinement. She didn't rush—she didn't need to. Every step was deliberate, measured. Observing was second nature.
And there was so much to observe.
The hallway lit as she walked, panels blooming softly overhead with morning hues—an artificial sunrise designed to adjust with the circadian rhythm of each occupant. Enchantment woven so deeply into the structure it didn't hum, it breathed.
Attendants were already moving—some gliding silently along the silver inlaid tracks between quarters, others passing notes or floating trays through glyph-hinged doorways. None of them looked tired. None of them looked rushed. The hour was early, but this place did not wake.
It simply resumed.
One attendant offered her a nod, shallow and polite. She returned it, curt and silent, before continuing toward the outer arch. The pathways here twisted upward in spirals of translucent glass, revealing glimpses of the upper gardens, mana-laced flora blooming even at this hour. Somewhere far off, the low chime of a bell echoed—an announcement, perhaps, or just a shift in ward routines.
But then—
She paused.
Stopped mid-step as the faint ripple of combat brushed against the edge of her senses.
Mana. Contained—but fierce.
Her head turned automatically, eyes narrowing. It came from the eastern spire terrace—the open ring she'd seen listed in the map as a "private sparring arena."
She altered course without hesitation.
And when she stepped into the open archway, the breath caught sharp in her throat.
There—framed by the pale light of dawn and the drifting garden fog—were two silhouettes in motion.
Lucavion.
And Elayne Cors.
She recognized them instantly.
But she had never seen them like this.
Lucavion's estoc blurred through the air, silver arcs slicing as if the blade itself danced, not wielded but unleashed. His coat flared behind him with each step, his footwork so crisp it looked almost lazy—until you saw the speed. Until you felt the weight of his every move pressing into the ring's layered mana.
Elayne was quieter. Smaller. Her cloak flickered around her like mist given form. She didn't counter so much as redirect—knife glinting in precise, surgical jabs that almost found their mark. Her style wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud. It was sharp. Intent.
They weren't trying to kill each other.
But they weren't holding back, either.
Mireilla stayed perfectly still in the shadow of the arch.
Watching.
Lucavion—his pressure rolled like a storm cloud dragged low across the battlefield. His flame wasn't just mana—it was something darker, something older. It made the air shift, as if every exchange was brushing against something not meant to be seen in daylight.
And Elayne—she was water under ice. Cold precision. Quiet danger. There were no wasted movements. No heavy bursts of mana. Just the feeling that if you blinked, she'd already be behind you.
The wind shifted.
Elayne vanished.
No flicker, no shimmer. Just gone.
Lucavion didn't blink.
His blade snapped to the right—
—CLANG!
steel kissed steel as her crescent knife met his estoc mid-swing. She hadn't gone invisible—she'd folded space around herself, letting the eye see emptiness where she moved.
Lucavion's smirk curved upward, half-lidded eyes gleaming in the garden haze.
"Mm. Illusion weaving mid-motion," he said lightly, stepping into a pivot and dragging the estoc upward in a slanted arc that forced her to hop back. "You've polished that trick."
Elayne didn't answer.
She was already gone again.
He felt her behind his left shoulder, just a fraction of pressure before her blade slashed low. He dipped his weight and let the estoc flick back—
—SKRKT!
The parry rang like a whisper, clean, controlled.
Lucavion didn't need to flare his flames. He didn't even move fast—not compared to his usual velocity. His blade was an extension of his thought, not his arm.
And that thought was amused.
"You're testing spacing more than speed today," he murmured, sliding his estoc in a low curve that traced beneath her next approach. "That's new."
"You're slower today," Elayne replied.
He laughed—soft, breathless. "I'm polite today."
She struck again, this time from the side—blade feinting toward his ribs before dissolving into mist, reforming inches above and driving for his collarbone.
Lucavion twisted his blade sideways—
—CLINK!
He batted her weapon aside as if redirecting a curious hand, then stepped in with a flourish that dragged the black-flame-touched estoc just close enough to threaten, not land.
"You're pressing closer," he observed, voice low, "but still not stepping into my range."
"Smart people don't walk into fire," she answered, already fading again.
The next illusion came with layers.
Three Elaynes.
Two decoys spun out from her central movement like echoes of mist given flesh, their strikes moving in mirrored timing. A cloak brushed air near his hip, a blade flicked toward his throat.
Lucavion let the illusions close.
He didn't dodge.
He stepped forward, inside the triangle of motion.
His estoc traced a spiral through the space, fire whispering along its edge—not bursting, not flaring, just there. Hungry and elegant.
—SWOOSH!
—CLANG!
—SKSH!
The illusions shattered like smoke against a gale.
Elayne reappeared behind him, eyes narrowed, breathing controlled. Her cloak still swayed with the residual movement—but her stance had shifted. Lower. Tighter.
Lucavion turned his head slightly, not facing her, but just enough to speak over his shoulder.
"No comment?"
Elayne's knife spun once in her fingers, then stilled.
"I thought you weren't going to use flame."
Lucavion chuckled under his breath.
"I'm not."
The flame shimmered along his blade, subtle—balanced. It didn't extend. Didn't burn. It simply existed.
"As long as it stays on the sword," he said, "we're just two people talking."
Chapter 703: Talking with blades (2)
—CLANG!
Another clean deflection. Elayne twisted her wrist and slid back, not with urgency, but with control—every motion measured to the breath. The crescent blade spun once in her hand before settling.
Lucavion didn't pursue.
He held position at the center of the ring, estoc lowered slightly, its black flame still whispering faintly along the edge like a cat curling against its master's hand.
The morning had grown warmer, but neither of them sweated.
They weren't dancing.
They were speaking.
Lucavion's smirk widened just a touch.
"See?" he said, stepping lightly across the ring with no more noise than a breeze. "Isn't this much better?"
He feinted left, then withdrew the motion before it could land—just enough to test her stance, to let her adjust, to see how she'd react.
She didn't.
But he noticed the pause.
"All those questions you wanted to ask…" Lucavion continued, voice smooth, easy, "doesn't this answer them?"
Elayne didn't respond immediately.
She took one slow breath, her blade glinting in the filtered light as her stance shifted. And then—
"You…" she said quietly, eyes narrowing. "Did you learn the sword by yourself?"
Lucavion chuckled. Not at her—but at the phrasing.
"Saying I learned it by myself," he said as he stepped forward again, this time guiding his estoc in a lazy arc toward her shoulder, "would be a lie."
—CLINK!
Elayne parried, but didn't counter.
Lucavion smiled. "And a bit disrespectful."
He rolled his wrist, estoc dragging into a low curve beneath her elbow.
"But this," he added, blade rising with a sudden upward thrust—
—FWIP!
Elayne snapped her knife up just in time, the force of the estoc's thrust sliding across its edge, close enough to nick the cloak she wore—
"This is something I developed on my own."
"...I see," Elayne murmured.
There was no judgment in her tone.
Only understanding.
A kind of quiet respect. Not for the power, or even the result—
But for the shape of something built instead of given.
Lucavion didn't give her space to retreat.
He shifted his weight and drove in again—faster this time, a true attack.
—THRUST!
The estoc darted straight for her core.
—CLANG!
Her blade met his in the last second, deflecting just enough to stagger his angle. She spun, distancing, but Lucavion's grin only widened.
"Interesting," he mused aloud.
Elayne's posture tightened—guard still up, face unreadable.
"But it seems…" he said, circling, "you learned your dagger work on your own, too."
Elayne's eyes narrowed—but she didn't speak.
Lucavion tapped the flat of his blade against the floor once, leisurely.
"What?" he teased. "Didn't the inheritance you found come with any dagger arts?"
Her breath hitched—barely.
But it was enough.
He tilted his head, smiling wider now. Not cruel—just correct.
"...Ah. Thanks for clarifying it."
She didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
But her silence was its own admission.
"You need to keep your expressions better in check," Lucavion said softly, before settling back into stance. "The blade doesn't lie, but the face can still play pretend."
Elayne's blade lowered by a hair.
Not from exhaustion.
But from something quieter—and sharper.
Her expression didn't shift much. Barely a crease in her brow. Barely a twitch in the corner of her lips. But the air around her changed.
Tightened.
Lucavion felt it immediately.
The rhythm of her breathing altered. Her mana, normally so smooth and subtle it barely registered, pulsed once—like a lash flicking through water.
Her foot slid back, just slightly. Not to retreat.
To anchor.
Lucavion's smirk lingered, but his eyes sharpened.
'Ah. That struck something.'
She didn't respond right away. Just stood there, jaw set, eyes locked on him with that sudden, simmering tension.
And for the first time in their spar, her emotions showed.
Not rage.
Not weakness.
Just… annoyance.
A flicker of real, restrained frustration behind her stillness. The kind of emotion you only feel when someone peels back something you'd rather keep buried.
Lucavion lowered his estoc slightly, one hand settling loosely at his hip.
He didn't press in.
He didn't gloat.
He just… watched.
Then, casually:
"Isn't it an assassin's motto," he said, voice light as the morning wind, "to keep their emotions under control?"
He let that linger—just a breath.
"You sure are flary for one."
Elayne's eyes narrowed.
"I'm not an assassin."
The words came fast. Too fast.
Lucavion's brows lifted in mock-surprise.
"Oh?"
He gave a little shrug, gesturing toward her with the tip of his estoc.
"Your way of fighting begs to differ."
That was it.
That did it.
Elayne's blade snapped back up, not with wildness—but with bite.
She moved again, cloak flaring like a shadow being unwrapped from the morning light. No illusions this time. No echoing doubles.
Just speed.
Sharp. Direct. Personal.
Lucavion stepped back as the crescent blade lashed for his ribs.
—CLANG!
He caught it with the flat of his estoc, dragging it down and to the side, but her follow-up came instantly—another jab, lower this time.
He dodged, barely.
Then she was on him.
A low pivot into a rising slash. Not meant to kill.
Meant to prove something.
Lucavion laughed—quiet, delighted.
"Oh, there it is."
Lucavion's parry glided past her blade, a whisper-soft deflection that let her momentum slip by untouched. He didn't counter. He didn't punish the opening.
He just looked at her.
And in that instant, something shifted again.
His voice didn't carry judgment. Just cool observation.
"There will be a lot of nobles in the academy," he said, sliding a half-step back, his estoc lowering slightly—casual again. "Some will try to use you."
A pause. Elayne stilled, barely breathing.
"Some will try to pressure you."
The black flame flickered faintly along the edge of his blade, like a heartbeat pacing itself with words.
"And some…" Lucavion's eyes narrowed, "will try to have you."
The tone wasn't crass. It wasn't cruel.
But it was true.
Blunt and sharp, like a truth laid across a whetstone.
"They'll try to find your weakness. Exploit it. Dig until you give them something to own."
His gaze held hers. Not challenging. Not condescending.
Warning.
"And this," he said softly, "this reaction of yours—"
He gestured with his chin toward her tightened grip, her flared stance, her boiling silence.
"You need to keep it in check."
Elayne's breath hitched.
Not from fear.
From something colder.
The world went dark.
Just for a second.
Everything dimmed—not like a room losing light, but like the sky folding inward. The wind stilled. The ring's mana stopped pulsing.
And only a pair of eyes remained.
Floating in that blackness.
Piercing. Unblinking.
Watching her not as a sparring partner. Not as a noble. Not even as a woman.
But as a target.
'Huh?'
Her vision snapped back into place. The ring. The gardens. The morning light.
Still there.
Lucavion, standing before her, estoc sheathed casually behind his back again.
As if nothing had happened.
But Elayne knew what that was.
Her lips parted, eyes flicking once to the edge of the ring as if confirming she hadn't been moved—hadn't been touched.
That was…
Killing intent.
Perfectly shaped. Perfectly placed.
And just as quickly as it appeared—it was gone.
Lucavion met her gaze, quiet now. His voice dropped a little more. No longer teasing.
"Don't let your killing intent out because of your emotions," he said calmly.
His eyes were unreadable. But his words carved clean.
"Not everyone will tolerate it."
He stepped away, the moment passing like a blade slipping back into its sheath.
Chapter 704: Talking with blades (3)
From the archway's shadow, Mireilla stood frozen.
Not from fear.
But from recognition.
That… wasn't normal.
Killing intent wasn't something she'd only read about. She'd felt it before—real, razor-sharp intent from mercenaries, from cutthroats, from the assassins that stalked border towns when coin got tight and disappearances were explained with shrugs.
But this?
This wasn't intent.
This was weight.
The pressure Lucavion had let slip into the ring… it hadn't merely startled her. It had settled in her gut, like a predator's shadow curling along her ribs. Her fingers were still curled against the stone edge beside her, knuckles white, breath shallow.
He wasn't aiming it at me.
And I still felt it.
Not as a pulse.
Not as a wave.
But as a certainty.
That if he had wanted Elayne dead… she would've stopped breathing before she even realized it.
And he'd done it casually. Like someone flexing a muscle in passing.
Her eyes flicked back to the ring.
Lucavion had already stepped away, like the moment hadn't meant anything. Elayne stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable—but something in her posture had shifted. Less tight. Less reactive.
Not relaxed.
Just… wary. In a way she hadn't been before.
Mireilla's heart pounded once. Then again. Not from fear. But from something else.
So this… this is the First.
That's how he earned those points.
She had wondered—like many others—if the number had been inflated. If maybe he'd gamed the system. Tricked the arrays. Exploited a loophole the examiners hadn't caught.
But no.
Now she understood.
Lucavion hadn't cheated.
He had earned it.
With blood.
And whatever he'd crawled through to make that killing intent coil around him like second skin.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not in judgment. Not even in disdain.
In calculation.
Then—
His voice cut through the still air, sharp and easy at once.
| "There's a peeping tom here. Wanna show your face now?"
Mireilla flinched—only slightly. A muscle under her eye twitched.
He hadn't turned. Hadn't looked directly at her. But he knew. Of course he did.
She stepped from the shadow of the archway with slow, even steps. Not rushed. Not shy. But deliberate.
If he wanted to call her out—so be it.
She wasn't ashamed.
"I wasn't peeping," she said, folding her arms with quiet defiance as she approached the edge of the ring. "I was observing."
Lucavion turned toward her now, the estoc resting along his spine once again, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp with amusement.
"Well," he said, flashing a grin. "Good observers know not to get caught."
Mireilla shrugged. "You were loud."
He barked a single laugh—quick, bright, brief. Elayne didn't move beside him, but her eyes flicked once toward Mireilla—acknowledging. Measuring.
Mireilla's gaze settled on Lucavion again.
That smile.
So casual.
So practiced.
She didn't return it.
"You've killed a lot of people," she said simply.
No accusation.
Just a truth laid on the table.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, the smirk still ghosting across his face, but something beneath it had shifted—subtly, like a ripple in still water.
"Oh?" he said, voice low and thoughtful. "Is that your verdict then? My killing intent gave me away?"
He didn't laugh this time. Didn't sneer. Just watched her—like a puzzle he hadn't decided how interesting it really was.
"If that's how you measure someone," he continued, tone smooth, "you'll end up chasing the wrong monsters."
A beat passed.
Then—rustle.
Elayne shifted.
Not much. Just the barest incline of her head.
But it was enough.
"No," she said softly.
Lucavion's eyes slid to her—not sharply, but with the kind of curiosity that barely masked interest.
Elayne's gaze remained forward, level.
"It wasn't the killing intent," she said. "That was just the shadow of it."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow, not interrupting. Waiting.
"It's your eyes."
The words were calm. Clear. Unflinching.
And they hung in the space between the three of them like a thread pulled taut.
Lucavion said nothing.
But his smile faded—just a degree. Not gone, but quieter now. Less performance. More precision.
Mireilla stepped in then, voice steady.
"You don't fear death," she said. "That's what your eyes show."
Lucavion blinked once.
Still no denial.
"People say they're not afraid of dying," Mireilla went on, her arms still folded, her stance unchanged. "They romanticize it. Glorify it. But when it's real—when it's close—the body knows. The eyes betray them. They always do."
Lucavion exhaled softly through his nose. "And what makes you think mine don't?"
Mireilla's gaze didn't flinch.
"Because I've seen a pair like yours before."
His head tilted slightly again, the estoc shifting at his back like it too was leaning in.
"Oh?" he asked, the word softer this time.
No mockery.
No smirk.
Just… interest.
Mireilla's jaw tightened. Not from hesitation—but memory.
"I was fourteen," she said. "And a rogue mage tried to use one of our outposts to summon a binding construct—some old war relic. It went sideways. Killed everyone in the upper floors. Everyone except one man."
Her voice didn't waver. But it cooled, like stone left to settle in shadow.
"They sent an execution squad. I wasn't supposed to be there—I was just fetching supplies. But I stayed. Watched."
Lucavion didn't move. Neither did Elayne.
"And when the squad hesitated," Mireilla said, her voice now barely above the hush of morning wind, "that man walked forward. Alone. He didn't draw a weapon until it was time to end it."
She looked at Lucavion then. Direct. Unblinking.
"He had eyes like yours."
Lucavion was still.
Lucavion's silence stretched just long enough to seem heavy—then broke, not with solemnity, but with a low, quiet chuckle.
It wasn't mocking.
But it was evasive.
"Well then," he said, one hand sliding back to rest on his hip, his estoc settling more comfortably against his spine, "you must be mistaken."
His grin reappeared, softer now but no less deliberate.
"I value life deeply, I'll have you know. I'm practically sentimental."
Mireilla stared at him.
Flat.
Silent.
The kind of silence sharpened by decades of dealing with people who liked to dodge the point by painting over it with charm.
Lucavion seemed utterly unfazed. He offered a light shrug, as if wiping the whole conversation clean with a gesture. "Really. I weep at funerals. I cry over spilled wine. I water plants with whispered apologies."
"…"
"I sang a lullaby to a kraken once."
"..."
Lucavion's grin widened.
Mireilla's arms folded tighter across her chest.
But before she could open her mouth—before she could grind out a response through the rising irritation pressing against her temples—he stepped in again, that glint of interest flickering back to life behind his lashes.
"But you…" he said, voice dipping into that curious lilt again, like he was weighing a coin with each word. "You strike me as the experienced older sister type."
She blinked.
What?
"You've got that look," Lucavion continued, breezily. "Patient. Calculated. Hair tied back like you've just finished wiping someone else's blood off your boots before breakfast."
He gave her a once-over, exaggeratedly thoughtful.
"This little junior is getting curious, now. Care to share more of your wisdom, oh seasoned one?"
A vein visibly popped on Mireilla's temple.
It was faint, but Elayne's head turned a fraction, as if bracing for an incoming detonation.
"Who is old!?"
She was a woman after all…
Chapter 705: Older sister
"Who is old!?" Mireilla snapped, voice cracking through the serene sparring ring like a bolt of justified wrath. Her foot stomped once—harder than she meant to—and a thin crack ran up the nearest paving stone.
Lucavion blinked, blinking innocently, but there was a gleam in his eye.
"Older sister, I said," he offered, hands lifted in mock surrender. "There's a dignity to it. A respectable air. The wisdom of—"
"I am twenty-one!"
Lucavion blinked again, then gave a low whistle. "Huh. You carry it well."
"You want to carry a vine through the teeth next?"
"Oh," he said, clearly delighted now, "is this you expressing affection? I'm honored."
Mireilla inhaled slowly—very slowly—and folded her arms again with the forced composure of a woman who had once diffused a guild brawl with a rusted spoon and pure authority.
Elayne, to the side, made no comment.
But if one looked closely, the corners of her lips might have shifted.
Lucavion, ever the chaos incarnate in fine trim, leaned back slightly and let the silence settle again, before offering one last, infuriatingly earnest-sounding line:
"Well… I suppose that makes me the little brother you didn't ask for."
Mireilla closed her eyes.
And very calmly, very precisely, began planning at least seven different ways to wrap a strangling vine around the man's ankles before lunch.
Mireilla stared at him.
Stared like someone who had just found a cockroach on a velvet cushion—uninvited, smug, and very, very alive.
Her eye twitched.
Twenty-one is not old.
It was not.
She was still in her prime. She could still run ten miles in half armor, scale a wall with two knives and a bleeding shoulder, and make healing paste from crushed moss while yelling at grown men to stop bleeding so loudly.
But no.
Apparently, to Lucavion, that made her someone's older sister.
Lucavion, for his part, looked utterly pleased with himself. The wind caught his coat just enough to give him that roguish, windswept aura that should've belonged to a romantic tragedy and not… this smug menace in human skin.
"Come on now," he said lightly, spreading his arms like a peacekeeper who had personally set the fire. "Why the face?"
Mireilla's jaw clenched.
"That's your annoyed face, isn't it?" he added with a little nod of faux-discovery. "The sharp line between the brows, the twitch at the left eye—classic."
Her foot slid forward a fraction.
Lucavion noticed. He grinned wider.
"I didn't mean you look old," he said, tone lilting like a song played just off key. "Not even a bit. You've got a very youthful glow. Healthy. Sharp. Like someone who could kill me with a shoelace."
"Correct," Mireilla said flatly. "And I've done it before."
He paused. Blinked. "...Seriously?"
She tilted her head slowly. "You want to find out?"
He took a half step back, both hands up—grinning the entire time. "Okay, okay, point taken. Just—listen. It's not the age. It's the air around you."
"The air?"
"Yeah." Lucavion's tone softened a bit—not entirely playful now. "That weight. That steadiness. Like you've carried too much for too long and figured out how to make it look effortless."
Mireilla didn't reply. Not immediately.
Because the words landed differently.
They weren't teasing.
They were accurate.
Which made them worse.
Lucavion continued, quieter now. Still casual, but with a tinge of something else beneath it—acknowledgment.
"I've met a lot of people who scream about how much they've seen. You don't. But it's there. In how you move. How you look at things like you're already measuring the distance to the nearest exit or planning how to keep someone else alive if it all goes wrong."
A pause.
"I call that older sister energy," he said, then added after a beat, "in the most flattering way possible."
Mireilla… exhaled.
Long. Through her nose.
The tension in her shoulders didn't vanish. But it shifted—like a string that had been stretched to its limit finding a new place to settle.
"Still sounds like you're calling me old," she muttered.
Lucavion grinned. "Only emotionally."
Elayne made a faint sound then. Almost like a cough. But if you listened closely—too closely—it might've sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Mireilla glanced at her.
Then at Lucavion.
Then back at the cracked paving stone.
She crouched slightly—pressed one palm to the ground.
Lucavion raised a brow. "Uh… what're you—"
Vines.
Thin, twisting, eager little things erupted from the gap in the stone—shooting toward his ankles like snakes with a grudge.
"—oh no."
"Gotcha," Mireilla said, smile cool as morning frost.
Lucavion jumped back, nearly tripping on his own coat.
"You planted a trap mid-argument?!"
"I'm twenty-one," she replied sweetly. "Not senile."
Lucavion stumbled into a defensive stance, hands up, estoc half-drawn, laughing despite himself.
"I take it back. You're terrifying."
"Correct again."
And the vines reached for him with the soft, hungry sound of a woman's patience finally, finally running out.
*****
The dining room of the Imperial Sanctum was a strange hybrid of elegance and intimacy—too refined to be casual, but too quiet to be formal. Polished obsidian-glass windows let in the soft morning glow, while a chandelier of suspended mana-crystals floated overhead, glowing with a soft, responsive warmth that shifted tone with the mood in the room.
Each of the five had their place at the long crescent-shaped table, though none of them sat rigidly. The tension of the exam had faded into the peculiar awkwardness of victory: too much to celebrate, too many watching.
Elayne stirred her drink in silence.
Toven was already on his second plate, because of course he was.
Mireilla sat with the poise of someone who had reclaimed her center after nearly strangling a man with a vine.
And Lucavion?
Lucavion leaned back in his chair like he owned the architecture behind it, swirling his cup with idle grace, one brow slightly raised as he surveyed the spread. His eyes flicked to each of the others now and then, but not as an observer.
He was reading the room.
The soft click of boots announced Kaleran's entrance.
Clad in slate-gray again—always slate-gray—he moved to the head of the table without flourish, his posture so still it made even the furniture seem more formal.
"Good morning," he said, voice carrying just enough to cut through murmurs without needing volume. "I trust you've rested adequately."
Lucavion gave a small, two-finger salute. Mireilla inclined her head. Caeden gave a simple nod. Toven muttered something around a mouthful of roasted meat. Elayne said nothing.
Kaleran didn't wait for fanfare.
"You five," he began, "are no longer just candidates. Your names are already etched into public record. Citizens are speaking of you. Merchants are scrambling to offer their brands. Nobles, predictably, are falling over themselves to attach their names to yours."
Lucavion hummed softly, barely containing his amusement.
"If you so wish," Kaleran continued, "you may be contacted by interested sponsors. You are not obligated to accept. But do not take it lightly—these affiliations can shape your trajectory in ways more complex than you might expect."
He let that settle, then moved on.
"Today, your personal measurements will be taken. The garments you wear at the Entrance Banquet are not only your introduction to the inner echelons of the Empire—they are statements. The Academy will fully fund your attire. Design whatever you wish."
Toven perked up. "Wait—anything? Like, full black with, I dunno, red lightning motifs and a cloak that goes whoosh when I turn?"
Kaleran stared at him. "Yes. That. If you desire."
"Bet."
Mireilla sighed into her cup.
"There is more," Kaleran said, ignoring the exchange. "As official Academy entrants, you will be granted one personal privilege: you may request a weapon, armor set, or artifact of your choosing. The Academy will provide it—within reasonable bounds."
Chapter 706: Table talk
"As official Academy entrants, you will be granted one personal privilege: you may request a weapon, armor set, or artifact of your choosing. The Academy will provide it—within reasonable bounds."
Toven perked up instantly, eyes gleaming like someone who'd just been handed the keys to a vault. "Wait. Wait, really? We get to ask for a weapon? Like, our own?"
Kaleran gave a brief nod. "One weapon, armor set, or artifact. Yes."
Toven grinned like a man reborn. "Finally," he muttered, half to himself. "I can have it."
Lucavion arched an eyebrow. "It?"
Toven sat up straighter, eyes shining with dangerous sincerity. "I've been seeing it for months now. In my dreams. A massive sword—like, taller than me. The core has to be obsidian aetherglass, infused with phoenix-blood crystal, and the edge should be lined with thundersteel—no, wait, blackened thundersteel. Hardened under a voidforge moon."
Mireilla blinked.
Elayne slowly turned her head to stare.
Toven, utterly unbothered, kept going. "And the handle—get this—the handle needs to be wrapped in dragonhide. But not just any dragonhide. The kind from a duskfire drake, born during an eclipse. That way, the mana feedback doesn't burn my hands."
There was a silence.
A long one.
Even Caeden paused his meal.
Kaleran's mouth opened slightly—then shut. Then opened again.
"…Reasonable bounds," he said at last, voice a little tighter than usual.
Toven blinked. "Wait, what? That's not normal?"
Lucavion leaned forward slightly, expression utterly neutral… until it wasn't. A soft pfft escaped his lips. Then—
He laughed.
Low, unfiltered, and thoroughly entertained.
Toven blinked at the laughter, then frowned, puzzled and ever so slightly offended. "What's so funny?"
Lucavion took another breath, the last hints of amusement still lingering at the edges of his grin. He leaned in slightly, steepling his fingers like a scholar about to deliver the punchline of a mythic tragedy. "Toven," he said gently, "those materials you just listed… where did you hear about them?"
Toven sat back proudly. "Heard some adventurers talking about it in a tavern near the Western gate a few months ago. Apparently, it's what they dream about. Said it was their ultimate weapon, y'know?"
Lucavion nodded slowly, as if he had just uncovered the Rosetta Stone of delusion. "Mm. Right. Yes. See, there's a reason it was a dream."
Kaleran made a quiet, pained sound in the back of his throat.
Lucavion continued, voice dry as old parchment. "Even the Royal family would hesitate to assemble a blade like that. Not because they couldn't—but because it would be a catastrophic waste of empire-level resources. Phoenix-blood crystal? Voidforge moon steel?" He tilted his head. "Do you know what you're asking for?"
Toven blinked again. "…A cool sword?"
Lucavion exhaled through a chuckle. "Also… not to spoil your aesthetic—but aren't you a mage? Why are you dreaming about a sword?"
Toven opened his mouth.
Paused.
Toven opened his mouth. Paused.
Then straightened, jabbing a thumb at his chest with unshakable conviction. "Sword is every man's romance."
Lucavion gave a solemn nod, like a priest affirming a sacred truth. "That," he said, placing one hand dramatically over his heart, "is what I'm talking about."
There was a pause.
A very long pause.
Kaleran's jaw tightened, just slightly. A muscle near his temple twitched. He did not sigh—but he very nearly did. Instead, he coughed. Once. Sharply.
"…Regardless," he said, very pointedly ignoring the clear betrayal of magical doctrine just committed at the table, "as I was saying."
Elayne glanced at Caeden, who quietly sipped his tea with the practiced grace of a man choosing peace.
Kaleran continued, voice precise again. "You will be scheduled with the master this afternoon. There, you'll consult with a forge-specialist and a rune-crafter to determine the most suitable configuration for your choice. Customization is encouraged—but," and here he gave Toven a very specific look, "within the bounds of feasibility."
Toven nodded enthusiastically. "Got it. No void-moon drake blades unless on clearance. Understood."
Lucavion fought a grin and failed spectacularly.
Mireilla pinched the bridge of her nose.
Kaleran, ever the professional, simply exhaled through it all, gaze now scanning across the rest of them like he was searching for anyone—anyone—who might ask for something sane.
Kaleran adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his composure returning like a blade sliding back into its scabbard. "One final detail," he said, voice clipped but clear. "The points you earned during the entrance exam—both in combat and assessment—will now serve an additional purpose."
He paused just long enough to let the weight of it land.
"They may be exchanged."
That drew a collective flicker of attention—subtle shifts, faint tilts of heads. Even Elayne's fingers paused over her cup.
Kaleran continued, "Your points act as provisional currency within the Academy's internal system. They can be traded for higher-tier gear, spell scrolls, training access, restricted tomes, private instructor hours, or even temporary command over training environments. Manage them wisely."
And then—he didn't need to say it.
Because everyone turned.
Five necks pivoted in eerie unison.
Eyes locked onto one target.
Lucavion.
The man in question raised an eyebrow as if surprised by the attention, though the smug curve of his lips betrayed him.
He set down his tea with theatrical gentleness. "What?" he asked innocently, glancing around the table. "I'm sure all of you scored respectably."
There was a synchronized twitch across the table—like a collective wince had just passed through everyone's spine.
"Yeah," Toven muttered, stirring his tea with a spoon that now clinked with passive-aggressive rhythm. "Respectably. Sure. Absolutely."
Caeden's brow creased, though his voice remained calm. "Remind me again, Lucavion—how many points did you finish with?"
Lucavion raised a hand, counting invisible figures on his fingers like he needed to recall. "Oh… I believe it was—"
"—One hundred sixty-eight thousand," Mireilla finished for him, voice dry as dead bark.
Elayne sipped her tea without blinking. "And four hundred twenty."
"Right." Lucavion nodded, eyes glinting. "Nice of you all to remember. Touching."
Toven leaned forward, pressing both palms to the table. "Mine was fifty-six thousand."
Mireilla exhaled. "Forty-four thousand, three hundred."
Elayne: "Forty-eight, nine twenty."
Caeden tapped the side of his mug. "Fifty-six thousand ten."
Then all eyes went back to Lucavion.
He blinked, feigning confusion. "Ah… I see now. This is that awkward moment where you realize I could buy all of your privileges and still have enough left for a vacation house in the inner capital."
"Shut up," Mireilla muttered.
"Respectfully," Caeden added.
Lucavion leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, utterly unrepentant. "I'm just saying. If they let me convert those points into, say, air superiority or land ownership, I could open my own micro-nation. Lucavia. Has a nice ring."
Caeden set his mug down with a quiet clink, his tone flat but firm. "Running a nation isn't that easy, Lucavion. It requires infrastructure, logistics, diplomacy, resource management—"
Lucavion blinked, holding up both hands. "Whoa, no shot. I was definitely asking to be signed up for all that. It was sure not a joke."
Caeden's eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the moment of realization.
Lucavion's grin spread slow—like dawn creeping over a battlefield.
"Oh no," Caeden said under his breath.
Lucavion tilted his head with faux innocence. "Did I… bait you into explaining how to rule a country I made up just to annoy you?"
Caeden's expression flattened into pure deadpan….
"Lucavia will accept applications for court advisors starting next week," Lucavion said solemnly. "You'll be given a nice cottage and three goats."
Mireilla didn't even look up. "You'll be given a vine collar and a reason to stop talking."
Elayne murmured, barely audible: "The goats deserve better."
Toven, unhelpfully, raised a hand. "Can I be Minister of Cool Swords?"
Lucavion pointed at him. "See? A man of vision."
Caeden leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together, the embodiment of composed threat. "You'd run your kingdom into the ground in a week."
"I'd outsource the problems," Lucavion replied smoothly. "And take all the credit when things get fixed. Like a proper ruler."
There was a beat.
Then Mireilla finally muttered what they were all thinking.
"Gods help us if he ever gets real power."
Lucavion smiled.
And said nothing.
Who knew what was in his mind.
Chapter 707: Crest
The meal ended in a quiet clatter of silverware and soft murmurs. Plates were cleared by silent attendants with eerie synchronicity, and the warm light from the hovering chandelier dimmed slightly—as if sensing that frivolity had run its course and something heavier was stepping in to take its place.
Kaleran remained standing near the door, hands folded behind his back like a blade sheathed in protocol.
"Come," he said simply, voice once again pared down to its sharpest edge. "We begin with measurements."
The five stood, chairs sliding back in a near-unison that wasn't planned, but spoke of people who had all learned to read the same tension in the air. They followed Kaleran through the curving hallways of the Sanctum, the marble beneath their feet shifting hue subtly with the changing light—dusky gold to white steel—as they approached the outfitting chambers.
And there, they found it waiting.
A room not of luxury, but calculation.
Glass-paneled mirrors stood in a full circle formation, glowing softly with runes etched in delicate precision. Illusion-thread mannequins hovered midair, each ready to adapt and mimic the frame of the one standing before it. Enchanters and tailors—cloaked in storm-blue robes marked with the Academy crest—stood poised with floating scrolls, enchanted tape lines, and gloves etched with responsive thread.
"Each of you will be assigned to a master tailor," Kaleran said, gesturing to the row of figures awaiting them. "This is not just for appearances. You are not here to impress as yourselves. You are here as representatives of the Academy. Your presence at the Entrance Banquet is not just ceremonial—it is symbolic."
He let the words settle.
"You are commoners," he said bluntly, without venom but without apology. "And nobles will look for weakness. In stance. In speech. In silk."
A pause.
"That is how they wage their quietest wars—by making others feel lesser, without ever drawing a blade. The Academy will not allow you to walk into that room looking anything less than chosen."
Lucavion let his eyes skim across the mirrors, the mannequins, the precise hands of people preparing to craft weapons made of cloth and presence. 'Dressing a message,' he thought. 'And we're the parchment.'
Elayne stepped forward without a word, already studying the fabrics laid out on the platform beside her assigned tailor. She didn't flinch from the touch of measuring threads.
Caeden stood tall as if he were already armored.
Mireilla gave the faintest nod and allowed the enchantments to scan her without resistance.
Toven, predictably, whispered to his tailor, "Hey, can we add, like, a phoenix on the back? Or no, wait—maybe a flaming wolf?"
Lucavion's smirk was nearly invisible.
When his turn came, he stepped into the ring of glass and rune. The runes flared, scanning his frame, adjusting for posture, weight, mana resonance. His tailor didn't speak—just worked with the quiet authority of someone used to dressing names older than dynasties.
"Color preference?" the man finally asked, voice clipped.
Lucavion tilted his head, considering.
Then, smoothly: "Midnight indigo. Threaded in silver. Simple. Sharp."
The man nodded, noting it with a flick of his gloved fingers.
"And the crest?" he asked.
Lucavion paused.
The question—simple, almost procedural—cut deeper than expected.
The crest.
He hadn't thought of one.
Of course he hadn't. He'd never needed to. He wasn't born to a house, wasn't trained in halls hung with banners bearing bloodlines. Crest? That was a noble's language. Their symbol. Their arrogance, etched in silk and stitched with old money.
And yet—
Now?
It made sense.
He wasn't just fighting anymore.
He was being seen.
His reflection caught in the enchanted glass—tall, quiet, watchful. The estoc at his side, always present. His coat, his stance, the way he let silence speak first. He'd shaped himself like a weapon over the years—but now, for the first time, the world demanded a sigil.
A mark.
A statement.
He folded his arms, gaze narrowing in thought.
'Something of me, but not just me.'
The estoc. Of course. The weapon that had become an extension of his will. Precision. Reach. Threat hidden in elegance.
The black flame. Yes. The Flame of Equinox. Not heat, but erasure. The fire that consumed mana, burned through pretense, and left silence in its wake.
And then—
Stars.
To symbolize his master's legacy.
Yet at the same time, he was not Gerald.
'I will not follow your steps.'
He was not here to follow Gerald's steps, nor stay under his shadow.
He had never been someone who stayed behind other people in his life.
'At least that is what I now swore to.'
It may not have been like this in the past, but it was like this now.
That is why his stars wouldn't have the color purple, as if his master's.
Not purple ones, not bright and hopeful.
Black stars.
Cold. Distant. Silent and watching.
Symbols of his truth: he was no rising sun.
He was a void that remembered light and chose to shape its own.
"An estoc," he said finally, voice low. "Wrapped in black flame. And behind it—a single black stars."
The tailor's pen paused mid-air, the illusion-sketch frozen in pale light between his fingers. He regarded Lucavion not with curiosity, but with the subtle shift of someone who had just been handed something they hadn't expected—a crest not born of inheritance, but of intention.
"A single black star?" he asked, voice level, professional. "Center-aligned or offset behind the blade?"
Lucavion considered the image in front of him.
"Offset," he said. "To the left of the blade's spine. Slightly higher. Not symmetrical."
The tailor adjusted the projection with a fluid motion, the star drifting into position—small, sharp-edged, its color a flat, devouring black that absorbed even the magic-light around it.
"And the flame?" the man asked, fingers poised. "Do you want it stylized—artistic sweep? Or natural? Wild?"
Lucavion's gaze lingered on the illusion for a moment longer.
"Controlled chaos," he said finally. "Like it's waiting to consume. Not raging—just inevitable."
The tailor nodded slowly, the faintest note of approval surfacing in his expression. "Understood. One final question—do you wish for the crest to be visible at all times, or embedded with a glamour for conditional reveal?"
Lucavion tapped a knuckle lightly against the edge of the mirror. "Conditional," he said. "Let the world see it when it matters."
"Discreet," the man murmured. "Fitting."
He made a final gesture, sealing the crest's preliminary form into the scroll hovering beside them. It shimmered once, then dimmed.
"I'll send the confirmed render to your suite after measurements are finalized. You'll be able to review and approve or request alterations before the embroidery is anchored."
Lucavion gave a curt nod. "Good."
The tailor stepped back slightly, the floating mannequin adjusting its posture to mirror Lucavion's exact stance. The threads began to move again—quiet, efficient, weaving through fabric and forming early frames of the suit.
But even as they worked, Lucavion's gaze lingered not on the cloth, but on the crest's final flicker in the illusion-glass. The estoc, cloaked in black flame, and that lone star—unlit, but watching.
'What is it now? Why do I feel this way?'
It stirred in his chest—quiet, unwelcome.
Not pride.
Not triumph.
Something more hollow than that.
The illusion of the crest faded, but its echo lingered in the reflection. That single black star, watching. Alone. Defiant.
His shoulders stayed square, his expression calm, but something beneath the surface shifted.
A slow, dragging awareness of distance.
'What is it now? Why do I feel this way?'
He didn't have to ask aloud.
[What?] Vitaliara's voice brushed against the edge of his thoughts, soft and curious.
Lucavion didn't answer immediately.
The tailor moved in the background, murmuring measurements to a scribe-construct. Runes sparked and faded. Fabric shaped itself to his figure. Everything was precise. Everything controlled.
And yet—
That strange, distant sensation curled behind his ribs. Like watching someone else's memory. Like seeing the shadow of a boy long gone.
'I have come a long way indeed.'
From ash-soaked fields and sleepless nights, from sleeping beneath broken wards to now—being tailored in floating glass, designing a crest with a voice that held weight.
Quite far.
Even far enough to belong here… at least on the surface.
Far enough to be seen.
But the distance between what he was and what he is?
It wasn't just behind him.
It was inside him now.
"Nothing,"
This was a little hard to explain.