Chapter 751: Some strange politics
"The moment you step into that hall, you're not yourself. You're an image. Be careful to not cause a scene."
Lucavion let out a quiet, dry laugh. Not loud. Not disrespectful. Just… amused.
Kaleran's head snapped toward him with the precision of a blade being drawn. His stare cut sharper than most swords.
Lucavion's face had already returned to its composed, impassive state, his eyes half-lidded and calm.
"What," Kaleran said coolly, "is so funny?"
Lucavion gave the most innocent shrug a man with a void-forged estoc could manage. "Ahem. Nothing," he said smoothly. "I just… thought of something irrelevant."
"Be serious," Kaleran replied, each word enunciated with flat disapproval.
Lucavion placed a hand over his heart, mock solemn. "I always am."
Kaleran did not look convinced. He turned away with the sigh of a man who had already aged too many years thanks to a single student.
"Move. All of you," he said. "Your attendants are waiting."
The group broke apart as their respective guides arrived—uniformed stewards and silent mages in the trim-lined coats of the Academy's presentation wing. Each moved with professional detachment, bowing just deeply enough to respect, not worship. Mireilla blew a kiss at hers, earning an exasperated roll of the eyes. Toven started asking about food. Caeden was already halfway down the hall with his in quiet stride.
Lucavion followed his own escort through the winding corridors toward the eastern chamber tiers, his footsteps echoing softly along the gold-veined stone.
[They're going to polish you like a jewel,] Vitaliara mused as she padded alongside him unseen. [Don't squirm.]
'I don't squirm.'
[You absolutely squirm.]
'Then maybe I'll just enchant one of the stylists by accident.'
[That's worse.]
He pushed open the tall lacquered door that marked his chamber—and was greeted by a scene that might've unsettled a lesser man.
Velvet cloths. Mannequins with half-draped robes. Trim tables laden with accessories that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Four figures turned toward him in perfect unison—each dressed in rich silver and sapphire, hair bound in the official style of the Second Imperial Ward.
"Ah, Mister Lucavion," one of them said, eyes already calculating every detail of his posture, height, and bone structure. "You've arrived on time. Rare."
Lucavion smiled politely. "Let's not make a habit of it."
The door clicked shut behind him. The team circled.
The war of glamour had begun.
*****
The sun had barely risen over the upper tiers of Arcania, but the capital was already awake—alive with quiet anticipation.
It was the day of the Entrance Banquet.
Within one of the temporary noble accommodations assigned to the Lorian delegation, Jesse stood motionless in front of a mirror framed with crystal filigree and subtle enchantments that adjusted lighting according to the ambient mana. Her dress—a deep violet, lined with ash-silver embroidery—fit perfectly, tailored to imperial standards. It clung to her figure without being restrictive, sharp at the shoulders, clean in its lines.
Everything was in place.
Everything… except the people around her.
The attendants moved in stiff, careful motions. One fumbled with a hairpin. Another nearly dropped a jewelry box. Their steps were uncertain, their glances quick and uneasy—like servants trying too hard to seem invisible.
Jesse didn't speak. Didn't scold.
She simply observed.
Watched how their hands trembled ever so slightly while fixing her sleeves, how they whispered behind her back with nervous glances toward the sealed door. She could feel their discomfort pressing into the air like humidity—smothered and sour.
Then it clicked.
Of course.
Her expression sharpened.
'Are you that stupid?'
She didn't say it aloud. She didn't need to.
It was written in the stillness of her body, the way her fingers clenched slightly against the vanity, the faint flicker of disgust that crossed her gaze.
Her stepmother.
It was always her. Subtle manipulations passed off as minor inconveniences. Delays, errors, half-hearted preparations all veiled in politeness. This time? Sabotaging her appearance—not with poison or blades, but with lazy attendants. A petty, coward's way of trying to dim her presence.
Layered stupidity.
Jesse's eyes lingered on her reflection—not out of vanity, but calculation.
She was not bright when it came to politics. She knew that. She didn't maneuver with words behind silk curtains or navigate courtrooms like a dancer in perfume and innuendo. That was never her style. But even she could see this move for what it was.
Stupid.
Because this time, it wouldn't just hurt her.
It would hurt the family.
The empire.
She was here as an envoy of the Lorian Empire—a symbol of the so-called peace that had been etched into parchment and sealed with gold. The exchange program was a first. A fragile, carefully constructed display of cooperation. And tonight, all of Arcania's nobility would be watching.
What would they think when one of Loria's chosen showed up disheveled? Unprepared? Half-dressed in political costume and nothing more?
They'd think the Empire was weak.
They'd think Prince Adrian's standards had slipped.
And he—the man known for crushing incompetence beneath quiet smiles and surgical precision—would see it immediately.
"You're not just trying to ruin me," Jesse thought coldly. "You're endangering the Empire's image in front of someone who never forgets."
The irony stung.
Because Jesse didn't even care about the Empire.
Not really.
Not anymore.
She didn't care about Loria, about treaties, about the future of diplomacy.
What she cared about was him.
Lucavion.
Her thoughts circled back with sudden, searing clarity.
He'll be there.
After all this time, all these years spent clawing out of the darkness he left her in, she was going to see him again. Face to face. And what if she looked like nothing? What if she looked like some washed-up provincial soldier draped in borrowed velvet?
What would he see?
Not the Jesse who survived.
Not the Jesse who rose.
Not the one who followed the whisper of his name across a border she was never meant to cross.
He must only look at me.
Her hand gripped the edge of the vanity.
He must see only me.
She wouldn't allow him to overlook her. Not tonight. Not after everything.
Not after she had bled, broken, and rebuilt herself just to find him.
A cold breath left her lips.
And then—without hesitation—Jesse moved to the side of the room, pulled open the polished lacquered case that held her secondary attire and styling tools. The ones she brought herself. The ones she didn't trust anyone else to prepare.
She would handle it alone.
No empire. No attendants. No noble scripts.
Only her.
And when she stepped into that banquet hall… she would make damn sure that when Lucavion looked up—
He would know.
That is why…she couldn't allow this to happen.
Jesse turned sharply, the worn velvet of her chair barely creaking before she rose.
In two swift steps, she closed the distance to the nearest maid. The girl flinched as Jesse's hand clamped around her wrist—firm, unrelenting.
Her eyes, cold and sharp as carved obsidian, locked onto the maid's.
"What are you doing?" Jesse asked, voice quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the room feel suddenly smaller. "You think this is just another day? Another spoiled noble to half-dress and forget?"
The maid tried to stammer something—an excuse, a plea—but Jesse didn't let her speak.
She leaned in slightly, just enough for the torchlight to catch the sharp edge of her expression.
"Do you really want to die?"
Chapter 752: Strange politics
"What are you doing? You think this is just another day? Another spoiled noble to half-dress and forget?"
The maid tried to stammer something—an excuse, a plea—but Jesse didn't let her speak.
She leaned in slightly, just enough for the torchlight to catch the sharp edge of her expression.
"Do you really want to die?"
The room froze.
The other attendants stopped mid-motion, brushes and pins hovering like suspended spells. No one moved. No one breathed.
"Because if you keep doing this like you are," Jesse went on, voice low, "you'll lose more than your dignity."
She released the maid's wrist slowly—deliberately—but her gaze remained fixed. Her next words came with deadly calm.
"You'll lose your heads."
The room dropped several degrees colder.
She turned her attention across the others, her voice no louder, but far heavier.
"Sabotage me again—be it by order, mistake, or fear—and I will make sure none of you ever serve another noble house again. Ever breathe another word. I don't care who gave you the order. You answer to me now. Is that clear?" Jesse asked, her tone still level—but the silence was brutal. Absolute.
For a moment, it held.
Then one of the maids—bolder, older—stepped forward, trembling only slightly as she spoke.
"What can you do?" the maid snapped, trying to force steel into her voice. "We were sent here by the mistress. This is the budget we were given. The gowns, the tools—everything. This is what you deserve."
The slap came like thunder.
No delay. No hesitation. No mercy.
Jesse's hand moved so fast it was barely seen, and the maid's body was lifted off her feet. She slammed against the nearby table, crashing into a heap of cosmetic jars and scattered brushes. One of her teeth skittered across the floor. Blood painted the side of her jaw.
The room screamed into stillness.
Jesse didn't move. Her voice didn't rise. It dropped.
"Is that woman here right now?"
No one answered.
"I said—is that woman here right now?!"
Still, silence.
Then one of the younger maids, barely more than a girl, whispered, "...No."
Jesse stepped forward, heels clicking softly against the polished stone, the echo more terrifying than a shout.
"Then what power does she hold in this room? What authority does she command here?" She let her gaze sweep over them, every word falling like a blade.
"I'm the one wearing the envoy's sigil. I'm the one who will stand before the Empire tonight. And you—" her eyes locked on each of them in turn "—you're the ones they'll burn if I look like a ghost of a maid instead of a daughter of House Burns."
Her voice turned razor-sharp. "So listen well. Either you do your jobs right, or none of you will return alive."
Breaths shook. One of the maids dropped her brush. Another sank to her knees, hands trembling.
Then Jesse's expression shifted slightly. Her voice curled into something darker. Contemptuous.
"She knew this might happen," she murmured. "That this would tarnish the household's name. But she still sent you here."
A pause.
"She must've already arranged a scapegoat."
Eyes widened. A few maids blinked rapidly, realization dawning.
Jesse let a soft, bitter laugh escape her lips.
"Heh… So that's it. You were never supposed to succeed. Just stall. And burn for it later."
The confusion on the maids' faces twisted slowly—hesitation draining from their expressions like color from a candle's flame. In its place came something else. Understanding. Agreement. Fear not of her—but of the trap they were already caught in.
Jesse could see it settle in their eyes like a dawning storm.
"She was never going to protect you," Jesse murmured, voice smooth as ice. "You were the offering from the beginning."
The silence was broken by a low, hoarse groan from the floor.
The maid Jesse had slapped struggled to rise, cradling her jaw with one trembling hand. Blood still trickled from the corner of her lip, and her eyes burned with desperation.
"Don't… don't believe her," she croaked. "She's bluffing. She—she's not—"
But no one looked at her.
They were already turning back to Jesse.
"She knew it," Jesse said, tone soft now. Almost bored. "You all saw it, didn't you? Every little 'mistake.' Every delay. The cheaper dress. The missing pins. She expected you to fumble it all. Expected someone to take the fall." Her eyes narrowed. "It doesn't have to be you."
The room shivered again.
And then—
"We understand," the eldest of the maids said, bowing her head, her voice steady. "We'll do our jobs. Properly."
Another followed suit. Then another.
Jesse said nothing—only watched them with eyes like frost.
She turned back to her seat, gesturing toward the untouched cosmetics and gowns with a flick of her fingers. "Then let's begin, shall we? At the very least, you won't be sacrificial lambs tonight."
Chairs scraped softly against the stone. Brushes lifted. Pins clicked. The room moved with purpose now—no longer servants of a distant mistress, but soldiers obeying the will of the one who stood in the fire.
Only the wounded maid remained unmoved.
She tried to push herself upright. Failed.
Then—tried again, shakier, blood still on her teeth.
But the moment Jesse's eyes landed on her—cold, precise, dismissive—her breath caught. Her limbs froze. Like prey under a predator's gaze.
She stayed where she was.
The others never looked at her again.
And Jesse—she said nothing more.
She didn't need to.
*****
Inside the old inn tucked between the stone merchant rows and the crystal-spire road, Selphine and Aurelian sat at their usual table, but something in the air around them was restless. The bread was fresh, the tea aromatic, and yet neither of them had eaten much.
Aurelian twirled a silver spoon idly between his fingers, eyes watching the slow dance of steam from his cup. "It's real, isn't it?" he murmured.
Selphine didn't look up from the paper she was reading, but her lips curved faintly. "Which part?"
He chuckled. "All of it. We're actually going. The Academy." He leaned back, letting the words hang. "Strange feeling. You spend half your life imagining the gates, the marble halls, the magic arrays etched into the bones of the city—and then one day you wake up and realize it's not a dream anymore."
Selphine finally folded the paper and set it aside. "It's strange," she agreed. "But not unearned."
Aurelian grinned, more wistful than proud. "Still feels surreal. Like I'm going to walk out there and someone will hand me a broom and tell me I was signed up for janitorial enchantments instead."
Selphine lifted a brow. "If you don't dress properly for the Banquet, I might volunteer you for it myself."
"Spoken like a true noble," he sighed dramatically. "All aesthetic. No mercy."
She gave him a sharp little smile. "We are not walking into that hall like peasants who lucked into a festival. We're walking in as Arcanis' best. And I don't intend to be mistaken for anything less."
Aurelian chuckled again—until his eyes flicked toward the upper stairwell. The corridor to the rooms was quiet. Still no sign.
"Speaking of, where in the stars are Elowyn and Reilan?" he asked, glancing toward the innkeeper's hallway. "They were supposed to be down half an hour ago. We need time to get ready."
Selphine followed his gaze, her smile vanishing into something more thoughtful. "Still in their rooms, apparently. I asked the staff. Elowyn said she was almost done." She paused. "Reilan hasn't answered."
Aurelian sighed. "Figures. He's probably sulking into his collar about having to wear a cravat."
"She'll make sure he doesn't show up looking like a battlefield," Selphine said. "And if he does, it won't be from lack of trying on her part."
Aurelian tilted his head slightly. "You think it's just about clothes?"
Selphine's eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to betray that she'd considered the same thing. "No."
There was a beat of silence.
"Elowyn's been… steadier, lately," Aurelian said softly. "But Reilan? He hasn't looked her in the eye much since the exam ended."
Selphine didn't reply immediately. Her fingers tapped once against the table. Then twice. Then stilled.
"They'll come," she said.
"Dramatically late, no doubt," Aurelian muttered, rising from his chair to stretch. "But I swear, if Reilan shows up with his tunic half-buttoned and that ridiculous scowl—"
"—you'll fix it for him and act like you didn't," Selphine finished, coolly amused.
"…Yes. Obviously."
The sunlight warmed the windowpanes, and outside, carriages were already beginning to gather on the crystal road—lined with banners of gold and sapphire.
Today was the Entrance Banquet.
The day the gates would open. The day the Academy would name them not as candidates, but as students.
And somewhere upstairs, the rest of their little quartet would join them soon.
Ready or not.
Chapter 753: Conviction
As if summoned by the remark, soft footsteps echoed from above—and Elara emerged.
Her steps were calm, measured, her bearing as poised as ever—but there was a warmth today, a clarity in her expression that hadn't been there since before the exams began. Her chestnut hair was loose down her shoulders, catching the morning light with polished softness, and her hazel eyes gleamed with gold beneath the glassy glaze of calm restoration.
Behind her, Reilan followed. Ash-brown hair combed neatly back, his usually sharp presence softened into something more composed. No longer the weary, simmering blade he'd been in recent days—today, he looked whole again. Present.
Aurelian blinked, then grinned. "Stars above, you do remember how stairs work. We were ready to send a scrying beacon."
Selphine's gaze swept over them with quiet appraisal. "You both look… alive. That's a good start."
Elara gave a theatrical gasp, hand to her chest. "Alive? What do you mean alive? Of course I'm alive. It just... took me a little longer to wake up, that's all."
Aurelian leaned forward, narrowing his eyes in mock scrutiny. "Couldn't sleep last night, huh?"
She cleared her throat. "Ahem…"
"Ehehe…" He grinned wider, nudging Selphine. "Even our little Elowyn gets nervous, it seems."
Selphine allowed herself a slight smirk. "Miraculous. We should alert the Healers' Guild. A historic event."
"Oh hush," Elara muttered, but there was no bite to her tone. Just the ease of something familiar falling into place again. "Some of us actually needed rest. I was preparing my mental state for noble interaction."
Aurelian gave a solemn nod. "Brave. Very brave."
Behind her, Cedric—Reilan—shifted with faint amusement, his arms crossing as he leaned just slightly toward the banter, but didn't interrupt it. Selphine turned her gaze to him next, expression cool but polite.
"Reilan," she greeted. "Recovered, I see."
He nodded once. "Mostly. Didn't realize navigating formalwear would be the final trial."
"Wait until the wine starts pouring," Aurelian added. "That's when the real duels begin."
"Breakfast?" Selphine offered, gesturing toward the plates still warm on the table. "You need to be quick."
"I will," Cedric said simply, already moving to sit, his tone level but present—no longer distant the way it had been days ago.
Elara took the chair beside him with fluid ease, plucking a slice of toasted bread from the tray and biting into it with a deliberate hum of approval.
Aurelian raised his brow. "Well then. We're really doing this."
Elara glanced toward the window, where the golden towers of the Academy loomed just visible beyond the skyline.
"Yes," she said. "We are."
*****
But beneath the polished smile and toasted bread, the truth settled in her stomach like a coiled beast.
She had not slept.
Not really.
She had lain in bed with the covers drawn high, her breath steady only in appearance, her mind running itself ragged with memories that didn't align—and ones that did far too well. The boy who had helped her up in Andelheim, who had saved her more than once, laughed with her over stolen peaches and cold tea.
And the boy who had destroyed her life.
Lucavion.
Luca.
She still couldn't say it aloud. Not yet. The two names clashed like oil and fire inside her chest. But they belonged to the same man. That was the truth now. Inescapable. Irrefutable.
And it burned.
'Why didn't I see it?'
'Was I that desperate to believe someone could care about me without asking for something in return?'
She pushed down the nausea that threatened to return, wrapping her hands tighter around the tea cup before her.
This wasn't the time to unravel again.
Today wasn't about him.
It was about them.
Isolde. Adrian.
The crown jewel and her loyal knife.
The two names that had kept her alive through exile, abandonment, pain. The two reasons she had bled herself dry training under Eveline, slept in rain-drenched ruins and frozen caves, clawed magic out of her broken core when no one else believed she still could.
Tomorrow… she would see them.
Not in shadow, not through whispers, not in dreams sharpened to nightmares. In flesh.
And she would smile.
She would bow.
She would play the game like the perfect little baron's heir.
And when the moment came—
She would shatter them.
That knowledge steadied her now.
It was the steel in her spine, the center of her breath.
She reached for a slice of citrus and let its sharpness anchor her mouth, the bitterness oddly grounding. Selphine and Aurelian had resumed their bickering over whose house colors were more garish, Cedric had settled into a quiet rhythm of tea and watchfulness, and the air was warm with the kind of calm that always came before the storm.
Elara glanced once, briefly, toward the far edge of the terrace—toward the spire of the dueling tower visible between the mist-draped roofs.
He would be there too.
Luca.
She would not forget.
Not the sickening weight of her father's eyes as he passed sentence without hearing a word from her lips.
Not the way his voice had rung out through the judgment chamber—"You are no daughter of mine."
Not the sound of the doors slamming shut behind her as the Valoria crest was stripped from her robes.
And certainly not the image of Isolde, standing with a hand over her mouth, the picture of shocked nobility—
—but her eyes had smiled.
That twisted, angelic curve. The kind that pretended sympathy but dripped poison underneath.
'She knew.'
'She always knew.'
The whole thing had been sewn together long before Elara ever walked into that chamber.
A plot designed with precision.
And Lucavion had been the final thread.
He had lain beside her in that cursed illusion, the architect or the pawn—it hadn't mattered then. He hadn't denied it. Hadn't protected her. He'd simply reached for her with dazed confusion and said nothing as her world was torn apart.
And now—now—he walked free.
Fought with grace. Danced like light itself bent to his will.
Lucavion.
Luca.
Elara forced herself to swallow the citrus bite in her mouth, her face placid, but her eyes sharp as razors turned inward.
'You'll pay as well.'
'Even if you didn't orchestrate it—you let me bleed. And I will not leave that unpunished.'
She would make sure the name Lucavion would never be uttered again with awe.
Only fear.
—
The scene shifted—
Golden morning light now pooling along the marble walkways as they descended into the inner gardens of the Academy's east wing. Petal-silver trees swayed gently above, their translucent leaves filtering the sunlight into winking halos along the path.
Selphine walked just ahead, her stride languid but poised, her silk half-cloak brushing over her boots with a whisper. Aurelian lagged a few steps behind, spinning a small conjuration of illusory fire in his palm with the idle mischief of a bored cat.
Cedric—Reilan—walked to Elara's right, his gaze on the path but his presence attuned to hers, ever so subtly.
"Elowyn," Selphine said, glancing sidelong, her expression unreadable but her voice light. "You're awfully quiet. Picturing your triumph already?"
The name didn't jar her anymore.
Not today.
She rolled it across her mind like a polished stone.
Elowyn Caerlin.
The dutiful daughter of the Caedrim Reach. The clever one. Soft-spoken. Bright. Mysterious.
Elowyn smiled faintly. "You could say that," she replied, tone warm with just enough weight to feel real. "I've been waiting a long time for this event. I suppose I'm savoring the approach."
Selphine raised a single brow. "Hmm. You're dangerously good at that tone."
Elara glanced at her, smile widening a fraction. "What tone?"
"The kind that makes me wonder if you're planning something or simply imagining a poetry reading."
Aurelian snorted from behind. "Knowing Elowyn, it's both. Probably a death haiku."
"Not a bad idea," Elara mused, still smiling. "There's elegance in efficiency."
The laughter among them felt easy—but only because she had grown used to this rhythm. Used to being Elowyn. She understood now why Eveline had involved Selphine and Aurelian in the truth.
Not just for safety.
But for fluency.
So she could wear the mask without it slipping. So that even when cracks splintered inside her, the outside would hold.
Because it had to.
Because she was almost there.
Isolde would be in attendance today.
Adrian would be beside her, as always. Her sword. Her shadow.
And somewhere in that crowd, Lucavion—no, Luca—would be watching too.
Elara's steps didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed on the path ahead, soft gold catching in the lashes like sunlight through glass.
'You will all see me again—not as the girl you cast aside. Not as the shadow you created.'
'But as the reckoning you deserve.'
Chapter 754: Main characters
The final clasp clicked into place.
Jesse stood before the tall mirror of the temporary residence's dressing chamber, silent as the last ribbons were tied off behind her. Her gown shimmered—not ostentatiously, but with the subtle sheen of high-quality velvet dyed in deep indigo, almost black. Silver embroidery traced elegant, understated patterns across the sleeves and hem—symbols of unity and peace between empires, woven so finely they only caught the light when she moved.
It was a modest dress.
But it commanded attention.
The neckline was clean, conservative by Arcanis standards, but tailored to frame her shoulders with gentle strength. Her hair, swept back and twisted into an intricate braid-crest, left just enough fall to soften her expression, with a few strands kissed by loose curls to frame her face. Her eyes—already sharp by nature—had been carefully lined, shadowed not for glamor, but for impact. Depth. Presence.
She didn't look like a soldier.
She didn't look like a servant's mistake.
She looked like a noble of House Burns.
No—more than that.
She looked like someone worth remembering.
Behind her, the maids stood still, their faces unconsciously reflecting the shift they had helped create. Pride lingered in their eyes. One of them—young, barely sixteen—smiled faintly, then quickly looked down, trying not to seem too pleased. Another gave a subtle nod of approval to her own handiwork on Jesse's belt and gloves.
They hadn't spoken since the dressing began.
They didn't need to.
Jesse adjusted a loose thread on her shoulder, then glanced at the mirror once more.
Her reflection stared back—calm, unreadable, but undeniably striking.
She allowed herself a breath. Controlled. Certain.
This wasn't for her stepmother.
This wasn't for the Empire.
And it wasn't for Prince Adrian, who surely would take note of every misplaced strand and slanted hem.
This was for him.
She didn't know how or when they would meet again—Lucavion. But she refused to let it be as a shadow of the girl she used to be.
Her lips curved slightly. Not into a smile.
Into resolve.
A quiet knock on the dressing chamber's side door drew Jesse's attention. One of the maids stepped in—soft-footed, back straight, eyes clear. Unlike the others, she didn't fumble or flinch.
It was Livia.
Jesse recognized her not by uniform, but by presence. The girl had kept to herself during preparations, quiet but deliberate in every action. No unnecessary chatter, no fearful glances toward the absent mistress, and no alliance with the more malicious attendants. Jesse had watched her, quietly noting the difference.
Livia stepped forward, pausing at Jesse's side. She looked up—just a little shorter, her posture humble without being weak—and offered a small, genuine smile.
"My lady…" her voice was soft, unadorned. "You are beautiful."
Jesse turned her head slowly, eyes meeting hers. And for the first time that morning, her expression gentled.
She dipped her head slightly, voice calm. "Thank you."
Livia's smile grew just slightly, a glow of pride dancing behind her eyes. Then she composed herself, stepping back with graceful precision.
"The summons has come," she said. "It is time for the envoy to gather. The other noble heirs are waiting. You're expected to descend to the lower floor, where the carriages will depart together for the banquet hall."
Jesse exhaled through her nose. No nerves. Just readiness.
"Understood," she said, gathering her gloves and adjusting the silver-accented sash that bore her family's crest—now redesigned for the envoy. Peace-marked. Unified. A crest she didn't care for, but one she'd wear for now.
The doors opened to the corridor, and she walked.
Down the wide, polished staircase—each step a quiet echo through the marbled hall of the temporary Lorian residence—her presence caught every pair of eyes along the way. The guards didn't speak. The servants bowed low. Even the stewards, lesser members of the court staff, offered deeper-than-necessary nods.
On the ground floor, the other nobles were already assembling.
There weren't many. Only twenty, to be precise. Each one dressed in their own house's ceremonial attire, revised for Arcanis customs. Capes cut shorter. Colors dulled from traditional Lorian crimsons to more neutral tones. Embroideries of flame, sword, and frost repurposed into peace motifs. No one spoke loudly. Every word was chosen.
And yet, the moment Jesse entered, silence reigned for a heartbeat longer.
Not because of drama. Not scandal. But because she belonged. She looked like she belonged.
Some looked away. Others nodded stiffly. One or two offered polite, wary greetings. But Jesse didn't need their validation.
Her steps were measured. Composed.
Let them talk later, she thought. Let them ask who dressed her. Let them wonder what changed.
Because soon enough, none of it would matter.
The only thing that would matter—was that she'd walk into the banquet… and he would see her.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted like a breath drawn all at once.
A moment before it happened, Jesse felt it—not heard, not saw, but felt. A ripple through the gathered nobles, a tightening of posture, a sudden hush of conversation. Polished boots clicked into position. Gloves were adjusted. Heads lifted in practiced reverence.
Then they appeared.
At the top of the staircase, flanked by no guards, needing none, stood Prince Adrian.
Tall, composed, and carved from the same cold marble that shaped Loria's statues of its founders. His hair, jet black and slicked back with military precision, gave way to a sharp, fair face unmarred by weather or war. His eyes—those infamous, pale gray eyes—cut through the room with chilling precision, as if tallying the worth of each soul he passed.
Charisma clung to him not in charm, but in command.
And beside him, a contrast so stark it seemed deliberate—
The lady of the Valoria line. The porcelain flower of the Empire.
Delicate didn't begin to describe her. Her platinum-blonde hair fell in soft, airy waves, catching the morning light with a shimmer like frost. Her eyes were pale lavender—unnaturally so, almost alchemical. Ethereal, fragile, like one touch might crack her glass skin. Her gown was silver silk, embroidered with sigils of purity and harmony, her every step measured like a practiced waltz through court intrigue.
She was the image of nobility at its most untouchable.
And Jesse hated it.
Not with envy. Not even with rivalry.
But with doubt.
She didn't trust purity—not after the things she had seen, not after watching blood seep into frostbitten soil, not after hearing dying men scream for mothers who would never come. A girl that clean had either never known pain… or had hidden it so well she could no longer bleed.
Jesse's gaze didn't linger on her long. Instead, she locked eyes—briefly—with the Prince himself as he scanned the room. And when his gaze brushed past her, cold but faintly acknowledging, she neither bowed nor stiffened. She inclined her head just enough to meet protocol.
Prince Adrian's voice cut through the hall like a drawn blade.
"It appears everyone is here," he said, his tone calm—almost relaxed—but there was no warmth in it. Only expectation. Judgment, refined and cloaked in silk.
Every head turned toward him.
He descended the steps slowly, each movement polished to near ritual precision, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unmoved by the weight of gazes upon him. Jesse watched closely. His expression never changed. Not as he passed dukes, viscounts, cadets, or second-born scions. His gaze was high-born steel—meant to be looked at, never met.
"You all understand the weight of this occasion," he began, voice crisp. "We are not simply students. We are Loria."
The word rang with pride. And with threat.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, letting his presence settle like fog across stone.
"This is not a battlefield where strength alone prevails. Nor is it our capital, where your names buy you silence. This—" he gestured faintly, to the grand arched windows where the imperial skyline stretched— "is diplomacy. And if you humiliate yourselves… if you embarrass me…"
His eyes narrowed faintly. Just a flicker of disdain.
"…You won't be returning home."
The silence that followed was deep. Not afraid. Just aware.
Then—
A softer voice followed.
Gentle. Light, but precise enough to land.
"We will all do our best, of course," said Isolde Valoria, descending beside him. "This is a rare opportunity to show that Loria can stand not only strong… but united."
She smiled as she spoke, not at anyone in particular—but the kind of smile meant to soothe. It curved her lips delicately, without pride, without deceit. Her eyes shimmered faintly under the light. Pure grace.
A perfect counterbalance to Adrian's cold pressure.
Jesse didn't smile.
She simply stood taller. Watched them both.
And reminded herself—again—that she wasn't here for either of them.
Chapter 755: Start
The carriage glided smoothly over the cobbled imperial avenue, its enchanted wheels softening each bump and rattle to nothing more than a murmur beneath the velvet-cushioned floor. Outside, the city of Aurelanis stirred with golden light—awnings being unfurled, market stalls prepared, the first flares of mana-lamps extinguishing as the sun's reach overtook them.
Valeria sat poised within the carriage's silk-lined interior, framed in morning light that filtered through crystal-glass windows etched with House Maynter's sigil. Her gown—deep emerald threaded with silver runes—gathered elegantly at her lap, undisturbed. Her gloves were pearl-sheen, fitted to the curve of her fingers, and her hair was arranged in the sharp, cascading fall favored by the capital's elite.
Perfect. Unimpeachable.
And yet—
Her gaze wasn't on herself.
It was on the window.
The passing city. The slow swell of Academy banners appearing the closer they got to the central district. The crests of minor houses fluttering from balconies. The spires of the Arcanis Banquet Hall visible now, cresting the morning fog like spears of gold and pale stone.
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
But her reflection in the glass bore a quiet sharpness. Something precise. And almost… expectant.
"My lady," came a voice beside her.
A soft, respectful murmur—her head attendant, Elen. Older, composed, and loyal enough to speak without being bidden when it mattered.
Valeria's eyes didn't leave the window. "Yes?"
Elen's tone was light, but not idle. "You seem… focused. And not in the usual way."
Valeria's lips curved slightly. "Is that so?"
"It is." A pause. "You've never looked forward to these events before."
Valeria gave a quiet exhale through her nose. "That's because I usually know how they'll go."
"And now?"
She turned her head just slightly, eyes catching the morning sun. "Now… I'm less certain."
There was a flicker in her voice—something not quite hesitation, but intrigue held on a tight leash.
Elen smiled softly. "Not fear, though."
"No." Valeria's gaze shifted forward again, toward the far silhouette of the Banquet Hall. "Not fear."
Her fingers brushed once against the dataslate resting beside her, though it remained unopened.
"There are too many known variables, usually," she said. "Everyone performing the role expected of them. Everyone hiding behind the same four layers of false civility."
"And this time?" Elen asked.
"This time," Valeria said, "there's someone attending who doesn't know the script."
The carriage crested a slow incline.
The Banquet Hall came into full view.
Banners flared in the morning breeze.
"This time," she repeated, quieter now, "it might actually be worth watching."
The carriage rolled to a smooth halt at the edge of the Academy grounds—a sweeping archway of pale white stone marking the boundary, adorned with silver-threaded banners bearing the sigil of the Arcanis Empire. Beyond it, the spires of the Imperial Academy rose like the fingers of giants, glass and stone catching the last hues of sunrise.
Valeria stepped down from the carriage with practiced grace. The moment her boots touched the paved stone of the entrance court, two robed officials approached. Their mana-robes shimmered with imperial sigils, and their expressions were composed, though marked with the efficient urgency expected of such a high-profile event.
"Lady Valeria Olarion," the taller of the two said, bowing with a crisp motion. "Your presence is confirmed by House seal and invitation."
He extended a crystal plaque toward her, which Valeria touched with her gloved fingers. A soft glow passed between the plaque and her invitation—validation accepted. She said nothing, only offered a faint nod of acknowledgment.
The official gestured toward the inner gate. "You may proceed. The Banquet Hall awaits."
Valeria entered without a word, Elen close behind.
And the moment they passed beneath the arch—
The air changed.
She felt it immediately.
Not in temperature, nor scent, but in the very texture of the space. The mana shifted. Denser… yet not oppressive. Weightier, but not heavy. Like walking into deeper waters that somehow still yielded to her movements.
Her step slowed.
"…Strange," she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Elen to hear.
"My lady?" Elen glanced at her.
Valeria's gaze lifted toward the sky, which had taken on a faint shimmer above the Academy spires. The mana here was old. Ancient, even. Yet it didn't resist her presence. If anything, it recognized it. Welcomed it.
"It feels… denser," Valeria said, voice low with quiet curiosity, "yet easy to command."
She opened her palm, her fingers brushing through the air. She felt the weave of magic like silk against her skin. It was unlike the turbulent currents of combat mana or the structured flow of household wards. This was raw potential. Untouched. Vital.
"Is this…" she started, then stopped, not trusting the unfinished thought.
But Elen, ever perceptive, caught the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Not awe. Not confusion. Something subtler.
Recognition.
Before she could voice the thought aloud, a steward in dusky red livery approached with a shallow bow.
"The Banquet Hall is located deeper within the Academy grounds, my lady," he said. "A carriage has been prepared for the remainder of the route, as is custom for guests of your rank."
Valeria inclined her head once. No words, no need.
The new carriage—lighter, sleeker than the House Maynter one—waited at the base of the inner path. Its frame was engraved with the imperial sigil, but its finish bore none of the ostentation of lesser nobles eager to flaunt wealth. This was imperial subtlety: polished wood, quiet enchantments, understated elegance that spoke volumes without a single crest.
She stepped in, Elen taking her place beside her.
The doors closed with a soft click, and at once the carriage gave a near-imperceptible lurch forward—but did not yet move.
A shimmer flared in the air before them.
From the heavens above, a shape slowly descended—formed of woven light and spell-thread. An arrow, radiant and translucent, its edges pulsing with threads of blue and silver, hovered above the main road. It rotated once, then steadied, pointing down a path that curved gently into the mist-covered interior of the Academy grounds.
The driver gave a low whistle of acknowledgment, bowed toward the arrow, then flicked the reins.
The carriage eased forward again, guided now by a trail of suspended magic—a path designed not just for direction, but as spectacle. A show of imperial grace. A silent, ever-shifting reminder of the Academy's mastery over the arcane.
Valeria sat motionless as the interior lights of the carriage activated softly, illuminating her features in a gentle halo.
Outside the window, the world changed.
The bustle of the city gave way to curated calm. Trees of unfamiliar leaf and bark lined the road, their roots pulsing faintly with internal mana veins. They were not ordinary flora—these had been cultivated specifically to respond to the Festival of First Flame, and the final day's resonance made them pulse like breathing things.
She could hear distant chimes. Spell harmonics. Musical, faint. As if the path itself were humming.
"Is all of this just… for show?" Elen asked softly beside her.
Valeria didn't answer immediately.
Her gloved fingers brushed once more against the inner window, as if trying to part the magic like curtain strands.
"No," she said at last. "Not just for show."
Because she could feel it.
The mana here was watching.
It knew she was here.
And in some strange, silent way—something beyond protocol or lineage—
It was waiting.
Chapter 756: Start (2)
The carriage moved in silence, its wheels gliding almost weightlessly over the mana-threaded stone of the Academy's inner path.
Valeria's gaze remained fixed beyond the crystalline glass window, unmoving—yet everything beyond it seemed to shift.
The Academy grounds unfolded before her like a living tapestry. Gardens bloomed with impossible flora, petals exhaling slow spirals of light. Silver-feathered birds wheeled overhead, their wings trailing brief traces of shimmer through the darkening sky. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and yet—there was no true darkness.
The stars had taken their place with unnatural clarity. Unmoving. Bright. Too bright.
And the moon—
It hung low and vast, its pale glow heavy enough to silver the tops of every roof and leaf, casting soft illumination over all it touched. But even that seemed… off.
Brighter than it should be. As if someone had pulled the moon closer.
No. Not just light.
Magic.
Valeria narrowed her eyes.
The light wasn't just shining—it was shaped. Engineered. The contours of shadow and glow followed too deliberate a rhythm, highlighting pathways, structures, open balconies—guiding the eye the same way a story might guide the mind.
It was theatrical. A display.
But beneath that artistry, she felt something else.
A quiet tug.
A ripple at the edge of her perception.
She turned her gaze to the Academy's main structure—an immense tower-ringed complex rising like a crown into the night sky. She had seen it before, of course. In paintings. In dossiers. In projections.
And now, in the flesh—yet something was wrong.
The carriage was moving.
But the tower wasn't growing nearer.
If anything—
It was receding.
Not just visually, but magically. The sense of scale twisted subtly as they approached. The details remained sharp—the inlaid reliefs, the runes carved into its foundation, the pale blue flames that ringed its highest balconies—but the tower remained stubbornly distant. Impossibly so.
"...It's not coming closer," Valeria murmured, more to herself than to Elen.
Elen blinked, peering out the opposite window. "My lady?"
Valeria didn't respond. Her fingers hovered slightly above her lap, sensing—not touching—the air.
Yes.
Her senses were fraying at the edges.
A subtle pressure curled behind her ears, the faintest fuzz beneath the crisp discipline of her perception. She recognized the sensation—it was a high-level displacement enchantment. Something designed not to mislead, but to suspend spatial understanding.
The stars above hadn't shifted even once.
Neither had the moon.
And the path beneath their carriage remained perfectly smooth, unending.
As if the entire Academy were keeping its distance on purpose.
"Is this some kind of test?" Valeria murmured, her brow faintly furrowed. "Or… containment?"
Elen, ever cautious, didn't answer.
But the air around them was thicker now. Like stepping through a dream stitched too neatly at the seams.
Valeria exhaled slowly, her expression sharpening—not with alarm, but clarity.
Whoever had woven this spell wanted to impress.
Or disorient.
Or both.
And while others might be dazzled, she was not here to be shown a lightshow.
She sat straighter.
Eyes narrowing.
Waiting for the illusion to break—or for the Banquet Hall to finally reveal itself from behind the theater curtain.
The shimmer of starlight above remained fixed, and the carriage's motion grew dreamlike—fluid, endless, unmeasured.
Still, the spires of the Academy didn't draw closer.
Not truly.
Yet Valeria no longer watched them.
She had seen through the illusion now—not enough to unravel it, but enough to know its purpose. The distortions weren't meant to hide the Academy, only to elevate it. To render its grandeur eternal, untouchable. An institution that could never truly be arrived at, only permitted.
And in that sense, the Banquet Hall was not within the Academy proper.
It was beyond it.
When the carriage crested the final curve of the winding path, the illusion rippled once—and then dropped.
The scenery resolved sharply.
There it was.
The Banquet Hall.
It stood in dignified silence, perched upon a raised marble terrace flanked by sloping water gardens and structured mana-glass trees. Though smaller than the Academy's main towers, it bore no less grandeur. Its shape was circular, enclosed by high archways and trimmed with rune-etched gold. The entire structure shimmered with an inner luminescence—not firelight, but something deeper. The color of divination. Of fate made present.
And perhaps, just perhaps… of judgment.
The carriage drew to a halt at the bottom of the ivory steps leading to the grand entrance.
Even before the driver could dismount, a pair of academy attendants stepped forward. Robes of white and soft azure, the official colors of the Imperial Examinarium. They bowed in practiced unison.
"Lady Valeria Olarion," the elder attendant said, tone courteous yet brisk. "Your arrival has been recorded precisely at your designated interval."
The other continued smoothly, as if they had rehearsed the line a dozen times. "We thank you for your punctuality. The Examinarium welcomes you on behalf of the Imperial Council, and House Olarion is hereby acknowledged."
Valeria inclined her head with elegant precision—a motion slight enough to retain superiority, yet gracious enough to complete the ritual of acknowledgement. The way her lips curled into a subtle smile—measured, practiced—carried more weight than a full sentence. She had been received. She had been seen. And so she stepped forward.
The marble beneath her heels was polished to a gleam, the kind of perfection that didn't simply reflect—it refracted, casting faint arcs of moonlight and mana-fire along her hemline as she moved. Her gown flowed with calculated poise, emerald silk shifting like water over steel.
And as she crossed the threshold of the Banquet Hall—
—she entered a world of breathing radiance.
It was not loud. There was no music yet. No great pronouncements. Just the low hum of noble voices, threads of conversation floating like mist above the floor, their cadence clipped and elegant. The chandeliers did not hang—they floated, held in place by thread-thin rings of suspended glyphs. Their light bathed the interior in gold-soft hues, refracting through glass-cut stars embedded in the domed ceiling.
Valeria's eyes moved at once.
Even in her stillness, she scanned.
To the right: the scions of House Elvenhart, flanked by retinue, robes of crimson and dusk. Their heir—Lauren—met her gaze with the ghost of a nod. Courteous, not friendly. The boy had once tried to outmaneuver her in the northern court. Once.
To the left: House Grendhal's envoys. Obsidian trim. Barely disguising their disdain for everything not weaponized. She recognized the Grendhal twins instantly—taller now, but no less predictable. They did not look her way.
And further ahead—
A ripple of motion.
Heir Marcenel of House Vesden.
Surrounded, as always, by a halo of half-smiling lesser heirs, each one hoping to be noticed when he chose to speak. He did not yet see her. He was holding court already. Flawless posture, silver-threaded cloak, a goblet of crimson nectar untouched in his hand. But she caught it: the faint tension in his jaw. The pause before his next word.
He knew she had arrived.
Valeria took it all in, each detail marked and noted. None of this surprised her.
What did surprise her… was the weight of her own breath.
This should have felt routine. These halls, these families, these gestures—they were all part of the game. The empire's endless masquerade of power and courtesy. And yet… beneath her practiced smile, there was something else.
A quiet anticipation. A pulse.
Because she had not forgotten.
Somewhere in this hall—soon , if not already—he would be here.
Chapter 757: Nobles as usual
It didn't take long.
The moment she stepped beyond the threshold of the Banquet Hall's central floor, the tide of conversation shifted subtly—like water bending around a new stone.
Eyes turned. Not all. But enough.
The ones that mattered.
She could feel the familiar stares of young noblewomen, draped in hand-embroidered lace and the heavier silks reserved for ceremonies that meant something. A half-dozen of them gathered in a loose crescent near one of the mana-crystal fountains, where the light pooled across their gowns like liquid opal.
Lady Fiorenza was among them, wearing sea-glass blue and that same sharp-lipped smile that never quite touched her eyes. Lady Ameline, too—newly betrothed to a minor duke's second son, her posture already stiffer than necessary. And of course, Fiorenza's shadow—delicate, sweet-voiced Celestra, who said little but watched everything.
Their conversation fluttered briefly when they saw her.
Then one of them—Celestra, likely pushed by Fiorenza's glance—offered a small wave.
Valeria approached with neither urgency nor reluctance, her pace steady, her expression poised.
"Lady Olarion," Fiorenza greeted, her voice lacquered smooth. "We were just wondering when you'd arrive. We feared the banquet would begin without one of its more recently favored stars."
Valeria caught the nuance immediately.
It wasn't just curiosity in their voices—there was something else beneath it.
Timing.
That was the real reason.
The entrance schedule was a message, and every noble in the room had read it.
She had arrived after them.
Not late. Later.
In these circles, where social power hung on the subtlest of signs, that mattered. A higher-ranked arrival—positioned to draw attention. To imply favor.
And they had noticed.
Of course they had.
Fiorenza's greeting was sweet on the surface, but brittle underneath. A test. A needle.
Valeria said nothing at first. She simply folded her hands at her waist, letting her weight shift slightly—enough to match their poise, mirror their posture. Her smile was faint. Dismissively polite.
But inside, she sighed.
So this was how the evening would unfold. Again.
So much attention spent on the arrangement of chairs and timing of arrivals. On glances. On the metaphor of whose foot touched which carpet first.
This was the world they cherished.
And the reason she never quite belonged to it.
Still, she answered smoothly. "You needn't have waited on me, Lady Fiorenza. I assure you, I would not have expected such devotion."
There was a flicker of something behind Fiorenza's eyes—annoyance, quickly lacquered over with amusement. "Oh, we're simply pleased to see our dear circle gaining such… variety."
Ameline stepped in, her tone light. "We were just speaking of how exciting this year's cohort will be. With so many commoners invited, the conversations alone will be worth remembering."
Valeria's eyebrow ticked upward by the smallest margin. "You're looking forward to the conversation?"
"Of course!" Ameline giggled, tucking a curled strand behind her ear. "I've always wondered how they think. What they do for… fun."
Celestra chimed in softly, "Do they even know how to dance?"
"Do they even know which fork to use?" Fiorenza added, laughing just a hair too sharply.
The others followed suit.
Polished, practiced amusement. All very tasteful.
All very ugly.
Valeria's expression didn't change.
She kept her tone neutral. "I imagine they'll manage."
Fiorenza smiled at her. "Oh, of course. I'm sure the Academy will provide enough etiquette courses. If not, I suppose someone will have to take the role of guide. A... patient mentor."
"I'm sure someone will," Valeria murmured.
And she didn't add:
But it won't be you.
She let the conversation flow past her then, offering the expected gestures—smiles, nods, soft comments—but already, her thoughts were drifting elsewhere.
Because the clock had turned. The hall was nearly full.
And still…
He hadn't arrived.
A strange tightness bloomed at the base of her throat.
One she wouldn't name.
Not here. Not now.
But her eyes—cool, unreadable—flicked once toward the entrance.
Waiting.
Just a little longer.
******
The banquet hall had already begun to fill with the velvet hush of ceremony—the kind of silence that wasn't truly quiet, but laden with murmurs wrapped in etiquette and glances polished like glass. The chandeliers glowed with a light too refined to flicker, and the scent of rare spices, polished wood, and aged wine mingled with the faintest tinge of ozone—freshly cleaned air, touched by light magic.
Selphine stood by one of the perimeter columns, her posture as precise as her braid, silver threads laced through black silk. She held her goblet with two fingers and a thumb, just so, the very picture of idle grace.
Aurelian leaned beside her, far less rigid in bearing but equally observant. His doublet, a rich navy offset by pale gold, fit cleanly to his form, the embroidery understated but finely worked. He sipped his drink with the bored indulgence of someone who had memorized every rule and knew exactly how to bend them without breaking.
Nearby, Elara and Cedric—Elowyn and Reilan, to the outside world—stood quietly, though not awkwardly. Elara's gown was midnight-laced velvet, shifting in texture as she moved, an echo of starlit calm. Her chestnut hair was drawn back into a loose half-knot, allowing gold-flecked strands to frame her face. There was no trace of tension in her now—only awareness. She seemed to listen without appearing to, gaze drifting over the hall with thoughtful detachment.
Cedric—Reilan—was her opposite in hue, clad in ash-grey formalwear that matched his eyes and complemented his sharp-edged presence. He looked like he'd been carved out of quiet resolve and a thousand unsaid thoughts. The way he stood just slightly to Elara's right, always within reach but never overbearing, spoke of instinct rather than court training.
"Fifty silver says Lady Fiorenza's first target is someone from Loria," Aurelian murmured.
"Fifty?" Selphine scoffed. "You think that little of her ambition? I'd say she's aiming for the Crown's guest list."
"Elowyn," Aurelian said, turning slightly. "Remind me, when do we, the lowly baron-born, get assigned our court-approved dance partners? Or are we expected to watch from the edges like romantic tragedies waiting to happen?"
Elara arched a brow, deadpan. "I assumed we'd been brought early to clean the floors."
Cedric snorted quietly at that, then masked it with a sip of water.
Selphine's smile was thin and knowing. "We're not being ignored," she said. "We're being observed. They just haven't decided what kind of problem we are yet."
Indeed, they were one of the earliest groups to arrive—expected, as scions of the lesser nobility, to come before the showpieces walked in. The banquet always moved like a hierarchy in motion. Barons and viscounts arrived first. Then the higher bloodlines. Then the strategically late—those with enough power to rewrite the order.
Already, the hall was beginning to change.
The shimmer of finer embroidery. The rise of voices trained to control a room without needing to raise in volume. Each new entrance was marked not by a herald, but by the subtle shift in attention—shoulders angling, gazes turning, laughter softening to make room for silence.
Selphine sipped her drink. "Lady Ameline just arrived. Blue lace, three paces behind House Merden's heir."
"That's not a mistake," Aurelian said. "She's signaling alliance. Or submission."
"She's always been subtle like a war hammer," Selphine replied dryly.
Elara watched them both, amused. "Do you memorize every noble's stride pattern or do you just do it for fun?"
"Both," they said in unison.
Cedric gave her a look that nearly qualified as conspiratorial.
Still, no one approached their group. Not yet.
A few glances passed their way—half-curious, half-dismissive—but nothing lingered. In this room, power was measured in inheritance and alliances, not test scores or battlefield survival. And while they were known—they were not yet noteworthy.
Selphine, for her part, looked entirely unbothered. "Let them look past us now."
Aurelian smiled faintly. "They won't be able to for long."
Chapter 758: Appearently locking oneself in the room is not good
The breath of the hall shifted—again. This time, not just with idle curiosity or rank-induced reflex. This was sharper. Focused. As if the air itself straightened in anticipation.
Aurelian's voice dropped. "And there it is."
They turned—just as the main archway parted like the frame of a painting being filled.
A woman….
She didn't enter. She arrived.
Her gown was deep emerald, its texture moving like liquid starlight. Silver runes—old ones, elegantly subtle—threaded through the silk in cascading spirals, catching just enough of the ambient mana to hum faintly with intent. Her gloves, pearl-sheen and exact in their fit, rested easily at her sides as she moved. Not too slow, not too fast. Each step a declaration of presence.
Her hair—pale rose, too vivid to be called pink—was pinned in a complex half-fall, the kind favored by the inner-circle nobility of the capital. Refined. Unyielding. Her violet eyes swept once across the hall, and without seeming to focus, measured everything.
The nobles turned like reeds to wind.
A half-dozen conversations faltered mid-breath. Those from minor houses froze, those from greater ones straightened. A handful tried smiles. Some didn't bother.
Selphine narrowed her gaze. "She's early."
Aurelian folded his arms. "And the hall just named her its centerpiece."
But Elara—
Elara wasn't watching like the others.
The moment she had entered, her eyes had locked. Not with awe. Not with envy.
With calculation.
'That walk… not trained for elegance. Trained for balance.'
Her eyes traced the roll of her shoulders, the unconscious shift of weight in her steps, the precision—not too pronounced, just enough to signal a lifetime of movement trained for risk. Not show.
There were no scuff marks on the hem of her gown. But Elara could feel the way she moved beneath it.
A noble's poise. A soldier's readiness.
'Stormhaven instincts don't lie,' she thought, that quiet tickle of old instinct stirring in her blood.
Adventurer's eyes weren't dazzled by gowns or house sigils. They noticed weight distribution. Breathing rhythm. The subtle half-twitch of a dominant hand ready to draw—not on instinct, but from routine.
Elara tilted her head slightly, watching how she paused at the crest of the stairs, her eyes tracking points of interest with the ease of a tactician rather than a debutante.
She wasn't hunting attention.
She was mapping the room.
Cedric leaned slightly toward her. "Elowyn?"
But Elara didn't look away.
'She's not just another court darling.'
She moved with the calm presence of someone who had killed before. Maybe not recently. Maybe not messily. But with precision.
And the moment Elara recognized that—
The woman's eyes flicked across the room… and landed on her.
Elara's breath caught—but not from surprise. It was the way Valeria looked back at her. Not startled. Not curious. Aware.
Not many people could feel when someone was watching them.
Fewer still could find the source of the gaze with such unsettling accuracy.
'That shouldn't be possible,' Elara thought, her spine still and her pulse steady—but her mind reeled. Not from fear. From interest.
The woman across the room met her gaze with a faint smile. Unassuming. Unreadable. A courtier's expression, trimmed to politeness.
But it was the glint behind it that unsettled her.
She knows what she saw. She felt it.
Then Selphine exhaled beside her, almost like a sigh escaping through her teeth. "Valeria Olarion," she said, voice low but not without weight.
Aurelian arched a brow. "So that's her?"
Selphine nodded, still watching the elegantly lethal silhouette make her way deeper into the hall. "The rising star of the East. Though I suppose Elowyn wouldn't know."
Elara, her voice smooth, didn't look away. "Rising star?"
Aurelian leaned forward slightly, seizing the moment to do what he did best: gossip that bled into strategy. "Ah, right… you've been holed up in recovery and missed half the scandals."
Selphine took over, the gleam in her eye more calculated now. "The eastern region been a mess lately. Cloud Heavens Sect—ever heard of them?"
Elara nodded faintly. "You hear things. Stormhaven's not that far."
"Then you'll know they're filth," Selphine said flatly, and for once her tone wasn't dressed up in mockery or measured disdain. It was sharp. Disgusted. "Smuggling. Child trafficking and child furnaces."
"And House Olarion," Aurelian cut in, "decided to do something about it. With the blessing of the Imperial Bench."
"Not just do something," Selphine added. "Purge."
Elara's eyes flicked back to Valeria, who had just begun greeting a cluster of high-borns near the southern dais, her movements calm and fluent. She didn't seem like a blade. She moved like one.
"Valeria," Selphine continued, "is the one doing the house-to-house work. Not behind a desk. Out there. Leading raids. Uncovering papers. Dragging names through tribunal flame until they scream and confess."
"And guess who they're partnered with?" Aurelian added. "Marquis Vendor."
Aurelian gave a low hum as Elara arched a brow. "You don't know the name, do you?"
She tilted her head. "Vendor? Doesn't ring much."
"That's not surprising," Selphine said with a small shrug, brushing imaginary dust from the satin edge of her sleeve. "They've been quiet for years. Too far north, too cloistered. A minor marquisate tucked against the edge of the frost provinces. No real voice in central politics until recently."
"But they've been growing," Aurelian added, glancing toward the banquet's southern tier where a few of the more ambitious mid-tier lords were already gathering in careful proximity. "Land acquisitions. New trade routes. Some say they've uncovered old artifacts. Others say they've made deals with the Frostcourt. Doesn't matter. What matters is—they've suddenly become relevant. And now they're extending reach. Publicly. Strategically."
"Via House Olarion," Selphine said. "And Valeria."
Elara absorbed that in silence. The kind of silence that looked like stillness but wasn't. Her eyes slid back to Valeria, who now laughed softly at some noble's comment, her hands still gloved, her presence effortless.
So even the cold marquisate wants a seat at the central table.
"They're the ones who hosted the Martial Tournament of Vendor last season," Selphine added casually, sipping from her glass as though the words weren't about to detonate. "And apparently, that's where that guy made his first proper entrance."
"That guy?" Elara echoed, the words light—but her eyes didn't move from Valeria.
Aurelian's voice dropped, almost reverent, almost amused. "Lucavion. That's where he first got called the Sword Demon."
There it was. The name. Elara blinked once. Slowly.
"A crowd favorite," Selphine said, tone wry. "Unregistered entrant. No noble sigil. Walked in with a blade that no one recognized and cleared the whole tournament while making a joke about his opponents each round. Some called it staged—until he broke a war-cultivator's ribs without touching his weapon."
"Then he left," Aurelian said. "Didn't even collect the prize. Just disappeared."
Elara didn't say anything for a long breath. Her expression hadn't changed. But in the silence, her fingers curled ever so slightly over the stem of her glass.
Sword Demon. Vendor. Valeria.
The threads were weaving fast now.
And the pattern was growing sharper by the hour.
Aurelian reached for another candied fig, speaking around the bite like the scandal was only half the meal. "Oh, and apparently... it was him."
Selphine looked over. "Lucavion. He was the first to uncover the Cloud Heavens Sect mess. Or so the rumors go."