Chapter 735: Dear Sister
The news came with the quiet ceremony of inevitability.
"Your Highness," Idena said as she returned, her breath slightly uneven from the fast pace. "The Sanctum of Stars has sent confirmation. Lucavion… is expecting you."
Priscilla's gaze lifted from the letter she'd been reading, her fingers pausing just before folding the edge. For a breath, the silence between them deepened—like air thinning before a shift in weather.
"…So he did accept," she murmured.
A confirmation. Not relief. Not surprise. But the steady weight of knowing. That strange instinct within her—that certainty she hadn't dared name—had not been wrong.
And now… it would be tested.
"Where is the meeting?" she asked, already rising to her feet.
"The Sanctum of Stars," Idena replied, lowering her voice in deference. "They've arranged a private hall within their northern wing."
Priscilla blinked.
The Sanctum of Stars.
Of course it would be there. Of all the gilded chambers and elite academies of the Imperial Borough, none held more weight in current fashion and politics. Only the top contenders were offered suites there. Most of the princesses had used its balconies for high councils or private negotiations.
But Priscilla?
She had never once set foot beyond its marble thresholds.
Until now.
"I see," she said simply, slipping on her storm-gray cloak, the mantle catching light in subtle silver threads. "Then let's not waste the hour."
*****
The Imperial Borough streets shimmered with filtered mana, casting a warm luminescence over the ancient stones that bore the tread of a thousand bloodlines. But even among the grandeur, the eyes that followed Priscilla's carriage were cold.
Noble gazes tilted, assessing. Not always cruel. But always dismissive.
The quiet disgrace. The daughter of the wrong Empress. The imperial shadow clinging to old walls, pretending to be relevant.
They didn't say it aloud.
They didn't need to.
Even now, the looks she received cut cleaner than words. Not mockery, but irrelevance. As if her presence was not worthy of disdain, only polite avoidance.
Priscilla ignored them.
She always did.
But the stillness in her hands grew tighter.
'Let them watch.'
'Let them wonder.'
Because today, for once, she was not the one trying to be heard. Today, the one they all whispered about—Lucavion—had chosen her.
The carriage rolled to a soft stop before the Sanctum's gates, where ornate guards clad in ceremonial blues and gold stepped aside with synchronized precision. They did not question her. They did not delay. They had been told.
She was expected.
"Princess Priscilla Lysandra," one of the attendants announced with professional clarity, bowing low. "Sir Lucavion's prior audience has concluded. He will receive you now."
They moved with their usual attentiveness. No false delay. No buried scorn. Everything was polished, immaculate, respectful.
The world turns quickly, Priscilla thought. Even for those who once ignored me.
Inside, the Sanctum's corridors were all vaulted crystal and floating sigils. Luxury with purpose—elegance sharpened by utility. Her boots made no sound as she moved, Idena at her side, both quiet amid the soundless grandeur.
But as they turned into the upper wing, where the private viewing chambers were said to be, a familiar presence curved around the hall like pressure before a spell breaks.
The click of heels—measured, imperial.
Then—
"What is our little sister doing here?"
That voice.
Clear. Musical.
And always laced with the kind of warmth that felt like polished frost.
Priscilla stopped.
Slowly turned.
And there she was.
Selienne Lysandra.
First Princess of the Empire.
Crowned in crimson and silver, she walked like royalty had been born from her bones. Eyes sharp, chin lifted—not in arrogance, but in understanding that the world expected her to rule it.
She was alone—no guards, no attendants. Because she didn't need them.
And as Selienne stepped closer, that perfectly shaped smile never broke.
Not for courtesy.
But because Selienne always smiled just before she drew blood.
"So you finally managed to get invited," Selienne said lightly, her gaze flicking briefly to the attendants nearby. "And to the Sanctum, no less. Quite the step up."
Priscilla's jaw did not move. Her face did not shift. But something in her eyes narrowed—just enough.
"I wasn't aware you'd taken up posting by the hallway," she replied smoothly. "Has the throne's pull become that weak?"
Selienne chuckled once—soft, silken.
"Oh, Priscilla," she said. "Always so defensive. You misunderstand. I'm not here to intercept. Just passing through, as one does when they're… welcome."
A pause. Measured.
"And what a coincidence. The very room someone met me in is just down this hall."
Selienne's pause was deliberate—one of those slight, silky silences meant to sharpen a thought before driving it forward.
She tilted her head just slightly, just enough for the silver ornament at her temple to catch the light.
"Tell me, sister," she said, voice warm and far too poised. "Is it Lucavion you're here to visit?"
Priscilla didn't answer right away. Not because she hesitated—but because the question wasn't really a question.
It was a test. A veiled blade.
And one she couldn't answer cleanly.
There were rules in the Sanctum of Stars. Subtle, but ironclad.
The identities of sponsors meeting with the exam victors were not to be disclosed—not publicly, not even in passing. The agreements were unofficial until finalized.
Every discussion was to be treated as private.
Sacrosanct.
Until the last hour of the deadline, all candidates were free to listen. To deliberate. To decide.
And none of them were to be pressed.
So whatever Selienne was fishing for now… it wasn't innocent curiosity.
"Interesting assumption," Priscilla said, eyes remaining still. "Should I take that as confirmation that you're here for him too?"
Selienne's smile didn't fade.
But the light behind her gaze shifted—minutely.
"Perhaps," she said, so casually it felt rehearsed. "Or perhaps I'm simply making conversation. It's rare to see you in these halls. I thought I might ask… as a courtesy."
"Of course," Priscilla replied, tone as smooth as the corridor tiles beneath their boots. "Because when you ask questions, it's always out of kindness."
That earned her the faintest laugh. A melodic breath with no amusement behind it.
"Careful," Selienne said softly. "There are still those who remember where that tone of yours comes from."
She stepped forward again, not blocking the path—but narrowing it.
"Regardless," she continued, her voice still light, "I suppose it doesn't matter. The sponsors all speak in turn, after all. None of us will know who he chooses until the final seal is cast."
Priscilla's eyes flicked toward her.
It was subtle—but the message was there.
You don't know either.
Selienne's words were polished, but they lacked weight. Because she wasn't sure.
She didn't know.
She was trying to find out.
"Well," Priscilla said quietly, stepping past her without a flinch, "I do hope you made your case thoroughly."
A beat.
"Assuming he's the one you were there for."
Selienne didn't stop her this time.
But as Priscilla passed, she spoke one last time—her voice just loud enough to follow like a shadow.
"I always make my case thoroughly."
Priscilla didn't turn.
Didn't slow.
Something…
The word coiled at the base of Priscilla's spine as she continued walking, the polished floor whispering beneath her steps.
She didn't look back. Didn't falter. But her mind turned.
Selienne had always been unreadable.
She'd spent her life draped in discipline, every breath measured, every word rehearsed to a blade's edge. Even when she smiled, it was precise—never too much, never too little. Royal perfection, sculpted for the throne.
And yet—
Just now.
There was something.
Not in the words. Not even in the smile.
But beneath.
A tension. Imperceptible to most. But Priscilla had lived too long in the undercurrent. Too long at the edges of every noble gathering, every imperial function where she was tolerated but never welcomed. She had survived by instinct. By watching the subtle shifts, the too-still shoulders, the averted eyes, the slight breath that betrayed intent.
Selienne had been steady.
But not today.
Today, her stillness had shape.
'Something happened.'
A flicker of thought slipped through her like chill through silk. Selienne wasn't rattled—but she wasn't untouched either.
It wasn't just the probing.
It was the way her voice lingered a little too long on that final line. The way her gaze didn't chase her departure.
Selienne, who calculated everything, who dominated every conversation with that razor-like grace…
She had been edged. Tilted. Not unmade, no—but not untouched.
And there was only one variable in that equation.
Lucavion.
Priscilla's fingers, still resting along the line of her cloak, curled slightly.
'He did something.'
Refused her?
Maybe.
Humiliated her?
Unlikely. Selienne didn't allow that to happen.
But shaken her?
Yes.
That, she could believe.
And if that was true—if Lucavion had stood toe to toe with Selienne Lysandra and left her even slightly unbalanced…
Then this meeting was more than just curiosity.
It was opportunity.
Not because Priscilla needed to win him over for power. Not because she sought to claim what her sister couldn't.
But because in this moment, something rare had unfolded in the Empire.
A stranger had entered their orbit.
And the ones who ruled it couldn't pin him down.
'What kind of man are you, Lucavion…?'
Her pace quickened—only slightly.
The door to the chamber awaited ahead. Polished. Sealed.
And beyond it—
A question no longer wrapped in mystery.
But in potential.
Chapter 736: Another Princess
The doors parted with a whisper.
Priscilla stepped into the private chamber of the Sanctum's northern wing—high ceilings laced with starlight glass, the kind that shimmered subtly in rhythm with ambient mana. A slow, drifting glow pulsed from the wall-etched constellations, bathing the room in calm radiance. No guards. No advisors. Just quiet.
And him.
Lucavion stood at the center.
No throne. No dais. No performative distance. Just a simple low table with two seats placed across from one another. Tea already poured. Still warm.
The tea on the table shimmered faintly—its steam rising in slow, curling trails that hadn't lost their warmth. Odd.
Priscilla's gaze lingered on the cups for a beat too long.
They weren't freshly poured. Not exactly. There was no trace of magic preserving their heat, no visible servant just having stepped out. Yet something about the placement—the precise angle of the saucers, the consistency of the steam—made it feel… recurring.
As if the tea had been poured and repoured for each visitor before her. Reset, reoffered. Not out of courtesy.
Out of ritual.
She didn't voice the thought.
But it settled in her as she took her step further inside.
And then he looked up.
Lucavion.
He didn't move to rise. Didn't extend a hand. He simply watched her enter, silver-flecked eyes catching the light of the starlit glass above. And then—
That smile.
A quiet one. Laced not with arrogance, but with some infuriating calm. A smirk that curled like he'd just won a game she didn't know they were playing.
"You are here, Miss Princess."
His voice carried lightly across the chamber, smooth and dry—almost teasing, as though the words themselves had been waiting on his tongue all morning.
She stopped mid-step.
The use of that tone—too familiar. Too informal.
And the smile.
He had expected her.
That was what irked her most.
She narrowed her eyes, the weight of her gaze sharp as ever.
"Lack of respect," she said flatly. "As usual."
Lucavion tilted his head, unbothered. "Hmm… was my greeting insufficient?"
"It was," she replied without pause, every syllable clipped, precise. "You are addressing a princess of the Empire. Not a traveling merchant."
"Too bad, then."
Lucavion let his fingers drift lightly along the rim of his teacup, the motion casual, but not thoughtless.
"Forgive this fool, once more," he said with theatrical solemnity. "Old habits don't die easily."
And there it was again—that smirk. Not mocking. Just… amused. A curve of lips that suggested he knew exactly how irritating he was being and had no plans to adjust it.
Then came the shift.
His eyes, still faintly amused, glinted with something quieter beneath.
"…So we meet again," Lucavion said, his voice softer this time. Almost gentle, if one didn't listen too closely.
Priscilla said nothing. Not yet.
He leaned back slightly, not reclining—just… existing with that same unbearable confidence.
"See?" he went on, eyes tracing her with quiet amusement. "Didn't I tell you, little Miss Princess? I don't lie. And I hold onto my promises."
Still, she said nothing.
Not because she lacked words—but because she hadn't decided which ones he deserved.
And then, as if he hadn't already shifted the ground beneath her, he leaned forward.
"So…" he asked, voice a little lower now, fingers folding together with casual intent. "How was it?"
She blinked. "How was what?"
"I kept my promise, didn't I?"
Her chest rose faintly. She didn't sigh—but her stillness took on weight.
Because she remembered.
Look forward to the festival, he had said. You will see a lot of interesting things…
And she had.
The storm beast. The impossible calm. The illusions shattered like glass under foot. The swordplay that carried no noble name—but every ounce of consequence. The sharp refusal of both Selienne and Lucien.
And now?
Now he sat across from her, casual as ever, offering tea as if none of it had meant anything.
"You…"
The word escaped before she shaped it.
But she didn't get further.
"Answer, Miss Princess," Lucavion murmured, tilting his head. "Answer first."
It wasn't a demand.
It was an invitation.
And yet somehow… still a command.
She lifted her eyes again.
That same silver glint met her own. Mischief in its purest form. But laced with something else. Like a river with no surface current, but a devastating pull beneath.
As if the smirk was only the top layer.
As if underneath, he already knew every question she would ask.
Every doubt.
Every hesitation.
It was a look not of arrogance—but certainty.
And Priscilla Lysandra, born of blood and pride and politics, found herself hesitating—not out of fear, but because…
She didn't yet know what game she was in.
This strange feeling was intense to her who had been living on edge for a long time.
Priscilla's lips parted—just slightly. The silence between them stretched, taut and breathless, like the instant before a string snaps.
Then—
"It was fun," she said, quietly.
Lucavion's smile widened.
Not arrogantly. Not mockingly.
Just with the pleased satisfaction of someone who had laid a card face-down, and watched as the other finally realized its suit.
"Really?" he said. "Else?"
She drew in a breath, eyes narrowing—but the irritation wasn't sharp. Just reluctant. Intrigued, and trying not to be.
"…It was interesting," she said at last. "And peculiar."
Lucavion gave a soft hum, resting his chin on one hand. "I'm an interesting and a peculiar person," he replied, "so that much is given."
She didn't answer that.
Didn't have to.
The weight of her gaze said enough.
He gestured lightly toward the opposite seat. "Come. You came all this way. Would be a shame to stand."
For a moment, she hesitated. That same instinct—the one honed by years in courts filled with venom under silk—screamed at her not to trust anything.
And yet…
He didn't strike her as careless. Or cruel.
He didn't strike her as one who needed to poison anyone.
He'd use words, if he wanted to wound.
So, she moved.
Sat down across from him—slowly, carefully—letting the fabric of her mantle settle like a curtain behind her.
Lucavion reached for the teapot, lifting it with the same ease one might lift a pen. No flourish. No pretense.
Just the soft sound of porcelain as he poured the amber liquid into her cup.
"Tea?" he asked, not pushing.
Offering.
It shouldn't have meant anything.
But it did.
Because normally, she would've refused.
A hundred times over.
But today…
She watched him for a second longer.
And then—without a word—she took the cup. Fingers light. Posture poised. And brought it gently to her lips.
Warm.
Fragrant.
Yet expensive.
"Don't look at me like that," Lucavion said, his voice low, amused. "Of course I didn't brew it."
Priscilla's eyes narrowed immediately, a sharp glare cutting across the rim of her teacup. A glare that didn't need words—because it already said everything.
'Then why make it seem like you did?'
Lucavion, utterly unbothered, gave a light shrug.
"It's your own fault," he said shamelessly. "I never claimed I brewed it. You assumed. Misplaced perception. A classic mistake."
She exhaled, long and restrained.
Not quite irritation.
More like… exasperation.
This man.
He was infuriating in ways she couldn't categorize. One moment carrying himself like a ghost with no name, the next sparring with royalty like it was idle banter in a market square.
'Eccentric' didn't even begin to cover it.
But no matter how peculiar he acted—no matter how much he danced around formality and convention—he had still drawn every pair of eyes in the empire to him.
And now, she was here.
Which meant it was time.
Time to take the reins of this exchange before he turned it into another performance.
She set the cup down with a quiet click.
Straightened her posture.
Lifted her gaze.
No more reactions.
No more letting him lead.
"Lucavion," she said, calm and cool as a drawn blade, "do you know why I came?"
His smirk curved faintly again, but this time—he said nothing.
He was waiting.
And that meant—for once—she had control.
Chapter 737: Infuriating Bastard
She didn't speak right away.
The cup before her still held its warmth, the faint trail of steam coiling upward like the breath of a thought not yet spoken. But Priscilla Lysandra wasn't thinking of tea anymore.
She was thinking of threads.
Of questions.
Of the pieces she had spent weeks gathering—scattered, incomplete, but not meaningless.
Reynald Vale.
That name alone had been a riddle. A boy polished like a knight but not born from any court. No family seals. No provincial registration. No service records. She had dug, pressed her informants harder than usual. Still—nothing.
And that silence… it was telling.
Because if she couldn't find it, it meant someone had buried it.
Which led her back to one person.
Lucien.
Everything about Reynald's style—his blade art, his presence, even his carefully measured fame—reeked of Lucien's schemes. His obsession with symbols. With control through spectacle.
And Lucavion?
Lucavion had struck directly at it.
No hesitation.
No pause.
She remembered the words Lucavion had said that day. To the baron, to the boy, to her—words that peeled back the curtain not only on Reynald, but on the very system that had propped him up.
The Baron's identity, too, had been scrubbed. Erased. No records. No court summons. A man with no history sitting like a prop beneath a stage set by nobility.
Every stone she turned over aligned with his words.
Aligned with him.
But it wasn't just that he was right.
It was the way he had looked at her, there on the terrace, as if he'd known she would come.
As if every step she'd taken had already been accounted for. Not manipulated—no. Anticipated.
That… that was what unsettled her the most.
'How long has he been planning this?'
'How many pieces has he already placed?'
Finally, she lifted her gaze fully—sharp, unflinching.
"I have questions," she said, voice steady. "Many of them."
Lucavion said nothing.
Just that faint smile again, like a fire waiting for wind.
"Why Reynald Vale?" she asked first. "What did he represent to you?"
A pause.
Then, firmer:
"Who is he?"
Her tone cut sharper now.
"I searched. There's no record of him before two years ago. No lineage. No deployment. Not even a proper birth registration."
She leaned in slightly, every word deliberate.
"And that Baron you defended on the terrace? Another ghost. No court influence. No territorial grants. No taxes registered under his name. He doesn't exist."
She let the silence stretch—let the weight of those discoveries settle.
"You said you were showing me something, that day."
Her eyes narrowed.
"And now I believe you. Because all of it… felt planned. Not staged. Not just performance. Planned."
Her breath came slower, now measured not out of control—but caution.
"You knew how it would unfold."
A final breath.
And then—her voice dropped just slightly.
"Didn't you?"
Now it was her gaze pressing his.
Challenging him.
She had drawn her blade.
Now she waited to see what kind of sword he would return.
Lucavion blinked, then leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once along the side of his cup as if weighing her words with all the seriousness of a man judging tea leaves.
"What's this?" he said, eyes widening ever so slightly in mock concern. "It seems our little Miss Princess likes to dream a lot."
Priscilla's gaze sharpened.
He leaned in.
"Is that how you cope?" he continued, voice lowering just enough to feign intimacy, "Do you imagine how you punch the Crown Prince in your dreams? Maybe teaching him a lesson, making him cry imperial tears into a golden pillow?"
Her fist clenched hard enough that her knuckles turned white.
It was instinct—immediate, scorching. That flicker of fury that clawed its way out from beneath the palace-tempered calm she wore like armor. His smirk. That insufferable smirk. It was too much.
She wanted—genuinely wanted—to punch that smug expression off his face. Right now. In this perfectly silent, overly luxurious chamber.
Lucavion held her glare for a moment longer.
Then—he exhaled.
"It's a joke, obviously," he said dryly, before chuckling under his breath.
And then the smirk softened into something looser, something that almost—almost—looked like honest amusement.
"Sorry for that," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Your face was… quite something, though. Can't blame me."
He grinned again, lazy and amused.
"Could've sworn you were about to draw a sword made of etiquette violations."
Priscilla didn't answer.
She just closed her eyes once—slowly—like she was praying for the strength not to commit a crime inside the Sanctum.
Then she inhaled, calm returning with deliberate grace.
"Are you always like this," she asked through her teeth, "or is this some private ritual of yours to drive people mad before you tell them anything important?"
Lucavion leaned back, draping one arm across the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world—and none of the consequences.
"I like a bit of dynamic in my life," he said, voice casual, like he was discussing weather patterns rather than emotional provocation. "Else the world would just be… boring, wouldn't it?"
He gestured vaguely around them, as if this ornate chamber, its crystalline ceiling and immaculate stillness, was just another shade of dull.
"I don't like colorless, monotone worlds. Everything beige and polite." His smile turned thinner now, almost thoughtful. "Anger itself is a color."
A pause. Then, softer—barely a breath.
"…Blood also is."
Priscilla's eyes narrowed again.
Lucavion caught the shift instantly, like a predator watching a ripple in tall grass.
"Aww…" he said, resting his chin on his palm, his smirk blooming anew. "Miss Princess is threatening me."
He tilted his head, mock-hurt.
"I'm so afraid."
And somehow, he managed to make it sound like the most entertaining thing he'd said all day.
Then—
She stood.
No dramatic scrape of chair legs. No clatter. Just the smooth, deliberate motion of rising—like a storm forming without thunder.
Her cup remained untouched on the table. Her posture, still poised. But her gaze—
It was the kind of gaze that emperors hesitated under. The kind that had silenced courtrooms before she even opened her mouth.
"Enough," she said quietly. Not loud. Not angry. Just… final.
Lucavion blinked. And for the first time, something flickered beneath that damnable composure.
Just for a second.
Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
But Priscilla didn't wait for him to reply.
"I came here because I thought—perhaps—you were worth the hour. Worth the questions. Worth the answers."
She took a step forward. Not threateningly—but directly. Her presence cut through the chamber like wind through silk banners.
"But you're not interested in dialogue, are you?" Her voice remained even. Measured. But inside—
'He's testing me. And he enjoys it too much.'
"You provoke," she continued, her tone laced with frost, "you bait, you deflect. Everything is a game to you. Even this meeting."
Lucavion opened his mouth—perhaps to reply, perhaps to smirk again—but she raised a hand.
And he stopped.
"I am not some noble's daughter playing at diplomacy," she said softly. "I was not raised to entertain riddles and flattery. I was raised in silence. In scrutiny. In a court where one wrong step erases you."
She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to press against his ears like a whisper of steel unsheathed.
"I don't have the luxury of missteps, Lucavion. Not with you. Not with anyone."
The silence after that was cold.
'And yet…'
She didn't move away.
Didn't storm out.
Didn't spit the words she wanted to—because something inside her, something inconvenient and cautious and curious, held her fast.
He had laughed, yes.
He had provoked.
But he'd also listened.
He hadn't denied her questions.
He hadn't lied.
He'd danced around them like a snake with a smile—but never once dismissed them.
And the truth?
The truth was far more dangerous than his teasing.
Because part of her understood it.
Part of her recognized the method to his madness.
'He doesn't say what he means. But he means something.'
And that was worse.
Because if she couldn't shake him—if she couldn't silence him—then she would have to endure him.
Which meant—
She might have to understand him.
Priscilla straightened again.
Then, with practiced grace, she sat back down.
Not because she had lost.
But because she had chosen to remain.
Lucavion, to his credit, didn't gloat.
Not out loud.
But the gleam in his eyes said it all.
She reached for the teacup again.
Took a quiet sip.
Then—
"Ask me a question," she said.
Lucavion blinked.
Priscilla set the cup down gently, her fingers no longer trembling.
"If we're playing games," she said, "then let's make it fair."
Her eyes met his—firm, unflinching.
"Your move."
Chapter 738: What am I
"If we're playing games," she said, "then let's make it fair."
Her eyes met his—firm, unflinching.
"Your move."
Lucavion's brow lifted—just slightly.
"Wow…" he said softly, almost under his breath. "Wasn't expecting that, definitely."
A pause.
Then—
"Heh."
The sound was quiet, not quite amusement, not quite surprise. Just a note of genuine acknowledgment, unpolished and sincere in a way that made her fingers still over the rim of the cup.
Priscilla scoffed, low and almost dismissive. But not quite. The edges of it were… careful.
Lucavion didn't miss it.
"A game, you say," he murmured, eyes narrowing in the faintest grin. "You are an interesting woman."
"What?" she asked flatly, her tone laced with warning.
"Nothing."
But the way he said it—that lazy half-smile ghosting over his lips again, the kind that said everything—told her it wasn't nothing at all.
He let the silence linger just long enough to tighten between them like a string drawn taut.
Then—
"Well," he said, tone tilting into civility again, "since we're asking questions, then don't mind me."
His fingers stopped moving.
His body, which had been all casual lean and devil-may-care ease, suddenly straightened—not rigid, but precise.
And his eyes—
Turned cold.
No warning. No flicker of transition. Just the sudden drop of warmth, like someone extinguishing a flame mid-breath.
"What does Miss Princess think of Reynald Vale?"
The question cut.
Not because of its sharpness—but because of its weight. It wasn't idle. It wasn't part of the game.
It was the first real strike.
Priscilla didn't flinch.
But inside, something curled.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
He already knew something.
He was waiting to see what she would say.
She felt it again.
That pressure.
It wasn't overt. Not like the condescension of palace ministers or the acidic scorn of court rivals. No, Lucavion's way of pressing against her was far more insidious. Like a cold wind brushing the back of her neck—a reminder that she was being watched, measured, weighed.
He didn't prod with words. He didn't cut with judgment.
He simply waited.
And in his silence, she felt the sharp edge of expectation.
Every time she stood in front of him, it was like standing in front of a mirror that reflected not what she was—but what she could be, if she dared to speak freely.
A test.
Always a test.
And this question… this particular strike—it wasn't about Reynald Vale. Not truly. It was about her. About what she saw. What she dared to admit.
She could lie.
She could craft some vague, evasive noble answer and let it pass.
But what would be the point?
Lucavion would see through it.
No—he was waiting for her to step out of her shadows.
And so, Priscilla Lysandra chose to speak.
"There was something off about him from the beginning," she said softly, the words folding out like pages turned in thought. "Reynald Vale… knightly name. Sharp technique. Controlled, almost too controlled. I'll admit it—at first glance, he had everything. The composure, the strength, the image of a perfect duelist."
Her fingers traced the edge of the porcelain cup, delicate movements masking deeper calculations.
"That was the problem."
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.
She went on.
"He was too perfect. The stance, the aura, the way he carried himself. It didn't feel earned. It felt… designed. Fabricated, almost." She exhaled quietly. "Like someone had written him into the role and taught him how to wear it like a second skin."
Her eyes flicked up to meet Lucavion's. There was no fear there—just the deep weight of reflection.
"I tried to track his records after the second day of the Trials. Everything came up clean. Too clean. No noble house. No registered family. No guild affiliation. A sword like that doesn't come without tutelage—but there was no trace of a master. No military sponsor. Just two years of conveniently vague backstory."
Lucavion's expression didn't change.
But the faintest shift in his posture told her he was listening now. Not casually. Not playfully.
Intently.
"And the Baron…" she continued, "I searched for him too. He was there during the confrontation on the terrace—sitting in full view, like he belonged. But he didn't. No baron would've been sent there alone, no servants, no escort. And none of the registries held his name. It was like he had been carved out of thin air."
She leaned back slightly, and for a moment, she allowed herself to voice the thought that had been haunting her since that afternoon.
"I think Reynald Vale was part of a plan."
Lucavion arched a brow—but still said nothing.
"Maybe it sounds far-fetched," she admitted. "But I've seen this before. The crown needs more than just brute force to keep the populace in line. It needs… symbols. Icons. Heroes who shine bright enough that people look toward them instead of questioning the ones in power."
Her voice cooled.
"I think Reynald was meant to be that. A champion manufactured for the public. A knight without a past—clean, loyal, glorified. Something commoners could idolize. Something controllable. Something they could put on a stage and say: 'See? Even commoners can rise—so long as they follow our path.'"
Her nails pressed lightly into the porcelain rim now. She didn't notice.
"And Lucien…"
She didn't speak his name like a sibling. Not even like a prince.
Just a force.
A shadow.
"Lucien has always understood image. He controls narrative. Not by shouting, not by brute dominance—but by curating who gets to speak. I think Reynald was meant to be a tool. A beautiful, sharpened tool dressed in nobility's glow but leashed from the start."
A quiet.
Then—"That's why your duel with him wasn't just a fight," she added, her voice low. "It was a severing. You didn't just break him. You broke what he stood for."
She inhaled, slow and composed, but something deep beneath her skin still bristled.
Because even now, she wasn't entirely sure if she was right.
And yet—she knew.
Somewhere beneath all of Lucavion's smirks and fire-laced eyes, she knew he'd already seen it. That perhaps this wasn't even news to him.
She met his gaze again.
"I think that day on the terrace," she said quietly, "you weren't just confronting a farce. You were unveiling it."
She waited, then.
Not for validation.
But for his move.
Because she had placed her thoughts bare on the table, stripped of courtly polish.
Now it was his turn.
Lucavion's silence lingered.
And then—
A smile.
Not his usual smirk. Not that crooked thing meant to taunt or amuse.
This one… was quieter.
Softer.
A smile that didn't reach for dominance. Just recognition.
"Indeed…" he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You are different."
Priscilla's brows furrowed. "What?"
She had heard him—but not clearly. Not fully. And the weight of the words—You are different—felt like a thread she wasn't sure she should pull.
Lucavion didn't repeat it.
He merely waved a hand, dismissive, as if brushing dust from his coat.
"Miss Princess…" he said, with that drawl that danced between charm and sarcasm. "You really are getting better at theory-crafting."
Priscilla's mouth twitched. That tone. That tone.
"You would do a fine novelist," he added with a grin. "All that court intrigue, conspiracy, elegant metaphors about leashes and stages… really, I almost felt for the poor fabricated soul."
The cup clicked softly as she set it down.
And she stood again—sharply this time.
"If this is how you plan to waste my time—"
"But you were indeed correct."
Chapter 739: You were correct
"But you were indeed correct."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't try to stop her with force.
Just those five words.
She froze.
Her posture didn't shift, but her breath did. Slight. Caught. Like she'd just stepped from a warm room into sudden cold.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Lucavion wasn't smiling anymore.
His gaze—silver-flecked, unblinking—met hers with perfect stillness.
"I don't play games when it comes to illusions that can hurt people," he said, the air around his words oddly clear. "And Reynald Vale was never meant to be a name. He was meant to be a lens. Something people would see through—until they didn't."
He folded his hands calmly on the table.
"They weren't expecting anyone to challenge the lens. Just reflect it."
A pause.
Then—
"I shattered it."
Priscilla studied him—closely now. That calm again, but not performative. No embellishment. Just truth.
Lucavion's fingers tapped once—just once—against the edge of the table before he resumed speaking. Calm, steady.
"Just as you said… Reynald Vale was not a commoner."
The words landed with quiet weight. Not revelation—confirmation.
Priscilla didn't speak.
Not yet.
She didn't need to.
Because she could feel it now—the current underneath the surface of this entire meeting finally breaching.
"He was a knight," Lucavion continued, "raised under the direct training of that man."
He didn't say the name.
He didn't have to.
Priscilla's expression didn't flicker, but her fingers curled slightly against her lap.
Lucien.
The Crown Prince.
Her half-brother.
Her enemy in everything but name.
And the moment Lucavion said it, so much clicked into place—the polish, the posture, the carefully scripted rise of Reynald Vale. Not a free soul, not a self-made warrior.
But a forged weapon.
"He was taught to be exact," Lucavion went on, voice low. "Precise. Everything from the way he bowed to the rhythm of his footwork. His entire life was filtered through Lucien's lens. Loyalty wasn't expected. It was conditioned."
Priscilla listened.
Every word locked into her memory like iron catching in frost.
And then Lucavion leaned forward, his next words slower. Weighted.
"Princess," he said, "do you know of House Velcross?"
Her breath caught—not from surprise, but memory.
"Of course," she replied, the words sliding forth with practiced clarity. "House Velcross was accused of treason and exterminated when I was six. Their estate burned to the foundation. Every name struck from the imperial registry."
Lucavion said nothing, so she continued—mind sharpened, already tracing the old facts.
"They were a family of swordsmen. Famous for their longsword tradition. Granted viscountcy after the Northern Purge, about a century and a half ago. They served the empire faithfully… until they didn't."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting. "But I don't see how this relates to—"
She stopped.
Something in Lucavion's expression had shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough to silence her.
"You said it yourself," he murmured. "They were erased."
A beat.
"Everything… but one."
Silence cracked between them.
No wind.
No sound.
Just the subtle hum of mana-light flickering along the sanctum walls.
Priscilla's lips parted slightly.
"…Reynald Vale?" she asked, though her voice had already dropped in tone—lower, colder.
Lucavion gave a single nod.
"Reynald Vale," he confirmed.
Lucavion exhaled once, slow and deliberate, as if giving shape to a name long kept buried.
"Seran Idric Velcross."
The name settled into the air like dust over an unmarked grave—weighty, forgotten, forbidden.
"Lucien took him the night their estate fell. Not to imprison. Not to execute. To claim."
Lucavion's gaze sharpened, voice now cold as marble.
"He was barely five. Carried out through the secret tunnels before the imperial fire caught the east wing. No records. No witnesses. Just a child with a bloodline, stolen and hidden—then reshaped to wear another name."
Across the table, Priscilla sat motionless.
But her breath—
It hitched.
Seran Velcross.
She remembered.
No, not the boy—she had never seen his face.
But the sword.
The style.
That grip.
Her mind flew back to the Trials, the way Reynald—Seran—had held his longsword. The narrow stances, precise deflections, the momentum drawn from hip to shoulder—never overly flashy, always geometrically clean.
That was northern formwork.
Not the formalized academy drills taught across imperial provinces. No—it was older. Hungrier. Passed from hand to hand within ancient families that didn't teach outsiders.
And Velcross… they were famous for it.
She hadn't placed it then—because Reynald masked it under newer layers. Smoothed it out, streamlined it into something palatable for the public eye.
But it had been there.
Hidden.
Now—it fit.
The silence that followed was not idle.
It was assessment.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her cloak as she spoke, voice measured, but laced with something colder now.
"Then that means…" she began, slowly, "everything—his rise, his status, his 'commoner's tale'—was manufactured by Lucien. He created a narrative. Took a child of treason and wrapped him in the story of redemption."
Lucavion nodded once, quiet and slow.
"Exactly. He crafted a mirror."
"And placed it in front of the world," she finished. "To reflect what he needed them to see."
But even as the conclusion settled in, her eyes narrowed.
Because one question—
The only question that now mattered—
Pressed to the surface like heat under ice.
"How," she said, voice taut, "do you know all of this?"
Her gaze locked on his, sharp and burning, cutting past all the smirks and smoke he'd conjured in their earlier dance.
She leaned forward, just enough to close the space between them.
"Who are you really, Lucavion?"
Because this…
This wasn't just guesswork. This wasn't deduction or coincidence.
This was knowledge.
Intimate. Unrecorded. Impossible to acquire—
Unless he'd been there. Or worse…
Lucavion didn't answer right away.
No smirk.
No flippant shrug.
Just silence.
That kind of silence that wasn't absence—but calculation.
And that alone was answer enough.
Priscilla felt it—the unmistakable sense that a veil had almost lifted… only for another to slide into place just behind it.
Her eyes narrowed.
"If you're not working alone…" she said quietly, "then who's feeding you this?"
The air grew denser. Not colder—heavier.
Lucavion leaned back slowly, arms folding over his chest, as though weighing the limits of what could be spoken aloud.
"Let's just say," he murmured, "I'm not the only one who's tired of illusions."
But it wasn't enough.
Not for her.
Because everything inside Priscilla, everything honed from years of political feints and veiled daggers, recoiled at the half-truth. It wasn't just that someone might be helping him—it was the implications of who that might be.
And then—
A memory stirred.
Not a sound.
Not a face.
But a look.
Selienne.
The memory snapped sharp—too sharp for something that had only passed moments ago.
Priscilla could still see it: the poise, the smile, the gown stitched with ceremonial arrogance. But beneath all that—beneath the performance—Selienne had been off.
It was the eyes.
Selienne's gaze, always so elegantly weaponized, had been too still. Her composure, which normally walked the knife-edge of condescension and grace, had held… strain.
Not outwardly. Not in ways most would notice.
But Priscilla had learned to see the seams.
And today, one of them had slipped.
'She was shaken.'
She hadn't wanted to be, but Lucavion had done something. Something deliberate.
He refused her.
It was the only thing that made sense.
Because Selienne didn't stumble. She didn't approach someone like him without knowing her odds. And she didn't walk away from negotiation unless she'd been handed something she couldn't control.
Priscilla's throat tightened.
That meant…
Lucavion had denied her.
Not just her offer—but her position.
And that—
That was what threw everything into question.
She'd assumed—rationally—that if Lucavion was standing against Lucien, then of course he would ally with Selienne. They were opposites on the imperial scale. Rivals. Two suns in collision.
And Selienne needed someone like him.
She was strong, yes—but without a blade like Lucavion beside her, she lacked the spectacle Lucien wielded with precision. She lacked fire.
Lucavion was supposed to be the counterweight.
It would've been the smart play.
But he had refused her.
So then—
'If he rejected both Lucien and Selienne… who is he listening to?'
Chapter 740: Unlawfully
'If he rejected both Lucien and Selienne… who is he listening to?'
Priscilla felt her breath shallow.
The idea settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Either he was being backed by someone so well-hidden it escaped even her senses—or—
He was walking this path on his own.
Which, in some ways, was worse.
"Then he's either protected by a ghost…"
"Or driven by something I don't understand."
Which left the last possibility—
He's mad.
Not in the flailing, wild-eyed sense.
But in the way only visionaries and monsters are.
He wasn't aligning with anyone.
He was walking between them.
And that was why they were all watching him.
Lucien. Selienne. The courtiers. The academy heads.
Priscilla's eyes narrowed, lashes casting shadows like blades against her cheekbones.
"Let's just say," he murmured, "I'm not the only one who's tired of illusions."
That line. That cryptic, maddening line.
What does that mean? Who else is 'tired' of illusions? Who stands behind him? Who whispers in his ear? Who feeds him names erased from the imperial record?
She stared at him, gaze sharpening like a blade before the strike.
"And if that's true," she said, her voice low, tight, "then name them."
Lucavion's smile curved—not cruelly. Not arrogantly. Just… inevitably.
"If I were the sort to reveal everything so easily…" he said, tilting his head, "do you truly believe I'd be doing things in this manner?"
A flick of his fingers, loose, theatrical.
"If I had a neat list of answers, Princess, I wouldn't need tea and conversation. I'd need an army."
Priscilla inhaled slowly. Her hands folded against her lap. Not out of calm.
Out of restraint.
But something deeper than irritation coiled inside her now.
A thread she couldn't name, tight around the space where clarity should have been.
"Then why?" she asked. The word wasn't thrown, but placed—carefully, like a test.
"Why all this?"
Lucavion didn't speak.
So she pressed.
"Why meet me on the terrace?"
Her voice remained cold. Controlled.
"Why speak to me like that—like you knew me?"
Still, silence.
"And why meet me again here, of all places? When you could've chosen anyone, any sponsor, any ally—why me?"
Her eyes didn't flinch from his. Not anymore.
"What is your reason, Lucavion?"
The space between them narrowed.
Her breath stilled.
And then—
Lucavion raised a finger.
Slowly. Calmly.
And pointed.
Directly at her.
"You."
The word came not as a whisper, not as a thunderclap.
But as something in between.
"I'm doing this…" he said, the finger hovering, steady, unwavering, "…for someone I hold empathy."
Then, without a word more, he dropped the finger in a sudden, clean motion.
A single swipe through the air.
His tone dipped.
"And for myself."
He leaned back again, the shift effortless.
And that damned smirk returned—unhurried, unreadable.
"Is that reason enough, Miss Princess?"
His eyes gleamed with that silver flicker again.
Not mockery.
Not pity.
Just… truth.
Terrifying in its simplicity.
Because for the first time—she didn't know if she was the empathy he spoke of…
"…Yourself?"
The word slipped from her like drawn wire—tight, coiled, precise.
"What does that mean?"
Lucavion merely shrugged, the motion lazy and maddeningly dismissive.
"Miss Princess," he said, tilting his head, "we're not quite close enough for such personal questions, are we?"
Then, a beat. A flash of mischief stirred.
"Though if you want to be… I don't mind."
Priscilla's gaze turned glacial.
"...Indecent."
Her tone cut like frost across glass.
Lucavion smirked wider. "...Stiff."
Silence bloomed between them. Sharp. Alive.
But not hostile. Not exactly.
Then—he spoke again, and his voice carried a strange lightness, like wind against flame.
"Miss Princess," he said, "the reason I called you here… is simply to show you."
Her eyes narrowed again.
"Show me?"
"Yes," he nodded, unfazed. "Just as I said before—on the terrace. You're going to see me a lot from now on."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dipping into that low, lyrical register he used when truths slipped between veils.
"And you should look forward to the academy."
She remembered it.
His words that day, just after the duel.
"Look forward to the festival… You'll see a lot of interesting things."
Now, his smile returned—gentle, but edged.
"I called you here to remind you of that."
A pause.
"You will see a lot of fun things in the future."
Then his expression changed. Slightly. A shadow of thought passed behind his eyes.
"But…"
He raised his hand.
With the slow grace of intention, he reached toward the untouched chessboard beside him.
The pieces sat as they always did—perfectly arranged, awaiting players who played by the rules.
He picked up a white pawn.
And moved it.
But not forward.
Not legally.
He swept it diagonally—improperly—into a space no pawn should reach. And with that off-kilter move, it knocked over an enemy bishop.
The piece clattered gently against the table's edge.
Priscilla's eyes narrowed at once.
She knew this board.
And she knew the rules.
She was a quiet master of imperial chess, after all—subtle maneuvering, strategic restraint.
That… was not chess.
That was something else.
Lucavion, as if sensing the tension spike in her mind, spoke gently.
"When that time comes," he said, still watching the fallen piece, "you'll have a chance."
And then—
He reached for the queen.
Moved her.
Not in aggression.
But to the side of the rogue pawn.
"Not to command," Lucavion murmured, his voice now soft as starlight through glass,
"but to be a part of."
His hand lingered above the pieces—queen and pawn, now side by side in open defiance of order. A tableau that should not exist.
And yet… it did.
Then—he clapped his hands once.
A crisp, final sound.
"Well," he said lightly, with that unshakable calm, "till then…"
He leaned back, as if the room had shifted beneath them and he alone had known it would.
"I'll leave you with your thoughts."
The warmth in his tone wasn't kindness.
It was permission.
Or maybe warning.
Priscilla didn't move at first.
The tea had long gone cool.
The air remained still.
And as the door behind her opened at a silent gesture from a waiting attendant, she realized—
That had been her allotted time.
Not wasted.
Not granted.
Spent.
She stood. Slowly. Silently.
And turned without another word.
But her eyes, sharp as a drawn blade, lingered one last moment on the board—
Queen and pawn.
Unlawful.
United.
Unexplained.
Her boots whispered against the floor as she left.
And somewhere behind her, Lucavion didn't follow.
He didn't need to.
He had already moved his piece.
*****
Outside the chamber, the cool corridor of the Sanctum's northern wing greeted her like a breath held too long finally released.
The crystalline fixtures glimmered faintly above, but they felt dimmer now—washed out after the strange weight of the conversation she'd just left behind.
Idena stood at attention just beyond the threshold, composed but visibly tense. She straightened the moment Priscilla emerged, her eyes scanning the princess's face with the quiet attentiveness only someone truly loyal could master.
"Your Highness," she said carefully, walking beside her, "how did the talk go?"
Priscilla didn't answer at first.
Her steps were precise. Her cloak drifted softly with each movement. But her silence pulsed with meaning, the way thunder lingers just behind a cloud.
And then—
"It went…" she began, her voice distant, reflective.
A pause.
"…Unlawfully."
Chapter 741: Troublesome Student even before the academy
The door clicked shut behind Priscilla, her echo a ghost swallowed by the chamber's silence.
Lucavion stood still for a moment, fingertips resting loosely on the edge of the chessboard. The pieces remained untouched. Illegal. True. And in that strange, wordless configuration—they felt right.
The pawn did not belong beside the queen.
But neither of them had ever asked permission.
A faint smile touched his lips, dry and unreadable.
Then—movement.
The room responded, once again, to his shifting thoughts. The light dimmed slightly, coolening to a duskier hue. A breeze flickered across the glass walls, brushing against him like a nod of acknowledgment.
'Enough symbols for one afternoon,' he thought, drawing the velvet gloves back over his hands.
Now came the other part.
The vultures.
The velvet-gloved ones.
—
The next set of guests arrived in pairs and threes—noble sons with inherited smiles, guildmasters with hands heavy from rings and promises, merchant-lords whose robes whispered coin. None of them bore a royal seal. None carried imperial weight.
But the ambitions?
Oh, those still stank of it.
Lucavion let them enter one by one, two by two. Watched them sit with stiff backs and oiled pleasantries. And every single one—
—offered him something.
Gold. Vast reserves of it, pulled from ancestral vaults that no longer had heirs worthy of wielding it.
Titles. Baron. Viscount. One even offered him a stripped-down lordship of a borderland province that had been politically stagnant for years. "A quiet seat," the man had called it. "But rich in untapped resources, if managed properly."
Land. Private manors. Mines. Even an enchanted orchard that supposedly bore fruit laced with minor mana.
And all of it—all of it—came with the same clause.
"Under our banner," they'd say. "With our blessing."
Which meant obedience.
Leash.
Lucavion smiled through them all. Politely. Noncommittally. He drank tea, nodded at maps, traced the edges of scrolls lined with terms they thought generous.
He gave them nothing.
But he remembered everything.
And of course—because nothing could ever truly stay clean—there were those still clinging to the rot beneath the throne.
House Igraine's envoy came next. A young man in silver robes with eyes as sharp as broken glass and twice as hollow. He carried himself like nobility was a birthright and Lucavion's existence was some charming accident yet to be corrected.
"I must admit," the envoy said with a faint smirk, "for a commoner, you've drawn quite the attention. Curious how quickly some rise with borrowed wings."
Lucavion didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he turned the teacup in his hand, letting the silence stretch like leather over a blade.
Then: "I've never borrowed anything in my life," he said, voice light but firm. "But if I ever do… it won't be from a house too afraid to stand on its own without the Crown Prince's shadow."
The envoy stiffened—only slightly. But Lucavion caught it.
Another smile.
Another reminder.
He hadn't needed fire this time.
Just words.
But others weren't quite as smug. The eastern guildmaster—a weathered man with storm-threaded hair and laughter lines that hadn't dulled his ambition—offered Lucavion a contract sealed with a soul-mark clause. Not ownership, but exclusivity.
"You wouldn't be a tool," he said. "You'd be a partner. We'd share your findings. Your arcane patents. Your discoveries. You'd be set for life."
Lucavion looked at the man.
Then quietly folded the contract and handed it back, unburned.
"I've already set my life," he said calmly. "I'm just deciding how many people will regret not being part of it."
There were no explosions this time.
No thunder.
No sealing flames.
Just one by one, the sponsors came… and left.
Some with confused flattery.
Some with quiet insult.
Some with silent, seething pride, already thinking of how to twist his refusal into a challenge.
Lucavion remained still through it all.
Observing.
Listening.
Weighing.
And through it all, one thought kept threading through his mind—
They think I'm hunting security.
But they were wrong.
He wasn't looking for a net.
He was building the stage.
*****
The dining hall that evening buzzed—not with conversation, but with the quiet hum of minds spinning behind settled eyes. The long marble table was lit low, the chandeliers above flickering with soft, steady illumination from aether-infused crystals. It cast a hush over everything. Not silence, exactly. Just... restraint.
Everyone had spoken with power today.
Now they were tasting the aftershocks.
Mireilla was the first to speak, predictably. She stabbed a piece of roasted game with unnecessary aggression, then glanced around. "Anyone else get the impression that half the Empire's sponsors are just different masks for the same damn face?"
Caeden gave a small nod. "Crown Prince's faction. They're consolidating."
"Consolidating," she scoffed. "You make it sound noble. They're just picking the fastest horses for their parade."
"They're offering quite a lot," Toven added, though not without hesitation. "I mean—titles. Equipment. Even access to restricted archives."
"And that's what makes it dangerous," Elayne said softly, setting her cup down. "Too much, too soon. It means they're not just interested. They're committed. And if they're committed, they'll expect us to be the same."
Lucavion didn't speak at first. He was watching his tea swirl again, the motion slow, idle. Not distracted. Just precise. Waiting.
Toven glanced his way. "How many did you get?"
Lucavion tilted his head as if considering whether to answer.
Then: "Seventeen."
That silenced the table.
Even Caeden looked briefly surprised.
"Seventeen?" Mireilla repeated, incredulous.
Lucavion offered a small, half-lazy smile. "I'm charming."
"Or terrifying," Elayne muttered.
He didn't deny it.
Caeden leaned forward slightly. "Let me guess. Most of yours were from the Prince's supporters?"
"Nine," Lucavion said. "The others…..They were rather wild."
Toven leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Same for me. Almost all of them bore the sun-sigil. Some even used the Crown Prince's rhetoric directly. 'Unified potential,' 'loyal ascension,' all that."
Mireilla scowled as she pushed her plate away. "I got seven offers. Five were from houses I'm pretty sure sponsored Vale before Lucavion turned him into soup."
"You mean Seran," Elayne said, voice neutral.
Mireilla gave a dry laugh. "Right. His real name. Guess that didn't work out for them."
Caeden spoke last, quiet but firm. "Ten offers. Eight from the Prince's bloc. Most subtle. One was not."
They all glanced at Lucavion.
He didn't gloat. Not aloud.
But his eyes were calm.
Knowing.
And the smile he wore was faint—not mocking, not pleased.
Inevitable.
'So… he moves quickly now. Good.'
He sipped his tea again, eyes lowered to the swirl within, as if the truth of it all lay hidden in the steam.
'When I burned Seran out of the board, he must have realized the flaw. He thought grooming a noble-born underdog would tame the tide. Win him the "common" loyalty.'
His fingers tapped the rim of the cup once.
'But Seran was never common. Just packaged that way. He was raised to serve. To obey. To follow.'
'And I don't follow.'
He let that truth linger in his mind. Cold. Clean.
'So now the Crown Prince casts a wider net. More offers. More gilded chains. He wants to turn his loss into leverage. Rebrand the mistake. Replace the pawn he lost… with something more palatable.'
A slow breath escaped him.
'That much was obvious.'
Just then, the chamber doors opened.
Kaleran entered with the same precision he always carried—eyes sharp, robes uncreased despite a day of logistics and sponsor wrangling.
He scanned the room with one sweep, noting who was missing [no one], who was alert [few], and who was hiding knives behind their eyes [just Lucavion].
Chapter 742: Troublesome Student even before the academy (2)
Kaleran's boots clicked softly against the polished stone as he stepped further into the dining hall, hands behind his back, posture immaculate. His eyes skimmed the gathered students like a tactician surveying the aftermath of a battle. He paused only once—at the end of the long table, where Lucavion sat.
Then his lips moved into a perfectly measured line that almost resembled a smile.
"The day of sponsor meetings is complete," he announced, his voice carrying just enough resonance to land precisely where it needed to—between formality and veiled exasperation.
Everyone at the table looked up.
"But," Kaleran continued smoothly, "apparently, a certain someone caused… yet another scene."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't even change his tone.
But his gaze? It didn't move from Lucavion.
Lucavion, who raised his teacup again with the elegance of a man entirely too comfortable under scrutiny.
"Scene?" he asked mildly, brows arched in the picture of innocence. "I merely answered questions. With enthusiasm."
Kaleran's head tilted ever so slightly. "You told the envoy from House Idrayne that their political relevance has the lifespan of a molting toad."
Lucavion clicked his tongue. "That was metaphor. Artistic license."
"You corrected his pronunciation mid-insult."
"Accuracy matters."
"You turned down the soul-bound clause from the Eastern Guildmaster in front of his heir, his steward, and two enchanted scribes."
"Ah, yes. That one did cry a little. But to be fair, I declined with charm."
Toven buried his face in his hands. Mireilla choked on a laugh. Even Caeden's shoulders gave a small twitch, betraying a smothered smile. Elayne just exhaled like she was aging ten years by proximity.
Kaleran closed his eyes for a beat. When he opened them, the weariness was still professional—but there.
Kaleran didn't move. Not for a long second. Just stared at Lucavion with that same weary patience—like a tired guardian wondering whether it was too late to change his name and flee to a mountain temple.
Then, calmly, he produced a crystal scroll from his coat and unfurled it. The mana-infused glyphs shimmered in the air, outlining a list that glowed with formal complaints.
"The full record," he began flatly, "includes twenty-seven refusals, sixteen corrections of etiquette, nine veiled threats, and five blatant dismissals. You also redirected a teleport glyph to delay a meeting by thirty minutes—without informing the envoy."
Lucavion sipped his tea, unconcerned. "That was a favor. He arrived less sweaty. Presentation matters."
"You rearranged the crest placement on the projection panel of the Syrelith envoy."
"It was upside-down."
"And when the archivist from House Leviran asked for a lock of your hair to begin a divinatory compatibility rite—"
Lucavion coughed delicately. "Cultural misunderstanding. I misunderstood how hard to push her hand off my shoulder."
Kaleran's eye twitched.
"And then," he said slowly, "we come to the most formal complaint of the day."
His gaze sharpened. The air thinned around it.
"House Varenth."
The shift in the room was subtle, but undeniable. Even Mireilla stopped laughing. Caeden straightened. The weight of those two words—those two names—dragged tension into the table like a dropped blade.
Lucavion, for his part?
He set his cup down. Neatly. Without flourish.
And laughed.
A low, amused sound—dry as wind over bone.
"Oh, that," he said, shaking his head with faint disbelief. "They're calling that an assault, are they?"
Kaleran didn't answer. Just held the scroll aloft.
"They've submitted a formal grievance to the Academy Council. Apparently, their representative—Khaedren Varn—was subjected to a binding flame rite, and quote: 'left humiliated, spiritually insulted, and physically endangered.'"
Lucavion lifted one brow. "And the record doesn't include what he did, does it?"
Kaleran was silent for a beat. Then said, very softly, "We have internal logs. The mana flux was recorded. The entrance protocol was violated. We know who crossed the line."
"Then you already know, Mister Kaleran," Lucavion said, smile thinning. "I may not be someone who thrives under rules. But I'm not a savage. I don't attack unless I'm provoked."
He leaned back, the quiet weight of finality in his tone.
"But," he added, "I also don't kneel. And if someone thinks their bloodline gives them the right to slap me across the face in my own room…"
His eyes glinted.
"…they should be ready to lose the hand."
Kaleran stared at him. Then sighed—an old, exhausted sound that didn't belong in a man so young-looking.
"I'm not asking you to bow," he said at last. "Just to survive."
"Survival," Lucavion said smoothly, "has never required submission."
Lucavion let the last syllable hang there—submission—before picking up the thread again, his voice quieter now, not dulled but sharpened, honed into something crystalline and deliberate.
"And I also don't view the concept of spending one's days in the borders determined by those who think they are above…" he paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the crystal scroll still shimmering in Kaleran's hand, "…as living."
A breath.
"To me, that is not what being alive means."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Because something in the way he said it stilled the room all over again.
No bravado. No dramatics.
Just conviction, carved clean and true.
Caeden's pen stilled. Mireilla stopped twirling her fork. Elayne, usually the first to scoff at Lucavion's provocations, said nothing. Even Toven—who normally acted as though nothing in the world could rattle him—glanced toward Lucavion now with an expression bordering on something else.
Respect.
Or maybe warning.
Kaleran stared for a long moment, the weight behind Lucavion's words settling into the cracks of the polished floor like rainwater seeking its place.
Kaleran closed the scroll with a flick of his fingers, the mana-light extinguishing like a breath held too long. He didn't move at first—just stood there, staring at Lucavion with that ageless tiredness of a man who'd seen a hundred students flare like stars and burn out twice as fast.
Then, at last, he exhaled.
"You really are a troublesome kid," he muttered.
It wasn't a reprimand.
It wasn't even said with annoyance.
If anything, it was almost fond… or as close as Kaleran got to fond, buried beneath layers of protocol and weathered expectations.
He didn't scold him.
Didn't warn him.
Because the truth, however inconvenient, was clear.
Lucavion hadn't acted without cause. The internal reports confirmed it—nobles who'd arrived emboldened, certain that this year's prodigies were meant to be courted, bent, or broken. At least three other names had been flagged for subtle intimidation tactics, with two students already filing silent retractions of their sponsorships under the guise of "personal reflection."
Khaedren Varn had just been the first to get burned by something that refused to kneel.
Kaleran's eyes swept the room once more, his voice shifting back to formality.
"That said… your sponsor decisions are due within three days. The official envoy responses must be registered with the central ledger before the final bell on the third."
A few sighs rippled through the table. Toven groaned softly and muttered something about not knowing how to pick between "gold-covered cages and castles built on blackmail."
Lucavion said nothing. His fingers tapped once against the cup.
Kaleran continued.
"Four days from now, the entrance banquet will be held. Attendance is mandatory. You'll be officially announced to the greater Academy assembly, to Imperial observers, and to the political circles that fund the outer testing spheres."
Mireilla arched a brow. "So we dress up and pretend to like people we might have to kill one day. Got it."
Elayne gave her a warning glance, but Kaleran—again—didn't correct her.
Instead, he nodded.
"Your ordered attire and commissioned weapons will be delivered on the day of the banquet. You will receive them upon arrival, just before the procession."
That got everyone's attention. Even Caeden's brows lifted slightly, the only visible sign of his anticipation. Lucavion didn't react outwardly, but something beneath the surface of his expression… tightened.
'A blade reforged by a man who doesn't lie with his hands,' he thought.
'That's no gift. That's declaration.'
Kaleran glanced at them all again.
"In the meantime, you'll receive etiquette instruction. Ballroom readiness, court manners, introduction protocols. Two sessions per day."
Groans this time. From multiple sides.
"I'm not dancing," Toven said flatly.
"You will," Kaleran replied with absolute calm, "or you'll be partnered with Lady Merinth's animated armor for rehearsal. It crushes shoes and doesn't apologize."
Toven turned slightly pale.
Caeden cleared his throat, straightening. "And if we already have court experience?"
"You will attend anyway," Kaleran said smoothly, "to ensure no one forgets that experience alone doesn't excuse poor posture."
Lucavion let out a quiet, amused breath.
'So. Three days to finalize the stage. Four to prepare the mask. After that… the game begins with wine and applause.'
He stood slowly, pushing back his chair without urgency, and offered Kaleran a short bow—deeper than expected, but just shallow enough to make it feel performative.
"I'll be ready."
Kaleran didn't smile.
But he didn't look away either.
"See that you are."