As the name suggested, Sena's divine gift was concealment—an ability that not only veiled his own presence, but also pierced the shadows to uncover those lurking in ambush. As one of the academy's most gifted pupils, he stood in Robert's very year, a disciple of the formidable Ninth Tier.
Robert's eyes lit with delight as he glanced at Sena, then, with sudden mischief, he smacked the back of the boy's plump head and laughed, cursing, "You damned fat oaf! Why in hell didn't you say so earlier? With such convenience, what's there left to hesitate about?"
Sena chuckled sheepishly. "Better cautious than dead. True, the perimeter of the ruins is guarded by our own men, yet those relics within are watched by the clergy themselves. And besides, among the sentries are some formidable classmates—our old rival, the academy's first-ranked prodigy, Eddie Haus, has also been stationed there to protect the ruins."
Robert snorted. At the mention of Haus, his smoldering ire rose unbidden. Their enmity, though not intricate, was deeply rooted.
Haus had been born to poverty, descended from slaves. Only six years ago had his innate gift of the Flame been unearthed, granting him entry into the academy and the dignity of a divine acolyte. Thus his family at last severed their bonds of servitude. But before that, Haus had been nothing but a drudge for the nobility, toiling day and night under their cruelty. His mother, once fair of face, had perished at the hands of a lust-driven lord.
So it was no wonder that, once elevated, Haus harbored no warmth toward the nobility—least of all toward wastrel scions like Robert, whose seat at the academy was secured by the abuse of privilege rather than merit. Toward him, Haus's anger was ever unbridled, his reproach relentless.
Robert, though not a villain beyond forgiveness, was still a thoroughbred rake. Six years ago, fate had set the two in the same class. A trifling quarrel upon their first meeting was enough to plant the seed of resentment. Over time, petty frictions grew into a bitter hatred that neither could quell.
Now under night's pall, the church ruins loomed with a sinister air. Around its outer edges stood more than a thousand armored soldiers in black—Robert's family retainers. Between their cordon and the shattered nave sprawled the encampments of academy staff and chosen students, who formed the second line of defense. It was this camp that Sena had been tasked to watch.
At the heart of the ruins rose a towering construction tent, tens of meters high, wherein the goddess's effigy was being restored. The divine relics gathered from across the land lay stored within, under the watch of clerical scribes—the final obstacle Robert must pass to lay hands on them.
As the dusk thickened, Robert and Sena drew near in a black-canopied carriage. One of the retainers, already forewarned, hurried to greet them and slipped inside. In hushed tones, he said, "Young master, all is arranged. Shortly, you will lead a few of us to flatter the church officials with a banquet, distracting them. While their attention is drawn, Lord Sena may slip unseen into the tent." As he spoke, he pressed a slip of paper into Sena's hand, upon which was sketched the relics' hiding place.
Robert murmured, "And the academy guards in the encampment? I will not have them caught in the crossfire."
The retainer grinned. "Fear not, young master. My men and I shall entangle them. Tonight, nothing will go awry."
Robert's heart eased. He cast Sena a glance; the rotund youth gave a solemn nod, beat his chest, and let out a muffled grunt to steel his courage. Then, in the blink of an eye, Sena vanished, leaving only the comical impression of his ample backside pressed into the cushion.
Such was the hallmark of his divine gift—invisibility, and the detection of the hidden. On the Continent of Divine Grace it was no supreme power, yet wielded with cunning, it was an ability most dreadful.
Robert, with several retainers, bore tables of wine and food into the ruins, Sena skulking beneath their laden boards.
They had scarcely departed when another carriage rolled up to the cordon, flying the banner of Amesel Academy. Within sat a tutor, who hailed, "Brave sirs, the dean, Donald, has dispatched me with urgent documents. Grant me passage."
A soldier stepped forward. "By order of Lord Michel of the Church, all who enter or leave must be recorded in full. State your name and the nature of your charge."
The tutor recited his credentials, then added, "The Yaran Tournament draws near. Dean Donald has finalized the entries, and I bear the official tokens of participation for certain students within. Young Master Robert is aware—indeed, the dean granted him leave for this very matter."
The soldier nodded, scribbled in his ledger, and bade the tutor sign before allowing him passage.
Meanwhile, Robert had reached the entrance of the great tent. His brow furrowed at once, for there, patrolling, were Eddie Haus and his fellow students. The moment they espied him, they barred his way.
"Robert," Haus said coldly, "you trespass in sacred ruins at night. Do you bear Lord Michel's writ? Without it, you transgress the very law of the Church."
Robert met his haughty gaze with a frosty smile. "I have no writ. Yet, Haus, I come not as a student, but as the acting lord of Moonwatch City, to call upon the church dignitaries. Tell me, do you possess the authority to impede me?"
Haus faltered, tongue-tied, and muttered inwardly, Cursed wretch, cloaked in borrowed might. Were it not for your noble blood, I would grind you beneath my heel. But aloud he said loftily, "I dare not defy Moonwatch's proxy lord. Yet, Lord Robert, since Michel himself has charged me with this guard, duty compels me. Whatever you bear, place it down—I must inspect it."
Beneath the banquet's drapery, Sena shivered, his face paling. Could Haus have sensed me?
Robert curled his lip, flicked the cloth aside. Nothing was visible beneath. "Well? See for yourself—there is nothing! Or shall you taste every dish, every cask of wine, to prove I've poisoned none?"
In truth, Haus was merely seeking cause to vex him. He had no inkling of the figure crouched in stealth beneath the table. Realizing he could do nothing more tonight, he snorted, turned on his heel, and stalked away.
Robert spat at his retreating back, signaled his retainers, and together they pushed wide the tent flaps. Robert strode in with a booming laugh. "Honored uncles, your nephew Robert comes to pay his respects. A small token of regard, unworthy though it be."
Meanwhile, Haus returned to his camp, seething in silence, as the messenger tutor drove his carriage straight into the students' quarters.