"Julien."
Tristina's voice cut through the air—calm, precise.
Julien turned slowly, violet eyes narrowing slightly. A flicker of interest sparked behind them.
Tristina's expression, for once, wasn't unreadable. Her gaze was sharp—focused, almost… expectant.
"Would you please spar with me?" she asked, tone unwavering.
Julien raised a brow. "What?"
But she was already walking away—no explanation, no backward glance.
He watched her leave, brow furrowing faintly in confusion.
The classroom was empty now; the others had slipped out unnoticed.
'Tch. I forgot to ask why everyone left so quickly... Doesn't matter. I'll pay a visit to the Professors' South Wing. Perhaps I'll finally meet the elusive Headmaster.'
Julien stepped out of the lecture hall—
And halted.
Tristina was standing just beyond the doorway.
He frowned. "Why are yo—"
"Professor Lenira will be conducting today's session," she interrupted coolly. "In the Assembly Hall. Just before the Sword Hall."
Then she turned and walked away, her steps silent.
Julien's eyes darkened. His cold, emotionless mask returned.
'What is she thinking? I can't read her at all.'
He turned and began walking toward the hall she'd mentioned.
His footsteps echoed through the corridor—slow, deliberate, hands in his pockets as usual.
'She said it was this way… so why is she going the other direction?'
He passed a shuttered window, pale morning light slipping between the gaps in thin, diagonal beams.
'Well… she doesn't look the type to attend an Etiquette class.'
The Assembly Hall came into view—immense, its high, arched ceilings echoing the solemn grace of a cathedral. Crimson-draped balconies ringed the chamber, and velvet curtains framed a gleaming marble floor—broad, vacant, and still.
Students were loosely gathered near the center—standing in a messy, uneven line.
Julien walked forward, unhurried.
He reached the back of the queue and nudged the nearest boy aside with his shoulder.
"Who the—?" the boy snapped, turning sharply, irritation flaring across his face.
Then he saw Julien.
The boy's face went pale. His mouth snapped shut. Eyes dropped low. Head bowed. A reflex—like a servant's trained deference before a master's gaze.
He didn't dare speak another word.
One by one, the other students began to notice. Like a ripple through still water, heads turned. Voices died. Feet shifted.
Julien smiled—slow and amused.
He kept walking.
Not to the back where he usually stood—no. This time, he walked to the very front.
The crowd parted before him without a word. Backs straightened. Eyes lowered. They moved by instinct, not command.
At the front of the hall, Professor Lenira stood beside a velvet-covered table, laying out a pair of white gloves, a ribboned fan, and other neatly arranged props for today's class.
She wore a high-waisted indigo gown that flowed like silk caught in a breeze. Her sleeves hugged her arms to the wrist, silver buttons glinting like tiny teardrops at the cuffs. A black sash cinched her waist with brutal perfection.
Her ash-blonde hair was pinned in a flawless coiled chignon—not a single strand dared rebel.
Her silver-gray eyes swept across the hall—
scanning the students—until they landed on Julien.
She raised her voice, clear and composed.
"Julien de Rothvale. Will you volunteer as the male lead for today's banquet rehearsal?"
Julien stepped forward without hesitation.
"Gladly."
Unlike his first impression of her, which leaned toward mild dislike—after watching her ruthlessly tear Elaria apart, she'd become his favorite professor.
He slipped on the white gloves resting at the table's edge, adjusting each finger with quiet precision.
Lenira turned to the rest of the room.
"Now then, anyone may volunteer as the female lea—"
Julien moved first.
He took a single step closer, then lowered himself into a graceful half-kneel—one knee to the floor, the other raised, posture straight, head tilted slightly.
He extended his gloved hand toward her.
"Will you do me the honor of this dance, Lady Lenira D'Chesray?"
Lenira blinked—just once.
Not startled. Momentarily disarmed. She hadn't expected this.
"Julien... wait. I'm not—"
"You're the most qualified partner in the room," he said smoothly. "And this lesson deserves a proper demonstration, does it not?"
A pause.
Then—quietly, almost reluctantly—
"Very well."
She placed her hand in his.
Their hands found position—his right hand resting lightly at her waist, her left settling on his shoulder. The other hands joined, fingers entwined in ritual formality.
The hesitation vanished the moment their fingers touched.
Then they began to move.
They stepped together onto the open floor.
Lenira's heels clicked in refined rhythm.
Her steps were flawless—measured, fluid—every motion a masterclass in poise.
Julien followed seamlessly.
His frame matched hers with unshakable precision, gloved hands guiding and responding in perfect synchrony.
The soft drag of his polished black shoes traced clean arcs across the marble, never once faltering.
Their bodies never touched—yet the space between them pulsed with something unspoken.
The entire hall fell silent.
Dozens of eyes stared, unblinking.
This wasn't the same Julien they remembered—
Blood-soaked. Brutal. Inhuman.
No. This was someone else entirely.
A silhouette of nobility.
Grace in every step.
A performance honed to perfection.
When the final turn came, they paused—still, breathless, eyes locked.
Then they stepped apart with perfect control.
Applause broke out—scattered at first… then rising.
Lenira turned slightly, hiding the faintest flush in her cheeks.
'I didn't expect him to be… this proficient.'
Julien offered a slight bow, expression calm.
A smirk curled inward, private.
'Before becoming a Dark Mage, I was the Imperial Etiquette Instructor. This is nothing… but it should earn me a few points.'
He didn't realize it then—but this one gesture of favoritism would make her…
The catalyst for his first step toward tyranny.
Class ended shortly after, with Lenira delivering a few final notes in her usual clipped, elegant tone.
Next was Swordsmanship.
Students filed into the sparring hall with practiced steps—no one dared chatter now.
They formed into perfect rows, posture straight, eyes forward.
And yet, not a single one of them could shake the perfect noble image of Julien out of their head.
Especially the girls.
Whispers flitted through the air in hushed tones:
"Did you see the way he danced?"
"I never knew he could look like that."
"The way he moved—gods, he was so charming."
But Julien's attention was elsewhere.
On his fiancée. Tristina.
She stood by the weapon rack, fingers drifting lightly across the hilts of various swords.
Her gaze was sharp. Focused.
Then the back door swung open.
Professor Eleanor entered.
The moment she stepped in, the air shifted—
and every student stood straight, silent, disciplined.
She wore a black coat, fastened halfway—hugging her waist before flaring sharply at the hips. Beneath it, a fitted leather corset gripped her torso like armor.
Her black braids swung with each step, heavy and precise, brushing low against her back. Her legs moved with coiled strength, high-cut leather wrapping close around her thighs.
She stepped forward.
"Today you'll be sparring. One student will step onto the stage, and anyone may challenge them. The winner stays. Keep going until you're either defeated or you yield."
"Don't worry about injuries," she added with a smirk. "I've summoned a few priests and priestesses. Just avoid fatal wounds."
She scanned the silent crowd.
"So… who'll go first?"
No one moved. Eyes darted from face to face, waiting for someone else.
Eleanor let out a quiet sigh—disappointed, but not surprised.
"Julien."
Her eyes found him, glowing faintly with mana.
"To the stage."
He stepped onto the stage, unhurried.
An assistant professor approached and handed him a small badge—flat, silver, engraved with a single sword outlined in sharp black ink.
Eleanor's voice rang out.
"Yesterday, you defeated an Apprentice. As of today—"
Her tone rose with clarity and authority.
"Aspirant Julien de Rothvale is officially promoted to Apprentice."
A respectful murmur rippled through the class.
Then, another item was brought forward—a sword.
Refined. Polished. Its steel gleamed cold and pristine. The grip wrapped in dark leather, the pommel etched with a faint insignia of Aristheia's crest.
Julien accepted it.
He stared at the blade, face unreadable—easily mistaken for quiet discontent.
'A sword for a mage. How fitting.'
Eleanor chuckled.
"Don't look so grim. If you attend all my classes up to the final term and keep practicing like this... you'll graduate soon enough as a full-fledged Knight."
Julien gave a small, silent nod.
'Graduate? Wait two more terms? I'll be long gone before this one's over.'
Then—footsteps.
Tristina stepped onto the stage, eyes sharp, voice clear.
"Professor. I want to spar with Julien."
Eleanor raised a brow. "Alright. Just avoid anything fatal."
Tristina nodded.
They faced each other.
"Tristina de Draker. I request a spar."
"Julien de Rothvale. I accept."
Eleanor raised her arm, then dropped it.
"Begin."