Arthur rose from the cushions with fluid, unhurried grace.
He smoothed the weave of his midnight tunic, steadying his frame with the tranquil stillness that had long since colonized his posture. Beside him, Celeste's boots ceased their rhythmic swinging against the mahogany chair legs. Wild strands of cyan fringe fell across her brow as she rolled her cheek along the velvet armrest, fixing him with wide, unblinking curiosity.
Arthur offered an easy, pastoral smile.
"Then there is no need to deliberate further," he said softly. "Let us head down, Celeste."
The cadence released her like a tripped latch. Celeste vaulted to her feet, her boots cracking against the gallery flagstones in a sharp, buoyant landing that sent her teal locks spilling across her collar. Without an instant's hesitation, she pitched forward, ready to plunge into the colosseum below.
Before they could clear the threshold, a broad shadow severed the aisle.
Planting his boots onto the flagstones, Alaric squared his heavy frame across the corridor, barring the head of the gallery stairs like an iron portcullis. A defensive grimace carved into the weathered grain of his brow.
"Cedric, hold," Alaric warned, his gravelly baritone pitched with taut urgency. "You heard my warning. The second your boots clear that lower riser, the envoys will swarm. You do not need to throw yourself into that pit."
Arthur did not flinch beneath the man's shadow. Meeting Alaric's protective glare, he inclined his chin in an immaculate, modest bow, letting deference round the sharp edges of his reply.
"Thank you for your vigilance, Sir Ordain, but I would loathe to see you reprimanded for shielding us beyond your mandate. I already owe you far more than a lifetime of gratitude. Besides, these delegates traveled across continents to reach this hall; turning our backs on their courtesies would reflect poorly upon the Academy."
The quiet humility struck straight through Alaric's guard, deflating his administrative protests before they could muster breath. The scarred fingers curled against his belt loosened, his knuckles smoothing out as he searched the boy's calm, earnest face for a seam—an angle of deceit—and found only open daylight.
A heavy breath hissed past Alaric's teeth. Shaking his head in defeated resignation, he hesitated, then dragged his boots aside to clear the stairs.
"Do not sign a single scrap," Alaric muttered.
"Understood, Sir Ordain."
With the path open, Arthur and Celeste took to the sweeping staircase, their boots clicking in rapid, disciplined cadence down the risers before plunging straight into the second-year enclave.
The transition struck like a wall of heated water. The muted murmurs of the upper gallery dissolved into a deafening, cavernous roar, heavy with the sharp scents of melted signet wax, lamp oil, and the dry, metallic sting of concentrated ozone bleeding off high-density mana fields. Circling the second-year perimeter, adult delegates, order liaisons, and tower emissaries pressed inward in calculated, predatory orbits, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder as they thrust wax-sealed folios and gilded promises toward the students.
Arthur caught Celeste by the elbow, steering her off the central thoroughfare into the sheltered recess between two fluted basalt pilasters. The stone dampened the worst of the sonic din, carving out a narrow pocket of privacy.
Arthur turned to face her, the amber of his irises sharpening beneath his chestnut fringe.
"I need you to do something for me," he murmured, pitching his voice beneath the roar. "Something only you possess the reach to accomplish."
Celeste's boots stopped mid-shuffle. Her head jerked sideways at a sharp, avian angle, her wild cyan locks spilling over her shoulder as her amber pupils contracted into bright, predatory needles.
A wide, sharp grin peeled across her pale face, flashing teeth.
"A reward!" Celeste chimed in singsong delight, the syllables tumbling out without a shred of hesitation. "If I do it, you have to give me a reward! A real one! Whatever I want!"
Behind Arthur's ribs, the Autonomic Merged Processor flagged the demand with a sudden, jarring lurch.
Another blank check?
He already carried William Sinclair's unconditional marker hanging over his conscience like a suspended blade; granting another—especially to someone whose mind drifted through a waking, volatile reverie—bordered on pure madness. Celeste held conversations with empty oak floorboards, shed grudges within an hour, and leveled stone foundations on a whim.
Yet his objective on this floor demanded capital. Unfiltered continental intelligence—mapping kingdom fault lines, tracking tower turnover, and flushing out the Ash Mage among the senior rings—outweighed gold, comfort, or future convenience by orders of magnitude. He could not afford a single flawed vector.
He could easily deflect the demand. Invoking their promised duel would derail her focus on the spot. Or he could deploy ruthless arithmetic: audit her daily commissary ledgers down to the decimal, tally her uncollected stipends, and bury her beneath fabricated debts until she believed she owed restitution to him. Her erratic logic would have accepted the ledger without question. And no one would ever discover the fraud.
Yet looking into those wide, unclouded golden eyes, Arthur stopped.
Executing such an operation here felt morally unconscionable. To weaponize cheap psychological extortion against her beneath the cold glare of an auction house was a line his conscience refused to cross. Even in the dark. Even if no living soul ever uncovered the lie.
A distant memory resurfaced—four months prior, in the overgrown courtyard garden. He remembered the alchemically weighted credits resting idle upon the balustrade, and a single untampered, fair coin spinning across the stone in blind submission to probability. It had wobbled and fallen flat on tails. Pure luck.
What exceptional fortune.
The calculated rigidity behind Arthur's ribs softened into an honest, unvarnished cadence.
"Very well," Arthur agreed softly, dipping his chin in a clean nod. "I accept."
Celeste's eyes flared with triumphant glee.
Arthur leaned in half a step, dropping his register to a low, razor-focused murmur:
"You have reached the Advanced rank, haven't you? When I give you the cue, I want you to showcase your full power before everyone here." Arthur's pastoral composure faltered, his mouth twitching into a wry, nervous grimace. "And Celeste... I need you to practice a bit of restraint."