Chapter 807: Another Male Lead
The ballroom pulsed with music again, the kind of music designed to erase—soft strings and elegant flourishes meant to smooth over the cracks in everyone's memory. A subtle performance of forgetting. The nobles returned to their masquerade, their laughter deliberate, the tinkling of glasses a little too crisp, too frequent. Everywhere Priscilla looked, she saw masks being reapplied—stitched on with silk and obligation. And yet none of them came near.
She stood alone.
Not ostracized.
Not quite.
Just… noticed. Marked. A line drawn around her that no one dared step over. Even the women she had once dined with weekly were suddenly caught in deep, spontaneous conversations across the room. No curious glances. No whispered invitations. Just space.
'So this is the price.'
It shouldn't have surprised her. She had felt the fracture the moment her voice broke the air between Rowen and Lucavion. The moment she sided not with the Empire, nor with silence, but with something dangerously close to truth. The air was thinner here—colder. The kind of cold that didn't touch skin, only status.
And still, beneath the weight pressing along her ribs, beneath the nerves whispering of Lucien's wrath to come, she felt it again—that quiet thrum in her blood. Thrill.
She hadn't bowed. Not to her brother. Not to Rowen. Not even to fear. And there was a part of her, sharp-edged and secret, that had been waiting for this.
Daring for it. Wanting to know if she could be more than the Crown's ornament.
'What is this…'
Her gaze slid over the ballroom, taking in the subtle shifts—the way conversation flowed around Reynard and his ilk now like water avoiding rot, the way Lucien hadn't moved in several minutes, frozen in a coil of political paralysis.
She turned slightly, glass still in hand, and then—
A presence.
It was subtle. Not loud or sudden. But undeniable. The shift in pressure. The unmistakable brush of awareness. Someone was walking toward her—not with the clumsy insistence of those seeking relevance, but with calm certainty.
She barely had time to turn when a voice greeted her—silky, deep, and soaked in amusement.
"It was quite a fun show."
The words drew her eyes sideways.
And there he was.
Blue hair, immaculate and flowing just long enough to frame his face like something out of a painter's dream. His eyes—shiny gray—glinted like polished steel under soft light. A color that didn't catch emotion, but reflected it. And that smile… not warm, not cruel. Just perfectly curved, the kind of smile worn by men who were never told no.
Arrogance—pristine and deliberate—clung to him like cologne.
He looked at her with that same unshaken smile, the kind meant to disarm, to say I'm not a threat—all while hiding the knife in plain view. It was the smile of an old friend, or at least someone who had once played the part. And for a moment—just a flicker—Priscilla almost returned it.
Almost.
Because once, long ago, she might've smiled back without hesitation. Might've laughed. Might've let the warmth of his presence dull the jagged edges that court life carved into her spine.
If it were before.
Before the silks and duties. Before the betrayals and quiet dismissals. Before she learned the shape of power wasn't always brute force—but condescension wrapped in affection.
'If it were before… when I was still innocent.'
But she wasn't.
And now, looking at him—at the easy posture, the glint in his gaze, the confidence soaked into every syllable—she could see it.
Clear as crystal.
He wasn't here to comfort.
He was here to assess.
To prod. To judge. To smile with the same dismissive indulgence Lucien wore when he thought no one could challenge him.
Behind the polished veneer and artful charm—
He looked down on her.
Just the same.
She didn't respond at first.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Her lips stayed still, the line of her mouth held tight as her fingers rested on the glass stem. Her eyes, however, never wavered from his.
And then—
He tilted his head slightly, mock confusion feathering through his expression.
"Come on, what is with the face?" he said, voice still smooth as silk. "Why are you looking at me like you saw a ghost?"
Her gaze narrowed—not sharply. Not in challenge.
In recognition.
The ghost, after all, wasn't him.
It was the part of herself that might've welcomed him.
Might've believed him.
She drew a breath.
And then, in a voice low but steady, she spoke his name.
"Thalor…"
Thalor smiled.
Not the playful kind offered between allies. Not the warm kind meant to comfort or disarm. It was the slow, indulgent curl of lips that belonged to a man who had never doubted he'd be recognized. Who knew his presence left impressions like a signature seared in wax.
"Oh… took you long enough to recognize me."
His voice lingered in the space between them, velvet wrapped around thorns.
Priscilla didn't answer right away.
Her fingers tightened just slightly around the stem of her glass, the pressure grounding her. There was no mistaking that name. Not here. Not anywhere in the Empire.
Thalor Draycott.
The name alone could split silence. A lineage carved from steel and strategy, feared in courtrooms and whispered about in the arcane halls of the Tower. The Draycott Dukedom—rulers of the South—had never been subtle. And Thalor, their prodigal heir, had never needed to be.
He wasn't just a mage.
He was the mage. The chosen disciple of the Master of the Magic Tower. A boy whose natural affinity for magic hadn't just drawn envy—it had reshaped curriculum. A genius, yes, but more than that—a symbol. Of dominance. Of inevitability.
Wherever he stood, people looked.
Wherever he walked, power followed.
And now he stood in front of her, head slightly tilted, silver-gray eyes gleaming like moonlight on a dagger's edge.
Thalor's eyes gleamed a little sharper at her silence, though the smile never left his lips. If anything, it deepened—just slightly. Like he was waiting for something he already knew would come.
"What?" he said, tone lilting, amused. "Cat got your tongue?"
The air between them tightened. The music swelled in the background, but none of it reached her ears.
Priscilla didn't sigh. Didn't flinch.
She looked him dead in the eye and said, quietly but without falter, "I don't have anything to talk with you."
It wasn't a lie.
It was armor.
Because what could she possibly say to Thalor Draycott?
The prodigy. The heir. The man born with stars braided into his fate, who had once laughed beside her under the garden trees—only to speak her name later like it was something sticky and unfortunate caught on his shoe.
She could still hear it.
Not shouted. Not meant for her to hear at all.
But whispered, offhanded, behind the draped curtains of the music hall at the Winter Revue.
"Priscilla? Pretty enough, sure—but if it was not for father's insistence, do you really think I would care about a wastrel like her? I have not intention of sullying our blood."
She had frozen in place.
Thirteen years old, dressed in imperial silk and hope. Her hands had trembled, even then. And she had smiled when he passed her later that night, as if nothing inside had shattered.
'How can I talk to someone like you, Thalor, when every time I look at your face I remember the first time I stopped believing in dreams?'
She had liked him once.
Something of adolescence.
Before she understood what those emotions could cost.
Before she knew the difference between admiration and affection—between proximity and meaning.
He had been her first love.
Most likely the last as well.
Chapter 808: Another male lead (2)
Now, standing across from him again beneath the glittering chandeliers and painted smiles, she didn't feel that old ache. Not really. It wasn't pain anymore—it had dulled into something colder, quieter. Something like recognition.
Complicated.
That was the word for it.
She didn't hate him. Not the way she had that night, curled beneath her covers, teeth clenched, tears held back like they were shameful. She didn't even feel the sting of that moment like a wound. Not anymore.
But she did remember.
And the memory didn't warm her.
Thalor Draycott wasn't a heartbreak.
He was a reminder.
Of who she'd been. Of what she'd believed. Of just how naïve a girl could be before the world carved its truths into her with silk gloves and silver knives.
Looking at him now, she felt nothing soft. No flutter, no yearning, no ghost of that childhood fondness. The part of her that once leaned toward him had long since been cauterized. What remained was sharp-edged clarity.
Yet even that wasn't simple.
Because Thalor wasn't just a boy from her past.
He was a mirror, held up at the worst possible angle.
He embodied everything the court adored—talent, birthright, power stitched into every inch of his perfectly tailored presence. And he had walked back into her life at a moment when she had just begun to reject all of it.
'You're not a regret. You're a test.'
She exhaled through her nose, eyes steady, voice composed.
"What do you want, Thalor?" she asked, not coldly—but cleanly. As one might ask a passing shadow whether it intended to linger.
Thalor didn't answer her question right away.
Instead, his smile lingered—too slow, too knowing. But then it faded, or perhaps shifted, drawn by something else. His gaze slid past her, casually, like wind curling through a curtain.
And then it fixed.
On someone.
"Who is that guy?" he asked, his voice still smooth, but quieter now—curious, not in the way most nobles asked questions, but the way a predator marks a movement in the underbrush.
"…Who?" she replied, instinctively, her brow dipping just slightly.
But she was already turning. Already following his gaze.
And when her eyes found the target, her breath hitched—only slightly, but enough.
Lucavion.
Of course it was him.
He stood a modest distance away now, half-lit by the ambient glow of the chandeliers, speaking to a girl whose presence caught attention even before the striking color of her hair did. Lavender. A shade you didn't forget once you'd seen it.
Valeria Olarion.
'So that's where you are.'
The girl stood easily at Lucavion's side—confident, not deferential. And Lucavion, for all his usual inscrutable detachment, wasn't ignoring her. His posture was slightly tilted. Not guarded. Not performative.
Open.
Priscilla's mind moved quickly, each thought another string pulling taut.
She remembered that name from her reports. Valeria. House Olarion—low-standing compared to the crown's circle, but recently notable for the girl's performance as well as her achievements during the Andelheim Tournament.
A place that, strangely enough, had been one of the few points of clarity in Lucavion's shadowy past.
When she had ordered a background trace on him, Andelheim had surfaced as a faint spark in an otherwise blank field. And Valeria Olarion? Her name had surfaced alongside his.
The phrasing had been subtle.
"Suspected personal familiarity. Observed repeated contact."
Cold words for something that now, seen in person, looked like far more.
Not just familiarity.
Connection.
That was how she'd been informed.
Through parchment. Through whispers. Through crisp, filtered reports written by people who didn't know the taste of a battlefield, but could spot deviation in routine from half a continent away. Everything about Lucavion had been scattered—deliberately opaque. But that name—Valeria Olarion—had surfaced with an odd consistency.
And now she saw it with her own eyes.
Not speculation.
Not suspicion.
Proof.
Priscilla didn't speak right away. She watched the two of them—Lucavion with that signature calm, Valeria with that quiet fire in her eyes. It was subtle, but unmistakable. There was something between them. Not loud, not spoken. But present.
And that presence was dangerous.
Thalor's voice slid back in before she could push the thought deeper.
"Why are you asking that?" she asked, her tone clipped, measured, laced with the faintest edge of caution.
Thalor shrugged, the gesture too smooth to be careless.
"Why?" he echoed, lifting his glass as if they were just two peers sharing idle gossip. "I'm just curious."
But she didn't believe him.
Not for a second.
And then he spoke again—this time, slower, words dipped in something deeper.
"Curious how someone like him managed to talk to Lucien like that."
The words hung in the air like a net cast wide.
She looked at him sharply.
Because he wasn't just being nosy.
He was interested.
And not in Lucavion's scandal.
In Lucavion.
'You saw it too.'
That moment earlier. The way Lucien flinched. The way Lucavion held the floor like it was his throne and not a trap. Thalor had seen all of it—and was still processing.
And of course he would.
Because very few could speak to Lucien that way.
Fewer still could survive it.
Only a handful of individuals in the entire Empire had the standing, the raw presence, or the mind to call Lucien by name without consequence.
Thalor was one of them.
Lucien's rival in every unspoken contest of supremacy.
The genius from the South.
The next great mage.
The one just behind the prince in the public eye—respected, adored, feared—but always second.
Always.
Thalor's gaze didn't drift from Lucavion, but his voice curved back toward her—quiet, smooth, and now laced with something sharper beneath the silk.
"You always had an eye for rare pieces, Priscilla," he said, almost idly. "Though I must admit, I'm a little surprised."
Her brow furrowed just slightly.
"Surprised?"
He finally turned to look at her again.
But this time, the glint in his gray eyes wasn't amusement.
It was cruelty, disguised as curiosity.
"Someone like him," Thalor murmured, swirling the liquid in his glass, "with that kind of presence… that kind of mind. You must've used quite the incentive to keep him circling your orbit."
Her fingers stilled.
"I don't follow," she said carefully.
He smiled. Not wide. Not mocking.
Worse.
It was small. Precise. Designed to cut.
"I mean, I remember how furious you were when they suggested that your position in court had anything to do with your looks. How you insisted you'd rather die than barter yourself like one of those courtesan nobles."
He tilted his head.
"But maybe you changed your stance?"
The implication slithered between them—undeniable.
Her breath stilled.
Not out of shock.
But out of fury.
It was always like this with him.
Back then, when things had cracked between them, it hadn't been over politics or some grand betrayal.
She had broken the engagement.
She had ended it.
And Thalor, genius or not, heir or not—had never let it go.
'You still think you're entitled to judge me. Like I betrayed you by choosing myself.'
Her jaw tightened.
Because it wasn't the first time he'd made her feel this way—like something beautiful he'd dropped, and blamed for the shatter.
She met his eyes—unblinking.
But she could feel it.
His words had gotten to her.
Chapter 809: Another male lead (3)
She drew in a breath through her nose, slow and measured. Her grip on the glass eased—not out of comfort, but control. Control she couldn't afford to lose. Not here. Not now.
There'd been enough tonight.
More than enough.
Lucavion's dismantling of Lucien. Her own public defiance. The recording. The silence that followed like a storm's eye. She had drawn blood in a room made of mirrors. There was no need to draw more.
'I've already taken more ground than they'll allow. This should be enough. Let it be enough.'
But Thalor?
Thalor had no intention of letting it rest.
His eyes hardened—not in fury, but in that cold, academic way he used when dissecting a spell, or a lie, or a person. The amused veneer peeled back just a sliver, revealing something darker.
Possessive.
Wounded.
Entitled.
"So?" he asked, stepping a fraction closer. "Is that it, then? Is he the new man you've found?"
His voice wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be.
Each word was weighted, slow, deliberate. Meant for her. Meant to mark.
"Where did you meet him, Priscilla?" he continued, voice curling at the edges. "At some backwater tournament? Did he impress you with rebellion and raw edges? Is that your type now?"
She didn't respond.
Not a blink.
Not a shift.
Not a syllable.
Silence became her shield, one forged over years of standing in courtrooms full of poisoned smiles. She would not rise to this. Would not give him the satisfaction of another wound.
Still, he stared.
Still, he waited.
She held her silence, even as his stare grew more pointed—like a blade pressed against skin, daring her to flinch. But she didn't move. She refused.
Let him burn in the discomfort of her silence.
But then—
Something shifted.
She felt it before she understood it. Not with sight. Not with hearing.
With breath.
A weight dropped over her chest—quietly, invisibly, but with the force of something meant to crush. Not with violence. With intent. The air thinned, not from nerves, but as if something had coiled around her lungs and tightened.
'Heh…'
The breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't shame.
It was pressure.
And it was coming from him.
Thalor's expression didn't shift—not overtly—but his eyes had darkened. The cold had bled in. Not theatrically, not for show.
Dangerously.
"You fucking bitch," he hissed, voice low, controlled, almost clinical. "I asked you a question."
And in that moment—
Priscilla understood.
He was using mana.
Not in a burst. Not in a flare. In the way only masters could—subtly, precisely. A spell so refined it didn't disturb the room. So tight it didn't bend the chandeliers or ripple the wine glasses. It pressed inward, on her—and her alone.
No one noticed.
No one turned.
No heads whipped around in alarm.
Because of course they didn't.
This was Thalor Draycott.
The prodigy. The elite. The favored heir of the South. The man who could sculpt fear like marble—without ever lifting a hand.
Her knees trembled. Slightly.
Her breathing hitched.
She couldn't think. Couldn't plan. The logic of it—the spell's composition, the psychological weaving, the silent layering—all of it slipped through her fingers like sand.
She wasn't in the right state to analyze.
She was just trying to breathe.
'Get out.'
That was the only thought that screamed above the others.
Get out of this spell. Get out of this moment. Get away from him.
But she couldn't move.
Because his gaze held her still.
And the pressure kept rising.
She tried.
Priscilla summoned what she could, called the threads of her mana up from within her chest, tried to lace them into a shield—not a full defense, just something to breathe through. A sliver of resistance. A flicker of sovereignty.
But it barely rose.
The moment her mana met his—it shattered.
Like glass beneath a hammer. No recoil, no contest. Just absence. She couldn't feel her own barrier anymore. Couldn't sense it.
And his?
It coiled around her like silk soaked in poison—tightening, cold and absolute.
'What…?'
The question pulsed in her mind, wild and reeling.
She had known Thalor was strong. Everyone did. He wasn't called the South's Warden lightly. He wasn't placed beneath the Master of the Tower on a whim.
But this—this wasn't just strength.
It was domination.
The kind of power that didn't ask permission, didn't need flourish. The kind that broke people down quietly. Cleanly. Like a knife slicing silk from the inside.
'Since when did he get this strong…?'
Her legs bent slightly—not from collapse, but just enough to feel it. The strain. Her fingers had long since slipped from the glass, and she didn't even remember letting go. Her vision dimmed at the edges, not from exhaustion, but from sheer overwhelm.
And what terrified her most wasn't the spell.
It was the gap.
Because she wasn't talentless.
Far from it.
She bore the Royal Bloodline—even if her mother's status had always marked her as lesser. She had trained. Studied. She had stood her ground in political rooms where magic was just as present as steel.
She wasn't weak.
She knew she wasn't.
And still—
This.
'How?'
She had never felt a gap this wide. Not even with Lucien. Not even with Rowen. This wasn't just about mana quantity. It was something else.
Refinement.
Pressure.
Intent.
Thalor's mana felt like it had been tempered—not expanded, but perfected. Shaped for precision. For dominance. For crushing people like her without ever leaving a mark.
'You really… want to humiliate me.'
That was what this was.
Thalor stepped closer—not physically, but in presence. His mana didn't retreat. It pressed in tighter, coiling around her like invisible chains. Like a leash.
His smile was gone.
What replaced it wasn't fury.
It was resentment—slow-brewed and sharpened into something petty and cruel.
"I remember how you looked when you ended it," he said, voice low and full of false calm. "Like you were doing me a favor."
Priscilla didn't answer. Couldn't. Her chest ached with the effort of keeping her breath steady, her spine from bending.
"You acted so righteous," he went on, eyes narrowing, "like you were better than all of it. Like the engagement was beneath you."
He tilted his head, mock sympathy flickering at the edges of his voice.
"Did you think that made you strong, Priscilla? Walking away from a name like mine? From me?"
His words were deliberate.
Measured.
The kind that didn't need to shout because they were built to cut.
"I was the laughingstock," he said, and now his voice dropped another octave, anger curling in the vowels. "The one who got rejected by the bastard princess. Like, in the first place it was a stupid fucking promise, but you dared to do that?"
She tried to shift, to speak, but the pressure on her chest surged, turning breath into something edged and precious.
"And now," Thalor sneered, "you stand here, beside someone else. Spreading your legs for a guy like that."
The jealousy in his voice didn't rage.
It seethed.
Her knees were beginning to give.
She could feel it now—not just pressure, but fingers. Not physical, not visible. But unmistakably real.
Around her throat.
He was choking her.
Not with his hands. Not with a gesture. With his will alone—his mana laced through hers, coiling around her neck like a vice. Not tight enough to kill. Just enough to make her struggle. To make her break.
'You bastard…'
Her hands were trembling now. Not from fear.
From oxygen loss.
From humiliation.
She was a princess. A wielder of royal blood. She was not supposed to be this helpless.
And yet here she stood, cornered beneath glittering chandeliers, while the South's golden son watched her with disgust in his gaze and delight just beneath it.
Until—
It stopped.
All at once.
Thalor jerked slightly—shoulders seizing, spine stiffening like something had yanked the floor out from under him.
He staggered.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
The pressure vanished.
Air returned.
The weight peeled back.
And Priscilla gasped, soundless at first, the breath rattling into her lungs like she'd been underwater.
Thalor blinked once.
Then he cleared his throat with exaggerated ease, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve.
"Ahem. My bad…" he muttered, casting her a glance that flickered too fast with alarm before sharpening again. "My hand slipped."
Chapter 810: Thalor Draycott
Air.
Real, full, precious air surged back into her lungs, cold and biting, and Priscilla nearly choked on the relief. She steadied herself with a hand against the column behind her, the world stuttering back into motion one throb of her pulse at a time.
The pain was gone.
The grip—gone.
The humiliation?
Still there. Deep. Raw. Burning behind her ribs like shame stitched into bone.
And then—she saw him.
Lucavion.
He stood only a few paces away, not close enough to crowd, not far enough to miss. One hand rested at his side, casual, as if he'd just brushed dust from his coat. The other tucked calmly behind his back.
And his eyes?
Fixed on Thalor.
Unmoving. Unblinking.
A smile curved his lips—quiet, razor-thin, and unmistakably deliberate. The kind of smile that didn't ask if someone was alright.
Lucavion stepped forward with the poise of a man who had never once known the feeling of being unwelcome in a room, though his very presence now seemed to tighten the air between them. The smile on his face remained—thin, polite, and utterly unreadable.
He reached out and gave Thalor's shoulder a single, casual pat.
"Ah, apologies," he said smoothly, his voice light as ever. "I may have spilled a bit of my drink on you. I hope your clothes aren't too damaged?"
He gestured subtly to the barely noticeable line of moisture along Thalor's sleeve—likely wine, dark and fading quickly into the cloth. The kind of spill that could happen in any ballroom.
Or in the aftermath of being hit by a sudden, invisible wave of pressure.
Lucavion stepped back just slightly and offered a small nod, fingers brushing his own lapel.
"It seems I'm a bit shaken today," he continued, voice still easy, still disarmingly soft. "After all that... I suppose I've become a little sensitive to mana."
Thalor's smile remained.
But his eyes?
His eyes narrowed.
The curve of his lips didn't move, but something sharp and thin flickered behind his gaze—surprise first, then calculation, and finally something darker. A flicker of caution that most would never catch.
But Priscilla did.
'He knows.'
Lucavion hadn't said it outright. Hadn't pointed fingers. But the implication—mana—delivered with that soft tone and that knowing gaze, left no ambiguity between men who lived and breathed spellwork.
Lucavion had felt it.
He had known what was happening.
Not just guessed—sensed.
And to do that?
To perceive a spell as finely tuned, as insidiously cloaked as Thalor's had been?
That wasn't common.
It wasn't even expected.
It was remarkable.
'You really are dangerous…' Priscilla thought, a strange mixture of relief and something warmer twisting in her chest.
Because while no one else had noticed—
Lucavion had.
That was the part that wouldn't leave her.
Not the fact that Lucavion sensed it—though that alone should've stunned her.
It was the fact that he acted.
Because he had no reason to.
No political gain.
No romantic tie.
Not even a public to impress—their exchange had been subtle, buried in the ambient murmur of the ballroom. If anything, stepping in like this risked more than it rewarded.
And still… he came.
She stared at him, still catching her breath, heart stuttering under the weight of what just didn't make sense.
Why?
He wasn't someone who played protector. Not for the sake of gallantry. Not for optics. She had seen Lucavion corner people with his words, dismantle them without raising his voice. He was precise, deliberate, always moving for advantage.
And yet here he was.
Standing between her and Thalor like a wall made of glass and razor wire.
It unsettled her more than it comforted her.
Thalor, for his part, recovered fast. Faster than she would've thought possible. That smile slid right back into place, smooth and untouched—as if Lucavion hadn't just called him out with surgical precision.
"As I said," Thalor murmured, brushing the sleeve with a glance, "nothing to worry about."
He flicked his fingers.
A simple snap of gesture, elegant and effortless.
The wine vanished.
Not just dried—but undone. Fabric re-woven, fibers tightened, color restored. Not a wrinkle out of place.
He stepped back, posture easy, voice pleasant.
Thalor turned to Lucavion with the same easy charm he wore like armor. A noble's tone, dressed in silk and misdirection.
"Well then," he said, voice laced with the gloss of courtesy, "this saves me a letter. I've been meaning to meet you, actually. Your name's been… circling, let's say."
He let his words hang like perfume, as if the compliment meant more than it said.
"How nice of you to come all this way."
But Lucavion?
He smiled.
That same delicate curve. Calm, measured, and just a little too slow.
"I also wanted to meet you," Lucavion replied, his tone light—almost gracious.
Then he paused.
Tilted his head.
And delivered the rest with surgical calm.
"Though I assume there's a misconception," he said. "I didn't come here to meet you."
His smile widened just enough to be seen. Not enough to be polite.
"I was just heading out to get some fresh air," he added, eyes flicking toward the grand terrace doors. "The air in the banquet hall felt… ionized."
******
Thalor Draycott smiled, but the expression felt like a formality—tight at the corners, empty at the root.
'So this is what I've been reduced to…'
He stood in the ballroom, surrounded by ornate decadence and people who mistook proximity to power for relevance, and felt—nothing. Not pleasure. Not pride. Not even irritation. Just that dull, creeping static that had started to plague him lately. The kind that stretched across his days like fog—soft, cloying, insufferable.
Magic, once an extension of his will, had begun to plateau. Every layer of refinement brought diminishing returns. The spells he used to shape like calligraphy now felt like tracing circles. Even the Tower's inner sanctum, once a playground of secrets, had begun to echo with stale silence. The last duel that made his blood stir? Months ago. The last conversation that left a mark? Longer.
And now, this.
He tilted his glass, swirling the wine with the idle grace of someone who had learned to feign interest. The nobles simpered. The music played. And he—
He waited for anything worth his gaze.
Then it happened.
Lucien. The Great Lucien—poster child of imperial precision, darling of every Council, heir with more weight on his shoulders than substance in his spine—was spoken to like a peer.
No. Worse.
Like an obstacle.
Thalor hadn't recognized the man at first. Lucavion. An unfamiliar name on the periphery of power, only ever seen in filtered reports and suspicious footnotes.
But when that voice rang out—steady, unhurried, utterly unimpressed—and Lucien flinched?
Something sparked.
Not curiosity.
Not yet.
But it was close.
'Who the hell is that?'
He'd felt the atmosphere shift the moment Lucavion entered. Not with bluster. Not with theatrics. But pressure. Precision. Presence. The same kind of weight Thalor had learned to recognize in duelists who didn't need to posture—because their very breathing made lesser men doubt themselves.
Finally.
Something interesting.
But then—she appeared.
Priscilla.
Of all people.
Chapter 811: Thalor Draycott (2)
Priscilla.
Of all the outcomes Thalor might have predicted—of all the carefully laid expectations and patterns he used to navigate this godforsaken pit of snakes—this one wasn't on the list.
Priscilla.
With him.
She hadn't said it clear with words, of course. No dramatic proclamation. No hand placed gently on Lucavion's sleeve. But she didn't need to. The way she had stood beside him, chin raised, voice unshaken—that was more than enough.
She vouched for him.
She vouched for him.
Thalor's gaze flicked from her to Lucavion again, and for a moment, it wasn't boredom in his chest. It was heat.
Not quite rage.
Not yet.
But something brewing. Something old.
He remembered when they were younger. When people whispered about their engagement like it was fate spun in gold. He remembered standing at her side when it mattered, when everything was still pliable. Before titles. Before inheritance. Before she learned how to cut with silence.
He remembered a time when she couldn't even look Lucien in the eye.
When pressure from the prince was enough to make her step back, fall in line, hide behind protocol. When Thalor—he—had taken those blows for her in circles. Had spoken her name like it meant something.
And yet—
She had never done this.
Not for him.
Not when it would've counted.
But for Lucavion?
She stood in front of the empire's heir, bled truth into the air, and didn't flinch.
She testified.
And it irked him.
Because Priscilla wasn't bold by nature. She was strategic. Everything she did was with calculation tucked under her tongue like a blade. If she sided with someone, it was never spontaneous—it was intentional.
Which meant—
'She's already chosen him.'
That realization crawled down Thalor's spine like icewater.
He had just found something interesting—finally—and she was already there, wrapping it in her stained little ribbon of endorsement. Turning it from a mystery into a known quantity. Into something claimed.
How utterly, disgustingly typical of her.
He clenched his jaw, just slightly. Just enough to feel the familiar pressure in the hinge of it.
He had wanted Lucavion untouched. Unspoiled. A piece of curiosity unmarked by prior allegiances. But now, the puzzle already came with fingerprints. Her fingerprints.
And wasn't that just perfect.
You had to put your hands on this too, didn't you?
Even as Thalor's smile remained fixed, princely and precise, his gaze narrowed by a fraction—just enough.
Lucavion.
That was the name now. The name behind the voice that silenced a ballroom and dragged Lucien off his pedestal. A name that didn't belong in these circles, yet wore command like silk.
He should've been impressed.
Should've marked it down in that private ledger of worth he kept hidden behind charm and calculation.
And he had.
For a moment.
Until the bastard touched her.
Not physically. Not yet. But presence, proximity—it was enough.
Priscilla.
His Priscilla.
Even if she was a leftover. Even if he'd discarded her, or she'd slipped through his fingers—depending on who told the story.
That didn't change the fact.
She was his.
She had been shaped in his orbit. Sharpened in his shadow. Everything refined about her—her restraint, her venom, her ambition—had bloomed in the soil of his name.
And this man—this Lucavion—dared to stand beside her like it was nothing?
Like he hadn't just dipped his hands into something Thalor had once held.
'Minus one point.'
He didn't care if Lucavion was powerful. That could be respected. But this?
This was disrespect.
Claiming something he hadn't earned. Walking in like a ghost and making the world rearrange itself for him.
It was almost funny.
Almost.
But not quite.
Thalor's fingers tapped once against the side of his glass. Just once. A twitch of thought. A flicker of restraint.
Because it was better to hear it from her. To make her say it. Make her admit whatever this was—this connection, this shift in loyalty, this betrayal.
So he turned to her.
Not hurried. Not forceful. Just a single step—measured, elegant, deliberate.
It has been a while since he had talked to her after all, though of course, her face when he saw her was not good. But then again, what she felt was pretty pointless to him after all.
"Who is that guy," he said, voice velvet-lined, laced with the kind of familiarity that could suffocate.
His smile lingered, soft as snowfall. But beneath it? A question.
Not asked outright.
Just breathed into the space between them.
Why him?
But she didn't answer.
Didn't look.
Didn't even acknowledge him.
The silence wasn't surprised. It wasn't uncertain. It was... curated. Intentional.
As if she didn't owe him words.
As if this—he—was beneath her concern.
Thalor blinked once, slow.
A quiet throb began to echo in his temple. Not from anger. Not quite.
From something older.
You dare.
It was the kind of silence a child might wield—rebellious, impudent, that brittle fantasy of autonomy. As if breaking away from him somehow made her whole.
She had been shaped in his name. Had found her sharpness only after he dulled the world around her. Everything she carried now—her spine, her poise, her venom—was carved from the roots of his legacy.
And she acted like he was a stranger.
A relic.
An inconvenience.
No.
That wouldn't do.
His fingers curled—slowly, subtly.
The spell didn't require gesture. It didn't need volume or runes. Just intention.
Not mana.
Intent.
That was what made it rare. What made it his.
A spell born from familiarity, from history. A tailored construct of perception magic, emotional resonance, psychological lockstep. One only a few in the entire Empire would even recognize.
The pressure slipped into the air.
Not with sound.
Not with shine.
With presence.
A tightening in the lungs. A subtle twist behind the eyes. Not pain. Not yet.
Just the promise of it.
And he watched her.
He watched as her fingers twitched, ever so slightly, around the glass. As her breath caught for half a second longer than it should have.
Good.
It was working.
Her composure hadn't cracked—but the strain had begun.
And that was the point.
This wasn't about humiliation.
Not yet.
This was a reminder.
A summoning.
You can play noble. You can wear your independence like a brooch. But we both know—I can make you speak any time I choose.
The words had barely left his mouth—*"Spreading your legs for a guy like that"—*when it happened.
A shift.
So small most would've missed it.
But not him.
Thalor felt it the moment his focus slipped. A blink too long, a breath too shallow. His concentration, so finely honed on Priscilla's breathing, her pulse, the tremor behind her silence—fractured.
It wasn't Priscilla who caused it.
It was the presence behind her.
Thalor hadn't even heard him move.
But the spell—his spell, the one layered with careful precision and woven through layers of subtle intent—shuddered like glass struck by a chisel. Not shattered. Not yet.
But compromised.
He felt it in the base of his spine—a sudden hollowness. A slackening. His mana didn't unravel so much as slip, like silk tugged from a loose knot.
No—
Then came the touch.
Not a blow. Not a shove.
Just pressure.
Real. Cold. Exact.
And the voice.
"Ahem, my bad. My hand slipped."
It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the tone—light, pleasant, unassuming.
It was the timing.
Thalor's knees nearly buckled.
The world tilted.
His balance—gone.
Just for a moment.
But it was enough.
The spell broke.
Cleanly. Invisibly.
Like it had never been there at all.
Air returned to the space between them. His connection to Priscilla—severed.
And in its place?
Lucavion.
Standing there like he belonged. Like the world hadn't just shifted to accommodate him. One hand at his side, the other behind his back—like this was all some idle game.
Like he hadn't just interfered.
Thalor inhaled.
Steadied.
But he felt it. The ripple in his circuits. The recoil of a spell undone not by force—but by exact disruption.
Chapter 812: Thalor Draycott (3)
Thalor's fingers curled slightly at his side—an involuntary echo of the tension that had just raked through him.
He didn't look shaken. He wouldn't allow that. But beneath the smooth surface of his expression, behind the casually lifted chin and the polite half-smile, his thoughts were snapping into order with surgical speed.
The spell…
It wasn't just any charm, any idle manipulation. It was his own creation—Scion's Thread. A tether woven not from raw mana, but from intent—concentrated, balanced, intimate. It required more than power. It demanded focus. Singular focus.
Every spell of that caliber came with cost. For Thalor, that cost was concentration. Not a problem, usually. He could pin a soul to the floor with a smile, so long as nothing interrupted him.
But in that moment—just one blink, one flicker of attention—
He'd lost control.
Not because Priscilla fought back. No.
Because Lucavion had slipped into the space behind her like a shadow he hadn't accounted for.
And that was the part that gnawed at him.
Why didn't I sense him?
Not his footsteps. Not his mana. Not even his intention. It was as if Lucavion had been water—formless, unassuming, until he pressed.
That "slipped hand"—that mild voice—was no mistake. No matter how politely it was framed. The pressure had been surgical. Perfectly placed.
The spell had unraveled exactly where Thalor's grip was weakest.
"Ahem. My bad," Lucavion had said. "My hand slipped."
His smile never wavered.
Too slow.
Too serene.
Too perfect.
Thalor gave him the benefit of doubt—for a second. Because a man who smiled like that might be fool, might be lucky.
But then—
Lucavion brushed his lapel.
"It seems I've become a little sensitive to mana."
Thalor's pulse slowed.
That phrase.
That fucking phrase.
Not too much. Not loud. Not even directed at him.
But Thalor wasn't just any fool at a banquet.
He heard it for what it was.
A message.
A line drawn in silk and shadow.
He felt it.
Lucavion had felt his spell.
That wasn't just good.
That was rare.
You couldn't feel Scion's Thread unless you had clarity. Not brute force. Not bloodline talent. You needed refinement. Sensory training. A philosophical understanding of what mana wanted to be, not just what it was.
Thalor's eyes didn't narrow. They didn't flare.
They simply read.
Lucavion stood with perfect poise, as if none of this had meaning.
And yet—
You sensed it.
You felt the shape of a spell that bent light, muted sound, and tunneled through a single mind without disturbing the air around it.
You noticed.
Thalor's jaw ticked once, almost imperceptibly.
'You really are interesting.'
He hadn't expected to find someone like this tonight. Hadn't expected the ballroom to deliver more than wine and posturing.
Thalor's fingers moved with a flick—precise, practiced.
The stain vanished instantly. Not just removed, but reversed. Wine unmade, thread re-woven, color restored to perfection. As natural as drawing breath. The gesture was elegant. Effortless. Regal.
And beneath it?
A message.
Not unlike Lucavion's.
He straightened his sleeve slowly, smoothing the cuff with two fingers as he turned—not quickly, not aggressively. Just with the poised weight of a man who'd never once needed to rush.
Then, the smile.
Soft. Social. Hollow.
"Well then," Thalor said, stepping back half a pace, letting the air between them stretch like a cord. "This saves me a letter. I've been meaning to meet you, actually."
His tone wrapped in silk, dipped in courtesy, and lined—barely—with condescension.
"Your name's been… circling, let's say."
The implication hung, unbothered, like incense.
Circling. As if Lucavion were not quite a figure yet—just a whisper. A footnote.
"How nice of you to come all this way."
Subtle dominance. Not shouted. Not forced.
Merely stated.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion didn't even blink.
The smile he returned was nearly identical—delicate, tempered, tinged with something far too patient to be submission.
"I also wanted to meet you," Lucavion replied, tone polite, light—studied.
Then he paused.
Tilted his head.
And let the words fall like scalpels.
"Though I assume there's a misconception," he said, each syllable clean. "I didn't come here to meet you."
Not cold.
Not rude.
Surgical.
"I was just heading out to get some fresh air," Lucavion continued, his gaze flicking, deliberate, toward the terrace. "The air in the banquet hall felt… ionized."
Ionized.
The moment the word slipped from Lucavion's lips—
"Ionized."
—Thalor's eyes narrowed.
Not dramatically. Not enough for the room to notice.
But inwardly, the shift was violent.
Ionized.
A term not yet adopted by common mages. Not yet echoed in lecture halls or whispered among the arcane-obsessed nobility. No, this wasn't street-corner vocabulary or court-banter flair.
This was new.
Precise.
And more damning than anything Lucavion had said so far.
Thalor didn't breathe.
Because his spell—Scion's Thread—used ionized air.
It was part of the architecture. Not the visual layer. Not the sensory bait.
The structure.
A recent advancement pioneered in Tower labs, developed quietly by upper-circle researchers. The ionization was necessary to guide the intent-based tether. It changed how the spell anchored to targets, how it blended into ambient energy.
No one outside the Circle should've known that.
The technique wasn't published. Wasn't demonstrated. It was theorized in backrooms and penned in encrypted documents under layered glyph-locks.
And yet—Lucavion had said it.
Like a passing comment. Like a man noting the temperature of his tea.
He felt it.
Worse.
He understood it.
Thalor's mind snapped into motion.
'Did someone tell him?'
It couldn't be intuition. Coincidence was out of the question. You don't just guess the atmospheric conditions tied to a high-tier tethering spell.
'Does he have connections?'
That… that was a problem.
Because if Lucavion knew—actually knew—how the spell functioned...
Then someone was feeding him information from inside the Tower.
From his Circle.
And if that were true?
Then Lucavion wasn't just dangerous.
He was compromised.
Wired into places he had no business being.
Inside the Tower. Inside the Circle.
The implications spiraled like knives through silk.
Did he have a backer?
Was this some kind of quiet play—one Thalor hadn't seen?
No.
No, that didn't fit.
Lucavion didn't act like someone banking on borrowed knowledge.
He acted like someone who'd earned it.
And that… made it worse.
Thalor kept the smile on his face.
But his gaze?
It darkened.
If that's the case…
Then the game was different. Entirely different.
Lucavion wasn't just a man with sharp eyes and good instincts.
He was something else.
A player.
And not one of the court-polished, lineage-sheltered types Thalor had grown so accustomed to dismantling with ease.
No.
Lucavion was subtle. Understated. But behind that quiet poise and untucked elegance, Thalor could feel it now—design.
This wasn't luck.
This was someone threading himself through the undercurrents. Someone who knew too much, moved too precisely, and spoke like he had already read the next three pages of the conversation.
Thalor should've felt cornered.
But all he felt was thrill.
Like the stretch of a blade before it met resistance.
'So you've been hiding this…'
His own pulse quickened—not from fear, but challenge.
Good.
It had been too long.
But even in the thrill, the annoyance itched at him.
Lucavion wasn't deferring.
Wasn't adjusting.
Wasn't even blinking.
He wasn't posturing—but he wasn't yielding, either.
And that... that was galling.
Thalor's voice slipped through the pause with velvet tension.
"Ionized air, hm?"
A faint tilt of the head. A study in mild surprise.
"Such an… academic term. I wasn't aware it had made its way into common parlance."
Chapter 813: Let us hold a competition
Thalor's smile didn't waver—but the warmth behind it calcified.
Test first.
Always test.
He could afford curiosity. He could even afford miscalculation—once.
But before he shifted his approach, he needed to know: was Lucavion guessing? Or was he involved?
He let the silence stretch, deliberately unhurried. Let the hum of the ballroom swell around them, the laughter, the clinking glasses—all background to a very quiet battlefield.
Thalor let the tension cool by a fraction. Just enough to seem relaxed. Just enough to lay bait.
"Mind if I ask," he said lightly, swirling the contents of his untouched glass, "what ionization is?"
The tone was casual. Disarming. But the words were anything but.
Lucavion's smile didn't change.
But his eyes?
They blinked once—slow. Controlled. And then the answer came, smooth and lazy as drifting smoke.
"Oh….." At first it was a pause, and he looked troubled, as if he got caught…..
And this made Thalor smile.
"Oh?"
He pressured trying to get something out of him. Yet, Lucavion shrugged then.
"Nothing much," Lucavion replied, tone light, dismissive. "Just a buzzword I've heard tossed around. You know how mages are. Always naming things with more syllables than substance."
He gave a small shrug, as if bored by his own words.
But Thalor saw it.
Too fast.
Too neat.
No pause to recall the term. No flicker of confusion. No natural curiosity. Just... an answer.
An answer that dodged the question.
He knows.
He's hiding it.
Because Lucavion wasn't just brushing the term aside—he was managing it. Flattening the subject, redirecting it like a man skilled in closing doors before they're opened.
Thalor's fingers curled against the side of his glass again—just slightly. He kept his expression polite.
"Ah," he said with a nod. "A buzzword."
Another beat, colder this time.
Of course.
It made sense now.
The ionization term was one thing—maybe a coincidence.
But the stabilizer?
Thalor's mind flicked back to it—the flicker of resonance he had barely caught during Lucavion's earlier maneuver, when the pressure he had been weaving into Priscilla unraveled.
It hadn't been brute force.
Hadn't been a simple interference.
It was timed.
Perfectly timed.
Down to the echo.
He knew what that meant now.
A Temporal Echo Stabilizer.
The Tower had only recently begun field-testing them, and even then—only internally. They weren't public. They weren't even documented for circulation beyond the core circles of the Grand Assembly.
Hell, he barely had access to one.
Only five prototypes even existed that he knew of.
And yet Lucavion had used one.
Discreetly. Precisely. As if he knew exactly how it functioned.
So either this provincial upstart had stumbled into technology even Thalor had to requisition three levels above his rank for—which didn't exist in this world….
Or someone gave it to him.
And that, finally, clarified the discomfort behind his spine.
Lucavion wasn't working alone.
He had a backer.
Not just money.
Access. Position. Leverage deep enough to pull from the Tower's vaults without raising alarm.
Thalor's lips curved, slow and cold.
'So that's how it is…'
He wasn't just threading through power structures. He was being threaded through them.
By whom?
And why?
He took a measured sip from his glass, not for thirst—but to cover the flicker of sharpened thought behind his eyes.
Because now the game wasn't about Lucavion.
It was about who had decided to move him.
And that changed everything.
This changed everything.
And it changed nothing.
Lucavion, once a curiosity, was now a fracture line through the floorboards of the ballroom—quiet, elegant, and absolutely threaded with explosives.
But the thrill?
Oh, that stayed.
That grew.
Thalor hadn't felt this precise an edge of exhilaration in months. Years, maybe. The last time he'd looked into someone's eyes and not known what cards they were hiding had been back when court politics still felt like blood sport instead of ballroom decor.
He smiled.
Slow. Civil. Icy.
Because if Lucavion was being moved by someone else—well. That made him a piece. A carefully crafted, beautifully sharpened piece.
And Thalor?
He had always liked turning pieces against their players.
"Still," Thalor said smoothly, gently pivoting the conversation as though it were a dance, "you carry yourself well for someone fresh to this kind of air."
He stepped just slightly closer, the distance polite—but no longer neutral.
"There's a confidence to you. Not court confidence, mind you. Something more… fabricated." He raised his glass again, swirling it thoughtfully, a noble's posture masquerading as musings. "Tailored. As if you were made for something—but not here."
The implication was subtle.
You don't belong here.
But someone put you here anyway.
He let the words linger, unpinned. Then he smiled again—wider this time. Warmer, for those who didn't know the difference.
"Then again," he said softly, "perhaps I'm overthinking. After all, it's just a party. One scene more or less shouldn't matter, right?"
He turned slightly to the crowd, letting the hum of nobles return to his periphery.
"But perhaps we ought to make it count," he added with deliberate nonchalance. "Now that people are watching."
A spark ignited in his chest. Not rage. Not suspicion.
Play.
Lucavion smiled. Calm. Cool. And then—
He lifted a brow. Just one. Subtle.
The kind of gesture that didn't need words to carry weight.
Still, he offered them anyway.
Polite. Curious. Razor-lined.
"And what exactly," he said, voice still light, "are you implying?"
Thalor didn't answer.
Not at first.
He turned to Priscilla.
She was still pale—still recovering breath that had been stolen. But her posture had returned, chin lifted, spine taut like a blade she refused to sheath. Her silence was eloquent. Her defiance even more so.
And Thalor watched her.
Just for a second.
A slow gaze. Not possessive—no, not now.
Strategic.
Like checking if a pawn had turned bishop while his back was turned.
Then, with deliberate poise, he shifted his gaze again.
Not to Lucavion.
But past him.
To the group along the marble railing near the fountain alcove—clustered like decor, half-forgotten now that the nobles had refocused on their own.
Students.
Not of Arcanis.
But Lorian.
The envoy delegation.
Well-dressed, their accents still sharp with foreign syllables. They stood clean and dignified like the Empire wanted them to be—a reminder that Arcanis had won, that their enemies had bent the knee and now polished the floors of their conquerors.
A trophy group.
Held up for display.
But Thalor?
He saw opportunity.
Thalor turned back to Lucavion, eyes half-lidded, the smile on his lips now cut from a sharper cloth. Something closer to amusement. Something colder.
"Your eyes," he murmured, swirling the last remnants of his wine. "They're quite insolent."
He said it softly—like a joke shared over the rim of a glass. But it wasn't a joke.
It was a warning.
Framed in silk, sealed with venom.
And then—
He tapped the glass once against the side of the column.
Just once.
But mana flowed beneath the gesture, subtle and clean—threaded through the chime like a whisper woven into crystal.
The sound carried.
Not loud. Not alarming.
But pure.
Too pure.
It resonated across the ballroom with unnatural clarity, slicing through chatter, laughter, even the soft trill of the quartet in the corner. Heads turned—slowly at first, then in waves.
Eyes shifted.
And suddenly—
All attention was on them.
Perfect.
Chapter 814: Let us hold a competition (2)
Thalor took a step forward—not toward Lucavion, but into the room itself. The space seemed to open for him, not by command, but by inevitability. His presence stretched outward, now crowned with the attention of dozens.
He raised his glass slightly—not in toast, but as a gesture of presence, of ownership over the silence he had created.
"I'm glad," he began, his voice calm and resonant, "to see I've earned everyone's attention tonight."
The words coasted smoothly across the air, carried by the lingering note of mana that still hummed faintly in the crystal. Measured. Unhurried. The voice of someone used to speaking to rooms designed to listen.
"For those who may not know me," he continued, tone sliding effortlessly into polite aristocracy, "I am Thalor Draycott. Of House Draycott."
He let the name settle.
No need to explain further. Not here. Not to this crowd.
The Draycott name was etched into the marble of Arcanis politics—wealth, war, and influence braided into a single identity. If someone didn't know it, they weren't worth the correction.
He lowered his glass, eyes drifting back—casually, almost fondly—to Lucavion.
Thalor's smile softened, touched with humility that felt just practiced enough to seem sincere.
"As both a mage of the Tower," he said, voice carrying effortlessly, "and a noble of this Empire, I feel it is only right that I begin with an apology."
He turned his gaze outward again, addressing the hall—not with shame, but with the dignity of someone cleaning a stain from his family crest.
"There was a disturbance earlier—one that I regret occurred within the bounds of this celebration. It was unsightly. A lapse, if you will, in what should have been an evening of grace."
A few murmurs trickled through the guests, mostly polite confusion, veiled curiosity.
And then—he turned back to Lucavion.
That smile again.
Not sharp. Not warm.
Balanced.
"Mister Lucavion," he said smoothly, "rightfully defended himself from certain… provocations. A virtue, of course—courage in the face of confrontation. A core of our values in Arcanis."
That earned a few nods. Subtle. Hesitant. Measured approval.
"But," Thalor continued, now tilting his glass in an almost regretful gesture, "it is also true that Mister Lucavion has brought an artifact into this banquet, despite being informed of the restriction."
Now the silence became weightier.
No outrage. No gasps.
Just the shift of eyes.
Some nobles looked to Lucavion. Others looked to each other, unsure whether to speak, waiting for someone else to decide what the correct reaction was.
Lucavion?
He smiled.
That same, infuriating, untouched smile. The one that made no apologies, no justifications. The kind of smile that didn't deny—but didn't kneel.
Thalor didn't falter.
If anything, it made this easier.
He turned, now gesturing—not to Lucavion, but to the group near the fountain.
The Lorian envoy. The students. The trophies.
"And to our guests," he said, voice rich with performance, "it may have appeared that the Empire allows such rule-bending freely. That we are… perhaps, a land without discipline."
A few faces tightened.
Some nobles frowned. The Lorian students glanced at one another with wide, unreadable expressions.
"But rest assured," Thalor said, lifting his glass once more, "you are always safe here."
His voice dropped just slightly, just enough for the emphasis to land.
"Us Arcanis does not forget our laws. Or our standards."
Thalor let the stillness breathe for a beat—then his voice rose again, just enough to cut through the tension with a veneer of grace.
"And yet," he said, turning from the Lorian students back to the room at large, "since we have drawn so many eyes tonight, it would be a waste to simply return to small talk and wine."
His tone was light now—almost indulgent. A host reclaiming the evening with practiced charm.
"Let us, instead, lean into the moment. After all…" he gestured lazily toward the room, "isn't hospitality more than just smiles and speeches?"
Some nobles chuckled softly. Others exchanged glances—unsure, intrigued.
"I propose," Thalor continued, now letting a touch of excitement weave into his words, "we warm the room properly. Not with politics. But with something a little more... spirited."
He took another slow step, angling himself slightly toward the fountain where the Lorian envoy still stood—stiff, unsure of where this was going.
"A small event. A display, if you will. Nothing too formal," he said, feigning modesty with the ease of someone long-accustomed to command. "Just enough for everyone to grow… better acquainted."
He turned then—first to Lucavion.
Lucavion, whose smile had yet to waver, whose poise remained undisturbed even as the ground beneath him shifted.
"Since you've already caught our attention, Mister Lucavion," Thalor said, voice rich with the flavor of implication, "why not represent your cohort? You are, after all, the top-ranked among the 'special entrants,' are you not?"
A few more whispers passed through the nobles now. Special entrants. A reminder, of course, that Lucavion did not come from the same stock. That his invitation into their world was recent. Conditional.
Then Thalor turned toward the Lorian group. His gaze locked onto the one standing just ahead of the others—a young man with iron composure, regal bearing, and a crest too familiar to mistake.
"Prince Adrian," Thalor said with an elegant nod, "it would only be fitting that your students—guests as they are—select a representative as well. Perhaps… yourself?"
The prince did not reply. Not yet. But the glint in his eye was answer enough.
Thalor turned back to the room.
"And we," he said, gesturing to the Arcanis nobles, "shall send our own. One from the Tower. A noble house. A name that honors both our discipline and our swordplay."
The pitch was clear.
A three-way exhibition. One champion from each side. Arcanis. Lorian. And the anomaly—Lucavion.
Not war. Not battle.
A game.
But in Arcanis?
Games were never just games.
"Let it be friendly, of course," Thalor added, raising his glass one final time. "But let it be fair."
Thalor paused mid-pitch—glass raised, audience half-smiling—when a voice cut through the air like steel on stone.
"That… is a great idea."
The room shifted on its axis.
From the back, Rowen Drayke stepped forward. Each measured stride commanded attention without design—his armor dark beneath the flicker of chandles, eyes fixed in steely resolve.
He halted just behind and to the side of Thalor, creating a silent triangle between the mage, the prince, and Lucavion.
Glaring directly into Lucavion's gaze, Rowen's tone carried the gravity of his lineage and the weight of his purpose.
"I shall represent Arcanis." His words were precise: no flourish, no bravado. Just intent.
The hall exhaled in collective anticipation. Whispers stirred again—some hopeful, some anxious, others calculated.
Rowen's presence shifted the dynamic.
He had not volunteered for pageantry.
He had volunteered to stand against.
He fixed his stare on Lucavion, unmoving, unmistakable.
The challenge was set:
Arcanis vs Lorian vs Commoner.
But above all—
He, Rowen Drayke, would meet him where the torchlight framed truth.