Chapter 139
The second preliminary tournament pressed on, the coliseum's sands stained with the effort of countless warriors. With each passing match, the number of participants dwindled. The air grew heavier, the cheers sharper, and the tension more palpable as friends clashed with friends, allies turned their blades against one another, and mercenaries fought with a desperation that betrayed their hunger for survival. Yet beneath the roar of the crowd and the spectacle of the duels, an undercurrent of danger stirred. The greatest threat was not the rival combatants in the arena, but the unseen darkness threading its way through the coliseum's very foundations.
Serath Valmoré prowled the vast underbelly of the stadium, his footsteps echoing against cold stone corridors. He carried with him the will of his master and a mission sharpened into a single command: eliminate the Rothchester bloodline. In his hands, he bore a summoning artifact of immense power, far greater than the cursed relic he had wielded at Count Ailmar Dreswick's castle.
That artifact had unleashed three infernal demons and a horde of hellhounds upon the fortress. But this new relic glowed with a sinister pulse, promising devastation beyond even that.
Behind Serath's movements lay the shadowed will of two figures whose hatred festered like a wound: the Right Azure Archmage, Aithlin Hasterient, and his niece, the royal consort Maisha Cohnal. For years, both had despised the Rothchester family; though their reasons differed, they converged upon the same desire to see Duchess Elleena's influence snuffed out.
Aithlin's enmity was rooted in pride and power. As Right Azure Archmage, he prided himself on being the cornerstone of the kingdom's magical authority, a man whose counsel was sought by kings and queens alike. Yet Elleena Rothchester's influence, quiet but undeniable, threatened that authority.
Her voice carried weight not through sorcery, but through loyalty and respect, things Aithlin could not command through fear alone. To him, the Duchess's sway was a blemish, an insult that diminished his station. Her presence in court reminded him that not all power stemmed from arcane might. And in his arrogance, he convinced himself that her downfall was necessary to restore the proper balance of authority, his balance.
For Maisha Cohnal, the hatred was more personal. As royal consort, she had long sought to consolidate her position by aligning herself with the strongest voices at court. Yet Elleena's kindness, her unwavering reputation, and her bond with the royal family made her a rival Maisha could not unseat. Worse still, Elleena carried secrets Maisha could not comprehend. Rumors whispered of hidden strength, of power that lay beneath her seemingly gentle exterior. To Maisha, those whispers were daggers, reminders that she could never truly dominate while Elleena lived. Fear and jealousy fermented into a consuming resentment.
Together, Aithlin and Maisha devised their plan. They could not move against the Duchess directly; the Queen herself cherished her, and the King respected her beyond question. But there were other hands they could use, other shadows willing to soil themselves with blood where they could not. The Valmoré clan was perfect. Already steeped in dark dealings, already unafraid to consort with forbidden magics, they were desperate enough and cruel enough to act as executioners.
So Aithlin and Maisha whispered in secret chambers, plotting the fall of a woman whose true power they did not and could not understand. They believed Elleena to be merely a noble with influence, fragile beneath her grace. They did not see the deeper current that surrounded her, nor the hidden strength that made her more dangerous than they could ever imagine. And thus, with blind arrogance, they loosed Serath Valmoré and his cursed artifact into the bowels of the coliseum, believing they were orchestrating her end.
They had no idea they were setting in motion something far greater, something that would one day decide not only Elleena's fate but also their own.
Beneath the coliseum, far from the roaring crowd above, Serath Valmoré moved through the labyrinth of stone corridors that twisted like the bowels of some ancient beast. Torches flickered faintly, their light struggling against the oppressive shadows clinging to the walls. At the center of a vast, hidden chamber, he knelt before a summoning circle drawn in dark iron and etched with jagged runes that pulsed like open wounds. Around him lay the remnants of countless victims, the slaves he had dragged into the depths since his escape from Count Ailmar Dreswick's castle.
Their deaths had gone unreported, their screams swallowed by stone and secrecy, their bodies nothing more than fuel for his ritual. Each life had been siphoned into the artifact he now held, a relic thrumming with malice, far stronger than the one that had once unleashed infernal demons and hellhounds at Dreswick's fortress.
The chamber reeked of blood, decay, and sulfur. The artifact pulsed violently in Serath's hands, its glow spreading into the circle as the floor cracked under the strain. Shadows twisted unnaturally, claws scratching against the edge of reality. Whatever horrors he intended to summon would not merely be beasts of fire and fang; they would be calamities, forged from pain and hatred, horrors meant to break the Rothchester bloodline and drown the coliseum in chaos.
Above, in the final tent battle of the second preliminaries, the crowd's attention was fixed on another spectacle. Melgil stood at the center of the arena, her crimson eyes glinting beneath the light of the high sun. To the world, she was merely a striking woman of five foot eight, her silken white hair flowing down her back, her movements sharp and precise, her mana presence carefully suppressed to blend in with the other competitors. Yet behind that veil of humanity lay a truth far more terrifying: Melgil was no ordinary warrior but the White Calamity Demon Queen of Spiders, a being forged at the dawn of chaos itself.
She had been created with a singular destiny, to one day ascend as a goddess of protection, rivaling even the God of the Forest, Rillifane, or to fall into ruin as the chief commander of the Chaos Bringer's armies. Her full form, a towering twenty-meter monstrosity of pale chitin, countless legs, and eyes glowing like bloodied stars, was a nightmare given flesh. Her mana capacity was unmatched, a staggering fifty-five thousand, and in her human guise, even while suppressing her true strength, she was a level one hundred existence, far beyond anything mortal competitors could ever dream of challenging.
For years she had wandered, concealing her identity, moving from kingdom to kingdom. Her path had brought her at last to the Merchant Kingdom of Solnara Cererindur, the gate to the central region, locked and barred by the lands of Karion under the Empire of Graves. Here, within this coliseum, she tested herself, not merely against warriors and mercenaries, but against the temptation of her own wrath.
The clash began with an explosion of steel and magic. Her opponent, a seasoned warrior-mage armed with twin axes engraved with runes of destruction, moved with relentless ferocity. He lunged, axes cleaving in brutal arcs, forcing Melgil onto the defensive. At first, she flowed like silk, each step measured, her counters precise, her glaive flashing in graceful sweeps, her strikes fueled by a rhythm of control. The crowd marveled at her elegance, the way she turned away deadly blows with the flick of a wrist, her red eyes sharp and unyielding.
But as the fight dragged on, her composure began to waver. A taunt slipped past her opponent's lips, mocking, cruel, and meant to dig at something raw within her. Her breath quickened; her strikes grew sharper, faster, and wilder. Anger welled in her chest, hot and blinding, stripping away the calm precision that had made her untouchable.
The warrior saw his chance. Where once she had read his movements effortlessly, now she lunged recklessly, her glaive striking with power but without the same control. A feigned retreat, a sudden reversal, his axe smashed against her ribs, the impact reverberating through her body and sending her sprawling into the dirt. Gasps filled the stands as Melgil coughed blood, her pale hair stained with sand and crimson.
She rose again, fury radiating from her in waves, her mana threatening to surge out of its suppression. For a heartbeat, the air around her shimmered, faint spider-silk threads glinting in the sunlight before fading. The crowd could not name what they saw, but they felt it—the weight of something monstrous pressing against their souls.
Her opponent pressed the advantage, raining down blow after blow. Each strike was brutal, designed not only to wound but also to break her spirit. Melgil's defenses faltered, her glaive moving slower than before as she fought to rein in her emotions, to suppress the true self clawing at the edges of her control. The battle became violent and merciless, steel clashing with magic, dust and blood scattering across the coliseum floor.
And then, in that chaos, she steadied herself. Her crimson eyes narrowed, and her breathing slowed. She remembered who she was, not a reckless girl with a weapon, but the White Calamity, the being destined to either protect or destroy. Her glaive surged back to life, cutting through the air in arcs that forced her opponent back, her control returning piece by piece. Yet the damage was done; her slip had given him the chance to wound her deeply, and now the fight balanced on a knife's edge.
The crowd roared at the brutality, unable to look away. Few understood the truth of what they were witnessing, but all felt it: the clash was more than sport. It was the battle of something barely human trying desperately not to become what it truly was.
The clash between Melgil and Kaelira Drovane had reached its breaking point. Each exchange grew more ferocious, and the coliseum trembled beneath the storm of magic and steel. Yet as the duel neared its climax, something inside Melgil snapped. Her strikes became heavier, her aura flared violently, and her once-calculated movements were consumed by a dangerous fury. For a fleeting moment, it was no longer Melgil who fought it was raw, untamed rage given form.
The air thickened with her power, pressing down on the audience until their cheers died into silence. Gasps spread across the stands as the spectators felt a glimpse of her unleashed might, just enough to terrify them. Even Kaelira Drovane, ever cold and unyielding, faltered, her expression tightening as she realized the weight of the storm she was facing.
Then, above the chaos, Daniel's voice rang out, sharp and desperate:
"Melgil!"
The single cry tore itself from his throat, cutting through the clash of steel and stone, through the roar of the golems and the crowd alike. His voice was raw, ragged with something deeper than fear an ache that came from seeing the girl he knew swallowed by something unrecognizable.
For a heartbeat, it was as if time itself faltered. Melgil stood across the sands, her body trembling under the weight of her own power. Her eyes, once warm and steady, now blazed with a wild, fractured light, like a storm that had forgotten the sky it belonged to.
Magic coiled around her in violent waves, lashing out without aim or reason. Daniel's chest tightened as he watched her; every spark that flared from her trembling hands felt like a shard of glass lodged in his heart.
He remembered her laugh, soft and awkward, and the way she used to steady his reckless impulses with a single look. That memory clashed cruelly against the sight before him now: a friend, perhaps more, drowning in something she could not control.
"Come back…" his voice broke, quieter now, the plea almost lost in the shifting wind. His knuckles whitened around his weapon, not out of anger but out of sheer helplessness. The battle with Pharom and his summoned beasts blurred in his mind—none of it mattered if she was consumed by this storm.
And then, her wild eyes flickered. Recognition sparked faintly, fragile as a candle in a gale. For a brief instant the storm hesitated, as if her name, spoken by him, had pulled her from the abyss.
Daniel's heart surged, hope threading through the despair. He held her gaze, willing her to see him, not the chaos, not the enemies, not the fire and stone, but him.
In that fragile instant of hesitation, the tide of the battle shifted.
Kaelira seized the fleeting moment with ruthless precision, her eyes gleaming with cold resolve. With a surge of strength, she twisted her stance and brought down the blunt edge of her blade in a crushing arc. The strike landed like a thunderclap, the force reverberating through the arena as Melgil was driven into the stone floor. Dust and sparks burst upward from the impact, the air itself shuddering under the weight of the blow.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The storm that had raged within Melgil, violent, uncontrollable, and terrifying, vanished in an instant. Her body went limp where it lay, her fury extinguished, her aura collapsing into stillness as if the world itself had stolen her breath away.
The crowd exhaled as one, awe and fear twisting together in their throats. They had not simply watched a girl be defeated; they had seen the fall of something far greater, something dangerous, something barely contained even in its weakened state.
Daniel staggered forward, his weapon lowering as his pulse thundered in his ears. "Melgil…" he whispered, the name breaking against his lips like glass. He should have been relieved that the chaos had ended, that she was no longer at risk of losing herself, but instead his heart ached, torn between fury at Kaelira's merciless blow and terror at what Melgil had become. He dropped to his knees beside her, brushing the dust from her face with trembling fingers, desperate for any sign that she still lingered behind those closed eyes.
The crowd did not cheer. No victory chants rose to honor Kaelira. Instead, unease hung heavy in the air, thick as smoke. They had glimpsed it too, the raw, unchained power inside Melgil that was not entirely human, something alien and terrible that clawed at the edges of her control.
And though Kaelira stood tall, weapon raised high in grim triumph, more than one pair of eyes in the stands drifted back toward the fallen girl. A dread thought gnawed at them all: if this was her power while restrained… what catastrophe would follow should she one day fail to pull herself back from the brink?
Daniel clenched his teeth, bowing his head as he held her still form. A vow formed unspoken in his chest, heavy and unyielding: whatever she carried, whatever storm lurked inside her, he would not let her face it alone.
The coliseum bell tolled, its solemn clang echoing across the grounds, marking the end of the second preliminary. The sound seemed almost too ordinary for what had just occurred—too calm for the storm that had shaken every heart in the arena.
Melgil's still body was carried from the sands into the medical ward beneath the coliseum. Daniel never left her side. Dust and sweat clung to his clothes, blood marked his lip, but his hand never once loosened from hers. The faces that parted for him—commoners, lesser noble students, even healers, looked on in silence, struck not just by the battle but by the closeness between the two.
Whispers spread quickly, hushed but fervent:
"Did you see the way he called her back?"
"He wouldn't let her fall, not to the storm and not to Kaelira."
"They're not afraid of anyone, not even the elites."
The common-born students stared with a mixture of awe and fear. In Melgil, they had seen the dangerous truth, that the academy's rigid lines between blood and worth meant little when faced with raw, undeniable strength. In Daniel, they saw defiance made flesh, a boy who would stand beside her against the world, even when that world trembled at what she was. Together they were a crack in the stone walls of the academy's order, a defiance the upper elites could no longer ignore.
Yet admiration and dread walked hand in hand. Some whispered prayers for her recovery. Others murmured warnings: "If she loses control again, none of us will be safe." But none could look away.
Thalen Merrow, Ysil Thorne, Galen Althus, and Lora Sithe with her cousin Ormin Vos Sithe—all bruised, still recovering from their own defeats in the preliminaries—forced their way through the crowd the moment they heard she had been taken to the ward. Their rivalry was buried for now beneath urgency. They rushed toward the clinic with tight jaws and heavy hearts, united by worry for the girl who had already endured more than most of them could imagine.
Inside the ward, Daniel sat at her bedside, the din of the coliseum muffled beyond stone walls. Melgil's face, pale and slack in the healer's glow, twisted his chest with guilt. He brushed a strand of hair from her brow, his voice low, meant only for her:
"You're still here, Melgil. Don't let them decide who you are. Don't let the storm take you from me."
The bell rang again, this time sharper, heralding the beginning of the third preliminary and the approach of the primary battle. The sound rolled through the stone halls like a drumbeat of inevitability. Students scattered back toward the arena, excitement and tension warring in their eyes.
But in the ward, time moved slower. Daniel's hand remained locked around hers, as though his grip alone could anchor her back to the world. And outside the clinic's door, the whispers grew into murmurs, the murmurs into currents of rumor, of two students, Daniel and Melgil, who had already begun to unravel the social stagnation the elites clung to.
The academy had witnessed power. It had witnessed defiance. And it would not soon forget. The air crackled with anticipation, the usual hum of gossip now tinged with a sense of rebellion.
The coliseum's roar still lingered in the air as Melgil was carried into the medical ward, her body limp against the stretcher, the faint shimmer of suppressed power still clinging to her like embers refusing to die. Daniel walked beside her, hand gripping the rail, his jaw tight with a mixture of rage and helplessness. He didn't let go, even as healers pushed through to begin their work, as if some invisible chain bound him to her side.
Whispers followed them through the halls. Commoners, lesser nobles, and students of the Royal Academy who had idolized Melgil stood frozen, torn between disbelief and awe. The undefeated fury of the academy had fallen, but not with disgrace. They had seen her power, felt it in the tremors of the coliseum floor, and though she had lost, it was the kind of loss that burned itself into legend.
More startling still was what they saw in Daniel's eyes as he stood over her bed: a loyalty unflinching, a closeness that defied the rigid tiers of blood and birth. The two of them together were a quiet rebellion against the order that had kept the academy shackled under the heel of the upper elite. Whispers spread like wildfire, fear laced with admiration. If Melgil and Daniel could stand together, then maybe the balance of the academy wasn't unshakable after all.
Thalen Merrow arrived first, his broad frame filling the doorway as he staggered in, still favoring his bruised ribs. Ysil Thorne was right behind him, his cloak torn, eyes scanning the room with a soldier's urgency. Galen Althus, pale and quiet, leaned heavily on his staff as he entered. And then came the Sithe cousins, Lora rushing ahead with wide, worried eyes, while Ormin Vos followed, silent but tense, his jaw locked tight.
They halted as the healers began their chants, light spilling across Melgil's form. For a moment, no one spoke. The air was heavy with the unspoken truth that the academy had just shifted, that everything they thought they knew about who could stand against the elite had been shattered.
Then, from the arena outside, the iron toll of the bell cut through the silence—long, echoing, and final. The second preliminary round was over. The third would begin soon, followed by the first of the primaries.
None of them moved to leave. Their battles, their rivalries, their losses, all of it seemed small compared to the sight before them: Daniel, his hand wrapped gently around Melgil's, watching her chest rise and fall, as if willing her to breathe stronger.
For in that moment, it was no longer about victory or defeat.
It was about the bond between two who dared to stand against the tide.
The air in the medical ward was heavy with the scent of herbs and iron. The low chant of healers wove over Melgil's still body, light pulsing faintly against her skin. Daniel had not moved from her side, one hand resting against the bedframe, the other curled protectively around hers as if the world itself would have to break through him to reach her.
The door scraped open and Thalen strode in, his boots striking the stone with impatience. "How bad is it?" His voice was gruff, but beneath it lay something softer worry he could not disguise.
Daniel didn't glance up. "She'll live. But she pushed too far." His words were clipped, controlled, but the faint tremor in his tone betrayed how much he was holding back.
Ysil's sharp eyes lingered on him. She had fought beside Daniel before, knew the calm precision he usually carried like a second blade. But this, this was different. His voice bent differently when he spoke of Melgil, like iron shaped by heat.
"Pushed too far," Ysil repeated, folding her arms. "And you would've thrown yourself into the same fire if she hadn't fallen first, wouldn't you?"
That made Daniel look up, his gaze briefly locking with hers. For a heartbeat, silence answered louder than words.
Galen shifted awkwardly near the wall, leaning on his staff. "The whole coliseum felt it. Her power…" He shook his head, still pale. "If she'd lost control, the fight might've ended in blood, not surrender."
"Don't talk like she's reckless," Daniel snapped, sharper than anyone expected. His grip on Melgil's hand tightened unconsciously. "She held back. More than any of you saw."
The others exchanged quick glances, Thalen raising a brow, Ormin narrowing his eyes, and Lora pressing her lips together in a worried line.
"You speak as though you know her limits better than anyone else," Ormin muttered, the words edged, testing.
Daniel's eyes flashed, but Ysil cut in before tension could climb further. "He does," she said softly, her gaze steady on Daniel. The realization struck her like a quiet truth, unspoken yet undeniable. She'd seen warriors bleed together, trust each other with their lives, but this was something else. "That's why he can't stand here without her hand in his."
Lora's breath caught, eyes flicking between the two of them. "You mean…"
"Don't be naïve," Ysil murmured. "Look at him. Look at her. It isn't rivalry binding them—it's something the academy itself would never permit if it were spoken aloud."
A silence fell, heavy with the weight of her words. The academy's order was built on divisions—bloodlines, rank, houses. To stand across those walls was to court punishment, exile, worse. Yet here was Daniel, a common-born, and Melgil, scion of the elite, bound by something deeper than rivalry or friendship.
Thalen broke the silence with a low grunt. "So what? Let the elites choke on it. If their bond shakes the academy, then maybe it deserves to crack."
Ormin frowned, though his voice had softened. "Or it gets them crushed beneath it."
Daniel finally spoke again, voice low but steady. "They can try." He looked down at Melgil, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "But they'll have to break me first."
The bell from the arena tolled again,loud, iron, relentless. The third preliminary awaited. But in that small chamber, all eyes lingered on Daniel and Melgil, on the defiance and closeness they embodied.
For the first time, the group saw not just two fighters, but a spark that could ignite something larger than any tournament. The healers' light dimmed as the spell settled over Melgil, her chest rising evenly now, the dangerous tremors fading. Relief flickered across the group's faces, but none dared break the silence that clung to the ward.
Galen Althus stared at Daniel's hand, still locked around Melgil's fingers, and swallowed hard. I should fear this… he thought. A common-born and a high scion entwined? It will draw the wrath of every elder. And yet, his chest tightened; I envy it. That kind of bond, that kind of defiance… perhaps I fear it only because I have never been brave enough to reach for it myself.
Ormin Vos Sithe crossed his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing. Suspicion had guided him from the start, what game was Daniel playing, clinging so fiercely to Melgil? But watching him now, he felt something shift. No pretense could forge that look in his eyes. No trick could make a man flinch at her pain as though it were his own. Respect, grudging and reluctant, pressed its weight into his chest. He would not admit it aloud, but Ormin understood: Daniel was no longer just a rival. He was someone Ormin could follow, if only from the shadows.
Lora Sithe lingered at the bedside, her lips pressed thin, her fingers knotted together. They'll destroy you both if this truth escapes. She knew it and had seen the cruelty of noble courts, the way the elites turned love into chains. Yet even knowing the danger, her heart whispered rebellion. "Stand together," she urged silently. Defy them. Show us there's more than blood and titles.
Thalen grunted, restless, pacing near the wall, while Ysil stood silent and sharp-eyed, the pieces of Daniel and Melgil's hidden bond falling neatly into place in her mind.
And then the door opened.
The group turned as Duchess Elleena Rothchester swept into the chamber, her presence commanding silence with no effort at all. Her gaze flicked over the healers, then to the five gathered students, and her voice, though polite, carried steel beneath its tone.
"Leave us," she said. "Now."
The weight of her command brooked no hesitation. Even Thalen, who bristled at authority, bowed his head and filed out with the others. Ysil's sharp gaze lingered a moment longer on Daniel, but she obeyed all the same.
When the door closed, Elleena lifted a hand. Threads of pale magic spun outward, weaving into a dome of silence. The outside world faded, leaving only her, Daniel, and Melgil in the ward.
The Duchess's eyes softened only slightly when they fell on Melgil. "Stubborn girl," she muttered under her breath. Then her gaze snapped to Daniel. "You should have told me."
Daniel blinked, finally releasing Melgil's hand as though realizing how tightly he had been holding it. "If I had," he said, voice low, "it would not have looked real. I needed it to be believable."
Elleena's sigh was heavy, laden with something between frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. "You risked too much. You had me convinced as well. Watching her fall—" She stopped herself, then exhaled. "Daniel, I cannot have allies who think me blind."
He stepped closer, his voice steady, but his eyes burned with the same quiet fire that had shaken the group moments ago. "The enemy is watching, Duchess. They want us rattled, off-balance. If we stage control too tightly, they won't show themselves. But in the primary rounds—" he glanced at Melgil, then back to her, "—they will. That's when they'll strike."
Melgil stirred, her lashes fluttering, and with a soft intake of breath, she woke as if nothing had happened. The healers gasped faintly, but Daniel's expression cracked, a flash of bewilderment betraying how deeply her fall had shaken him. He caught himself quickly, but Elleena's frown deepened.
"You see?" Daniel pressed, his voice low, his reasoning sharp as drawn steel. "If their goal was revenge alone, they would have struck already. No—what they want is power. And there's no better chance than in chaos."
He turned his gaze toward the Duchess fully now, his words falling like calculated blades. "During the primaries, when the coliseum erupts, when eyes are blinded by fear… that's when they'll make their move. And when they do, we strike back. We cut down every royal bloodline they've embedded themselves in. Disguise the killings as chaos, like what happened at the Dreswick castle. It will end before anyone can see the hand behind it."
Elleena's lips thinned. "And Riverton?"
Daniel's eyes darkened, the calculation never wavering. "That wasn't the true blow. It was a test. A measure of strength, to see how far the strings could be pulled before breaking. Whoever wants you dead,or worse, incapacitated—is tied to the sealed Void. I can feel it. Every move they make reeks of its shadow."
The Duchess studied him, her expression unreadable, but her silence was heavy with the weight of dangerous agreement.
Beside them, Melgil's eyes opened fully now, steady and calm—as if her fall had been nothing more than another mask. She turned her head toward Daniel, and for a fleeting second, there was no plan, no bloodline, no shadowed enemy. Only the bond that had already shaken the academy, and now threatened to shake far more.
Elleena's eyes narrowed, weighing him carefully, like a jeweler turning over a gem to check for flaws.
"You speak of slaughter as though it were arithmetic," the Duchess said, her voice low but sharp. "Cut down royal bloodlines, shroud it in chaos, and let the coliseum swallow the truth. Do you even understand what that means, Daniel? If we misstep, we ignite a war not just within the Academy, but across every noble house tied to it."
Daniel did not flinch. "Then let it burn," he replied. His voice was flat, but behind it was iron. "If the houses fracture, they show their weakness. And in weakness, the enemy always overreaches. That's when we can strike the core."
Elleena arched a brow. "You are willing to gamble with thousands of lives?"
He met her gaze, unblinking. "If I'm right, they've already gambled with far more. Dreswick. Riverton. How many innocents were slaughtered while the highborn debated propriety? The Void's hand doesn't just test boundaries; it erases them. Better to sacrifice pawns now than the entire board later."
A quiet laugh slipped from the bed. Melgil had pushed herself upright, ignoring the healer's protests, her eyes gleaming with a sharp, knowing light. "You always talk like that when the mask is off," she said, voice hoarse but steady. "Cold. Ruthless. But never wrong."
Daniel glanced at her, startled by her sudden strength, but Melgil simply adjusted her posture, as though the injuries had been nothing more than staged bruises. "Did you think I was unaware of this plan, Duchess?" she asked, her lips curving faintly. "Daniel doesn't play his games without telling me the stakes."
Elleena's frown deepened, though her expression betrayed a flicker of respect. "So you were complicit. The fall, the spectacle, the whispers spreading through the Academy—intentional."
Melgil's smile was thin but fierce. "Do you know how long the elites have smothered the academy in stagnation? How long they've kept everyone else beneath their boot? Let them whisper. Let them fear. That's exactly what we need—the illusion of fracture, to bait our true enemy into showing itself."
Elleena tapped her chin, studying the two of them like predators caught mid-hunt. "You understand the risk. If the nobles even suspect this bond between you… they will see it as heresy. They will crush you both before your enemies ever lift a hand."
Daniel reached for Melgil's hand again, this time openly, deliberately. "Let them try. Their fear of us is our weapon. If the enemy is tied to the Void, then they will not resist a chance to spill noble blood at the height of the primaries. And when they strike…" His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "We erase them. Root and branch."
Melgil leaned against him, her eyes never leaving Elleena's. "And if that means tearing down the old order in the process," she said, "then maybe it's time it fell."
For a long moment, the chamber was silent but for the soft hum of the sound barrier. The Duchess finally exhaled, her expression unreadable, though the faintest edge of a smile ghosted her lips.
"You two are either visionaries or madmen," she said at last. "Perhaps both. Very well, if we are to dance with chaos, then I will not falter. But understand this…" She leaned closer, her gaze piercing. "When the storm comes, there will be no turning back. You cannot half-step a revolution."
Daniel's jaw tightened, his eyes cold and certain. "I never intended to."
Melgil's smile sharpened like a blade. "Neither did I."