Chapter 889: Friends
"Well. Now that it's come to this, let me introduce myself. Though you must already know me."
Elara's brow arched. Barely.
"I don't," she said flatly.
He gasped—mock offense, hand to his chest like he'd been stabbed with her indifference.
"Come on," he drawled, stepping just slightly back into the moonlight. "No need to lie. I'm pretty famous now. Top of the duelist boards. Pet cat with heterochromia. Devastating charm. You haven't heard the whispers?"
She looked him over with open skepticism. "Narcissist."
Lucavion grinned. A slow, pleased thing. Like she'd complimented him.
"Name's Lucavion," he said. "Just Lucavion." Then, with a faint, deliberate bow—mockery and politeness intertwining in equal measure—"Nice to meet you, Elowyn Caerlin."
He straightened, gaze locking with hers again. Steady. Measured.
Lucavion extended his hand toward her, fingers relaxed, palm open—not commanding, not pleading. Just… offered.
An invitation.
Harmless on the surface.
But Elara's body stiffened. Her eyes flicked to the hand like it was a knife half-sheathed. Instinct screamed to bat it away. To recoil from the familiarity he so easily cast around himself like a net.
Why should I shake his hand?
Why should I play nice with him?
Every part of her past roared in resistance. Every scar he didn't know he'd left whispered a warning. You know what he did. You know how easily he smiled while doing it. A handshake was nothing, yes—but from him, it was always a beginning. An opening.
And Elara did not want to be opened.
Not to him.
Not again.
But then—
The thought shifted. Warped.
Twisted, not into forgiveness—but something colder.
Unless…
Her eyes narrowed, just a hair. Not enough for him to notice. But she saw it. Saw the shape of a possibility forming like frost along glass.
He didn't know who she was.
And yet here he was—inviting her in. Smiling. Smirking. Extending a hand to the very thing he'd helped destroy.
He doesn't know. He doesn't even suspect.
But he would.
He would.
All she had to do was get close. Closer than he'd ever expect. Closer than any knife at his throat.
Isn't it better this way?
The question rose like a slow, venomous tide. If you really want revenge… isn't it better to stand beside him before you bring him to his knees?
Lucavion could lead her to Isolde. To the web behind it all. To the rot at the Academy's heart. He was a door. A channel. A weapon waiting to be used.
And if he was arrogant enough to open that door himself…
'Yes,' she thought, her fingers slowly curling. 'That would be a nice start.'
So she smiled. Small. Controlled. Chilled at the edges.
And then, without flinching, she took his hand.
"Likewise," Elara said, her voice smooth, composed, utterly unreadable. "It is nice to meet you too, Lucavion. Name is Elowyn Caerlin."
Her fingers rested in his for just a moment longer than custom required—firm, deliberate.
And yet, in that contact… something threaded through her that she hadn't prepared for.
His hand was cold.
Elara tried not to react. Not outwardly. But still—still—something in her spine flinched. Not from pain. Not even discomfort. Just… the wrongness of it.
A shiver curled through her shoulders, almost imperceptible, but real.
Why…?
She'd touched Awakened before. More than touched—sparred beside them, bled beside them, bled because of them. She'd brushed fingers with nobles and outcasts alike. Cultivators whose mana ran hot like lightning beneath skin. Swordsmen like Cedric, whose grip radiated the kind of warmth that pulsed from well-disciplined cores. Scholars, duelists, enchanters—no matter their origin, the truth was always the same.
The Awakened did not run cold.
They burned from within. Mana sustained their bodies as much as blood did. It was part of why they didn't sicken easily, why fever and chill became tales of the past. Why, even in frostbitten winters, they walked unbothered through snow.
Lucavion Thorne should not have cold hands.
And yet—
'It's in your head. You're remembering too much.'
The voice inside was bitter, dry.
Maybe she was.
Maybe it was just the residue of the past clawing its way up her throat. The memory of his silence in that hall. Of blood on marble. Of betrayal that hadn't even come with the decency of clarity.
Maybe it was nothing but nerves. Trauma playing tricks again.
Still…
Her fingers twitched slightly in his grip before he released her. A clean, easy withdrawal—no clench, no tell.
But the sensation lingered.
Like frost pressed into the seam of her palm.
Lucavion gave no indication of noticing. He merely tilted his head again, as if measuring the weight of her presence now that a formal exchange had passed.
"Well then," he said lightly, still watching her with that too-sharp smile. "I suppose we're no longer strangers."
Elara held his gaze, her hand ghosting back to her side, fingers flexing once—testing the feel of her skin, as if expecting to find frostbite. But there was none.
Of course there wasn't.
She was an ice mage.
Cold wasn't unfamiliar—it pulsed in her core, moved with her breath when she shaped it, hummed in the marrow of her bones when she pushed too far. She'd conjured snow from clear skies, frozen rivers that had never known winter. Cold was hers.
So she shouldn't care.
And yet…
It's not the cold. It's the source.
But she smothered that thought like the others, flattened it beneath years of training, of forced composure. Her voice was steady as she gave the faintest shrug, the kind people used to brush off ghosts.
"I guess so."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. It's become quite awkward for no reason now, hasn't it?"
Elara blinked once, slowly. "...You made it awkward."
"I did?" His eyes widened, as if she'd accused him of something utterly outlandish. "Come on."
She tilted her head, unimpressed. "What?"
He mirrored her tone, grinning. "What what?"
"Why are you blaming me?"
Lucavion leaned forward, hands spread in mock innocence. "I mean, isn't the reason obvious?"
Elara stared at him, utterly deadpan. "No. Enlighten me."
He sighed—dramatic, overly theatrical—as if burdened by the gravity of his own charm. "Because you're the one glaring holes through my soul. Remember?"
"You don't have a soul."
"I might. You don't know that."
"I know enough," she said coolly.
Lucavion gave a low whistle, amused. "Damn. I didn't know I was dealing with a soul mage. Didn't even know they existed."
Her face twitched—just slightly. A flash of something taut behind her eyes, gone before it could root into expression. It wasn't a laugh he drew from her, not truly. But it was a reaction—and that seemed to satisfy him.
Elara exhaled slowly, masking the ripple that passed through her. "I'm not."
"Could've fooled me," he said, grinning. "Cut right through my metaphysical being with those eyes."
She ignored that. Or tried to. Instead, she folded her arms, the wind tugging gently at the hem of her cloak. "Why didn't you go into your room to rest?"
Lucavion cocked his head, blinked once. "Why didn't I go into my room?"
He repeated the words as if tasting them aloud made them less absurd. Then, without missing a beat, he motioned loosely to her.
"Same reason you didn't, and the same reason why you were staying here by yourself"
Chapter 890: Strange woman
"Same reason you didn't, and the same reason why you were staying here by yourself"
Elara froze—not entirely, not visibly, but enough.
Because that answer was too fast. Too certain. And far too accurate.
Her gaze narrowed. "You don't know my reason."
He shrugged again. A maddening, lazy sort of confidence. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just a shared affliction. Of people who'd rather be anywhere else than where they're meant to be."
There was no bite in his words, but there was something quieter. Something that struck her not like a blade—but like a bell rung at just the right frequency to unsettle the ribs.
Lucavion's eyes softened then—barely perceptible, but enough to shift the air between them.
"And besides," he added, leaning casually against the railing, "rooms are boxes. Expectations. A place people assume you are. Sometimes it's better to not be found where you're expected."
Elara let the silence hang between them for a breath longer than necessary. The kind of pause that invited further conversation—or choked it.
"Is that supposed to be wisdom?" she asked finally, gaze flat, arms still folded. "That rooms are boxes?"
Lucavion gave her a smug tilt of the head. "It's philosophy. There's a difference."
She made a small sound—half-scoff, half-exhale. "You read a book once and now you think you're a philosopher?"
"More than twice, actually," he said, holding up two fingers. "One was even upside down."
A twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. But a shadow of it, maybe.
"I'm sure the book was grateful for the attention."
"Books always are. Especially when they meet someone as devastatingly insightful as me."
"Or devastatingly delusional."
He pressed a hand to his heart. "Elowyn. Please. You wound me."
"Good."
Another beat of quiet. This one not strained, not sharp. Just… still.
For a moment, she let herself observe him again—less like prey, more like a storm cloud she hadn't yet decided to chase or avoid. And despite herself, despite the impulse to draw away, to vanish into the dark halls and reclaim her solitude, Elara felt something unexpected.
Her mind was clearer.
Lucavion's presence was a storm, yes—but it wasn't the kind that suffocated. It stirred things. Shifted her attention. Sharpened it. Not in defense, not exactly. But in purpose.
He didn't know.
And if he didn't know—then neither would Adrian. Neither would Isolde.
Not yet.
That alone was enough to carry her forward.
She let out a quiet breath, the kind she didn't realize she'd been holding. Then straightened.
"Well," she said, her tone settling into that light neutrality again, "this has been… strange."
Lucavion lifted his brow. "You mean delightful."
"I don't."
"Sure you do. I'm unforgettable."
"You're loud."
He grinned wider. "It's part of the charm."
"I'll take your word for it." She turned, one hand brushing against her cloak as she moved. "But I think that's enough philosophy for one night."
Lucavion gave a little mock bow, his cat shifting with an indignant flick of its tail on his shoulder. "Until next time, then."
She didn't answer. Not aloud. But she glanced at him once over her shoulder, expression unreadable. Measured.
And then she disappeared down the corridor, steps quiet, sure.
She hadn't expected to find him here—not so soon, not like this—but now that she had, one thing had become utterly, undeniably clear:
Lucavion hadn't recognized her.
And if he hadn't, then neither would the others.
She could move freely. Rebuild. Plot. Learn.
And when the time came, strike.
That alone made this night worth every word.
The halls whispered around her as she walked, the distant lanterns flickering like breaths held in too long. Marble beneath her boots. Shadows curling at her heels.
Her steps were soundless, but her mind wasn't.
Lucavion.
No.
Luca.
That's what she had called him in Stormhaven. That ridiculous little name that felt too casual for the boy who'd thrown himself into danger and shrugged off pain like it was weather.
She clenched her jaw.
Because now—seeing him again, like this—it was harder to tell where the difference ended. Harder to believe she'd ever truly known him.
Was he always like this?
That easy charm. That maddening smile. That way he slithered through conversation like nothing could stick to him. Like emotion was a tool, not something you felt but something you used.
It had worked on her once.
She scowled, more at herself than him.
Looking at it now, it was clear. He is like that with anyone. The banter, the wit, the deliberate pauses where he wanted you to fill in the blanks. The way he turned attention into a game, making it seem like you'd chosen to follow him when really—you'd been led from the start.
That's the kind of boy he was.
Or the kind of man.
Luca, she had thought of him. The boy who didn't flinch when the ice shards flew past. The one who always walked just on the edge of danger. The one who, for a sliver of time, had seemed like someone safe.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion Thorne was not safe.
'Then again,' she thought, slowing as she passed a wall-length window, the reflection of her illusion gazing back—cool, soft, forgettable. 'Neither am I.'
She pressed her fingertips to the glass for a moment, watching the shimmer of mana ripple faintly across her skin. The illusion was still holding, despite the tremor in her chest, despite the weight of his hand that still lingered in her memory.
Who even is Lucavion?
Was the one in the garden tonight the mask?
Or had Stormhaven been?
She didn't know.
Too many questions.
Too many pieces that didn't fit, no matter how she turned them. And it was infuriating.
Because she couldn't afford doubt.
Not now.
Not when her revenge depended on every move she made being exact. Clean. Final.
She stared at her reflection until the pale face in the glass blurred.
Damned bastard.
He was still getting in her head. Still making her question, hesitate, second-guess. As if she had the luxury of confusion. As if she could afford it.
She stepped back. Let the image fade.
'I will get them all answered.'
Her breath cooled in her chest, her hand falling back to her side.
Every question.
Every memory that twisted and itched.
Every scar that still hadn't faded.
She would get them all answered.
After she finished what she came here to do.
After she made them pay.
All of them. Lucavion. Isolde. Adrian. The Court. The Academy that had turned its back.
And when it was done, when the final blade fell—
Then she would drag the truth out of the ashes, even if it clawed her open.
No more shadows. No more masks. Just the truth—and revenge.
Her steps resumed, quieter now.
Not hesitant.
But hunted.
And hunting.
****
Lucavion lingered there, still leaning against the railing, the curve of his grin dimming—just a shade—as her footsteps faded into the corridor's long throat of shadow.
He watched the place where her silhouette had vanished, head tilted faintly, like he was trying to catch an echo she hadn't meant to leave behind.
The silence stretched again.
Then, without drama or flourish, he muttered—
"What a strange woman…yet somehow familiar…."
Chapter 891: Identity ?
Lucavion's voice faded into the air, soft as dust falling from old bookshelves.
"What a strange woman… yet somehow familiar…"
The words hung, suspended. More for himself than anyone else.
Then—
[Indeed… she feels familiar…]
Vitaliara's voice shimmered in the air beside him, low and steady. She hadn't moved from his shoulder, but her eyes—those glimmering slits of verdant gold—were fixed on the corridor where Elowyn had disappeared.
Lucavion didn't respond right away. He simply tilted his head the other way, thoughtful.
'Well, I don't make mistakes when it comes to things like this,' he thought, more defensive than he liked.
[Really? Your gut does never lapse or what?]
He blinked once.
'….'
No answer. Because that smirk, that certainty he wore like silk—it didn't feel quite so smooth now. The sensation was faint, but distinct. Like catching a glimpse of something in a mirror that shouldn't be there. Too fast. Too precise. Too heavy.
Vitaliara's tail flicked once, then coiled again gently behind his neck. Her tone softened—still curious, but laced with something more serious beneath.
[But I couldn't see through her.]
Lucavion's gaze flicked toward her, brows twitching just slightly.
Lucavion's brow furrowed—not sharply, but with the slow weight of thoughts pressing against the edge of certainty.
He didn't need Vitaliara's senses to tell him what he already knew.
He'd felt it too.
That moment in the garden… when he looked at her—tried to look through her—something pushed back. Not with hostility, but with… depth. Like trying to peer through a lake that mirrored the sky too perfectly. There was reflection. Stillness. Precision.
But no bottom.
No origin.
He exhaled, quietly.
"…You're right," he murmured, the words for Vitaliara, but more for himself. "I couldn't see her either."
Not her mana. Not her center. Nothing to track. Nothing to grasp.
And it wasn't the first time.
Rare, yes. But he'd felt it before—once during a desert raid, another time in the northern courts. People whose presence was curiously absent. There were always reasons. Either—
They were absurdly powerful, their Vitality wrapped so tightly it didn't leak.
Or—
They bore a condition, a shattered core, a fractured binding that muddied all sensory readings.
Or…
They had something.
An artifact. A relic old enough or precise enough to bury the truth of them under layers of silence.
He ran a hand through his hair, gaze distant now.
'Is it her?'
He didn't mean it as a dramatic question. Just a possibility that had lived at the back of his thoughts for weeks now—quiet, patient, waiting for the world to catch up.
Elara.
He had already considered it.
The name had haunted the narrative of Shattered Innocence, that bastard of a novel he'd been dumped into—its plot as fragmented as its title, full of ruined paths and rewritten identities.
And Elara… she was meant to come here. That much, he was sure of. Whether by the commoner exam, or some other means—she would attend the Academy. She had to. It was too central. Too linked to everything she wanted.
Revenge didn't wait on logic. It waited on opportunity.
And Isolde—that woman—was here.
Elara would not miss this.
Which meant if she wasn't attending as the commoner he'd expected—then she was hiding in plain sight.
Under a different name.
Under a different face.
He narrowed his eyes.
"...Elowyn Caerlin."
And frowned.
That wasn't a name he recognized from the novel.
Not a single mention. Not even as a footnote. Not among the list of nobles, side characters, or political pieces used to bolster the setting. He had read everything the Author had allowed him access to before his sudden transposition—everything before the blackout hit the middle acts.
This girl? She didn't exist in those pages.
Not as Elowyn.
Not as anything he could place.
'Which means… either she's new, or she's someone old with a new face.'
His gaze returned to the dark corridor, though it gave him nothing now—just smooth walls and the gentle flicker of lanterns dancing like breathless stars.
He rubbed the back of his neck slowly.
'It could be nothing.'
But even he didn't believe that.
Too many variables. Too many coincidences. And this academy—this mess of court politics and bloodlines and half-buried vendettas—it was a magnet for hidden identities.
The Author had confirmed it once.
A casual note in the margins of a serialized update: "Several students in the Academy arc are not who they appear to be. Some are hiding lineage. Some, intent. Others, far more dangerous secrets."
Lucavion never got far enough to read the reveals.
But he hadn't forgotten that line.
Which meant… he couldn't rule this girl out. Not yet.
Even if it felt unlikely.
He exhaled softly.
'Unlikely… but not impossible.'
Because that look she gave him in the garden—cold, but restrained. Personal, but measured. It wasn't just unfamiliarity.
It was tension.
Recognition. Suppressed recognition.
And then there was her energy. No, he couldn't see her origin—no color, no signature, nothing that rooted her Vitality to a clear source. But that didn't mean she was opaque.
In hindsight… it was like staring at liquid through frosted glass.
He couldn't identify what was inside—but he could see the movement. The shape. The flow.
And that mattered more.
Because while he couldn't directly compare her to past encounters… he could watch how that vitality behaved.
And when someone lies, when someone pretends—their vitality stutters. Warps. Breaks rhythm.
It was an ability that he had recently acquired.
Hers?
When she first looked at him, her vitality immediately moved quite a lot.
It gave a reaction, a reaction that is so violent that he didn't expect something like that at all.
Lucavion's fingers stilled against the edge of the marble, his eyes distant—but not unfocused.
He was remembering.
Not in idle recollection, but in reverse dissection. A sequence played backward in his mind, not just of what was said, but what moved beneath the surface.
That moment.
When she first looked at him.
There was no mistaking it now. Not with the lens he'd refined over the past year. Not with the cursed clarity his attunement to Vitality had sharpened into something far more precise than most would ever be allowed to touch.
The way Elowyn Caerlin—if that was even her name—glared at him.
She hadn't just looked. She stabbed with her eyes. Like she'd already decided he was something she couldn't forgive. Like standing in his presence was a punishment unto itself.
And he'd felt it.
Her Vitality, usually unreadable, moved all at once—chaotic, thrashing, thrumming through every inch of her body. No color. No origin. But unmistakable motion. Like blood surging beneath a too-still surface. Like rage trapped in a glass cage.
Unstable.
Uncontrolled.
On the brink of eruption.
'I thought she was about to collapse,' he admitted silently. 'Or snap.'
And so—he stepped in. No grand gesture. Just contact.
A hand on her shoulder.
A tether to pull her back from whatever hell her mind had slipped into.
But what came next…
The slap.
It hadn't surprised him because of the force.
It surprised him because of the Vitality spike that came with it.
Sharp. Focused. Immediate.
Not instinctive.
Intentional.
And that made all the difference.
Even before her hand met his wrist, her body had already decided to strike. No hesitation. No stutter. As if the action was waiting for an excuse to escape.
And then came the lie.
"Ah… sorry. I didn't mean to react like that."
He didn't need to interrogate the words.
Her Vitality had already told the truth.
She meant every fraction of that slap. Not as an accident. Not as panic.
As judgment.
As something she had held back, and let slip for just a heartbeat too long.
Chapter 892: Identity ? (2)
That lie—"I didn't mean to react like that."—still lingered somewhere behind Lucavion's eyes.
And yet, it wasn't the lie that stayed with him.
It was the Vitality behind it.
Everything she did in those moments was intentional. And more importantly, emotional. Not in the dramatic sense—no tears, no trembling voice—but in the way her very being rattled when she saw him.
And that reaction?
It only made one thing make sense.
"She knew me," Lucavion murmured under his breath, barely audible even to himself. "No stranger looks at you like that."
Unless…
Unless they were remembering something you forgot.
Or something they couldn't.
Still, there was a flicker of hesitation in his thoughts. Because if it was Elara…
If Elowyn Caerlin was Elara Lorian—then why the confusion?
Why that contradiction?
Because—when she slapped him, her Vitality spiked. The hatred, the grief, the heat of it all—it flooded the surface.
But later…
When he extended his hand…
When he said, "I suppose we are no longer strangers," with that trademark smirk...
She had looked at him, measured him, and answered—
"I guess so."
And in that moment?
Her Vitality didn't rage.
Didn't flare.
Didn't twitch in resistance.
It was… steady.
Quiet.
Open.
Not like a weapon.
Not like a girl who'd sworn to see him bleed.
But like someone who, even for just a moment, wanted to mean it.
That was the part that didn't make sense.
Because if it was Elara… she wouldn't feel that.
She wouldn't even pretend to.
She had every reason to hate him. Had looked at him in that dungeon, back in Stormhaven, with eyes like frozen knives. He remembered that moment with disturbing clarity—the way her gaze clung to him as Alistair led him away.
Those icy blue eyes—sharpened by silence, glassed by betrayal.
Back then, she didn't speak. She didn't have to.
Everything she wanted to say had already etched itself in the way she didn't look away.
He shivered, despite himself.
And yet… tonight, those weren't the eyes that stared at him.
Tonight… they were hazel. Rich, flecked with gold. But the emotion—the weight behind them—it felt too similar.
'It's a bit hard to forget that,' he thought, glancing up at the moonlight spilling through the trellis. Cool silver on the marble. Ghostlike.
He shook his head once, jaw tightening.
"Little stranger," he muttered, voice low and almost fond. But not soft. Never soft. "What are you?"
Vitaliara stirred on his shoulder but said nothing. She didn't need to. She was watching his thoughts spiral on their own, with no need to interfere.
Because this was the part Lucavion couldn't ignore.
That girl's Vitality—it was harder to read than anyone he'd encountered. Not because it was blocked, but because it was layered. Complex.
When they spoke, when she challenged him—
"If the first thing that comes to your mind when someone looks at you is that they're calculating where to stab…"
Her voice hadn't cracked.
"Then you must not be a very good person."
And the worst part?
He couldn't retort.
Because her words hit a little too close.
And she meant them.
But not with cruelty.
With understanding.
That's what made it worse. That she saw something and named it—not to wound, but to expose.
And yet…
There had been no spike in her Vitality then.
Only stillness.
Only a girl looking at a boy—not with fury, not with fear—but as if she was still deciding which version of him she believed.
He stepped away from the railing now, gaze still fixed toward nothing.
There had been no spike in her Vitality then.
No lashing, no flinch, no cold snap of loathing waiting behind her tongue.
Just—
Warmth.
Not obvious. Not glowing. But the kind of warmth you found in places you didn't expect. Quiet. Uncertain. Maybe even welcoming.
And that—that—was what unsettled Lucavion most.
Because Elara Lorian would never look at him like that.
Not in this world. Not in any version of it.
Not after what happened in Stormhaven. Not after the betrayal. Not after watching him be led away in chains, leaving her behind in that blood-soaked hall, surrounded by dead brothers and stolen futures.
No… Elara would never offer him that kind of warmth.
And yet… this girl had.
Not out of weakness.
But recognition. Loneliness. Maybe even curiosity.
That's what made it all the harder to accept.
He scoffed under his breath.
"…There's no way it's her," he said finally, voice clipped. "It can't be."
Not with the way she answered him. Not with how her Vitality softened when she could've stabbed, but didn't.
He let out a breath and turned from the balcony, gaze falling to the path ahead—the corridor that led back into the academy halls, where polished stone and shadow met in perfect symmetry.
'And yet…'
He didn't finish the thought.
Because it didn't matter.
Not right now.
If she was Elara… she'd reveal herself.
And if she wasn't… well, that would come to light too.
Slowly, inevitably.
Truths in this world didn't stay buried forever. Not here. Not in a place like this.
Not with him watching.
"Whatever," he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked sneer as he started walking, his footsteps almost silent against the marble.
"Little stranger…" he said again, lower this time. "You'll show me who you are. One way or another."
Lucavion's steps echoed softly, measured, as he slipped back into the corridor's hush—moonlight trailing at his heels like a second, quieter shadow. The marble stretched on ahead, still and waiting, but the thoughts in his mind were still unraveling themselves in ribbons of doubt and memory.
And then—
[Did you finish your one-man theatre in your head now?]
Vitaliara's voice rang with that unmistakable blend of teasing and exasperation, her tone a dry breeze against his overworked thoughts.
Lucavion let out a slow breath… then smiled.
The real kind.
Not smug. Not weaponized. Just—honest. For a moment.
"I did."
[Good.]
She didn't sound impressed. And from the narrowing of her slitted eyes, she wasn't. Not even a little. Her tail gave a lazy swish over his shoulder, but the movement was more pointed than casual. She could tell he was hiding something. Again.
Lucavion didn't elaborate. Not yet.
Because while she hadn't said it, he knew what she wanted to ask.
Who was that girl?
And more importantly—what was it about her that kept gnawing at his attention?
But Vitaliara didn't push. Not directly. She watched him. Waited.
Which was precisely why he kept it to himself.
He'd tell her—if it became necessary. But if this was Elara… if that was truly who stood beneath the name and illusion of Elowyn Caerlin—then even Vitaliara didn't need to know yet.
Not until he was certain.
Until then, it would be his card to hold.
A quiet secret among the dozen others.
Still, Vitaliara wasn't thrilled by his silence.
Her voice returned with a soft huff—half amused, half sulking.
[You're hiding something again.]
"I'm a man of secrets," Lucavion said smoothly, a glint back in his eye as he slowed his pace.
[A man of secrets?]
She sniffed.
[You're an insufferable charlatan.]
He let out a short laugh. "A nice diagnosis."
[Oh, please. You should come with a warning label.]
"I do," he said, sweeping a hand theatrically across his chest. "It's just very well hidden beneath all the charm."
She grumbled something under her breath that sounded like "overgrown peacock."
Lucavion's smile widened.
But beneath it all, beneath the banter and practiced carelessness, one thing remained untouched. Quiet. Lodged in his thoughts like a splinter he didn't quite want to pull out yet.
If it is her… then what does that mean for me?
He said nothing.
And Vitaliara—sharp as ever—didn't ask.
Not this time.
Chapter 893: Morning of the two
Lucavion moved through the dim halls like he belonged there. Not just physically—but fundamentally. His steps didn't echo so much as settle, each one landing with the kind of weight only someone utterly assured of their place could manage. A prince of shadows, robed not in gold but in silence and second thoughts.
The door to his dorm room recognized him before his hand touched the rune. It gave a soft mechanical chime, subtle and elegant, before sliding open on seamless hinges. No fanfare. No grand display.
He liked that.
Inside, the room was as he'd left it. Sparse, ordered, deliberately unimpressive. Most nobles dressed their rooms with imported carpets, glamour-shifted portraits, or enchanted window illusions showing the view of their family estate.
Lucavion had none of that.
His walls were bare stone, layered in passive warding rather than ego. The bed was functional. Firm mattress. Temperature-balanced runes on the frame. A single shelf lined with unmarked journals and two relic boxes—one sealed. One not.
He kicked off his boots in practiced rhythm, stripped his outer tunic, and tossed it into the woven hamper in the corner. A flick of his fingers dimmed the mana-light over the desk. Only the sconce near the bed remained, humming faintly with amber glow.
Vitaliara uncurled from his shoulder just as he sat on the edge of the bed, her feline form padding down his arm with liquid grace.
She didn't say anything. Just leapt from his wrist to the pillow and coiled there like royalty observing a kingdom she didn't particularly like.
Lucavion leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and exhaled—slow and quiet. His gaze unfocused, settling somewhere on the stone floor between memory and silence.
Then—
He stood.
Switched off the final light.
And lay down.
The bed didn't creak. The room didn't shift. Only the soft rustle of cloth and a long exhale as he folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
He didn't expect dreams. Didn't want them.
But sometimes, sleep came not like a wave—but like a veil. A layer drawn over the noise, the questions, the girl's impossible gaze.
[You're thinking again,] Vitaliara murmured from her perch.
"Not thinking," Lucavion whispered. "Just… sorting."
A pause.
Then:
[Sort faster.]
He huffed a faint breath of laughter.
"Goodnight, Vitaliara."
[You always say that like you expect me to vanish.]
"I'd be disappointed if you did."
*****
The Academy grounds were still veiled in that strange half-light the dome cast at dawn—neither warm nor cold, just… suspended.
Caeden pulled the laces of his tunic tight, breath already visible in the air. Not because it was cold, but because something in the mana layer filtered the air differently in the mornings. He never really got used to it.
Not that it mattered.
His boots touched the courtyard with practiced quiet, the kind born from repetition rather than stealth. He took the north corridor, weaving past the arch leading toward the east wing. The stone was always faintly damp here. Rune condensation.
He didn't think about it.
He just moved.
This was his time. The one slice of the day not cluttered by hierarchy, politics, or whatever mess Lucavion had walked into this time. Here, it was just breath. Just rhythm. Just him.
And the disciple.
Already, he could hear the soft clang of wood striking wood out near the sparring grounds—barely audible from here, but always consistent. The disciple never missed a morning. Caeden admired that. Quietly.
'Consistency earns more than talent ever will. At least, in the long run.'
As he turned past the corner of the dormitory wall, a figure stepped out ahead.
Elayne
Hair braided. Shoulders squared. Blades sheathed in a horizontal scabbard across her lower back.
She didn't look surprised to see him.
Then again, she never looked anything.
She glanced at him once. Said nothing. Adjusted her wrist wrap.
"Morning," Caeden offered, nodding slightly.
"Hum," she answered. Neutral. Not unfriendly. Just… her.
He didn't stop walking. Neither did she. Their steps matched pace without ceremony.
He cut a glance sideways.
"Training?"
She shook her head. "Running."
He blinked. Slightly surprised. "…Together?"
She didn't answer.
Just kept walking.
Silent.
Then, after several more steps—
She tilted her head.
A single beat.
Then—
"…If you can keep up."
Sometimes, in the quiet haze of early breath and softened footfalls, Caeden forgot why he started this.
Then Elayne would appear—wordless, efficient, sharp as a blade that didn't need to gleam—and he'd remember.
They'd run a few times before. Not scheduled. Not discussed. Just… coinciding.
And every time, she ran like the ground owed her nothing.
She didn't race. She measured. Matched pace. Cut corners by inches. Never too far ahead—but never trailing. A silent competitor with no scoreboard.
'Not a sprinter. She's too smart for that.'
He glanced sideways as they fell into rhythm past the northeast training ward, their steps aligning over stone polished by decades of footsteps. Her breath came quiet. Controlled. She didn't speak.
So, of course, he did.
"You figure it out yet?"
A pause.
Elayne didn't slow, but her brow furrowed by a hair's width. "Figure what?"
"Your disposition." Caeden's voice was casual, but not careless. "They're testing next week. You know. The real fun stuff."
She didn't answer right away.
Just the tap of her boots on rune-bound pavement. Then—
"…I'll choose whatever I'm best at."
Simple. Clean. Obvious.
But not empty.
Caeden huffed a dry laugh, one hand brushing sweat from his brow. "Yeah… guess you answer like that."
No pride. No posturing. No telling the world she was a mage or a duelist or whatever box the nobles would have liked to place her in.
Just competence.
Maybe that was why he liked being around this girl.
No complexities.
No webs.
Just the quiet certainty of someone who didn't need a reason to move—only direction.
'What are you best at?' Most people would ask it with ambition. She asked it like checking the weather.
He didn't mind the silence that followed. It wasn't awkward. Elayne didn't fill space just to fill it. Neither did he.
So they ran.
Down the garden tier, where the hedges shimmered faintly under dew-anchored runes. Past the outer alcoves of the meditation hall—abandoned this early, save for the occasional student asleep with a tome in their lap. The world didn't speak. It just turned.
Until something made it stop.
Not sound.
Not heat.
Not mana pressure.
Just… presence.
It hit them like stepping through a veil.
Caeden slowed, one step faltering. Elayne stopped entirely.
They didn't need to say anything.
Because it wasn't just something they saw.
It made them see it.
Black flames, lashing through the trees in between.
Not natural flame. Not even conjured. These moved like thought—jagged, wild, personal.
And in the center—
Lucavion.
He was always like this.
Lucavion.
The early bird cloaked in dusk.
While most students clung to sleep or routine, he carved his mornings in flame.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Flame.
Black.
Personal.
He trained where no steward would bother him. No noble would risk singeing their coat. A small clearing just off the outer practice loop—technically part of the campus, but quiet enough to be forgotten.
Except by him.
And now—by them.
Caeden stood at the edge of the path, shoulder brushing a tree slick with rune-condensation. Elayne, beside him, said nothing. She didn't move. Didn't reach for her blades. Just watched.
Because what else was there to do?
In the clearing, Lucavion's blade danced.
Not wildly.
Not recklessly.
Every movement was intentional. Sharp, clean, efficient.
And the fire?
It answered him.
Surged when he struck. Withdrew when he stilled.
It curled around his legs like smoke from a war-god's forge—trailing behind each motion, spiraling into the air, refusing to obey gravity or logic.
One step forward. Slash. Pivot.
The black flame twisted with him, dragged through the air like it was part of the blade itself.
Not summoned.
Not conjured.
Claimed.
"Damn."
Chapter 894: Damn
"Damn."
Caeden blinked.
His head turned slowly. "Did you just…?"
Elayne didn't look at him. She was still watching Lucavion—expression unreadable, arms folded, eyes sharp behind their usual glass calm.
"What did you say?" he asked again, brow slightly raised.
She turned to meet his gaze. "Damn."
A pause.
"…Do you know what it means?" Caeden asked, half-skeptical, half amused.
Elayne blinked once. "Isn't it something you use when you see something exceptional?"
Caeden huffed a quiet breath through his nose. "...Yes. But I didn't think you used words like that."
"Neither did I." She said it without inflection. Just fact.
Then she lifted a hand. Not quickly. Just a small gesture, like pointing out a crack in the wall someone else hadn't noticed.
Her finger aimed not at Lucavion—but the trees.
Or more precisely—what wasn't happening to them.
Caeden frowned. "What?"
"The flames," she said, quietly. "They're not burning the trees."
He turned his head.
Looked again.
Not at Lucavion this time—but at the edges of the clearing, where the black fire licked and rolled and should've left nothing but char.
And yet—
The bark was only lightly singed. The grass blackened in rings, but not dead. The air shimmered with heat, but the trees stood still.
Untouched.
Controlled.
His eyes widened.
'Wait…'
Lucavion stepped into another cut, blade slashing low, a twisting motion of the wrist that sent a spiral of black fire in a wide arc. It looked wild—chaotic. But it stopped exactly where the perimeter began. Like a dog trained to the edge of its leash.
And again.
And again.
Not a random blaze. Not brute force.
Training.
Not of the sword. Not just of the body.
But of the fire.
'He's… not trying to master the sword alone,' Caeden realized. 'He's training the flames themselves. Directing them. Holding them back. Guiding them without letting them slip.'
There were scorch marks, yes.
But minimal.
Precise.
Deliberate.
Now that he saw it—
Really saw it—
Caeden realized he'd never once approached training from that perspective.
His focus had always been internal.
Form, weight, distance. The earth beneath his feet. The tension in his stance. The angle of a strike. How to brace. How to channel mana into the body, not just through it.
He trained his blade. He honed his body. He refined his technique.
But Lucavion—
Lucavion was training the impossible.
He wasn't casting spells. He wasn't refining a martial form. He was taming something that wasn't meant to be tamed.
Black fire.
Caeden didn't know what it was—whether it came from a bloodline, a curse, a pact, or something far more abstract—but whatever it was, it shouldn't obey him.
And it didn't.
Not fully.
That much was obvious now. Even as Lucavion moved with poise, the flames snapped sometimes. Lashed too far. One jet of fire flared just a few inches too wide, and the edge of the clearing hissed as it brushed a low-hanging branch.
Lucavion paused. Just a second.
Then resumed.
As if the fire's disobedience was expected. Not feared. Not excused.
Just part of the process.
'He's not polishing a technique,' Caeden thought. 'He's building a relationship with something that shouldn't even listen.'
He exhaled slowly.
"…I guess that's what makes him the strongest."
Elayne didn't answer.
Caeden's gaze stayed locked on Lucavion—on the way the fire curved with him, around him, until it wasn't clear where the blade ended and the flame began.
'Someone who can match the son of the Knight Commander...'
To be frank—
after watching the duel yesterday, Caeden had already felt it.
That spark. That quiet, uncomfortable pulse in the chest.
Inspiration.
Even though he wasn't a swordsman. Even though his own weapon of choice was a war hammer built more for impact than elegance, there was something universal in that duel. In the clash of blades, in the precision, the pressure, the will behind each step.
He'd studied it.
Absorbed it.
Even tried to replicate some of that footwork during his drills—just to see.
But alongside that inspiration… there'd been something else.
Doubt.
Not about himself.
About chasing Lucavion.
'There's no reason to try and beat someone like that,' he'd thought, watching the tip of Lucavion's sword stop exactly where it needed to, never an inch more. 'That kind of sword… it's just built different.'
It was elegant.
Unreachable.
A different tier.
And so he'd told himself he didn't need to catch up. Didn't need to surpass.
Lucavion was Lucavion.
Caeden was Caeden.
Different paths.
Different weapons.
He could respect him without comparing.
But now—watching this—
That thought collapsed.
Because Lucavion wasn't resting in that tier.
He wasn't satisfied.
He had the sword. The victory. The reputation. The lineage.
And it still wasn't enough.
He was reaching past his own talent.
Past his own comfort.
Pushing something unruly to bend. Not because he had to—but because he refused not to.
'That hunger...'
It didn't look glamorous here.
It looked lonely.
Unrelenting.
And more than anything—
Honest.
Caeden's jaw clenched lightly. A ripple of heat brushed his cheek as another lash of black fire curved, stopped just short of a tree, and dissipated like breath in winter.
He looked down at his own hands.
Calloused. Trained.
But... boxed.
There were limits he'd drawn for himself without even realizing.
Lines like this is what I'm good at or this is enough.
And maybe that's what separated them.
Not talent.
Not birth.
But the refusal to accept a ceiling.
'I thought I was working hard…'
His throat tightened a little. Not shame. Not self-hate. Just—
Embarrassment.
Quiet.
Heavy.
The kind that didn't make you break.
Just... shift.
'Maybe I'll feel this again. And again. Every time I see someone like him.'
Then, softly—something from home rose up.
A saying his grandfather used to repeat every time Caeden thought he was done training.
Words worn smooth by years of use, but never dulled.
"Stone that rests too long thinks it's the mountain."
He breathed it in.
Felt the weight of it land squarely in his chest.
Then—
A prick.
Low in the gut.
Like a hook pulled taut behind the navel.
Caeden's breath caught. His footing shifted half a pace without thought. A fighter's instinct. One honed not by theory—but experience.
Heat.
But not warmth.
Not flame like before.
This one carried weight.
'Danger?'
He looked up—
And saw the black flame.
Surging.
No arc. No elegance. No warning.
It came low and fast—straight toward him and Elayne. Not in a wide, sweeping gesture like before, but in a thread—controlled, narrow, precise.
Caeden's shoulders tightened. Mana braced along his arms. He stepped, arm raising instinctively.
But—
It stopped.
Dead.
A breath from his chest.
A shoulder's width.
The fire hissed there—hovering. Crackling not with chaos, but restraint. It wanted to move forward. But it didn't. Couldn't.
Caeden blinked.
"…What the—?"
Then—
"Hmm… not good enough."
A voice.
Cool. Dry. Threaded with that deliberate bite of self-measured arrogance.
The flames curled inward, like coals pulled back into a forge. And through the veil of dissipating heat—
Lucavion appeared.
Blade resting along one shoulder. Sweat along his collar. Smirk—unchanged.
"Liked the show?" he asked, tone casual, like he'd just stepped out of a bath instead of nearly scorching them both.
Caeden said nothing.
Elayne did worse—she glared.
Lucavion's eyes slid between them, playful. Probing.
Then his smirk widened, just enough to needle.
"What?" he asked, arching a brow. "Too early for fan clubs?"
Caeden's jaw twitched.
"Were you aiming at us?" he asked flatly.
Lucavion shrugged. "If I was, you'd know."
He let the silence stretch.
"...But no. That one got away. Slightly."
Caeden wasn't sure if that made it better.
He exhaled slowly, tried not to glance at Elayne—but she was already watching Lucavion with that same unreadable stillness.
Then she said:
"You train like you're at war."
Lucavion tilted his head.
The smirk didn't falter, but something settled behind it—like a shadow casting its own shadow. That flicker. The one that always hinted there was more behind his calm than anyone wanted to ask about.
Then—
"I am always at war."
Chapter 895: Damn (2)
Caeden blinked once.
Then twice.
"…Okay," he muttered under his breath, "that was a little edgy."
Elayne didn't reply. But the shift of her brows—subtle, almost imperceptible—spoke volumes. Disapproval. Not sharp. Not loud. Just... noted.
Lucavion laughed.
It wasn't the smooth, careless sound he used in the dining halls or the sparring ring when mocking nobility. This one had a grain to it. Dry. Knowing. A little too self-aware.
"Well," he said, stretching slightly, flame still curling faintly along his blade's edge, "those words'll get meaning soon enough."
He spun the sword once, idly, letting it hum as the black fire retracted into nothing.
"Though I assume you've already forgotten yesterday."
The moment he said it—yesterday—a quiet weight dropped into the space between them.
Because they hadn't forgotten.
No one at the Academy had.
He'd insulted the Crown Prince.
Blatantly. Publicly.
And you didn't do that and walk away without consequence. Not here. Not in the Royal Academy.
Caeden's jaw set.
Elayne's arms folded tighter.
Lucavion turned just enough to catch both their eyes and smirked, as if daring them to say it out loud.
"Guess that's true," Caeden muttered. Not praise. Not mockery. Just… confirmation.
Lucavion's expression didn't change, but something behind it shifted. Like a man who already knew the price tagged to his name—and had made peace with it long ago.
Then, with a sudden pivot, he gestured toward the path they'd come from.
"Your usual morning run?"
Elayne nodded. "Yes."
Lucavion squinted at her for a half-second longer than necessary.
Then looked at Caeden.
"...And what's your pace like, hammer-boy?"
Caeden snorted. "Faster than yours when you're busy lecturing your flames."
Lucavion grinned. "Touché."
He stretched his shoulders once, blade vanishing with a flick of mana into a waiting seal at his hip.
Then he tilted his head—just slightly—toward the path again.
"Mind if I join?"
After all, Lucavion rarely joined them.
He trained alone. Walked alone. Fought with others only when required—never because he needed the company. That was just how he was.
So when he asked, there was a brief pause.
Then—Elayne gave a single, curt nod.
Caeden shrugged. "Up to you. Just don't expect us to slow down."
Lucavion's smirk returned, but he said nothing.
And just like that—they started running.
Three shadows moving as one beneath the pale dome light of the morning. The rhythm was different now. Sharper. Pushed. Not forced—but heavier. There was something about having Lucavion behind you, or beside you, that made each step feel slightly more deliberate. More watched.
Their feet hit stone, then grass, then stone again, each change in terrain caught beneath a layer of dew and soft mana haze. The early wards of the academy shimmered faintly along the outer edges of the path—keeping the temperature regulated, the air thinner, the training grounds honed with just enough resistance to remind you that this place was made to break people in the best possible way.
The pace was fast.
Not a jog. Not a warm-up.
A run.
The kind you didn't speak through unless you had something worth breaking breath for.
And Lucavion did.
Eventually.
"…The mana here," he said, between controlled inhales, "it's quite something, isn't it?"
His voice was steady. Almost casual. But the way he said it—like an observation he'd been turning over for weeks—carried more weight than the words implied.
Caeden nodded, breath still steady despite the pace. "Yeah," he said, glancing sideways at Lucavion. "It's no illusion. I spent most of yesterday cultivating… after the duel."
"Yeah, you did mention it yesterday, isn't it?"
"Indeed. But that was rather short. I didn't cultivate with my full focus."
"Makes sense. We didn't have that much time."
"Today, I'd noticed it more," Caeden continued. "The things that I didn't pay much attention to, just figured the mana here was cleaner. After I tried focusing for real…" He exhaled, deep and deliberate, as if weighing the memory.
"My cultivation speed nearly doubled."
That earned him a glance from Elayne.
Lucavion's expression flickered—mild curiosity under the usual smirk.
"It's like there's a second layer beneath everything," Caeden went on. "The ambient mana's denser. Slower. But it responds better to intention. When I guided it into the lattice points, it didn't just follow. It adjusted. Matched rhythm."
He paused to let a branch snap past, ducking slightly, never breaking stride.
"I've been stuck mid-four star for weeks now," he admitted. "Couldn't get past the bottleneck in my second core-line. Yesterday… I could feel it. The opening. The flow shifted just enough."
"Core-line?" Elayne asked, looking confused with her tilted to side.
"Ah….It is related to my cultivation method."
"…."
"Peak four-star?" Lucavion asked, still sounding casual—but Caeden knew better.
He nodded. "Soon. If I don't mess it up."
Elayne stayed quiet—but the faint glint of sweat on her brow wasn't from the run alone. She was listening too.
Lucavion tilted his head. "Hn. Not bad."
"Thanks." Caeden rolled his shoulders once. "Still got a long way to go. But here? At this pace? I think it's actually possible."
Then, almost on instinct, his eyes slid toward Elayne.
"…What about you?"
Elayne's eyes stayed forward, feet landing in perfect cadence with theirs—never rushed, never lagging. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn't respond. She rarely did, unless the words were worth spending.
Then:
"I cultivated a little."
Lucavion arched a brow. "And?"
A faint flicker passed over her face. Not a smile—but the thought of one.
"There's… clarity here," she said. Her voice, always calm, held a sharper undertone this time. "The kind that doesn't come from silence or stillness. The mana—it folds around thoughts. Answers before I speak them."
Caeden shot her a sideways look. "That's one way to put it."
She ignored him.
"I'm mid-four star. Same as you."
Lucavion raised a brow. "Illusion magic, right?"
Elayne gave a small nod.
Then—
She surged forward.
No warning. No shift in posture. Just a sudden burst of speed, light-footed and precise. As if the question had concluded her part of the conversation and she no longer found it worth pacing herself to match theirs.
Caeden cursed under his breath and pushed off harder.
'Of course she'd do that.'
He leaned forward, legs hammering into the ground as he picked up speed, matching her stride with effort—not ease. Wind rushed past his ears, trees blurring at the edges of his vision. The tempo shifted. This wasn't a pace for conversation anymore. This was where bones started to groan, where breath came short, where the line between stamina and strain blurred.
Their feet slammed into the training path with rhythmic force.
The earth trembled faintly beneath each step.
Caeden's lungs began to burn.
And still—Elayne ran ahead, like silence given form, like a shadow chasing wind.
He grit his teeth. Pushed harder.
Lucavion?
Still behind them.
For a few seconds, Caeden thought he'd stayed back. Let them go on without him.
Then a figure glided up alongside him.
Effortless.
Lucavion.
Running just fast enough to match, shoulders relaxed, gaze straight ahead. Like this was nothing. Like he'd been doing it the whole time.
Caeden's eyes narrowed.
He focused for a second—reaching out with his mana senses, brushing the edges of Lucavion's body to feel the pressure.
No reinforcement.
None.
Not even a whisper of elemental channeling.
No earth mana strengthening his joints. No wind mana boosting his stride.
Nothing.
Just raw physique.
'Wait… no. That's not normal.'
Elayne, too, seemed to notice. She flicked a quick glance behind her shoulder—and for just a moment, her form wavered. Not in speed. In rhythm. The illusionist trained to become untouchable had just blinked.
Caeden muttered, half-gasping. "You're not… even using mana?"
Lucavion turned his head slightly, still running. That damned smirk again. "Why would I?"
Caeden's face contorted somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
"Because this is a sprint at full tilt and we're about to die?"
Lucavion just shrugged mid-run. "You call this full tilt?"
Caeden nearly tripped. "I—what?"
Lucavion didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The glint in his eye said it all.
'He's holding back.'
Chapter 896: Guide
'He's holding back.'
The thought landed like a rock in Caeden's gut.
Not because it surprised him.
But because it shouldn't have been possible.
He'd always been proud of his physique. It was his edge. His anchor. Where most Awakened spent their early years hyper-focused on mana—on perfecting the flow, refining their cores, expanding their spiritual lattice—Caeden had taken a different path.
He trained his body.
Hard.
Every strike, every drill, every repetition baked into his bones before he'd even lit his first star.
Because for most northern cultivators, that was the standard.
In the north, physicality was part of survival. You grew up learning to brace against cold, hunger, terrain. The cultivators there didn't just dream of grandeur—they trained because weakness could kill. And more than that, the common doctrine said:
Don't waste time on the body. Not yet.
Why?
Because body reconstruction came later.
After five stars.
That was the gateway—when mana stopped being just energy and became transformation. When the body could be reforged in its entirety using one's cultivation method. Muscles, bones, nerves—enhanced beyond human.
So most waited. Why build a house just to tear it down later?
Caeden hadn't waited.
He pushed.
He built a fortress early. Carved each muscle into stone. Because he knew—when that reconstruction came, he'd already have a foundation worth reforging.
And in the Arcanis Empire?
They didn't train that way.
They didn't have to.
Their environment was gentler. Their techniques more refined. Their instructors focused on efficiency, on control, on elegance.
He'd watched them train.
And thought, more than once, At least I've got this much over them. At least here, I'm stronger.
But Lucavion—
Lucavion was running beside him like gravity hadn't applied yet.
Unreinforced.
Unbothered.
Not a single flex out of place. Not a single strained breath. No sweat, no tremble, no edge.
Just… grace.
Caeden's lungs burned.
His calves flared with heat.
And this guy—this arrogant, black-fire bastard—was barely moving by comparison.
'He's not from the south,' Caeden thought, trying to keep the disbelief from climbing too far into his expression. 'He trained like he's from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere worse.'
Or maybe—
He just trained through whatever softness the Empire handed him.
Caeden clenched his jaw.
'So much for the edge I thought I had.'
He shot a sideways look at Lucavion again.
Their strides thundered across the damp trail, the rhythm of three now edged by something unspoken. Breath. Muscle. Silence.
Then—
Lucavion turned his head.
Met Caeden's glance mid-stride.
Not slow.
Not sudden.
Just... exact.
Like he'd already known Caeden was looking.
And he spoke.
"I am rather unique."
Caeden blinked.
Lucavion's voice didn't carry arrogance this time. Not the drawl of a provocateur. It was... quiet. Measured. Unflinching.
"I'd advise you not to think thoughts like those."
"...What thoughts?" Caeden muttered, forcing the words out between staggered breath.
Lucavion didn't look away.
"This isn't about pride," he said. "Or ego."
A beat.
"It's just the truth."
Caeden frowned, jaw still tight.
And then—
"…Whatever."
It came sharper than he meant. Not from hate. From frustration. From the heat building behind his ribs, not just from running, but from trying to understand a man who felt like walking contradiction.
Lucavion gave a small shrug. If the comment stung, it didn't show.
"You two done posturing?" Elayne's voice sliced clean between them, dry as flint.
They both glanced her way.
She didn't look back.
She was already pushing forward again.
Not faster. Not slower.
Just... cleaner.
"I agreed to a run. Not to carry your unresolved self-worth issues across the eastern trail."
Caeden coughed once, half-choked on a laugh.
Lucavion's grin returned—but softer this time. Not mocking.
Almost appreciative.
"Understood," he said simply.
And then, without warning—
He passed them both. Quietly. Effortlessly. His footfalls barely whispering against the dirt.
Caeden stared after him for a second.
Then swore under his breath.
"…Damn him."
Elayne exhaled through her nose, dry and unimpressed.
"Then run faster."
*****
The sun had climbed higher by the time the five of them gathered in front of the dorms.
Lucavion, Caeden, Elayne.
Mirella.
Toven.
Cleaned up from the morning run—or in Lucavion's case, still annoyingly fresh—they stood near the stone archway leading toward the academy's main thoroughfare.
All around them, other students had begun trickling out of the dormitories. Most in standard-issue academy blacks, a few already flaunting personal flair—sashes, custom embroidery, trailing bits of enchanted cloth. First-years mostly. All of them hovering with varying degrees of nervous energy.
"Feels like we're waiting for inspection," Caeden muttered, arms crossed.
"Or sentencing," Toven added dryly.
Lucavion gave a lazy shrug. "Same thing, depending on who shows up."
Mirella frowned. "You're not helping."
A few dozen more students had gathered now. Whispering. Fidgeting. Some clearly trying not to stare at Lucavion. A few stealing glances at Elayne, who stood like a statue with her hands folded behind her back, gaze already scanning the open courtyard ahead.
Then—
A faint ripple.
Mana.
Not harsh. Not sharp.
Just... cold.
It prickled against the skin like the first breath before a winter spell—measured, refined, calculated.
Footsteps followed.
And from the northern arch, a figure emerged.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in robes far more subtle than most of the faculty they'd glimpsed so far. A deep indigo cloak, trimmed in silver, with no house sigil or division badge visible. Just a thin strip of starlight thread weaving a pattern across the hem.
The woman stopped at the edge of the courtyard.
She looked over them all with the kind of gaze that saw too much—and judged too little.
Then she spoke.
"I am Professor Selenne. From the Department of Magic."
The murmur of students quieted.
Her voice was soft. But it carried. Clean, sharp, and undeniably firm.
"I will be your guide today. Consider this orientation. Not just to the grounds—but to the expectations placed upon you. And the weight of what it means to train within Arcanis."
She paused.
Then let a faint smile tug at her lips—more like a memory than amusement.
"There will be no fireworks. No tests. No demonstrations."
Lucavion blinked once. Caeden frowned.
"Only context," Selenne continued. "And trust me—if you understand what you're being trained for, the rest will be fireworks enough."
She turned slowly, gesturing toward the wide stairs beyond the path.
"Follow me."
*****
From where she stood near the back of the gathered students, Elara—Elowyn—watched in silence as Professor Selenne turned toward the path ahead, indigo cloak shifting like dusk-shadow behind her. Around Elara, the whispers had already begun to stir.
"Wait—isn't that...?"
"She's one of them, right? From the Circle—"
"No way. She wouldn't waste time on first-years if she was—"
"She's the Archmage—the Archmage—from—"
"Elowyn," someone whispered beside her, barely audible over the noise, "do you know who that is?"
But Elara didn't answer.
She already knew.
The moment she felt the magic—not cold, not truly, but distant in a way that felt like it had seen too many winters—she knew. The kind of mana that moved without announcing itself. Old, but not worn. Refined like a blade passed down through generations, still sharp enough to bleed.
'Selenne...' The name slid through her mind, and with it, a memory stirred.
A conversation.
Half-whispered between her and her master under cover of starlight, when Elara had still been cloaked in her old name. When she had still dared to ask about the wider world, the real one. The one beyond the bloodied halls of court and the quiet violence of power.
They had been sitting beneath the great twisted eira trees, the scent of rain lingering in the roots. Eveline had been sharpening a blade—not for war, but for ceremony, the kind only old mages still observed.
And she'd said it, casually. Offhand.
"There are few left worth fearing in the capital's inner circles. But if you ever meet a woman named Selenne... bow with your mind, not your knees. She sees further than most. And forgets less."
Elara hadn't thought much of it, then. Names had flooded her world back then—generals, councilors, rogue guilds, diplomats. All of them shifting pieces in a game she'd been trained to play and trained to betray.
But this name?
This was her.
Professor Selenne.
So it was her.
The Archmage of Starlight.