"Traditions, power, and other such rituals are meaningless in eternity. A pity that mortals, for all they possess an immortal soul, fail to understand this."
Another day at the Academy of Duality began with physical training. Unlike most of my other activities here, these lessons held at least some meaning for me, if only because I could not maintain my body with magic without drawing undue attention; such acts would far exceed the abilities of even the most gifted mages.
Catherine, as had become her habit, followed beside me. Her constant presence was an additional variable in my calculations, one requiring continuous analysis. Nevertheless, admitting her to the true objectives of my mission was still an unjustifiable risk I could not afford to take.
The changing rooms for physical training were a series of small wooden houses next to a large stone bathhouse where one could go to freshen up after the exercises.
The preparation was swift and straightforward: the black tunics, adorned with silver embroidery of intertwined vines, were exchanged for practical athletic wear. It retained the noble style of the Academy—dark gray trousers with thin silver threads symbolizing the unity of the twin queens, and matching mid-length skirts that did not restrict movement. Over these, we wore fitted shirts of a soft fabric that accentuated graceful motion, and comfortable, flat-soled leather shoes—light, durable, and reliable. As always, the entire ritual seemed excessive to me, yet I was compelled to follow the established order of things to maintain my role as the perfect student.
When Catherine and I emerged from the changing room, the air was still fresh and damp. The area near the training grounds buzzed with the energetic chatter of students dressed in their athletic attire. The usual, predictable chaos of the start of a school day.
But the buzz began to fade, dissolving into nervous whispers. The students fell silent and parted, as if an unseen force were slicing through their ranks, forming a living corridor.
The cause was Nova Cross.
She did not walk—she carved a path. Her fury was almost palpable, making the air around her feel colder, denser. Every step was measured, heavy, and even the boldest among the students fell silent under her icy gaze.
She stopped so close I could feel the heat radiating from her body—the heat of restrained rage. Her gray eyes slowly, insultingly, raked over my form.
"Shadow from Tarvar," she hissed, her voice low and vibrating with tension. She did not hide her contempt; she reveled in it. "It seems you've decided you can just arrive and take what does not belong to you."
It was perfectly clear to me that her structure had fractured. Rage, resentment, wounded pride—a chaotic cocktail of emotions, predictable and inefficient, but behind it lay a power fueled by her own pain. Observing such an outburst of Chaos was curious, and Chaotic Light was undoubtedly watching and enjoying this performance.
"Tonight. In the main arena," Nova continued, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "You and I. No rules. Prove you're not just a mistake Evelina made. Prove your power isn't a trick. If you don't show up… I'll make sure every corner of this academy knows that beneath that mask of arrogance and calm hides nothing but pathetic cowardice."
"As you wish," I replied, my voice even and colorless, which seemed to enrage her further. "But be warned: I will not hold back."
An unfamiliar fury flared in Nova's eyes. She clenched her fists, ready to strike me, likely at my eye or nose. My reaction was instantaneous, and I prepared to receive the blow, but Catherine intervened.
"Nova, stop!" Catherine stepped forward as if to protect me—an illogical and irrational act.
Nova did not even grant her a full glance. Her lips twisted into an icy smirk, but her furious eyes remained locked on me. "Light one, stay out of conversations with your betters," she threw over her shoulder without changing her stance. "Your little friend dug her own grave; let her lie in it. Step aside, or the shock wave will take you down too."
She fixed her gaze on me again. "I won't just win, Shadow." Her voice grew quieter, but all the more vicious for it. "I will wipe that icy calm from your face. I want to see your mask crack, want to hear you beg for mercy. All your precious 'Order magic' that Evelina praises so highly will crumble to dust in the arena… That, I promise you."
She did not wait for my reply. Having likely said all she wanted, Nova shot me one last look—cold as steel, full of contempt and firm conviction. Then she turned sharply, almost militarily, and walked away. Her steps were not fast, but measured and heavy, each strike of her boots on the stone paths of the academy echoing in the ensuing silence like the blow of a hammer. She was not fleeing—she was leaving a battlefield on which she had already won the first victory, having declared war on her own terms.
A vacuum formed around us. The students, now unwilling spectators, stood frozen, afraid to move. Only when Nova's figure disappeared in the distance did the silence explode into excited whispers. Rumors—fast as sparks—were already flying through the academy, spreading news of the impending duel. I saw their eyes light up—a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a thirst for a spectacle.
"She's dangerous," Catherine breathed out once Nova was out of sight. "Arta, you don't understand… This isn't just a duel. She's fighting not for herself, but for her place beside Evelina. And she's willing to do anything."
"I know," I replied nonchalantly. "But this is precisely what she wants, and when someone wants something so badly, they need to be taught a lesson so that next time they act less impulsively."
"But still, Arta!" Catherine persisted. "She's a senior student from the ancient Cross lineage! She's been practicing magic since childhood." She was trying to argue, to make me refuse the duel.
"Is that why you decided to be my shield when she was being particularly aggressive?" I remarked, a comment she likely did not expect.
Catherine's cheeks flushed.
"Sorry, I just didn't think," Catherine shook her head to compose herself. "It's just…"
"It doesn't matter now." I looked at her guilty expression. "Next time, you'll think before you act without analyzing the situation," I replied coldly. "Impulsiveness is a disease that corrodes the soul, so try never again to act on emotion alone."
Catherine did not continue, but her fingers still trembled with tension. I saw that she wanted to say more but held back. She had likely processed my words and was already trying to apply them, which meant they were having the desired effect. Sooner or later, her trust would become absolute.
Despite Nova's appearance, we did not linger near the changing rooms and headed to the training grounds, where other students were already gathering. The morning air was cool, but the physical exercises would soon warm our bodies. Although neither Ren nor Nova were there today, I observed Olivia Briggs, who was watching me thoughtfully. She would likely be one of the first to appear at tonight's duel.
When we took our places, our instructor, Kaelina, had already begun the general warm-up, and we started rhythmically mirroring her movements. Nevertheless, my mind continued to analyze the situation with Nova. She was undoubtedly a formidable opponent for an ordinary person, but for me, she hardly posed any threat. Still, I needed to develop the perfect combat tactic, one that would not draw unnecessary attention to my abilities, especially from Chaotic Light.
When the long rhythm of the exercises finally eased from our shoulders, we went to the changing rooms to retrieve our academic uniforms. The next item on our schedule was the bathhouse—the only place where one could wash away fatigue and freshen up. The bathhouse itself was a large, circular structure, executed with a grim simplicity more worthy of anthropological study than admiration. The central element of its architecture was a massive copper cauldron set directly under the stone vaults. Water from an underground spring fed into it through polished bronze pipes—a construction demonstrating a rudimentary understanding of gravity and pressure. Of course, the comforts of highly developed civilizations were absent, though I wasn't looking for them here.
To secure better spots, we hurried to the shower section. Its meager, flickering light from oil lamps cast dim, dancing reflections on the damp stone walls and floors of this archaic structure. The shower stalls were fashioned from smoothly polished but unadorned light granite. Narrow partitions divided them into cramped compartments, providing minimal privacy and maintaining strict order, nothing more. Water was supplied from above through bronze pipes polished to a gleam from frequent use; not a single trace of rust or deposit—everything was kept in perfect cleanliness, as if affirming the unspoken principle: the simple must be flawless. The flow of water was activated by the turn of a stiff valve, and a moment later, a steady, warm stream cascaded from above, designed not for pleasure but for swift and efficient hygiene. A narrow stone channel was carved into the floor, carrying water to a drain, and above each niche were sturdy wooden hooks for clothes and towels. The harsh light of the oil lamps fell from above, creating no soft shadows and only emphasizing the strict geometry of the stone. There was nothing superfluous here, and every detail served as a reminder: cleansing the body is not an indulgence but an integral part of discipline.
My desire to finish quickly, as always, ran into a familiar obstacle: my impossibly long hair. It served no functional purpose, only distracting, demanding washing, combing, and unnecessary movements. But this useless variable remained a necessary condition of my mask; for a noblewoman, a short haircut was considered a challenge to the norm, a demonstrative gesture that would only draw unwanted attention. Therefore, the image of the "perfect student" and the "compliant noblewoman" forced me to accept these shackles. I hadn't given it much thought before; in Troysk, time flowed differently, and self-care dissolved into the unhurried routine of daily life. Here, however, the need to maintain social contact compressed minutes to their limit, and even caring for my hair felt like a mark of servitude.
Unlike me, Catherine finished more quickly—her shoulder-length hair did not require the same meticulous care as mine, which fell to my hips. When I finally finished and, wrapped in a thick academic towel, stepped into the cool anteroom, she was already waiting for me, leaning a shoulder against the cold stone wall. The height difference remained noticeable—I still looked down on her slightly. She wore a matching towel; droplets of water, like dew, glistened on her neck and collarbones in the dim light of the oil lamp. The air was thick with the scent of alkaline soap, heated copper, and damp linen.
Her gaze was fixed on me, bypassing everything else, full of unspoken concern. Her posture revealed not just waiting but a quiet tension: her fingers clutched the edge of the towel with such force that her knuckles turned white, and her breathing was faintly uneven, as if she had hurried here, afraid of being late.
"Arta, maybe we should tell someone? An instructor, for instance? Or the rector?" her voice was quiet, almost tentative. Behind the formal concern for the "rules" hid a simple, understandable emotion—fear for me.
"Out of the question," I replied without the slightest hesitation. "That would only worsen the situation. A duel is an ancient tradition at the academy, and if I refuse or report it, it will be seen as cowardice. Most importantly, I wouldn't be able to teach Nova the lesson she deserves."
She nodded silently, but the anxiety in her eyes did not fade. Her gaze shifted for a moment from my face to the long, wet strands of hair from which water was dripping onto the floor. I saw her fingers reflexively tighten, as if she were about to say something, but she reconsidered at the last moment. On a bench beside her lay a clean linen towel; she picked it up, and her actions preceded her words.
"Here… let me at least dry your hair. You'll catch a cold like that." Her palms pressed over the fabric, and she carefully, without touching my skin, twisted the wet strands into a rope. Her movements were confident and efficient—the movements of a person accustomed to mending and preserving.
A drop fell from the end of my hair onto my wrist. Catherine mechanically wiped it away with the back of her fingers—too quickly, as if the touch had burned her—and immediately pulled her hand back, as if remembering the necessary distance.
"Thank you," I said. "That was indeed faster and more rational."
"Wait." She took a thin linen cord from a hook, one of those used here for rolled-up towels. "Tie them up high. They'll dry faster that way." Catherine held the cord out to me. The tips of our fingers brushed for a moment, and she seemed faintly flustered, as if she had done something improper. A light blush flared on her cheeks and vanished just as quickly—innate discipline took over.
"You look as if you've already decided the outcome of the duel," she said more quietly, trying to force a smile that never quite formed. Her gaze darted away, as if she had said more than she intended.
"Outcomes are decided not by looks, but by preparation," I replied in a level tone. "You will see for yourself this evening."
She nodded again but didn't move away. Her palm hovered for a moment in the air in an indecisive gesture, as if about to touch my shoulder, but it froze a few inches away and fell limply.
"Then… let me at least watch from the stands," Catherine added quickly, as if afraid I would refuse. "I'm just afraid… I'm afraid you'll disappear, Arta."
Her concern was predictable, but it changed nothing. However, perhaps she might even draw some conclusions from observing my combat technique, and that would certainly be useful for our future interactions.
"I won't disappear," I promised firmly. "But in any case, the spectator experience will be useful for developing your skills."
She exhaled with clear relief, though the shadow of anxiety in her eyes remained. I sensed she wanted to say more but held back. For now, all her concern was expressed only in words and emotions—resources I never valued. I expected actions from her that I could use in my mission, but evidently, we still had to work on the personal aspects of our interaction.