Noah wasn't sure whether the Emperor was joking or perfectly serious.
If the offer had come from any other Ascended warrior, it might have been easier to accept. But Leon Valcrest was different. He wasn't only the strongest in the Empire — many whispered he was the strongest on the entire Continent.
And Noah wouldn't just be any disciple. He would be Leon's first. That alone was enough to change everything. It meant far more than prestige. It meant being tied directly to the Imperial Court and the Valcrest Duchy, whether he wanted it or not.
'So… it's either lose everything, or gain everything at once.'
His chest tightened. For most trainees, this was a chance they would seize without a second thought. But Noah hadn't come to the Academy to chase power or to become a pawn in noble politics. And yet, to ignore such an opportunity was unthinkable.
Even with unease weighing on him, he forced the words out. Trying to imitate the calm poise Tirandel had shown earlier, Noah said, "I am deeply grateful for this opportunity, Your Majesty."
The corners of Drosamir's mouth lifted into a slight, knowing smile. It was not a smile that reassured.
Lady Taurus opened the door, and as Noah and Elira stepped out, the Emperor's voice followed them.
"Except Tirandel. As you requested, let us discuss your involvement in this matter."
Noah glanced back once. Drosamir remained seated at his desk, perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Yet the quiet weight of his gaze seemed to follow even after the door closed.
The corridor outside felt lighter, but only slightly. Noah's back was damp with sweat, and though minutes had passed, it felt as if he had been standing in that chamber for hours.
Beside him, Elira's expression had shifted as well. Earlier she had carried herself with steady confidence. Now, she looked as though something heavy pressed down on her — the kind of weight that allowed no escape, only choices she would rather not make.
'Iriel…' Noah thought, stealing a glance at her. She must have known her well. 'That kind of news… it can't be easy to carry.'
By the time they reached the grand entrance, the air outside the palace struck cold and sharp against his skin. At the base of the stairs, a carriage stood waiting, its trim catching faint glimmers of torchlight.
The square fell into an odd silence. Horses stamped. Guards adjusted their stances, armor rattling in practiced unison. It felt less like routine and more like ceremony.
The carriage door swung open.
A figure stepped down, shadowed at first, then revealed under the moonlight. Leon Valcrest descended one step at a time, unhurried, deliberate. His presence spread outward with each movement, as if the world itself adjusted to his pace.
His cloak shifted with the night breeze, faint silver embroidery catching the light. A brooch at his chest reflected coldly in the torchfire. Black gloves covered his hands, completing a silhouette more severe than ornate.
He looked less like a man and more like a blade honed to its limit.
The guards lowered their eyes. Not a word passed their lips, yet the air grew heavier all the same. Even the torches lining the walls flickered and bent, their flames drawn toward the draft he carried with him.
His boots struck the stone in a steady rhythm. No arrogance. No wasted motion. Only inevitability.
Every knight, every clerk, every passerby bowed, careful to keep their distance. None dared step within ten paces of him.
As Leon ascended the stair, Noah descended. He intended to pass without even looking.
But Elira stopped. And turned.
Elira's voice came low, almost swallowed by the night.
"How much more…" Her breath caught, uneven. "How long does she have to suffer like this?"
Leon stopped mid-step. For a moment he said nothing, as though the weight of the question had no answer.
When he finally turned, his voice carried none of the storm his presence promised — only a cold heaviness.
"We'll talk when you've calmed down."
With that, he faced forward again and continued his climb. The knights stationed at the gate dropped to one knee as he passed, their discipline automatic. He gave them no glance, no word, and vanished into the Palace beyond.
From where Noah stood, there was no mistaking him. That could only have been Leon Valcrest.
'Great. That's one more thing to deal with later.'
He pulled himself into the carriage, trying to shut the thought away. Elira lingered, her eyes fixed on Leon's retreating figure until the last fold of his cloak disappeared from sight. Only then did she follow.
The door closed. The driver cracked the reins. Without another word, the carriage rolled forward into the night.
***
In the same moonlit chamber, the candles had burned low, their wax pooled across the desk. Faint incense lingered in the air, heavy and acrid.
Leon stood at the tall window, hands clasped behind his back. The crystal glow of the moon traced his blond hair and sharpened the blue of his eyes.
He was the one to break the silence.
"So. Who do you think kidnapped Iriel?" His voice lacked its usual steel. It was low, deliberate, edged with something colder. "Do you really believe the Artemis Alliance managed this as some desperate gesture?"
Drosamir leaned against his chair, slow to respond. When he spoke, his tone was measured.
"It's unlikely those fools had the wit, let alone the means, to take her. If they did, it was because someone stronger gave them the hand to do it."
Leon's gaze slid sideways, sharp at the corner. "You mean—"
"Looking at the traces uncovered by the Bureau, there's little doubt they had help from inside the Empire," Drosamir said. "And not from weaklings. At least one of the Dukes has shifted their loyalties."
"The Veyros Empire has started moving, then." Leon turned from the window, eyes narrowing. "The Alliance already smelled of their influence. What of the mage who fled the scene? Do you think he has her?"
"That is the Bureau's conclusion." Drosamir exhaled, though whether in weariness or restraint was hard to tell. "I don't disagree."
Leon's voice cut across his words, firm. "I understand, Mir. The Empire has been thrown into chaos these past years. Every faction is circling, waiting for us to slip. Every move of the Court is watched, weighed, and turned to fuel against us. And yes — they would happily see both our heads on a pike."
For a while, only silence pressed against the chamber walls. Then his tone deepened, heavy enough to slice through the air.
"But you cannot ask me to sit idle while my sister is dragged away by mongrels who cannot fathom the sin they've committed. If not for your restraint, the Empire would already be overturned in her search. So tell me—" his eyes hardened, "how do you intend to bring Iriel back?"
The atmosphere thickened, the room itself seeming to strain under the force behind his words.
Drosamir finally looked back at him. His lips curved, slow and sharp, into a vicious smile.
"I won't be the one to bring her back. You will."
Leon's brows furrowed, but he said nothing.
"What if I told you," Drosamir went on, voice quiet but curling with intent, "that in saving your sister, you could also deliver the Empire the relief it has long needed? That one act could strike at both the chaos outside and the strife within?"
Before he could add more, the chamber shook.
An unseen weight descended, suffocating. Cabinets trembled; the floor groaned as if it might split. The air itself warped with pressure.
Leon's azure eyes fixed on him, cold and sharp, his head tilting slightly.
"You think my sister is a pawn in your game? That you can order me into absurdities, and I will obey like a lackey? Do you take me for a fool, Drosamir Eryndral?"
The force pressed at every surface, threatening to crush the room to splinters. Yet the Emperor did not flinch. He endured it as though he had been waiting for it all along.
A woman's voice cut through the quiet. "At least hear him out before you throw a tantrum, kiddo."
A figure materialized on the sofa in the middle of the room.
She was elegant without fuss — a suit instead of a gown, a coffee cup held like a trivial prop. Transparent spectacles sat on her nose; her lips curved in a way that made casual menace look charming. She propped her legs on the low table and watched Leon with an amused, narrow gaze. Gradually, the rest of her filled into presence, as ordinary and precise as a well-cut blade.
She took another sip, eyes fixed on Leon. "That trick," she said, "only scares amateurs. Not the sort of thing that rattles people like us."
As if obeying her words, the room's strain eased. The pressure that had bowed cabinets and rattled shelves receded. Still, the aftermath was plain: drawers hung slightly skewed, a book lay face-down where it had been tossed, and a hairline crack split one of the windowpanes.
She set the cup down, voice gentler but sharp. "You can crush whatever's in your path, Leon. You always have. But this is different. If we keep treating the Revolutionary Front and the other factions like nuisances, we'll end up fighting Veyros and every internal enemy at once."
Drosamir added, tired and precise, "Iriel's kidnapping shows someone is stirring us from within. Veyros won't wait forever. We only just quieted the conflicts left by the old reign. We cannot afford another war — not against a foreign empire on top of internal collapse."
Silence settled like a weight. Leon moved slowly, each step measured, then took the seat opposite her. He set his hands, calm and controlled.
He met Drosamir's gaze. His voice was steady, the same cold edge as before. "Fine. I'll play your game. Tell me—what must I do?"