As the examinations for the Great Houses concluded, a different kind of presence made itself felt in the arena. The low buzz of conversation in the upper balconies ceased. The instructors on the panel sat up straighter. Even the air itself seemed to grow still, as if in deference. The Imperial children were about to make their presence known.
Princess Seraphina Solarius rose from her seat in the crystal box. She didn't walk to the arena floor. She simply stepped off the edge of the balcony, and a staircase of shimmering, golden light instantly willed itself into existence beneath her feet, leading her down to the platform. It was a casual, almost lazy display of the Creation affinity, but the message was clear: *I do not walk on common stone. I walk on paths I create myself.*
She was a vision of ethereal beauty, her silver-blonde hair seeming to capture and amplify the light, her pure gold eyes shining with an inner luminescence. She moved with a grace that was both hypnotic and intimidating. She was not here to be tested. Her status as First Princess exempted her from the crass business of rankings. She was here as an observer, a symbol of the Throne's authority.
"As a gesture of courtesy to the assembled Houses and the faculty of this esteemed Academy," she said, her voice a melodic instrument that charmed its way into every ear, "I shall offer a brief demonstration."
She raised a hand, not with the explosive energy of Isabella or the cold precision of Elara, but with the casual grace of an artist picking up a brush. She made a gentle, sweeping gesture across the empty air of the arena.
And a garden bloomed from nothing.
Flowers made of crystal, their petals refracting light into a thousand rainbows, sprouted from the stone floor. Vines of woven moonlight crept up invisible trellises. Trees with leaves of hammered gold and silver grew in an instant, their branches bearing fruit that looked like glowing pearls. A gentle, fragrant breeze that smelled of starlight and night-blooming jasmine washed over the audience.
It was not a manipulation of existing elements. It was pure, ex-nihilo creation. She had not summoned or transformed; she had simply *made*. The beauty of it was breathtaking, but the power display was subtle and absolute. It was a gentle, beautiful, and utterly terrifying reminder of the gulf that separated the Solarius Dynasty from everyone else. They did not just play the game; they created the board.
The Assessment Orb pulsed with a soft, reverent, golden light, but it offered no rank. How could it? How do you assign a number to the act of creation itself?
Seraphina smiled, a gentle, enigmatic expression. "May your time at the Academy be as fruitful," she said, and then the garden dissolved into a shower of golden motes of light, leaving the arena floor bare once more. She ascended her staircase of light and returned to her seat, the perfect, untouchable princess.
Then, her brother, Prince Valerius, who had arrived silently and unnoticed sometime during the proceedings, stepped forward to the edge of the balcony. All eyes turned to him, expecting a similar, or perhaps even greater, display.
He was dressed in his usual, deliberately unremarkable attire, his posture relaxed, almost slouching. He offered the assembly a lazy, charming smile. "My sister, as always, is a difficult act to follow," he said, his voice carrying an easy, conversational tone. "As for myself, I must beg your indulgence. I am suffering from a… minor imbalance in my cultivation today. I would not wish to risk a… miscreation." He shrugged, a gesture of self-deprecating apology. "I shall have to content myself with being a mere spectator."
No one believed him. Not for a second. A Solarius did not suffer from "imbalances." Their control over their Creation affinity was absolute. This was a political move, a calculated act. But no one would dare question it. To challenge the Prince's word was to challenge the Throne.
I watched the exchange, my mind racing to decipher the layers of meaning. Seraphina's display was a classic soft-power move: a demonstration of overwhelming superiority wrapped in a package of non-threatening beauty. It was a reminder of their power, designed to inspire awe and loyalty.
Valerius's refusal was more complex. On the surface, it was a show of humility, making him seem less arrogant, more approachable. But the real reason, I suspected, was strategic. His affinity, as the novel had explained, was weaker than his ancestors', and he had focused it into a single, lethal application: the Uncreated Blade. It was an assassin's tool, not something for public display. To demonstrate it would be to reveal his true nature. To attempt a grand creation like Seraphina's and fail, or produce something less impressive, would be a show of weakness. By refusing to play, he revealed nothing. He kept his greatest weapon hidden and maintained an aura of mystique. It was a brilliant, cynical move.
The other students watched the Imperial siblings with a complex cocktail of emotions that I could almost taste in the air. There was awe at their power. There was resentment at their unearned privilege. And there was cold, hard calculation. These were the people who ruled their world. These were the suns around which their own political orbits would have to turn. For the next century, their careers, their lives, their very fates would be tied to the whims and schemes of the two figures in the crystal box.
The presence of the Imperials changed the dynamic of the examination. It was no longer just a test of strength. It was a political audition. And the two directors were watching very, very closely.