Chapter 743: A mere mongrel
The chamber was quiet, lit only by the faint shimmer of ambient aether running through the filigree-etched walls. This was no throne room—no grand hall designed for spectacle. It was worse.
Private.
Still.
The kind of room where silence spoke louder than banners.
Stacks of documents lay spread across the obsidian desk in front of him, arranged with surgical neatness. Diagrams of mana-weapon channels. Lists of names—students, instructors, guild envoys, foreign observers. Handwritten margins trailed with sigils and personal notes.
And in the center: a profile.
Lucavion.
No crest. No known patron. No bloodline of record.
But the ink over his results was still wet from recalibration—adjusted to account for confirmed irregularities, and still he sat at the top.
Across from the desk, kneeling on the floor, was Khaedren.
Forehead to marble.
Not in gesture.
In penance.
And beside the Prince, arms folded, face unreadable, stood the Marquis of House Varenth—silent, unblinking. A statue of duty carved in noble lines.
The Crown Prince did not raise his eyes immediately.
He finished reviewing the last document in his hand. Folded it. Set it aside.
Then, at last—
"So," he said, his voice smooth and soft as falling snow, "you have failed."
The words didn't rise.
They descended.
And though he did not shout, the air pulled tighter in the room—as if the walls themselves recoiled from his disappointment.
Khaedren's head pressed lower. His breath shallow against the polished stone.
"My Prince," he said, voice tight with shame, "he is... unstable. Reckless. He has no respect for order, for tradition—"
"I didn't ask for analysis," the Crown Prince said, still not looking at him.
His fingers idly adjusted the quill beside the scrolls.
"I asked for control."
A pause.
"And instead, you brought provocation."
He looked up then.
And those tarnished-gold eyes were not angry.
They were measured.
Precise.
"The boy insulted you," the Prince said. "Which means you allowed insult to be possible."
A beat.
"You slammed the door. Which means you let your temper write the end of the conversation."
Another beat.
"And you returned alone. Which means you left without purpose."
He leaned back in his chair, the faint blue glow of the warded windows casting gentle light across his flawless skin—so young, too young—and yet no one in the room could meet his gaze without feeling the weight of centuries standing behind it.
"There is nothing more dangerous than a dog who believes itself a wolf," he said. "Unless, of course…"
He tilted his head.
"…the wolves start to believe it, too."
The Crown Prince finally stood, slow and smooth, walking toward the sealed window at the far end of the room. The capital stretched below—a mosaic of power, hierarchy, elegance, and shadows.
He placed a hand on the glass.
"You've failed," he said again, softly. "Not because he defied you."
A pause.
"But because you left him thinking he could."
The Crown Prince's hand lingered on the glass, his reflection fractured by the runes etched into the window's surface. Then—slowly—his eyes shifted.
And for the first time since entering the chamber, the room dimmed.
Not from any failing of light.
But from the glow that rose within him.
His pupils, once gold and ancient in hue, bled into a colder crimson—deep and glacial, not fiery. The red of sovereignty not worn, but born. A mark of the Lysandran bloodline, feared across every northern court and whispered of in the Empire's darker corners. The eyes of the last dynasty to rule not by faith or conquest, but by inevitability.
The Crown Prince turned.
Khaedren didn't look up. He didn't dare.
But the Marquis did.
Varenth's expression did not change—because it never did—but there was a subtle straightening in the lines of his spine, the way only those trained to feel dread without flinching ever moved.
The Prince spoke.
"Marquis," he said. "It seems my servants are… lacking."
He didn't glance toward Khaedren, didn't need to.
"See to it."
Varenth bowed, a single fluid motion as crisp as drawn steel. "It will be done, Your Highness."
But he did not rise immediately.
A breath passed.
"However," Varenth added, his tone unreadable, "the matter of the boy remains."
There was no need to say the name again. It hung in the air like a stain on silk.
"Lucavion."
Varenth's eyes narrowed slightly. "The formal complaint has been lodged with the Academy, but they are delaying. Politics. Appearances. The new structure of the Trials has complicated jurisdiction."
To that—
Lucien Lysandros smiled.
Not kindly.
Not amused.
But amused all the same.
The red in his eyes gleamed brighter, casting thin shadows over the room that didn't belong to the angle of the light.
"There's no need to concern yourself," he said, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. "This boy… this commonborn, name-starved cur… he is not some storm to be weathered."
His gaze lifted, slow and deliberate, back toward the glass. His reflection stared back—flawless, composed, untouched.
"He is a bug. A sheep-blooded insect who stumbled upon a sword and mistook the weight for a crown."
He turned his head slightly, just enough to let the smile show in profile.
"Let him bark. Let him bleed himself dry chasing meaning in the mud. The first frost will end him. And if it does not…"
Lucien's voice dropped, almost pleasant.
"…then I will."
A beat of silence. The weight of the room settled once more.
Then—
"Now go," the Crown Prince said, turning fully away.
Varenth bowed again, lower this time.
"Yes, Your Highness."
The door closed behind him with a whisper.
The door had barely finished whispering shut when Lucien moved.
He rose from his seat with the elegance of habit, each motion deliberate—measured not for those who might observe, but because that was the only way he knew how to move. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.
He stepped toward the arched pane of warded glass.
Beyond it, the capital glittered beneath the twilight haze. Spires of light, mana-forged halos, the quiet hum of enchantments layered into the streets like veins in a body too large to feel pain. The skyline pulsed with false serenity, as if it didn't remember the blood it stood on.
Lucien stared through it all. Past the beauty. Past the wealth. Past the spectacle.
And into the quiet unease tugging at the edges of his composure.
His reflection remained behind the runes—those red irises glowing with quiet frost.
'This is the second time.'
The words weren't spoken. They didn't need to be.
They lived in him. Cold. Sharp. Precise.
'The first time was… tolerable. An anomaly. A dog howling in the night is still just a dog.'
A shift in his jaw. Barely visible. But it was there.
'But now?'
He narrowed his eyes.
'Now the dog bares its teeth. Not by instinct. But by will.'
That was not something he could allow.
Not twice.
Not when the Academy—the place meant to mold and separate those worthy of bearing names—had allowed this display to go unanswered.
He clenched his hand once, slow, then released it. Mana flickered through his veins like the whisper of steel against silk. Not loud. Not erratic. But fatal.
His gaze lifted again. Not toward the city.
But higher.
Toward the stars beginning to bloom at the edge of the sky.
And then—
A flicker behind his eyes. A memory. Sharp. Unwanted.
Her.
That whore on the roof.
The word was venom, not lust.
Not a lover. Not even a rival.
His sister.
Or what the court dared to still call his sister.
Mixed-blood. Tainted. A symbol of everything he had carved out of the royal narrative with surgical precision. A stain the Empire had swallowed only because of timing—because the war had needed a symbol.
And now—
'Lucavion.'
The name tasted of iron and rebellion. Of dirt and heat and hunger passed off as "potential."
And that boy—that commoner—had met with her.
Of course he had.
Lucien's eyes darkened, the red within them deepening to the hue of old embers.
'Of course that mutt would find his way to the gutter spawn. Like attracts like. Filth finds filth.'
He did not speak the next thought aloud, but it pressed against the glass of his mind.
'I will show them what becomes of mongrels who dream above their station.'
Chapter 744: A girl who was left in the battlefield
The air was alive with light.
Scarlet lanterns hung from delicate woven threads, drifting gently in the warm evening breeze as if the sky itself had caught fire. Ribbons of flame-motes trailed through the air, summoned from countless floating pyres above the thoroughfares—each one dancing with the colors of the season: gold, crimson, and violet. The scent of spiced wine, candied fruit, and burning myrrh wove together into something strange and sweet and ancient.
It was the Festival of the First Flame, and the capital of the Arcanis Empire, Arcania, pulsed with celebration.
Jesse walked quietly among the crowd.
She had no attendants to draw notice, no crest openly displayed, and no fanfare announcing her arrival. In a city overflowing with noble carriages and shimmering banners, she was just another traveler. Just another girl walking beneath the glow of floating lanterns.
And yet—she had never felt so free.
Her boots tapped lightly against the cobbled roads, newly cleaned for the festival. The magic that pulsed through the ground beneath her was subtle, unlike the raw brutality of Loria's battle-forged enchantments. Here, power was woven into the rhythm of daily life. Smooth, almost invisible.
The streets curved around intricate plazas where fire-dancers twirled beneath hovering rings of flame, leaving trails of light behind their limbs. Children chased illusionary beasts that dissolved into sparks when caught. Vendors offered charred honey-almond cakes shaped like phoenixes and handed out fire-lotus petals that fluttered into smoke when touched.
Jesse paused beside a quiet alley, her fingers brushing the edge of a railing as she looked up.
The towering structures of Arcania glowed faintly against the darkening sky—towers of silver-veined stone and blue-glass crystal, their edges lit with enchantments that shifted in color as the sun faded. Above them, at the city's highest tier, the outline of the Spiral Nexus was just visible—coiled like a celestial monument, too far to touch, too close to ignore.
Her heart stirred at the sight.
So this is it, she thought. The empire that used to be our enemy. The city at the edge of everything.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of celebration wash over her. Laughter. Bells. The distant thunder of drums echoing from festival stages.
The rhythm of life.
She should have been here sooner. She wanted to be here sooner. But her arrival had been delayed—sabotaged, really. Her stepmother's feigned illness, her brother's "lost" documents, the last-minute complications with their family seal—each inconvenience a deliberate needle, meant to slow her down without giving her cause to accuse them outright.
And yet, she made it.
Despite them, she thought. Because of me.
Her hand brushed against the small seal tucked into her inner pocket—the confirmation of her candidacy, freshly stamped at the Arcanian gate just hours ago. She had missed the entrance trials' broadcast, missed the first impression everyone else had the luxury of making.
But she hadn't come here for attention.
She was here to find him.
Lucavion. The name echoed like a quiet ember inside her chest.
Over the years, every trail had pointed toward the same truth: he hadn't died. He hadn't been captured. He had escaped. And every piece of information—every whispered rumor, every unsigned report—pointed to the same place.
The Shadowed Thicket. The borderland no one cared to chart.
And past it: Arcanis.
Her expression didn't change as she resumed walking, but her steps had purpose now. Her gown for tomorrow's entrance banquet was complete, its fittings finalized just hours earlier in a small tailor shop beneath the outer ring. A dress of dark velvet and silver thread, traditional but refined—more elegant than anything she'd worn before. It would arrive at her dormitory in the morning, just in time.
The sound of celebration echoed through the streets, but Jesse moved with a slower pace now—her footsteps quiet, deliberate, as she turned down a narrower road that curved away from the bright heart of the festival.
This was still Arcania, yes, but here the magic was softer. The lights were lower. The laughter, quieter. A winding path of stone and lampfire led her between small shops and older inns—places built before the Spiral Nexus ever pierced the sky.
She passed by a merchant wiping down his counter, the smell of smoked eel and garlic drifting from his pot. A pair of old travelers sat on a bench outside a dusty map shop, arguing over trade routes and the accuracy of imperial border lines. The air here was calmer. Less urgent.
Real.
Tomorrow, she reminded herself, everything changes.
The Entrance Banquet was more than ceremony. It was the moment when the heirs and chosen of dozens of empires, clans, and guilds would first meet—first measure each other. It was where bonds were made and feuds were born.
And the Lorian Empire's delegation would gather before even that—ordered to do so by Prince Adrian himself. She had read his name in reports, seen his reputation across strategy boards during war councils. A rising star. And unlike most Lorian royals, Adrian was hands-on, precise, dangerously ambitious.
She would obey. She had no other choice.
But tonight—
Tonight was hers.
Jesse stepped into the small inn nestled between a carpenter's storefront and a shuttered candlemaker. The wood was aged, the sign above faded by sun and spell-scorch. The Ember's Rest.
The door creaked softly as she entered, a faint chime of wind-bells greeting her. The inside was warm—lit by floating sconces of low golden flame that hovered just beneath the ceiling beams. A hearth burned in the corner, and a low hum of conversation filled the space.
No noble colors here. No polished marble. Just rough wood, iron fixtures, and the sharp scent of char and old spirits.
She let out a slow breath.
This was what she needed.
The barkeep, a broad-shouldered woman with half-silver hair tied back in a braid, glanced up from polishing a glass. She nodded once, neither surprised nor impressed by Jesse's appearance.
"Seat's open. You look like you want something dark."
Jesse offered a faint smile. "Something that burns going down."
The barkeep narrowed her eyes as she looked Jesse over—slowly, not rudely, but with the practiced scrutiny of someone who'd seen too many wanderers claim they were tougher than they looked.
"Something that burns, huh?" she muttered, polishing her glass a bit slower now. "You don't look like the type."
Jesse arched a brow, her faint smile lingering. "What type would that be?"
The barkeep tapped a knuckle against the bar. "Too polished. Skin's clean, eyes too focused. No battlefield haze. You're walking straight—like someone who's been wearing armor too long but still sleeps light. Either noble-raised or just back from a command tent."
Jesse's smile didn't fade, but her eyes didn't flinch either. There was a quiet, distant sharpness behind them—a cold steadiness that only someone who had watched comrades bleed out under bad orders could carry.
The barkeep snorted, shaking her head as she reached for a heavier bottle beneath the counter. "Right. Never mind. Your eyes say different." She poured the drink—dark amber with a slow-moving thickness, the kind of liquor that whispered warnings as it filled the glass.
Jesse accepted it with a nod, her fingers curling around the worn glass rim as she let the smell hit her first—smoke, with a hint of clove and something bitter.
The inn wasn't full. Most patrons kept to their corners, minds half-lost in their own stories, their own pasts. It was that kind of place. A place for ghosts.
And Jesse was no exception.
She sipped.
It burned. Not like fire, but like memory—familiar, aching, grounding.
Places like this were rare in Arcania. Most inns were lined with crystal glasses and scented with illusions, made for nobles pretending they knew the weight of hard days. But this place—the rough wood, the smoke-stained ceilings, the half-melted wall sigils—reminded her of the old days.
Back when she was barely a third-rate Awakened, half-forgotten in a trench under Lorian command, bitter and cold and near-broken. Before the title. Before the duel. Before the Empire knew her name.
Back when she had lost her reason to keep going.
Back when he found her.
Lucavion.
Chapter 745: A girl who was left in the battlefield (2)
Lucavion.
Jessie remembered the first night he sat beside her at a backwater supply post. She hadn't spoken a word to anyone in days. She had been ready to vanish, to slip out past the patrols and disappear into the snow. But he had brought two chipped cups and a half-empty bottle—not of liquor, but preserved fruit tonic. Some awful mix the supply sergeants passed off as a "celebration ration."
"Drinking doesn't fix it," he'd said that night, calm as ever, "but sharing something bitter makes it easier to swallow."
He didn't let her drink then. Not real alcohol. Said it would only make the weight worse when she stood up again.
And the worst part was… he was right.
But you didn't stay, she thought. You didn't stay long enough to see what happened after.
When he vanished, she didn't fall back into despair.
She fought. She rose. She clawed her way up.
And somewhere along that way, alcohol had become easy to reach.
Not to forget—but to fill the silence.
She sipped again, letting the bitterness sit on her tongue before swallowing.
The barkeep glanced at her from the corner of her eye. "Military?"
Jesse didn't answer at first. Then: "Once."
"Didn't come from around here, did you?"
"No," Jesse replied, placing the glass down. "But I've been heading here for a long time."
The barkeep nodded, as if she understood more than Jesse had said. She moved away to serve another customer, leaving Jesse alone with the heat of the drink and the chill of her memories.
The warmth of the drink settled in Jesse's chest like a quiet ember. Not enough to dull her thoughts—she wouldn't let herself be dulled—but enough to take the edge off. Just enough to let the tension of the journey, the weight of the capital's grandeur, bleed away from her shoulders.
The barkeep returned after a while, polishing another glass, not pressing—just present.
"Loria?" she asked casually, tilting her head. "You've got the look. Posture's still too sharp. Like you don't trust your back to rest."
Jesse exhaled softly through her nose, not quite a laugh. "That obvious?"
"Only to people who've lived long enough to stop marching."
The words struck deeper than expected, and Jesse let her gaze drift to the hearth, where the fire flickered low and golden.
"Valerius Plains…."
"Valerius Plains," the barkeep echoed with a click of her tongue. "Gods. That place still eats bones?"
Jesse smiled faintly. "It hasn't changed."
The barkeep leaned on the counter, pouring herself a small glass of the same drink Jesse had ordered. "Name's Virelle," she offered. "And you?"
"Jesse," she replied simply.
"Well, Jesse," Virelle said, tapping her glass against Jesse's in an unceremonious toast, "you've got more bite than most nobles who step through my door. They want perfume and pageantry. You want peace."
Jesse arched a brow. "You get many nobles here?"
"Too many," Virelle muttered. "Especially with the Academy's entrance cycle open. Half the city's parading heirs like they're prize cattle. All silks and gilded lies."
Jesse chuckled quietly. "You don't sound impressed."
"I'm too old to be impressed," Virelle said. "Besides, power means nothing if you don't know how to hold it without flinching."
That struck something in Jesse—an echo of her training, of the way Lucavion used to speak. Not of strength in terms of mana output or titles, but in how you stood. How you endured.
"You were Awakened once," Jesse guessed.
Virelle nodded. "Long time ago. Too long now. Sparks burn fast when you throw them into the wrong kind of fight."
"And now you run an inn?"
"Now I run a haven," Virelle corrected. "For those who don't want to forget what real weight feels like."
Jesse took another sip, the burn softer now, her body settling into the quiet rhythm of the space. The inn was old, the wood warped and aged—but it felt real. Grounded. The opposite of the gleaming towers and floating sigils of the noble quarter.
"Do you know much about the Academy?" Jesse asked after a pause. "The Imperial one."
Virelle raised a brow, eyeing Jesse with that same even, unflinching gaze—like someone who had seen every kind of story walk through her doors and knew when one was about to start.
"Oh…" she said slowly, setting down her glass with a soft clink. "Are you one of the envoys sent by the Lorian Empire?"
Jesse didn't answer at first.
Just stared into her drink. The liquid caught the firelight in ripples, like distant blood over steel.
"…Exchange students," Virelle continued, her voice softer now, more measured. "Was that what they called it?"
Jesse nodded once, the motion barely more than a breath.
"Yeah."
Virelle leaned back, folding her arms. "I see."
She didn't press, didn't ask for details. Didn't need to.
"Bit strange," she murmured. "To think we'd ever see Lorian uniforms walking through the Nexus gates. A few years ago, the only exchange between our Empires was steel and fire."
"Peace," Jesse said quietly. "That's what they're calling this."
Virelle snorted. "Peace is just war that learned how to wear a nicer coat."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—just dense. Solid. Like the weight of a blade across your back that never quite left, even when the fighting was over.
"You want to know about the Academy?" Virelle asked at last.
Jesse looked up. "I do."
Virelle nodded and reached behind the bar, pulling out a worn map—creased, frayed, the edges darkened with age and soot. She spread it across the counter, pressing down the corners with a pair of chipped coasters.
"There it is," she said, tapping a spot near the Spiral Nexus's base. "The Imperial Arcanis Academy. Old as the capital itself. Built in layers, like the city. Each tier for a different division. Elementalists. Sigil Weavers. Tactical Awakened. Some say the bottom layers are older than the Empire."
"And the students?" Jesse asked, eyes scanning the lines like a soldier memorizing terrain.
"Divided by affiliation," Virelle said. "Noble lines. Sponsored candidates. And now—" her eyes flicked up to Jesse, "—the commoners. Those who passed the Candidacy Trials."
"Oh…."
Jesse's fingers tightened ever so slightly around her glass. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to feel the weight of it.
"I wasn't here to see it," she said, voice low. "Had… delays."
Virelle raised a brow, but didn't press. She leaned her weight onto the bar, eyeing the old map as though recalling pieces of a story she had no business remembering so well.
"Shame," she said after a sip. "You missed quite a show. The whole city stopped to watch. Taverns packed, streets half-empty, even the Nexus paused most of its outer-tier lectures to let the professors view the trials."
"Was it worth the spectacle?" Jesse asked.
"Oh, absolutely," Virelle said, chuckling to herself. "Day one was dull—monotone, structured. A lot of posturing. Tests of discipline, control. Most of the candidates were trying too hard to prove they belonged. Still, a few stood out."
Jesse leaned in, listening now. Her drink had gone still in her hand.
"But the final days…" Virelle's tone shifted, gaining a touch of fire. "That's when things changed. The tests got harder. Crueler. They started throwing more at the candidates than most fresh Awakened ever see in the field."
Jesse didn't respond. She didn't have to.
Virelle continued, almost with a grin. "And then there was this one kid… caught everyone's attention. Young. Pale. Didn't shout, didn't flex. Just moved. Calm. Focused. Like everything around him was already decided."
Jesse's breath stilled. Just slightly.
"...What was his name?" Virelle mused aloud, tapping a knuckle against her temple. "It was a bit unique. Old-sounding. Not native."
Jesse didn't blink. "What happened?"
"He cleared one of the strongest contestants that was favored by the entire crowd," Virelle said. "Outmaneuvered his techniques. Then—get this—turned the damn place into a fire pit."
Jesse said nothing. She was already breathing too carefully.
"Ah," Virelle said at last, snapping her fingers. "Lucavion. That was it."
The name landed like a blade drawn from scabbard steel.
Chapter 746: Found you
The name landed like a blade drawn from scabbard steel.
Lucavion.
Jesse's breath hitched.
Her eyes widened—not from surprise alone, but something deeper. A crack in the quiet armor she'd worn since stepping into the city. She had expected to chase whispers. Expected silence, not confirmation. Not now. Not like this.
Her heartbeat quickened, breath shallow for a moment as her gaze slowly lifted toward Virelle.
The barkeep hadn't noticed at first—too caught in her memory of the scene—but when she met Jesse's eyes, she paused.
A beat.
Then Virelle chuckled softly, as if easing back into the tale. "He looked cool, I'll tell you that. Dead calm. Not in that cold, cocky way some of the highbloods do it, either. It was like… everything he did made sense. Every movement. Every dodge. Like he was already five steps ahead of everyone in that arena."
Jesse said nothing. Her fingers curled slightly around the rim of her glass.
"His opponent?" Virelle went on, voice warming with admiration, "Reynald Vale. That one's no slouch either—young noble, sharp instincts. Protected a whole group of candidates during the labyrinth sequence. Kept them alive, advanced through every phase, even earned the crowd's favor by the end of day two."
She shook her head slowly, eyes distant with memory.
"But then he went up against him."
"Lucavion," Jesse whispered. She hadn't meant to. The name slipped out like breath on glass.
Virelle gave her a knowing glance. "Yeah. Lucavion. The way that duel played out…" She gave a low whistle. "That wasn't just talent. That was art. Fluid. Relentless. Precise."
"He beat Reynald, or whatever that person's name?" Jesse asked, her voice thin with disbelief and awe.
"He didn't just beat him," Virelle said, her tone quiet now, reverent. "He commanded the field. Turned the whole damn arena into a fire pit by the end—some old sigil layering technique no one saw coming. Even us old-timers felt it. That weight. That certainty. Like watching the idea of an Awakened, not just a person."
She let out a slow breath, then chuckled. "Hells, I hadn't felt that fire in my veins since the March on Stoneveil. And I wasn't the only one. The whole inn went still. No one spoke. Just watched."
Jesse swallowed hard, the back of her throat dry.
She could see it in her mind. That boy. Pale. Silent. Moving like the world had already told him its secrets. She hadn't seen him in years. Not truly. Not since he vanished without a word. And yet—
She could still hear his voice in her memory.
"Drinking doesn't fix it."
Virelle watched her for a moment longer, then spoke, more gently this time. "You knew him?"
Jesse's voice came softly—fragile, almost disbelieving. "Yeah… he was an old friend of mine."
Virelle didn't press. Not immediately. She simply nodded, polishing the rim of another glass with a slow, practiced hand. Then—casually, but not unkindly—she said, "Well, then you'll probably want to know the rest."
Jesse blinked. "The rest?"
Virelle leaned on her elbows, eyes still carrying a flicker of admiration. "After the duel with Reynald… well, that boy didn't stop there. Reynald had protected a handful of promising candidates all through the trials. Got them through ambushes, mana beasts, cursed terrain—you name it. Real leadership."
"But Lucavion…" Virelle clicked her tongue. "He eliminated every single one Reynald had protected. Picked them off one by one after the match, during the final skirmish phase. Clean. Tactical. No wasted movement."
Jesse's eyes widened, breath catching again.
"And when the dust settled," Virelle said, voice low with finality, "Lucavion stood alone. Ranked first. Unanimously."
The inn suddenly felt too quiet. The fire too warm. The drink in Jesse's glass suddenly not enough.
"Does that mean…" she began, the words catching in her throat, "…he'll be entering the Academy?"
Virelle gave her a long, steady look. Then nodded. "That's what I heard. Academy confirmed it last night. First seat goes to Lucavion. He'll be at the banquet tomorrow, along with the rest."
And just like that—something cracked in Jesse.
Her expression didn't twist with confusion or sorrow.
No.
A smile bloomed—slowly, then all at once. One that couldn't be hidden, even if she'd tried. It was crooked at first. Disbelieving. Like the start of laughter after days of silence. But it grew, wide and bright and utterly unguarded.
To think…
To truly think—that she'd find him here, in this place, in this city of floating sigils and foreign sky.
All this time, she had been searching. Digging through fragments. Crossing borders. Carrying his name like a shadow in her chest. And now—
She no longer needed to search.
She could meet him.
The realization hit her so suddenly that she reached for her drink and downed the rest in a single pull, the warmth hitting harder than before.
Virelle chuckled under her breath. "That smile," she said, shaking her head. "That boy must hold quite a place in your heart."
Jesse didn't reply at first, licking a bit of the sharp taste from her lip.
"Is it that obvious?" she murmured.
Virelle's brow lifted knowingly. "Heh. This old barkeep's seen a lot of faces walk in here. Mercs, nobles, lovesick runaways, battle-shocked survivors… and then there's your kind."
"My kind?" Jesse asked, not even bothering to hide the slight flush rising to her cheeks.
Virelle gave her a gentle smirk. "The ones who smile like they're finally breathing again."
Jesse glanced back toward the fire, her smile still lingering, quieter now. Warmer.
Well, it has been a while.
*****
The sky was still cloaked in a haze of blue-gray velvet, the sun barely brushing its golden fingers along the horizon.
Dawn hadn't broken—it had stirred.
And inside one of the eastern spire chambers of the Silvergrove Estate, Valeria sat upright in the dressing chaise, cloaked in the soft rustle of silks and the quiet, exacting rhythm of preparation.
Three attendants moved about her in seamless choreography. One brushed through her hair with an oiled comb of rose-gold teeth, another fastened fine rune-thread cuffs to the sleeves of her formal academy robes, and the third adjusted the lapel brooch bearing the crest of House Maynter—subtle, but unmistakably hers.
None of them spoke unless addressed. It was early still, and their lady's mind was elsewhere.
She held a polished dataslate in her lap, its interface scrolled open to a rotating archive of portraits and names. Lineages. Aptitude rankings. Regional affiliations. Known dueling records. Instructor notations, where applicable.
The official registry of incoming students to the Imperial Arcanis Academy—Class 127.
She skimmed in silence.
House Kalenhart's heir. Strong in diplomatic shielding techniques.
The Scion of Vervain. Tied to the Ivory Guild. Likely dangerous in subtle influence.
A prodigy from the outer southern dominion. Commoner background—but sponsored by a minor barony with peculiar ties to the Northern Research Ministry.
All noted. All committed to memory.
In the world she belonged to, disrespect was rarely loud.
It arrived as a pause too long. A greeting too informal. A glance held just a second past permission. Nobility spoke in brushstrokes, not declarations. And Valeria—trained by her mother, tempered by her station—knew how easily a wrong note could haunt a year of politics.
So she studied.
She studied because it mattered. Because power was sometimes a name remembered—or one deliberately forgotten.
A hairpin clicked into place. A small mirror was tilted before her, the attendant awaiting approval. Valeria gave a nod—silent, efficient.
Still her eyes stayed on the list.
Then, her thumb paused.
The entry wasn't bolded. It bore no crest.
Just a single name.
Lucavion.
No surname. No house. No affiliations listed.
No sponsors. No endorsements.
But his rank—unofficially annotated in crimson by one of the more thorough registry aides—was "Unknown / Combat-Verified: Peak 4-Star."
A note beneath it:
"Defeated Candidate Reynald Vale in trial match. Technique unregistered. Recommendation: observe."
Valeria's lips curved faintly.
Not a smile. Not quite.
Just a recognition of something inevitable.
The flame that slipped through the cracks of recorded fire.
"You'll cause noise in a place that survives on silence," she murmured to herself, the dataslate folding closed with a soft chime.
"My lady?" one of the attendants asked gently, hands paused over the fastening of her cloak's inner collar.
Valeria tilted her chin.
"Continue."
Chapter 747: Sword
The morning of the Entrance Banquet broke not with fanfare, but with tension—tight and expectant, like the breath held before a blade meets bone. Dawnlight spilled through the windows of the dining hall in gentle waves, brushing across fresh linen, silver cutlery, and untouched platters of fruit and spice-glazed bread. Everything had been set early. Immaculate. Waiting.
They came one by one.
Caeden first, as always. Crisp, upright, quiet. He moved with the kind of discipline bred from noble courts and dueling halls, though his gaze flicked once toward the high windows like even he wasn't immune to the day's weight.
Elayne arrived second, hair already half-tied, her presence composed but not cold. She nodded to Caeden silently, seating herself at the end of the table, eyes scanning the room as though checking for invisible threads that might have moved overnight.
Toven stumbled in next, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and muttering curses at the sun. "They could've let us rest. One more hour. Or half. Or five minutes."
Mireilla followed with a smirk and a braid half-done, chewing a piece of jerky like it was breakfast for champions. "You'll wake up when you see your outfit. Bet it'll shine so bright you'll mistake yourself for royalty."
And then—
Lucavion.
He entered with the same casual grace as always, dressed in a loose black tunic with faint stitching around the collar, looking for all the world like he'd just strolled in from some private rehearsal for a duel that hadn't yet been announced.
He said nothing as he poured himself tea. But there was something different in the air around him.
Stillness.
Not calm. Not peace.
A stillness like a storm waiting for the right stage.
"Good. You're all here."
Kaleran's voice cut through the room just as the last of them settled into their seats. He stood at the far end of the table, hands behind his back, posture immaculate—again. He'd changed into formal robes, edged in navy and silver, with the Academy's crest pinned at the collar like a warning.
"You've all made your sponsor selections. The official notices have been sealed and sent. Today… is about presentation."
Toven let out a long, pained exhale. Mireilla kicked him under the table.
Kaleran continued unfazed. "First: your weapons. They are ready and waiting at the forge. You will proceed there immediately after breakfast. Harlan and the other smiths will present the final products and deliver the enchantment seals."
Lucavion raised a brow faintly. 'So it's time.'
"Afterwards," Kaleran went on, "you will return here. Your formal wear has been delivered to your quarters. Tailored. Enchanted. And in some cases—reinforced."
"Reinforced?" Mireilla echoed, suspicious.
Kaleran ignored her. "You'll be given three hours to prepare. That includes hair, makeup, polish, and basic grooming. Stylists have been summoned from the outer courts, and you will cooperate."
"I object to having anything sharp near my face," Toven muttered.
"Then I suggest you sit very still," Kaleran replied without a blink.
Elayne glanced at Lucavion. "You ready for this?"
He swirled the tea in his cup once, then sipped.
"Always."
Kaleran gave a small nod. "Then eat. What comes next is not simply formality. It's spectacle. The Banquet is not for your benefit—it is for them. The nobles. The commanders. The ones who want to know what kind of storm they've let in."
Lucavion smiled faintly into his cup.
They ate in that quiet tension. Low conversation, a few dry jokes. Mireilla tried to guess what weapon Caeden had chosen. Toven nearly spilled his juice trying to steal a pastry. Elayne made a list of etiquette infractions in her head just by watching them all.
And then, as the sun rose higher through the crystal-lined dome, Kaleran stood again.
"It's time."
*****
–CRANK! CRANK!–
The sharp, rhythmic strikes rang through the forge hall like declarations. Not hurried. Not uncertain. Each one deliberate. Measured. A dialogue of weight and will.
The scent of scorched aetherglass still hung in the air, mingling with the deeper musk of iron and aged mana.
The old enchantments hummed faintly in the walls—layered wards and sigils tracing faint lines of gold and obsidian over stone—and then shimmered once.
A voice echoed through them, crisp and clipped. The attendant.
"Master Harlan. Sir Lucavion will be arriving shortly."
Harlan didn't respond at first.
He held the hammer raised mid-air, motion paused at the apex of its swing. The forge around him dimmed a fraction, as if waiting on his next breath.
Then, slowly, he lowered the hammer.
Not onto the anvil.
But onto the stone lip beside it.
The strike was gentle. Almost reverent.
He exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, gaze falling to the product beneath the veil of smoke and tempered magic on the anvil. His hand brushed aside the cloth covering it.
The metal beneath glinted like midnight water—blackened silver folded with abyssal shimmer, core-threaded with dark umbracite alloy. In the light of the forge, the runes shimmered faintly—re-etched, re-aligned, precise.
No longer the blade of a rising fighter.
This was the weapon of a man who had already survived far too much.
Harlan studied it, his thick fingers moving once over the flat of the blade like a final blessing.
The metal pulsed beneath his touch, faint and deep, like a heart wrapped in tempered steel. The layers of umbracite and Abyssal scale caught the forge light in conflicting reflections: silver-black shimmer over blood-deep etchings, the re-etched runes drinking the ambient mana instead of reflecting it. Silent. Waiting.
Beautiful didn't quite cover it.
No—this thing was beyond beauty. It was art carved into violence. Grace forged into threat. It looked like it belonged on an altar or in a graveyard—never resting, always one heartbeat from drawing blood.
And anyone with sense would hesitate to touch it.
Because the sword didn't just wait.
It warned.
Harlan's lips tugged upward in a rare, crooked smile.
"You better be ready for this sword, Lucavion."
His voice was low—more to the forge than to the room.
"This one isn't just sharp. It's watching. Waiting for something worth killing."
He rested the hammer beside the cloth, wiped his palms against his apron, and exhaled.
"It's not the peak of what I can make," he muttered, stepping back slightly. "But gods know, it's close. I poured my sweat into this one."
He gestured vaguely toward the locked shelf—where the rare alloys had been pulled from, piece by piece. "And the materials… you'd be crucified in three courts for wasting even a grain of 'em."
Then—something shifted.
A ripple.
Like the forge room inhaled.
Harlan stilled, head turning slightly—not toward the main entrance, but to the shadow before the flame. A presence, coiled just beyond the barrier of heat. Quiet, but not subdued. Like a storm that had learned the art of silence.
It wasn't hostile.
It wasn't humble.
It was… there. In a way nothing else was.
A pulse of feral pressure. Not mana. Not bloodlust.
Just… Lucavion.
Harlan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head once.
'Heh… that flame of his. Still refuses to bow to the heat in here.'
He turned toward the veil of enchantments just as the door mechanisms began to shift—gears unlocking with heavy clinks, the sigil-bound thresholds sensing who approached.
The sword on the anvil didn't move.
But the air around it seemed to lean forward.
Just like the blade knew who it was waiting for.
Chapter 748: Sword (2)
Lucavion stepped into the forge with the kind of presence that didn't seek attention—but seized it all the same.
The moment the ward-sealed door hissed open and the light of the enchantments spilled over his form, the air in the room shifted. Not from heat. Not from pressure. From recognition.
The runes along the walls flickered.
The forge flame bent ever so slightly toward him.
And the blade—still nestled on the anvil like a relic awaiting war—seemed to resonate.
Not loudly. Not visually.
But with a hush. As if the weapon itself had held its breath.
[Why are you smiling?]
Vitaliara's voice drifted beside him, not amused, not accusing—just curious, with that airy, feline tilt of mischief beneath the words.
"I'm not," Lucavion replied, his tone smooth, casual.
[You are,] she shot back instantly. [Your smirk's spread halfway across your face. You look like a fox caught in the chicken coop.]
He gave a slow exhale that might have been a laugh. "I'm simply curious."
[Curious?]
"Well, I'm about to meet a sword I didn't forge, in a room where nothing dares whisper without permission. You'd be smiling too."
Vitaliara's paws padded across the stone beside him in her small, low-slung form, tail flicking once.
[You and your obsessions with swords…]
"It kept me alive," he said simply. No drama. Just fact.
Vitaliara didn't reply immediately.
The weight of his words—not heavy, but deliberate—hung in the silence between metal and flame.
She didn't press.
Because she knew.
He wasn't speaking about just this life.
Or just this place.
Not the Academy, nor the Empire.
But further back.
Further in.
Where names had different meanings, and fire came without warning.
And in those moments?
It had been the sword that saved him.
Not for glory.
Not for revenge.
Just survival.
The air thickened the deeper Lucavion walked into the forge—each step sinking into the heat like a slow descent into a hearth's heart. The enchantments in the walls no longer flickered for show; they pulsed with purpose, their glow casting long shadows over shelves of alloy and racks of runebound tools. The warmth here was the kind that peeled back weakness, that tested your blood for steel.
But Lucavion didn't flinch.
The heat coiled around him like an old acquaintance. Familiar. Harmless. He'd walked through worse—through blazefields and collapsed vaults, through dreams that burned hotter than any forge.
Fire did not concern him.
It remembered him.
He stopped just at the lip of the inner forge, where the real work was done. Where the walls weren't just stone but memory, scorched into permanence.
Harlan looked up from where he stood, wiping thick hands on a soot-stained cloth. His eyes crinkled behind that beard more charcoal than white, and his voice came low, gravelled, but steady.
"Kid. You're early."
Lucavion gave a casual tilt of his head, just enough to let the smirk rise. "Come on, old man. I came when I was allowed to."
"Which means," Harlan drawled, tossing the cloth aside, "you would've come earlier if you could."
"Of course."
A beat.
Then a grunt that might've been a laugh, or just the forge shifting with him.
"Heh…"
Harlan stepped aside, revealing the blade—not just with ceremony, but with something close to pride. The heat shimmered faintly around it, like the air itself couldn't believe what it was holding.
Lucavion's eyes didn't widen.
But they focused.
As if sight alone wasn't enough to see it.
"I better not be disappointed," he murmured.
Harlan turned, arms folding across that broad chest, the firelight casting deep lines across his face. "Who do you think I am, kid?"
Lucavion finally stepped forward. Close now. One arm-length from the blade.
"I think," he said, voice low, "you're the man who knows how to make a weapon remember its purpose."
Harlan's reply was immediate. Quiet. Final.
"You won't be."
He reached out, not for the sword—but for the cloth draped beside it. A single, smooth pull.
And the forge fell quiet.
*****
Lucavion didn't speak.
He just stared.
The blade lay before him in quiet defiance of the heat around it—radiant not from polish, but presence. The surface gleamed like liquid dusk, blackened silver interlaced with shadows that shimmered if one stared too long. Etched lines ran down the length of the blade, weaving through the core with a grace that didn't belong to battle. They pulsed softly—not with mana, but with memory.
He reached out.
Slowly.
Not reverent. But not careless either.
And the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt—
It hit.
Not like a flare. Not like an explosion.
But like gravity.
Like home.
A sensation tore through his arm and down to his core, as if the blade had exhaled and remembered who he was. A resonance—not violent, not overwhelming—but perfect. The hum of aligned frequencies. The fusion of intent.
His breath caught.
Not from shock.
But from recognition.
'This... this is like Rackenshore.'
The memory ghosted behind his eyes—of a younger him, standing barefoot in ash-soaked dirt, holding the original blade in his hands for the first time. That had been the moment the [Flame of Equinox] had stopped resisting him. When the storm inside him had found a form that could hold it.
This was beyond that.
The conduction was seamless. As if the mana wasn't channeling through the blade—but with it. His energy flowed through it like water into a carved groove, amplified but not distorted. The hilt met his grip like a handshake remembered from childhood. The balance—flawless. The weight—anchored. Not too light. Not too heavy.
Perfectly his.
He turned the blade slightly.
The edge glinted with the shimmer of folded umbracite, and the runes whispered back at him with the soft glow of intent. Not burning. Listening.
Lucavion exhaled, low, steady.
"...You weren't kidding."
Harlan just watched him, arms still crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"That's right. You're not holding a weapon. You're holding yourself. Just better."
Lucavion didn't answer.
He turned the blade again, one hand brushing the flat, feeling the layered reinforcement beneath the surface. Even the sound the blade made as it moved through the air was quieter, deeper—like a promise spoken in steel.
This wasn't just a refinement.
It was a rebirth.
He glanced toward the old man, eyes sharp with something unspoken.
"You added to the core alignment."
Harlan snorted. "Course I did. You think I'm gonna hand over a blade that only meets your last standard? This thing could gut a thunder serpent and still be ready for the second course."
Lucavion chuckled once—brief and real.
"I'll test that later."
"You better."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was full.
Lucavion turned back to the blade, holding it upright now. His reflection shimmered across its surface—slightly distorted, but his all the same.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt… settled.
Not safe.
Just aligned.
[You look like someone who fell in love,] Vitaliara's voice teased, soft and amused.
"I might have," he murmured.
She padded around the anvil, her feline form graceful, tail curling as she looked up.
[At least she's sharper than your last girlfriend.]
Lucavion didn't dignify that with a response.
But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Just enough to be a smile.
Yet a voice will take him out of his dreams.
"Wait. That's not all."
Chapter 749: This is.....
"Wait. That's not all."
Lucavion paused mid-turn, brow lifting.
Harlan didn't elaborate. Just jerked his chin toward the far side of the forge, where a tall object sat shrouded under a heavy blanket of fire-resistant cloth. It stood upright, at an angle—deliberately placed, deliberately veiled.
Lucavion narrowed his eyes. "What's that?"
Harlan didn't answer.
Just kept staring.
Lucavion tilted his head, the smirk returning with theatrical slowness. "You planning to bury me under whatever's hiding in that tarp, or should I be excited?"
"Go check it," Harlan muttered, tone flat but loaded.
Lucavion blinked. "...What is it?"
That did it.
The old man's brow furrowed deep enough to collapse a cave system. "Do what I say, you little bastard!"
Lucavion let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Gods, old man—why are you already angry? The sun's not even halfway up. What, the heat finally gotten into your skull?"
"Shut up and move."
Lucavion held up both hands, feigning surrender. "Fine, fine. Forge-master's wrath and all."
He strolled across the forge with a deliberate lack of urgency, clearly enjoying dragging out the moment. Vitaliara trailed behind with the air of someone equally amused but entirely unsurprised.
As he reached the covered shape, he paused for half a breath—then pulled.
The cloth came off with a soft whuff of ash-scented air.
And Lucavion stilled.
The thing beneath the cloth wasn't gleaming metal or enchanted crystal, no weapon or relic as he'd expected. It was... fabric. Crumpled. Matte black. Dull in the forge light, folded in on itself like discarded rags. For a moment, he just stared.
A frown ghosted across his brow.
"Old man," he called over his shoulder, voice edged with disbelief, "what is this? Is this a prank?"
Harlan didn't answer immediately.
When he did, the smirk in his voice was unmistakable. "Guess."
Lucavion slowly turned back to the black fabric, eyeing it like it might unfold into a snake.
"...A cloak?"
Silence.
He turned again—and saw Harlan narrowing his eyes, thick arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed god.
"Bastard," Harlan muttered, "do you think I wasted thirty hours and three haven-forged seals for a cloak?"
"Then what the hell is it, old man? What am I supposed to make out of this? A dramatic curtain reveal?"
Lucavion reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the strange cloth—and in that instant, the fabric surged like water.
Before he could react, it moved.
No—it flowed. Shot up his arm and wrapped around his torso, up beneath his tunic, slipping beneath his outer garments like smoke caught in a breeze.
"...Eh?"
Lucavion looked down.
The black fabric had vanished—but not entirely. It now clung to him, thin as a second skin, slick as oil, laced around the edges of his arms, chest, even his back. It didn't sit on him.
It had fused.
He rolled a shoulder instinctively, and the movement felt smoother. Tighter. Lighter.
He pressed a palm against his side.
It wasn't armor.
But it wasn't nothing.
"Heh…" Harlan's voice came again, dry and sharp as a hammer's edge. "Does that look like a cloak to you?"
Lucavion didn't answer.
Because he was still staring.
Still feeling.
The strange… pressure. A low, thrumming density—beneath his skin, but not his own. The enchantment didn't hum like external magic. It matched his breathing. Mirrored his core pulse.
A ghost-layer of defense.
A whisper-thin weave of mana-reactive cloth, anchored in runes.
It wasn't meant to protect like plate.
It was meant to react.
Lucavion stared down at his torso, fingers brushing the fabric where it clung beneath his outer coat. It felt like silk had married steel—smooth, pliant, but dense with something that didn't quite belong to this world.
"Old man…" he muttered, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and a returning memory. "This is…"
He trailed off, brow furrowed—not in confusion, but recognition.
It was familiar. Not from this life.
From the other one.
Compression suits. Bodyskins. Tactical flex armor. Earth had its own versions of these. Used by special ops, experimental squads, off-world divers… he'd seen them in warzones and simulations both.
After all, they were pretty popular in games, and as a highschooler, Bruce at least saw them. Though, this was the first time he was experiencing this.
Sleek and dark. Worn like second skin, layered with nanofiber composites that moved with the body and reacted faster than thought.
But here?
In this world?
He hadn't seen anything even close.
Not until now.
"I forgot this was even possible…" he breathed.
Harlan grunted behind him. "That's 'cause it wasn't."
Lucavion looked over his shoulder.
The forge master was already pulling off his apron and tossing it aside, moving toward a rack lined with rune-etched schematics and alloy samples.
"I've been toying with this idea for years," Harlan said, voice low and deliberate, "but never had a reason to make it. Or the damn materials."
He gestured toward the black threads still weaving themselves faintly tighter around Lucavion's arms.
"That's voidweave. Reactive mesh harvested from siphon-thread serpents. Only grows in high-density mana fields. Almost impossible to handle without corrupting it. But you?"
He pointed a thick finger.
"You came strolling in here with enough rare stock to buy a private forge on the third ring. And you didn't need a new sword. You wanted yours upgraded. Which meant I had room to play."
Lucavion arched a brow. "So you got creative."
"I got fair," Harlan growled. "Empire gave you enough points to bankrupt three noble houses. Would've been robbery not to give you more than a polished blade."
He walked over and tapped the side of Lucavion's arm, where the fabric shimmered faintly at the edge.
"That armor's not like anything else in this damn continent. It won't stop a mountain crashing down on you—but it'll soften the blow. It'll read your aura, respond to your intent, and keep your vitals warm even if you're bleeding in the snow."
Lucavion looked down again, testing the fit—twisting, shifting his weight.
It moved like it wasn't even there.
No drag. No stiffness. No awkward seams.
Just alignment.
Harlan folded his arms, watching him with a gleam of something buried behind all the usual sarcasm.
"I built it to work with your sword's resonance. It layers its defense based on your aether flow. Meaning: the more serious you get, the more it activates."
Lucavion tilted his head.
"So if I fight seriously—"
"It'll act serious," Harlan cut in. "But it won't fight for you. You're still the bastard holding the blade."
Lucavion grinned.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
Harlan snorted. "You're welcome."
The silence that followed hummed with subtle tension, like something just under the surface of the forge's flames. Then Lucavion's voice came, quieter.
"You really didn't have to do all this."
"I did," Harlan replied simply. "Not for you. For the craft. For the idea."
Lucavion blinked.
"What?"
Harlan's gaze went distant—just for a second.
"You're the first person I've met who might actually push a blade past its edge and not let it break. The sword. The armor. You."
He shrugged.
"I just want to see how far it'll all go."
Chapter 750: Thanks, old man
Lucavion turned toward Harlan, brushing dust from his sleeves as the reactive weave beneath his clothes adjusted with subtle ease. He watched the old man for a second longer—long enough to really see past the gruff posture and the scowl he wore like armor.
"Old man," he said casually, "between all that grumbling, you're actually a pretty good guy."
Harlan's expression darkened instantly. "What the hell are you saying, you bastard?"
He stepped forward, hand already swinging up in the direction of Lucavion's head.
But Lucavion was already two steps back, slipping just out of reach with practiced ease. "Tch. Still slow."
"Next time I'm forging you a sword with a built-in shock rune," Harlan muttered.
Lucavion gave a chuckle, then paused. Looked at him again.
And the smile that followed wasn't his usual grin. It wasn't sharp. It wasn't hiding anything.
It was small.
Simple.
Real.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady. "For everything, old man."
For a moment, Harlan just stood there. Watching him.
That smile—the one on Lucavion's face now—wasn't worn like armor. It wasn't a trick or a mask or a misdirection. It was one of the rare ones, from the part of him that didn't speak much. The part that remembered being lost and alone, and finding something that held.
Harlan exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in understanding.
"You better use 'em well," he muttered. "Or I'll haunt your ass in the middle of a duel."
Lucavion gave a two-fingered salute, turned on his heel, and headed for the forge door—his footsteps light, but not hurried. The blade at his back and the armor beneath his clothes seemed to carry him with a kind of quiet finality, as if the forge had given him not just tools, but something to walk forward with.
As the heavy doors closed behind him, the silence returned.
The forge crackled softly.
Harlan didn't move at first. He just stood there in the heat, one hand resting on the anvil.
Then he sat.
And the weight settled behind his eyes.
'Let's hope,' he thought, rubbing his brow slowly, 'you don't get caught in this too, kid.'
It was just a thought.
*****
Aether winds, trimmed and shaped by warding enchantments, kept the temperature perfect for ceremony but just cool enough to sting anyone walking without armor.
Lucavion stepped through the last set of arches alone, hands in his coat pockets, his usual pitch-black estoc resting quietly in its scabbard across his back.
He said nothing.
And no one asked.
Because the others were already gathered at the rendezvous point near the opal-trimmed fountain, each of them surrounded by the final shapes of who they were becoming.
Mireilla was the first to spot him. She spun on her heel, her usual cocky energy dialed down—but not erased. In her hands, she held something strange and beautiful: a double-pronged wand of interwoven briarwood and white iron. The top curved into a crescent bloom, blooming with a single living flower that shifted color with every blink. The base pulsed faintly—alive, not with magic alone, but something rooted.
"About time, blackbird," she called, spinning it lazily between her fingers. "Try not to be late to your own parade."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "You kiss your vines with that mouth?"
Mireilla smirked. "Only when they bloom right."
Beside her, Caeden stood like a wall dressed in polished restraint. The weapon at his back looked more like a slab of war than a sword—a broad cleaver with no handguard, its edges shaped not for finesse but for finality. Inlays of darksteel lined the core, etched in anchor runes that stabilized his strength surges. A weapon forged not to move swiftly—but to end whatever it touched.
He glanced at Lucavion once, then nodded.
"Looks like they kept your spine intact," he said simply.
Lucavion smiled faintly. "Tempting though it was to install a replacement."
On the other side, Toven bounced lightly on his heels. His hands crackled faintly, not with magic yet—but anticipation. The twin rods hanging at either side of his hips were unlike the others' weapons: forged of crystalized arclight and mana glass, their tips sleeved in tempered ebonite to channel and ground electrical overload. They pulsed with a low whine, barely audible.
Lucavion gave him a sidelong glance. "If you light yourself on fire before the banquet, I'm not claiming you."
"I'm not gonna explode," Toven muttered. "Probably."
"Promising."
Then came Elayne.
She stood near the shadowed edge of the fountain, almost part of it—her cloak so sheer it blurred the lines of her form when she moved. In her hand was no sword, no staff, but a blade-fan: thin panels of obsidian-tinted metal etched in illusion runes, each fold an arcane anchor. When opened, the fan expanded in a fractal of smoke and mirage—perfect for slicing, deflecting, or vanishing altogether. A ghost's weapon. Meant for quiet war.
Lucavion gave her a look. "Assassins going formal now?"
"….."
A shared silence followed. Just for a moment. The kind that settled not because there was nothing to say—but because they all knew what came next.
Weapons forged.
Alliances chosen.
The world watching.
Lucavion adjusted the estoc at his back slightly, the voidweave beneath his clothes responding with silent grace, easing the movement without resistance. He didn't need to tell them about the armor. No need to explain what was beneath the surface. Let the world think he wore shadows.
Let them guess what they couldn't see.
Kaleran's voice broke the quiet, approaching from the steps beyond.
"There you are."
Kaleran's boots met the marble with measured weight, his figure descending the steps like he carried the burden of the entire day's logistics on his spine—and no intention of letting it slip. His robes had shifted again, this time layered with ceremonial accents: a high collar marked with interlacing sigils of the central academy branch, and silver thread trim that caught the morning light like threads of lightning held still.
He stopped before them, gaze sweeping from weapon to student to weapon again, as if mentally checking off an inventory that extended well beyond steel and aether.
"You've received your armaments," he said, tone clipped but not cold. "Good. Then it's time."
Lucavion exhaled slowly through his nose, brushing a gloved thumb along the edge of his scabbard.
[Now comes the real war,] Vitaliara whispered beside him, her voice dry with amusement. [Powder, perfume, and too much starch.]
'Sounds like you have been there.'
[Gerald has been invited to quite a lot of places like that.]
'I see….'
Kaleran's voice continued, ignoring the barely stifled reactions from the rest. "Your tailored formalwear is waiting in your assigned changing chambers. You will each be escorted there directly. A team of court stylists has been brought from the Second Imperial Ward. You will not resist them. You will not insult them. And you will sit still."
Mireilla groaned audibly. "Gods, this again?"
"Some of you look like you've lost a duel with your own laundry," Kaleran said flatly. "Let's not terrify the nobility with the illusion that you're human."
Toven muttered something under his breath about personal freedom and injustice. Caeden just adjusted his collar, ready for whatever ceremonial noose was coming next.
Kaleran's hands clasped behind his back. "The Banquet begins in four hours. You'll be presented not as students—but as selections. Chosen by sponsors, wielders of academy-forged weapons, representatives of the next imperial generation."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"The moment you step into that hall, you're not yourself. You're an image. Be careful to not cause a scene."