Chapter 776: A speech
Adrian rose with the elegance of a man who had never learned how not to be watched.
Each motion was measured. Each step forward carried the weight of generations. He didn't hurry. He didn't hesitate. His boots struck the polished floor in perfect rhythm, not loud—but unignorable.
The silver trim of his uniform gleamed under the illusion-sky, catching just enough light to make him glow like a blade still in its sheath.
And then—he stopped.
His eyes swept the crowd.
Not arrogantly.
Not hungrily.
But with the calm detachment of someone cataloguing a ledger.
Jet black hair fell in crisp, deliberate lines just above his shoulders, untouched by fray or imperfection. His expression remained perfectly neutral—too neutral. The kind that screamed caution through its very composure.
His voice, when it came, was soft.
Steady.
"The Lorian Empire… is honored."
The words dropped like clean stones into still water.
"We thank Arcanis for the grace of hospitality, and the honor of shared education. May this union, however hard-won, serve as the foundation of something more enduring."
There were no cheers.
No applause.
Just silence again.
Respectful.
Restrained.
Diplomatic.
Because he couldn't afford fire here.
Not in this hall. Not with this audience.
He was a prince.
But a foreign one.
And worse still—a representative of the losing side.
The Treaty of Valerius Plains might have stopped the war, but it hadn't erased the memory of it. Every word Adrian spoke had to be weighed against the shadow of defeat.
He knew it.
So did everyone watching.
And then—
His eyes moved.
Not sweeping now.
Targeted.
Sharp as a sword drawn just below the edge of vision.
They landed—across the room. Past nobles and banners. Through laughter just starting to bloom. Right onto one table.
Onto one man.
Lucavion.
The moment held.
No twitch of surprise. No flinch. No words.
But the message was unmistakable.
He knows.
Lucavion didn't move either.
He simply held that gaze.
Met it.
Returned it with the smallest, faintest shift of his brow.
Acknowledgment.
Nothing more.
But in that exchange—brief as a breath—the truth curled between them like smoke.
Adrian had seen through the name. Through the scarred cloak and unmarked crest. Through time and silence and ruined legacies.
He knew who Lucavion was.
It was expected.
Inevitable, even.
Lucavion's scar might be hidden now—half-concealed beneath his grown-out hair, masked by shadows and tailored misdirection—but structure doesn't lie.
Not to someone like Adrian.
The prince had always been a student of detail. The kind of man who could pick a weapon from a silhouette, a threat from a blink, a truth from a silence.
So Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't hide.
Why should he?
If anything—he welcomed it.
There was a quiet satisfaction in being recognized. Not in name. Not in rank. But in being.
Lucavion Thorne.
The ghost they tried to erase.
The weapon they left in the dirt.
Now standing here, across the banquet hall in the heart of the Academy, drawing the gaze of a prince who once watched him fall.
Perfect.
Adrian's voice returned, cutting cleanly into the heavy stillness that had followed their locked gaze.
"The students of the Lorian delegation," he said, "have come with purpose of peace."
He paused, letting the words settle. No bravado. No false modesty.
Only precision.
"We look forward to the trials ahead—not only in magic and swordwork, but in learning beside all of you. In sharing in the challenge, the discipline…"
Adrian's final words hovered for a moment in the hush.
"…and the promise of Arcanis."
Then silence.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Just waiting.
Until—
Clap.
It came not from the nobles, nor from the students, but from the dais.
Verius Itharion.
The Headmaster's hands met once—then again—slow, deliberate, undeniable. Not thunderous. But anchoring. An acknowledgment carved in precision, not praise.
Others followed.
Sporadic at first.
Then, reluctantly, respectfully, the room joined. Applause bloomed in restrained ripples, not roaring but present. Just enough to mark the end of ceremony. Just enough to honor the line Adrian had walked with such surgical care.
The prince bowed his head once—not low, not humble. But exact.
And stepped down.
Verius Itharion's voice rose one last time, smooth as the arc of a quill finalizing a decree.
"Let the banquet begin."
And with those words—
He vanished.
Not walked.
Not stepped aside.
He simply was no longer there.
A breath of displacement. A curl of mana where he had stood. Nothing dramatic—just absence. Like the world had never expected to hold him long.
And then—
The room shifted.
Not physically.
Socially.
The murmurs began.
First in corners.
Then in eddies.
Noble youths leaned in close. Glances flicked toward Lucavion. Toward Adrian. Toward the five. Words like "special admit," "treaty," and "legacy" drifted between sips of wine and practiced smiles.
*****
Elara's fingers curled loosely against her lap, the folds of her gown warm under her skin, but her chest cold.
Adrian's words still echoed—not loud, not poetic, but measured. Controlled. Sovereign.
And she hated how effortlessly it had come.
'When did you learn to sound like that?'
Because the boy she had known—the one to whom she was once betrothed, whose fingers used to tremble when he had to address even a single court official—he had never liked crowds. Never liked ceremony. When they were twelve, and the heir of House Caerlin was being groomed for politics, Elara had stood taller than him in more ways than one. It was her voice that carried through early assemblies, her laughter that softened his reluctance.
He had hated the attention then.
Too many eyes. Too much pressure.
She remembered how he'd stammered when asked to speak at his first regional hearing, how the words clung to the roof of his mouth like guilt. And how afterward, sitting behind the silk screens of the conservatory garden, he'd muttered, "I sounded stupid. Like a servant boy pretending to be noble."
And she—fool that she had been, heart still intact—had leaned forward, touched his hand, and said, "You sounded real. That's better than noble."
She had coaxed him into visibility.
Encouraged him.
She had believed that together, they could shape something more than tradition. That her strength could lend shape to his quiet.
And now—
He stood beneath star-woven illusions and spoke like he had never needed her at all.
'Have you always been this good, or did you become this after you threw me away?'
Her breath caught against the back of her teeth. Not from grief. Not anymore.
From memory's betrayal.
Because this—this Adrian, poised and polished and speaking of peace like he hadn't helped fracture it—this wasn't the boy she remembered. This wasn't the boy who had once asked her what kind of crown she wanted, just to see her smile.
This was a man sculpted by erasure.
By a history where Elara Valoria had never existed.
Her gaze didn't waver, but her chest tightened with something sharp and quiet.
Not longing.
Not rage.
Something in between.
"Well," Aurelian said at last, his voice low, shaped by the kind of breath one exhales only after realizing they'd been holding it, "that was… something."
Selphine let her fingers trail the rim of her goblet before lifting it. "A performance without being performative." She sipped, slowly. "I hate to admit it, but I'm impressed."
Cedric—no, Reilan—stood just to Elara's left, arms crossed lightly, his gaze still lingering on the space where Itharion had vanished. "He didn't use a single spell," he murmured.
Selphine glanced over, one brow arched. "Didn't need to."
Aurelian gave a dry chuckle. "Power like that doesn't display. It defines."
Elara didn't speak at first.
She was still watching the glimmering ceiling, where stars—illusory yet ancient in their depiction—moved in slow arcs above them.
Her thoughts surging around.
"But?" Selphine asked, catching the note in her tone like a hawk catching wind.
Elara's lips tilted, faint. Not a smile.
"Speaking like that…" Elara mumbled, the edge of something unreadable in her voice. "To sound like legacy without sounding rehearsed."
Selphine's gaze sharpened—cutting past banter, past wine-polish intrigue. Straight to the heart of it.
Selphine didn't blink. "Lucavion."
Aurelian stilled, his hand midway to another sip. Even Reilan shifted, the subtle kind of motion only someone who knew him would catch.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was taut.
Measured.
And Elara… just looked ahead again.
Her gaze swept across the crowd, but not searching. Not even deciding.
Weighing.
"Maybe," she said softly. No emphasis. No defense.
Just a possibility.
And she left it there.
Chapter 777: Socialize ?
The speech ended, but the silence it left behind lingered like aftershocks from a slow-falling tower.
Then—motion returned. Nobles whispered, cutlery resumed its delicate dance against porcelain, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation filled the grand banquet hall once more.
But at one table, set apart like an afterthought dressed in velvet, five figures remained still.
Lucavion leaned against the back of his chair, goblet turning absently between his fingers. Elayne sat poised, posture flawless, but her eyes were distant, observing everything and nothing at once. Toven tapped the edge of his glass with a spoon—not loud enough to be disruptive, just enough to keep his hands busy. Caeden sat like a pillar carved from caution, and Mireilla…
Mireilla was watching everyone.
Then she sighed.
"Well," she said, "that was… inspiring."
Lucavion arched an eyebrow. "You say that like you're trying not to gag."
"I'm trying not to start a riot," she muttered, voice low. "Give me credit."
Toven leaned in slightly, his usual grin dulled by the weight of the room. "So, uh… do we talk to them? Or do they talk to us? Or are we all just pretending each other doesn't exist?"
"No one's pretending," Caeden said quietly. "They're watching."
And they were.
Not overtly. Not directly. But glances passed over their table like drafts through a cracked window. Some curious. Some skeptical. Most dismissive.
"They won't come to us," Elayne said. "Not yet."
Lucavion chuckled, low and sharp. "Of course not. That would imply equality."
Toven made a show of looking around. "So… what now? Sit here and look mysterious?"
"Sit here," Mireilla corrected, "and not ruin the political balance of three empires in one night."
Lucavion lifted his goblet lazily, letting the light catch the wine as if it might hold answers better than nobles.
"Three empires, Mireilla?" he said, tone mock-thoughtful. "I can understand Arcanis. Lorian too, I suppose. But where's the third one? Is this about Toven's hair again?"
Toven gasped with mock offense, running a hand through the admittedly rebellious mess atop his head. "I'll have you know this mane has diplomatic immunity."
Mireilla didn't even blink. "It's an idiom, you stupid man."
Lucavion blinked, then tilted his head. "Ah… I see. Idiom. Yes. Clearly, I'm the fool here."
"You are," Mireilla confirmed, deadpan.
"Glad we established that," Caeden muttered, dry as ash.
Toven leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "So, what now? I mean… the banquet's barely started and it already feels like we're the leftovers of a feast no one wanted."
"It's strange," Elayne said, her tone not bitter, just distant. "All this preparation. The Academy. The lectures. The ceremony. And yet now—here—we're just… waiting."
Mireilla nodded. "They're watching to see if we'll stumble. Or beg. Or offend. Some of them are probably waiting for us to make the first move so they can act like they're being gracious by responding."
Lucavion glanced toward a trio of nobles to their left, their posture open but unmoving. "Calculated courtesy. Wonderful."
"We were warned," Caeden reminded them. "The etiquette instructors said this might happen. That some gatherings would be a test. A game. And sometimes… the best move is not to play."
Mireilla tapped a finger against the stem of her glass. "It's a trap of perception. If we approach first, we're seen as trying too hard. If we wait too long, we're aloof. But if we wait just enough…"
"…they come to us," Elayne finished.
Lucavion swirled the last of his wine with all the drama of a man half-invested in the world, half-nudging it for reaction.
"You all really sat through those lectures, huh?" he asked, tone dry and lazy, like he wasn't quite sure if he was impressed or just disappointed.
Mireilla gave him a side glance sharp enough to peel paint. "Some of us were listening while you were asleep with your eyes open."
Lucavion smirked. "I wasn't asleep. I was meditating on the hypocrisy of noble etiquette being taught like gospel by men with their mouths full of bribes."
Toven held back a laugh, mostly by stuffing a biscuit in his mouth.
Elayne leaned slightly forward, eyes still cool. "You could've at least stayed conscious during the one on dining customs. You stabbed a spoon into that cream custard like it owed you money."
"It did," Lucavion replied without missing a beat. "Its texture was an insult to dessert."
Caeden shook his head with a half-sigh that suggested this was far from the worst thing he'd witnessed from Lucavion.
The laughter—soft, private, and shared—was a breath of warmth in the cold pool of judgment that surrounded them.
And that's when it happened.
The approaching footsteps weren't loud, but they were deliberate—just enough sound to make their presence known, not enough to seem entitled.
Lucavion's eyes flicked sideways, then forward again.
Four figures.
Not draped in the ancestral silks of ducal houses, but still dressed with care. Not the kind of extravagance that shouted wealth, but the kind that suggested meticulous upbringing. Their movements were confident, not cocky. Nobility—yes—but not the sort who forgot how to walk among people.
A boy with dusty gold hair and an elegant maroon vest stepped forward first. His smile was polite but not forced.
"Evening," he said, voice smooth, practiced, but not condescending. "I hope we're not interrupting."
Mireilla sat straighter, casting a glance at the others—quietly checking if she should rise. Elayne offered a nod, and Caeden's hand left the edge of his plate in a gesture of subtle readiness.
"Of course not."
The to speak was Mireilla.
"We are glad then."
Lucavion didn't move. Just raised an eyebrow and gestured lazily to the empty seats near them.
"You are pretty late."
The boy blinked.
Lucavion's smile appeared, faint but precise. "To introduce yourselves, I mean."
The boy chuckled softly, then bowed his head. "Fair enough. I'm Aldric Velhart. House Velhart of Silvermoor."
His companions followed suit.
A girl with olive-toned skin and raven-black hair twisted into intricate knots dipped her head. "Seraphina Korran. House Korran of the East Highlands. Baroness."
A broader-shouldered boy with the easy stance of someone who'd fought more than studied nodded once. "Marius Zimane, from the Viscounty of Zimane."
The last of the four stepped forward with an easy smile—confident but without edge. Her gown was a soft sea-glass green, subtly embroidered at the cuffs with the crest of her house. She wore her blond hair pinned back, not in a showy coil, but in the practical elegance of someone who knew how to speak both in salons and strategy halls.
"Baroness Liora Edevane," she said, voice clear and pleasant. "House Edevane of the Western Reach. And don't worry—we're not here to posture. We just figured it was better to speak than to stare."
That line earned a small grin from Toven, who leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Well," Mireilla said smoothly, "then it's only fair we return the courtesy."
She gave a nod to Elayne, who inclined her head first, composed and precise.
"Elayne Cors," she said.
She gave a nod to Elayne, who inclined her head first, composed and precise.
"Elayne Cors," she said.
A flicker of recognition passed through Seraphina's expression—not of friendship, but of memory.
The name had passed through noble circles before, though the details were blurred.
As they had run a background check on each candidate after all, and apparently House Cors wasn't a house steeped in power or scandal, but it had surfaced often enough in academic records and assessments of arcane proficiency.
Before.
Since they apparently were a fallen family.
Elayne didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. The silence behind her name spoke of choice, not absence.
But many understood her talks.
Chapter 778: Socialise ? (2)
Next was Mireilla. She didn't rise, but her voice held the steadiness of someone who knew the worth of posture even when seated.
"Mireilla Dane," she said simply. "From the Deep Green."
That drew a subtle shift across the nobles' expressions.
The Deep Green.
A region that curled along the northwest spine of the Arcanis Empire, thick with ancient forests and whispered with old magic. It was a place nobles referenced in poems and war records alike—a land of druids and dusk-marked rivers, of ruined temples and isolated clans that bowed to the Empire but kept their roots deep in the soil. The people of the Deep Green were known not for politics, but for presence. Elusive, enduring, and close to the wild threads of mana older than the cities that claimed to govern them.
Mireilla met their looks with a stillness that didn't ask for recognition. It expected it.
Then Caeden spoke, voice like cooled steel. Controlled. Grounded.
"Caeden Roark. From Redwater. Dustlands."
That word—Dustlands—landed heavier than expected.
The Dustlands. The term referred to the cracked, sunburnt regions far south of the Empire's central belt. Technically really close to the southern territories under Arcanis sovereignty, but in practice?
A world apart. The land of dry wind, sun-bleached stones, and trade routes carved into history. A place whispered about in terms of heat and exile—beautiful to tourists, brutal to those who called it home.
Caeden's complexion had hinted at it. His tone—calm, measured, with a cadence unfamiliar to northern nobles—confirmed it. Foreign, but not foreign enough to be excluded. Just enough to be noticed.
Aldric's gaze lingered a half-second longer on him than the others.
Not with suspicion.
With interest.
After all, while the Arcanis Empire was vast—its banners stretching from frostbound fjords in the north to sun-scorched reaches in the south—its reach was not always seamless. The further one went from the imperial core, the more the lines blurred. And nowhere was that truer than along the borderlands.
The Dustlands.
A term born not from imperial decree but from lived grit. Technically part of the greater southern territories, yet the Empire's grasp thinned the further south you traveled. Past the last true bastion of Arcanis influence—Varenthia, the citadel city that stood like a spine of steel at the Empire's southeastern edge—there were no governors appointed by the Council, no Grand Houses to enforce law. Instead, cities ruled themselves, if they were ruled at all. City-states of old blood and sharp blades, hardened by droughts, scarred by uprisings.
And beyond those, across the cracked border ridgelines, lay the Kingdom of Solmara.
Solmara did not refer to its own southern provinces as the Dustlands.
That was Arcanis terminology—imperial, dismissive, a relic of conquest half-finished. But the people who lived there—who traded in spices, and blood, and old debts—they carried the name with pride. Dustlands wasn't a curse. It was survival in a place that made poets of the desperate and warlords of the bold.
The interest was immediate.
Aldric leaned in slightly, his tone still courteous but edged now with genuine curiosity. "So you're a foreigner, then? From Solmara's side of the Dustlands?"
Caeden's jaw shifted, just enough for Lucavion to notice.
"I'm from Redwater," Caeden repeated calmly. "South of the border. Technically part of the Empire… depending on which map you look at."
That earned a soft chuckle from Marius, who clearly appreciated the diplomatic dodge.
"But still," Seraphina said, tilting her head thoughtfully, "that's a long way to come. Why here? Why the capital?"
Caeden met her gaze squarely. "Because the strongest gather here."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't boast.
It simply stated.
"I came to test myself. To fight people who don't fall over when you breathe the wrong way. To see if the strength I've built can grow stronger—or if I've already hit my limit."
There was a moment of respectful silence. The kind earned, not granted.
"Well said," Aldric offered, nodding slightly.
But Lucavion wasn't looking at Caeden's words.
He was looking at his eyes.
Just for a moment—when Caeden answered—something flickered behind the cool precision. Not fear. Not hesitation. But… memory. A weight that didn't belong to combat or ambition. Something quieter. He buried it quickly, almost expertly.
Lucavion tilted his goblet, watching the wine catch the chandelier light in threads of crimson.
He hadn't missed it.
Not the shift in Caeden's jaw. Not the slight, instinctive adjustment in his breath. And certainly not the way the words had arrived too clean, too practiced, as if they'd been drawn from a sheath instead of spoken freely.
It wasn't quite a lie. But it wasn't whole, either.
Lucavion didn't need to hear the truth to recognize the absence of it. He didn't watch people's lips when they spoke—he watched their vitality, their presence, the undercurrent of energy in every word they wove. And Caeden, for all his quiet, steady demeanor… had just fenced a truth and offered its echo.
Lucavion shook his head once. Not in judgment. Not in disdain.
Just understanding.
Everyone carried a hidden blade or two. This one simply hadn't drawn his yet.
'Doesn't matter,' he thought. 'Not my business. Not yet.'
So he let the silence settle, let the noble group's curiosity drift away from the Dustlands and the borders of truth.
And the conversation resumed like nothing had flickered.
Toven grinned, nudging his goblet toward the center. "Well, I guess that leaves me."
He stood just enough to make it dramatic. "Toven Vintrell. Farmer's son. Expert spoon-bender. Absolutely undefeated in imaginary duels."
That earned a chuckle from Marius, who lifted his glass in mock salute. "A dangerous man, I see."
"And finally…" Mireilla murmured, glancing sidelong.
Lucavion didn't move.
He let the silence sit for one beat too long.
Then he looked up, smile lazy and precise.
"Lucavion."
No last name. No origin. Just presence.
There was no ripple of confusion. No blink of surprise. No polite request for clarification.
Just a pause.
And then—nods.
Subtle. Measured. The kind that said: We've heard the name before.
Of course they had.
Anyone seated in this hall, noble or otherwise, had already witnessed through the crucible of entrance exams. And once the results finalized—once the names of those admitted were carved into the Academy's official registry—the background checks began. Not by the Academy, necessarily. But by everyone else. Families. Tutors. Ambitious socialites. Spymasters in miniature.
Lucavion's name had been on that list, on top.
No house. No lineage. No estate.
Just Lucavion.
And yet…
And yet…
There it was.
The look.
Arrogance wasn't the right word—at least not in its crude, overused form. Lucavion's gaze didn't strut. It didn't leer or belittle. It simply assumed.
Assumed attention. Assumed relevance. Assumed the world would come to meet him, not the other way around.
It wasn't malicious. It was mechanical. Inbuilt.
A confidence so precise it bordered on insult—not because it tried to offend, but because it made no room for doubt.
The nobles noticed it. Of course they did.
Aldric's smile didn't fade, but it tightened, ever so slightly. The flicker of professional courtesy drawing inward. Seraphina's fingers traced the rim of her glass once—an idle motion that belied the new sharpness in her eyes. Even Marius, who had greeted Toven's jokes with easy camaraderie, sat a bit straighter.
Because they had all seen the entrance exam broadcasts.
The Festival Trials had been public, streamed through mana projection for days. A celebration of talent.
And Lucavion?
He hadn't just passed. He had carved his way into the top without a house crest, without a sponsor, without an ounce of inherited power.
The nobles had whispered then, too.
A commoner? No—too sharp.
A bastard of some hidden noble line? Maybe.
A fluke?
No. His record was too clean. Too clean, and too intentional.
Still, power was one thing. Personality was another.
And Lucavion's presence didn't ask to be liked. It didn't soften, didn't extend a hand.
It stared.
And dared you to reach first.
The nobles didn't flinch—but the air shifted. The way it always did around someone who had no reason to pretend he didn't know what he was.
Not a mystery.
"Glad to meet you."
Chapter 779: Customs and rejection
The final words of politeness had barely settled between them when the air shifted again—not with tension, but with something quieter.
Expectation.
Aldric, Seraphina, Marius, and the final noble—now seated and settling with the casual sharpness of minor aristocracy—waited.
In the Arcanis Empire, the custom was clear: when noble houses interacted with those of uncertain or lower birth, it was the latter who extended their hand. A show of acknowledgment. A gesture of entry into the conversation.
The nobles did not reach first.
So when Elayne extended her hand to Seraphina with the perfect, composed grace of someone who had studied every angle of etiquette, Seraphina accepted with a nod of affirmation.
Caeden followed, his handshake firm, direct—an unspoken declaration that borders meant little to him.
Toven added a grin to his, ever the charm, and even Mireilla, after a brief and measured pause, reached across the table to Aldric, her movement fluid, unhurried, but precise.
And then—
Lucavion.
He made no move.
He didn't lean forward.
Didn't raise a hand.
Didn't break eye contact.
He just… waited.
Aldric's expression didn't flicker.
But the moment stretched.
Long enough to be noticeable. Too short to be called rude. Balanced on the knife's edge between breach and challenge.
Aldric watched the moment stretch with the patience of someone trained in the art of politeness. His tone, when it finally came, was soft—measured to the syllable.
"It appears," he said mildly, "that Mister Lucavion is not yet familiar with our customs."
Mireilla's eyes snapped shut for a breath, one hand rising to press lightly against her forehead. A full, quiet facepalm.
Lucavion, however, didn't flinch.
He smiled.
Slow. Calm. Unbothered.
"Oh, I'm aware," he said, his voice the kind of smooth that walked the edge between charm and insolence. "Of the customs, that is."
The nobles said nothing—but their postures leaned forward, subtly. Listening.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if considering something beneath their words.
"But if I may," he continued, tone still pleasant, still perfectly civil, "we're not here as barons or dukes. Or even commoners. We're here as students. Under the banner of the Academy."
He let the weight of that pause hang, just enough to recall the echo of the Headmaster's voice.
"Did he not say we are all equal here?"
Lucavion rested one arm along the back of his chair, entirely relaxed.
"So I hope you won't take it personally." His smile curved, glinting with something close to mirth. "But I'm not the sort to bow. To anyone."
The silence that followed wasn't stunned.
It was processing.
Aldric's smile didn't fade, but it cooled. Just a breath.
Seraphina arched one brow, not in offense—but in sharp reevaluation.
Marius exhaled through his nose. A sound dangerously close to a smothered laugh.
And Mireilla groaned quietly. "Lords save us," she muttered.
Aldric's eyes lingered on Lucavion a moment longer, not with reproach—but with analysis. Then, without so much as a blink, he offered a short nod.
"Then I suppose," he said lightly, "it is admirable. For Mister Lucavion to hold to his principles."
Seraphina inclined her head as well. "No offense taken. As long as the respect stands, the gesture can bend."
Marius cracked a grin, broader this time. "Honestly, I respect it. Half the halls are filled with people who'd trip over themselves trying to bow the deepest."
The final noble girl—quiet until now—added her voice, serene and diplomatic. "We come from custom, not chains. The difference matters."
Mireilla blinked. Even she hadn't expected them to take it that well.
But the nobles simply moved on, accepting the break in tradition as… eccentricity, perhaps. Or confidence. Either way, not worth a quarrel.
And just like that—the tone shifted.
Conversation resumed. Wine poured. Laughter emerged—polite, tempered, but genuine in moments.
Elayne spoke with Seraphina about Academy departments and class structures. Toven compared his limited experience with runework to Marius's tale of a combustion mishap involving a goat and a misplaced ward-stone. Caeden engaged Aldric in a quiet but surprisingly engaged discussion about sword forms from the southern provinces versus imperial doctrine.
And Lucavion…
Lucavion was silent.
Not excluded. Not ignored.
But… observed.
Whenever he spoke—briefly, dryly—attention snapped toward him. The others paused. Adjusted. Responded with care. Respect, yes. But not warmth.
He wasn't being shunned.
He was being marked.
Not as threat. Not yet.
But as something outside the rhythm. A note off-tempo. A presence they had yet to classify.
Even among his own table, the lines were shifting subtly. The other four had integrated into conversation—bridging the gap. Lucavion remained just to the side of that bridge, watching the construction.
Lucavion sensed it before it was spoken—the way the air shifted, not with tension, but calculation. They were playing safe, watching, measuring. And he smirked inwardly.
'Indeed. Playing safe.'
It wasn't surprising. Not really. Change never came easily, not when wrapped in centuries of etiquette and power dynamics carved deep into bloodlines. The idea of equality was spoken often enough—by tutors, by banners, by the Academy's own charter—but to live it? To face someone who didn't ask for inclusion but simply was? That unsettled the rhythm.
But does that matter?
No. It does not.
His eyes tracked the flow of conversation, the subtle realignments in posture, tone, and attentiveness. They were adjusting, yes. But not to accommodate. To assess. And he welcomed it. Let them study him. Let them wonder.
[Humans and strange customs, again,] Vitaliara murmured into his mind, her voice curling with dry amusement. [Such rituals to hide the fact that they're all just animals pretending not to bite.]
Lucavion's mouth quirked faintly.
'Pretending, yes… but the teeth are always there. Even when they're smiling.'
He reached for his goblet, lifting it with the same careless grace that had so thoroughly disrupted the pecking order of the room. The wine shimmered against the light, a liquid mirror of the bloodlines seated around him—deep, old, and stirred too easily.
The Academy had done its part well.
That much was clear.
The food was perfect, the decor artfully elegant without slipping into ostentation, and the pacing of the banquet—to the untrained—would seem seamless. But Lucavion saw it for what it was: a display. One layered in tastefully orchestrated civility, beneath which ran the quiet hum of unspoken agendas.
They want to make this feel like a beginning. A foundation. A level playing field.
He almost laughed.
But they've stacked the deck already. Nobles from Houses old enough to forget their own roots, prodigies hand-picked for image as much as talent…
Still, it was a good effort.
Lucavion leaned back in his chair, gaze half-lidded, letting the conversation ebb and swell around him. Toven was recounting some exaggerated tale about a duel with a sentient laundry enchantment, and even Mireilla allowed herself a faint smile.
But Lucavion?
He watched the reflections in the wineglass.
The way Aldric's eyes flicked toward the door a fraction too often.
The soft buzz of mana that wasn't ambient but deliberately veiled.
The slight delay in how the servers entered—half a beat off, like they were listening for a cue not yet given.
'Well now…'
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just let the smile linger on his lips—one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
'There's no way this banquet continues without a ripple.'
And just as the thought crystallized, the shift came.
From the far side of the hall, a pair of figures detached from the wall.
Not servants. Not faculty.
Not students.
Too well-dressed for one. Too poised for the other.
They moved like knives wrapped in etiquette—smooth, silent, and aimed.
Their path curved—not toward the center, not toward the high seats of prestige.
But toward him.
Lucavion didn't so much as blink.
Of course.
Chapter 780: Customs and Rejection (2)
From the raised balconies that circled the grand banquet hall, Reynard Crane watched.
He did not stand alone.
At his flanks—half a pace behind, like shadows trained to move with him—were two of his most loyal retainers. Lyon Halcrest, tall and sharp-featured, eyes always scanning like a hawk bored of waiting for prey. And Davien Thorne, broader, quiet, but not slow. His silence wasn't stupidity—it was calculation.
They were dressed impeccably, of course. Not for display, but for declaration.
Together, they stood like a portrait of future dominance.
Reynard's posture remained perfect—hands lightly clasped behind his back, expression schooled into the calm disdain of aristocracy perfected over generations. But his eyes? They never stopped moving.
They were fixed on one figure in particular.
Lucavion.
There was no mistaking him now. Not after the entrance trials. Not after the entrance ranking.
And certainly not after the voice of the Crown Prince had spoken into Reynard's ears just hours before the banquet began.
"Make sure to deal with that pest."
No ambiguity. No restraint.
The Crown Prince's tone had been velvet-wrapped steel. That of a man used to getting his way, whose tolerance for loose ends was thinning rapidly.
"You failed once, Reynard. Don't fail again."
And Reynard would not.
He had planned for this. Waited for this. A public hall—yes—but surrounded by students. Unwatched corners. Masked intentions. Even a whisper of scandal around the top-ranked candidate could shift public perception. One nudge at the right time, and the so-called prodigy could become a liability, not a triumph.
And more importantly, Reynard needed to see him. Up close.
The boy who had outmaneuvered his men. Slipped through their grip. Mocked his standing without even knowing his name.
Lucavion had cost him pride.
Now Reynard would test the price of his survival.
He gave a slight nod, and Lyon and Davien fell into motion with him.
Together, they descended the curved staircase that led down to the banquet floor. Nobles turned at their passing—some with curiosity, others with calculation. The heir to House Crane did not mingle without purpose.
They moved like an arrow in formation—point, shaft, and fletching—silent, sure, and aimed.
Lucavion's table came into view. Still laughing. Still seated like a man holding court with misfits and misdirection.
The others saw Reynard first—Mireilla tensed subtly, Elayne's hand slipped toward her goblet not out of thirst but readiness, and Toven's grin faltered like a song played off-key. Even Caeden's focus sharpened.
But Lucavion…
Lucavion didn't look.
Not at first.
As if he knew. As if the presence alone was enough to taste.
Reynard stopped beside the table, Lyon at his right, Davien at his left, the hush that followed their arrival not immediate, but infectious. It spread in ripples—first among those seated, then outward, until half the nearby tables leaned in to listen without seeming to.
"Evening," Reynard said, his voice polite, warm, perfect.
Elayne's lips pressed together.
Caeden's fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass.
But Lucavion only turned his head slightly, lifting his gaze with the kind of deliberate slowness that could be mistaken for laziness by fools—or threat by anyone smarter.
And then, he smiled.
Not wide. Not cruel.
Just enough.
"Ah," Lucavion murmured, as if a piece of music had finally returned to its refrain. "We meet again, don't we?"
Reynard's smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed—just enough for the trained to notice.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Lucavion's brow rose ever so slightly. There was no ripple of emotion, no sharp comeback. Just that faint glimmer of amusement curling at the edge of his lips.
But he didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The silence was its own reply.
Reynard's expression smoothed once more, practiced and regal. Then he stepped forward, allowing formality to guide him through the next motion.
"I suppose introductions are in order," he said, loud enough for the nearby tables to catch.
He turned slightly and swept one hand out with elegant precision. "I am Reynard Crane. First heir of House Crane. A pleasure to meet you all."
His eyes moved, sharp and slow, across the faces at the table—measuring, cataloging.
First, he greeted Elayne. She stood with cool grace, offering her hand with practiced civility.
"Lady Cors," he murmured. "Your technique in the trials was… instructive."
"Lord Crane," she returned, her voice perfectly polite, tone perfectly neutral.
Next was Mireilla. She rose only slightly, but her presence sharpened with court-learned precision.
"Mireilla Dane," she said.
Reynard took her hand delicately. "Ah. From the Deep Green. I've heard much."
"Most of it's probably false," Mireilla replied with a smile so polite it almost hid the thorn.
Then came Caeden. His shake was firm, grounded, met without blink or deference.
"Roark, is it?" Reynard said, eyes narrowing just a sliver.
"Dustlands," Caeden answered, unfazed. "We don't use titles there."
Reynard smiled thinly, as if that explained more than it should.
Toven went next, with a grin and a wink. "Toven Vintrell. Apprentice troublemaker."
Reynard gave a clipped nod. "Charming."
Next came the noble group—Aldric, Seraphina, Marius, and Liora. Each offered their hand in turn, and each time Reynard accepted it with the smooth efficiency of someone deeply trained in the etiquette of dominance dressed as diplomacy.
Then—
Lucavion.
Still seated.
Still leaning back in his chair with that calm, unreadable gaze.
Reynard's hand did not extend.
Neither did Lucavion's.
The moment stretched.
The silence curled like smoke.
And then Reynard smiled.
Not warm.
Not cold.
But knowing.
'A chance,' he thought. 'To remind this arrogant bastard that he doesn't belong.'
He turned slightly, as if dismissing the matter altogether, and tilted his head toward the two behind him.
The shift was almost imperceptible.
Almost.
But Reynard's followers—Lyon and Davien—caught it instantly.
The slight tilt of his head. The pause. The way his smile didn't flicker, but his jaw set just a shade tighter.
It was enough.
They moved like dogs let off the leash of courtesy.
"You dare?" Davien's voice cracked like a whip through the ambient clink of crystal and silver. "Is this your way of disregarding House Crane?"
Heads turned.
Lyon stepped forward, voice colder, more precise. "You think yourself above tradition? Above offering your hand to the heir of one of Arcanis' founding houses?"
His words cut like a scalpel—measured, practiced, loud enough to be overheard but not enough to warrant intervention from the staff. "This is open defiance of noble custom."
Reynard said nothing.
Didn't need to.
The storm had already been conjured for him.
Lucavion exhaled—quiet, bored, as though swatting at gnats.
Then he tilted his head, fingers tapping once against his temple before sliding down to rest beneath his nose.
"House Crane?" he asked softly. "Who?"
A beat.
Then he flicked his finger upward as if remembering something distant and mildly unpleasant.
"Ah. Right. Thugs in the clothes of nobility."
His smile didn't sharpen. It didn't need to.
"Wasn't that right?" he added, voice light as ash.
Gasps echoed from surrounding tables.
Lyon's eyes blazed.
Davien took a step forward—
But Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just let the words settle like poison slipped into wine.
And Reynard?
He smiled wider.
Because now… the game had truly begun.
Chapter 781: Slander
The words hung there, heavy with calculated venom.
Reynard didn't react at first—at least not outwardly. His smile, almost too perfect, didn't waver. But the gleam behind his eyes had shifted, sharpened, coiled like a snake winding itself beneath velvet.
Davien didn't hesitate.
"You dare insult House Crane like that? In public? At a banquet of this scale?"
Lyon stepped forward too, fists clenched at his sides—not in preparation to strike, but to emphasize the trembling restraint. "Reynard Crane showed you courtesy. And this is how you repay it? With slander? With disrespect?"
Eyes turned.
Dozens now.
Not just from nearby tables, but across the hall—aristocrats, instructors, junior nobles. Students and stewards. Whispers bloomed like weeds in summer rain.
Lucavion stayed perfectly still.
His hand lowered slowly from his face, and he blinked—once—like the weight of their outrage was a feather brushing his coat.
"I simply spoke," he said lightly, "what your deeds already proved."
A murmur rippled again—half breath, half gasp.
"What deeds?!" Davien snapped, stepping closer. "Speak plainly, whelp. If you have accusations, name them."
Reynard finally raised a hand, stopping him with the ease of a conductor halting his instruments.
"Enough," he said. Calm. Even. Just loud enough to command the surrounding silence.
He turned to the room—perfectly angled, perfectly tragic.
"I apologize, on behalf of House Crane," he said, voice dipped in restraint and noble sorrow. "It appears that… for some reason, our House is being slandered tonight. Thugs, was it?"
He looked at Lucavion again. His voice did not rise. It didn't need to.
Reynard let the silence stretch.
It was a crafted silence, shaped by expectation and control. Every second he waited gave the illusion of patience, of fairness. And every eye in the hall was now turned, not toward him—but toward Lucavion.
Let him speak. Let him make the mistake. Let him say something specific.
'Say it,' Reynard thought. 'Mention the terrace. Mention anything I can deny.'
Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't rise. His fingers drummed once against the polished wood of the table, thoughtful, as though trying to remember if he'd forgotten a dessert order.
Then he looked up.
Unhurried. Unbothered.
"Indeed," he said, tone quiet, almost polite. "I said thugs."
He let the word settle like a stone in clear water.
"Was there something wrong with that?"
The ripple that followed was sharper than before—no longer surprise, but discomfort. A few nobles stiffened. Someone coughed delicately into their sleeve. Even Seraphina, across from him, shifted her weight as if to subtly put space between herself and the fire forming under the surface.
Reynard's face twitched.
It was subtle. But it was there.
And it shattered the perfect stillness of his mask.
"Of course there's something wrong with that," he said, the warmth slipping from his voice like silk peeling from glass. "You insult a noble house, a founding pillar of the Empire, with no cause, no proof, and then ask if it is wrong?"
Lucavion's gaze didn't waver.
He tilted his head just a touch. "I never said it was without cause."
And again—he gave nothing.
No details. No names. No locations.
Just the implication. The taste of truth, dangled like a blade just out of reach.
Reynard felt the hall begin to lean—not toward Lucavion, but toward curiosity. And curiosity, unchecked, was a dangerous thing.
'If he keeps it vague, I can't disprove it. If I address the terrace, I acknowledge it happened. If I stay vague, I seem evasive…'
He stepped forward slightly, each word sharpened by calculation.
"Then name it, Lucavion. If there's a claim to be made—make it. What exactly did House Crane do, to be called thugs in front of the Academy's future leaders?"
He spread one hand out—not hostile, but open. Reasonable. That was the image.
'Trap him. Draw the context out. Let him hang himself by details.'
Reynard's lips curved faintly.
"Surely, you're not the sort to hide behind insinuation?"
Lucavion's smile was slow.
Not triumphant. Not cruel. Just calm. As if this entire exchange had been a particularly tedious lecture and someone had finally asked a question he'd been waiting to answer.
"Insinuation?" he echoed, brows rising slightly. "Oh no. I'm not the type to retreat behind implication. If I say something, I say it plainly."
He placed his goblet down with a soft, deliberate clink.
"And I always back my claims up."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting lazily on the table as if this weren't a banquet hall bristling with tension, as if the walls themselves weren't holding their breath.
His voice, when it came, was conversational. Almost too casual.
"Oh, yes—something did happen, Reynard. Since you were so insistent, I'd hate to disappoint."
The hall was deathly still.
"A boy and his sister. Baron lineage. Had seats at a terrace café—ones they paid for, I might add—when they were approached by three young men adorned in count-house emblems. Rather resplendent, really. One might say... overcompensating."
A subtle gasp rippled from a nearby table.
Lucavion went on, his tone light, but his eyes now sharp as twin blades beneath the surface.
"These three gentlemen took it upon themselves to educate the baron's children. Not with words, mind you, but with posture. Presence. Threats."
He made a loose gesture, like recalling a minor scene in a play.
"One of them placed a boot on the girl's bench. The other spun a coin in the boy's face like a countdown. The third… well, he decided proximity was power. All while reminding them they didn't belong."
He looked back at Reynard now, and this time, the mask was gone.
"In that moment, House Crane's honor wasn't just present. It was leaning forward, crowding a girl no older than my cousin, and reminding a frightened boy that nobility is less about merit, and more about volume."
Lucavion's next words came low, level, and deliberate.
"So I intervened."
A single breath passed through the crowd.
Lucavion continued, softer now, and more cutting for it.
"I didn't draw steel. I didn't throw a spell. I simply walked by. And when they chose to escalate—when they lost control of their own mana, and suffered for it—I remained standing."
He turned to the crowd, letting his voice carry.
"And if that's the sort of behavior we're meant to excuse, to protect, to bow to simply because a family crest was stitched on a collar—then yes. I suppose I did say something impolite."
He looked back at Reynard.
"As heir of House Crane, you must know how delightful your name sounded while trampling dignity underfoot. The self-assuredness. The assumption of immunity."
Lucavion's smile returned—slow, unhurried.
"So, no, Lord Reynard. It wasn't slander."
He leaned in, just slightly, enough for only the nearest few to hear the next words, though they echoed louder than any shout.
"It was an accurate title."
Then, louder again—for all to hear:
"Thugs in noble clothing."
And with that, he sat back again, reached for his goblet, and drank.
Not to toast.
Not to gloat.
Just to taste something sweeter than wine—
Truth.
Chapter 782: Slander (2)
Reynard's smile did not break.
Not even now.
The words had struck clean. So clean, they left no blood to show—only silence. The crowd held its breath. His followers stared, stunned by how neatly Lucavion had laid the narrative, how tightly each thread wove into the next. A perfect trap.
But Reynard?
He bowed his head slightly.
A breath. A pause.
And then he exhaled with the quiet gravity of a man too noble to raise his voice in anger.
'Fell right into it. As expected from a lower-born commoner,' he thought. But his eyes didn't show triumph. Only sadness.
He stepped forward—not in fury, but with grace. Measured. Controlled.
"I had hoped," Reynard said softly, his voice warm with ache and restraint, "that this evening might be unmarred by division. That we could begin our time here as comrades, not adversaries."
He turned slightly, allowing his voice to carry—not like a commander, but a scholar wounded by what had just unfolded.
"But instead… my House is insulted. Not with questions. Not with critique. But with open accusation. Lacking proof. Lacking witnesses. Delivered not in inquiry—but in condemnation."
His gaze swept the room—not to demand, but to appeal.
"Does this sound like House Crane? The same house that has stood guard over the Empire's eastern frontiers for four generations? That negotiated peace at Fort Halveth? That lost twelve sons and daughters during the Night of Smoke just five years ago?"
Murmurs passed like a tide across the banquet hall.
"We are not flawless," Reynard continued, "no House is. But thugs? Truly?" He smiled—not with mirth, but hurt. "Thugs? That word. Directed at us. With no trial. No evidence. Simply dropped into the air like poison in wine."
He looked to Lucavion, not with challenge, but with a pained sort of disappointment.
"And to think… it came from someone I had not even had the pleasure of knowing before tonight."
He turned to the Academy officer, his voice soft, but clear.
"This is not a duel. This is not a matter of pride. This is a matter of precedent. If one may stand at the center of this great institution and tarnish a family name without consequence, what becomes of law? Of civility?"
His bow was slight but deliberate.
"I request that the Discipline Committee review this matter with urgency. I ask not for vengeance—but for fairness. For clarity. Let the truth speak where rumor now reigns."
And then—he stepped back.
A noble, injured not in body but in name.
And in the silence that followed, Lucavion could see it—how perfectly Reynard had moved the stage. From aggressor to wounded heir. From suspect to victim.
The applause hadn't come.
But the doubt?
It was starting to grow.
Reynard stepped back into the silence with all the grace of a man who had just offered a prayer to civility itself. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, expression soft, brow furrowed with quiet disappointment. He didn't press further. He didn't gloat. That wasn't necessary.
Because the room was already tilting.
He could feel it.
A rustle at the periphery—robes shifting, goblets stilled mid-air, conversations cut off like blades sheathed mid-draw.
From the edges of the hall, from tables dressed in crimson and gold—the colors of Crown Prince's faction—several nobles began to rise.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But enough.
The first to approach was Lord Elric Vaumont, a second cousin to the royal family through maternal lines. Young, sharp-jawed, and thoroughly average in talent—but a master of loyalty.
He stepped forward and gave a shallow bow in Reynard's direction, his voice clear and carefully measured.
"If honor is sullied by tongue alone, then none of us are safe," he said to the crowd. "We do not condemn a house for surviving insult. We condemn the practice of casual defamation disguised as courage."
Others joined.
Lady Brienna of House Hathvale, flanked by her twin attendants, offered a nod toward Reynard, then turned toward the nearest Academy officials. "The institution cannot allow such behavior to stand. We have all come to study under the same roof, but that roof must not shelter spite disguised as speech."
Lord Cassiar of Trinhold gave a scoffing laugh, brushing invisible dust from his cuffs. "Commoners learn quickly that tongues are sharper than blades—but they rarely learn when to sheath them. House Crane deserves clarity, if nothing else."
A tide.
Small. Subtle.
But rising.
Reynard didn't smile. He simply inclined his head, acknowledging the words, the unspoken allegiance. These were not his closest allies—not in public. But they were part of the Crown Prince's net, cast wide across every banquet, every lecture, every corner of the Academy.
Lucavion, still seated, met the ripple of judgment with his usual ease.
But now?
Now even his silence seemed like arrogance.
To those already uncertain, it was proof. He didn't defend himself. Didn't deny. He simply leaned, watched, and drank—as if the court of opinion was beneath him.
And that?
That was the final turn of the knife.
Because even those who hadn't sided with Reynard began to whisper. Not accusations. Not certainty. Just doubt.
Lucavion laughed.
Not forced. Not strained.
A low, velvety sound that rose like a ripple of silk against a stone floor—calm, unbothered, and vaguely amused.
He clapped.
Twice. Then thrice. Not loud, but just enough to sting.
"Aha… ahaha… as expected," he said, rising slowly, lifting his goblet as if to toast the room's fickle mood. "Be it in this world, or any other… those without spine are always the loudest. And the most shameless."
He took a sip.
His eyes, black and sharp, locked directly on Reynard.
"Did you have your fun with lying, Reynard?"
The name hit like a whip crack.
Reynard's smile faltered, eyes narrowing. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Subtle. But enough for those who watched closely.
Lucavion tilted his head with mock innocence.
"What? That look?" he asked. "We're students of the same academy, are we not? Surely, I can call you by name. Or does nobility teach its children to be frightened of casual address?"
He swirled the wine in his glass, its surface catching the banquet lights like a blood-stained mirror.
"But then again," he said, stepping forward, each word crisp and deliberate, "people like you—who've made a habit of hiding behind the embroidered veil of legacy—you were never taught the difference between reverence and relevance."
Reynard's hand twitched at his side.
"You insolent—"
But Lucavion raised a finger.
"Now, now," he said smoothly. "You had your moment. You spun your tale. You earned your pity. It's only fair I take my turn."
He took one last sip from his goblet, then placed it gently on the edge of a passing servant's tray, not even breaking eye contact.
"You claim you weren't there. I claim you were. A classic stalemate, isn't it?"
He spread his hands lightly, the tone of a man explaining something tedious to a crowd not quite worthy of his time.
"Which means, by tradition, by honor, we need a witness. Someone to speak what we cannot prove alone."
And then—
He turned his head.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
To the far end of the banquet hall, where the shadows thinned beneath the lanterns.
And standing there, half-shielded by a trailing curtain of ivy-laced crimson silk, was a girl.
Pale white hair.
Eyes the color of crushed rubies.
Regal.
Still.
Watching.
"Isn't that right, Princess?" Lucavion asked.
The room went still.
As one, every gaze shifted.
To her.
To Priscilla Lysandra—the once-ignored royal. The ghost of court scandal. The Princess with the red eyes of the Crown, and the silence of a shadow long underestimated.
And now?
She stood with the full weight of the banquet hall's attention pressing against her skin like cold iron.
Lucavion's voice dropped just enough to force the silence deeper.
"You were there. That day. On the terrace."
He smiled—not wide, not cruel. But certain.
"You watched it all."