Chapter 840: Complete
"Winner, Lucavion."
The match was his.
But as he stepped away, that old sense of triumph—the kind that usually lingered in the wake of a clean, earned victory—didn't come.
Instead, it left a hollow hum in his chest.
Not regret.
Not quite sadness.
Just… complexity.
He had won.
And still, somehow, he felt like he was catching up to someone who had already fought their way ahead.
Jesse wiped the sweat from her brow, orange eyes steady on him.
Not angry. Not pleased.
Just there.
She gave a single nod.
Lucavion returned it.
Because beneath the clash of steel and the ache of time—
They finally saw each other.
****
The duel had ended.
The blade was sheathed. The cheers had quieted. The announcer's voice faded into the air like smoke.
And Jesse returned to the Lorian delegation.
Her footsteps were steady, precise—as if the battle had drained nothing from her. As if her breathing hadn't hitched halfway through the fight. As if her chest wasn't still burning from the words that had never been said aloud.
Prince Adrian was the first to speak.
"Better than expected," he said mildly, arms folded behind his back, expression calm but not unreadable. "You held your ground."
A few nobles behind him murmured in agreement. One of the older ones—a baron, maybe, whose name Jesse never bothered to learn—nodded as if this were a military report.
"She didn't flinch. Not once," another said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.
"She," Isolde added quietly, sharp eyes flicking to Jesse's posture. "She really did well…"
Yet there was something in her gaze.
Something shiny.
Jesse gave a nod.
Small. Distant. Barely there.
Because she wasn't listening.
Not really.
Their praise—earned or not—was just static to her now.
Her mind was somewhere else.
On someone else.
Lucavion.
He was still in the ring, adjusting the cuff of his coat, expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know how to look properly.
She couldn't read his mind.
She wasn't some sword prodigy, born with unnatural insight or preternatural instincts. She didn't see emotions in the flick of a wrist or the twitch of a shoulder like he did. She wasn't a genius—not like him.
But she saw one thing.
His eyes.
The way they lingered when their blades touched.
The way he looked at her after the last strike.
She saw it.
Her feelings had reached him.
And now?
Now all she wanted was to run to him.
To grab him by the collar and shake answers loose. To press him back against the edge of the courtyard and demand why he left. Why he never wrote. Why she had to claw her way through every bloody step while he disappeared into myth and silence.
She wanted to trap him there.
Not with steel.
With everything else.
With her questions.
With the ache.
With the sheer, merciless fact of survival in his absence.
But she couldn't.
It didn't work like that.
Not in front of the court. Not under Adrian's gaze. Not with the eyes of two Empires watching like hawks in velvet.
Lucavion was no longer just hers to confront.
He was a symbol now.
And so was she.
So she stood still, hands behind her back, jaw tight, gaze fixed forward.
"Jesse," Adrian said again, a bit more softly this time. "Well done."
Another nod.
Another heartbeat passing.
And still, she said nothing.
Because in her chest—beneath the silence, beneath the armor—one thought burned hotter than all the rest:
Soon.
Soon, she would find him again.
And this time?
They would speak with more than just blades.
"Miss Jesse. Allow us."
The voice was soft, professional—too clean to belong to a soldier, too practiced to be a friend. One of the Arcanis healers, clad in pristine robes with the empire's crest glimmering faintly at their collar, had approached without sound.
Jesse blinked.
Only then did she feel it again—the sting near her ribs.
Right. That strike.
A glancing blow, not deep, but sharp enough to split skin beneath her uniform. She hadn't even noticed the warmth soaking through the edge of the fabric until now.
Too much noise. Too much emotion.
She nodded once.
The healer moved with quiet precision, fingers glowing with pale green light. No chanting. No dramatic gestures. Just a smooth pass of magic along her side, like a breath of wind threading through muscle and nerve. The pain ebbed instantly. Faded like a dream.
It took a second.
And then they were gone.
No words. No lingering.
Just like that, she was alone again.
Jesse exhaled slowly, letting her palm brush the edge of her ribcage, already sealed. The skin beneath was warm, freshly healed. Almost untouched.
But she still felt the ache.
She turned her head slightly—not toward the nobles still muttering about scores and styles, not toward Adrian or Isolde or even the place Lucavion had been.
Something else had tugged at her.
Someone.
And there—at the edge of the delegation's reach, just past the central dais, tucked in the arc of shadow beneath a trailing curtain of white silk—
—were eyes.
Not golden, not black.
But violet.
Sharp.
Intent.
Watching her not like a court observer, or a curious noble trying to gauge her rank.
But like a participant.
A player.
A pair of violet eyes, narrowed slightly, unreadable beneath lashes too long to be called delicate.
And above them—
Hair.
Pale.
Almost white—
—but no, not quite.
Pink.
Sleek, soft-looking, almost too fine to be natural. Light catching on it like dawn light through rose glass.
She didn't need to think long.
That girl—no, that woman—was the one who had been standing with Lucavion just before the duel. She remembered it clearly. The way he had tilted his head slightly toward her, how his stance, relaxed yet attentive, mirrored that rare kind of comfort Lucavion never allowed anyone near him to possess.
And now…
Now that same woman was watching Jesse.
From the shadows.
With that look.
As if she knew something. As if Jesse's performance had been weighed and measured and found… amusing.
Her jaw clenched.
'She was close to him.'
It didn't take much to connect the threads. The Arcanis girl didn't look surprised. Didn't look curious.
She looked familiar.
Like she'd known Lucavion for a while.
Jesse's orange eyes narrowed—not in confusion, but something deeper.
Sharper.
The woman's expression didn't falter.
And then she disappeared again—just like before—vanishing behind the silk drapes, her presence folding into the grandeur of Arcanis like smoke into snow.
Jesse stared at the empty space she'd left behind.
'Unforgivable.'
It wasn't just jealousy. It wasn't just the possessive knot tightening behind her ribs.
It was herself.
Everything she'd built—every scar, every breath she'd used to shape herself into something strong enough to meet Lucavion again—flared under her skin now like heat rising off a battlefield.
That girl didn't know the weight Jesse carried.
Didn't know the years. The nights. The silence.
She hadn't seen Lucavion when he was nothing.
She hadn't held his words like lifelines when the world was crumbling.
She hadn't earned him.
And yet she'd stood by his side.
Close.
Too close.
'He's mine.'
The thought wasn't pretty. It wasn't noble.
But Jesse never claimed to be either.
She had bled for him.
She had waited.
And now?
Now some stranger, veiled in Arcanis silk and violet arrogance, stood where she should've been?
No.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 841: Knight and a Swordsgirl
Her gaze settled on Jesse.
No blink. No smile. Just silence.
Across the marble-dusted courtyard, the Lorian girl stood with her hands clasped behind her back, posture stiff enough to resemble discipline—but Valeria knew restraint when she saw it. And this wasn't peace.
This was containment.
Violet met orange.
Neither color blinked.
It would've been easier if Jesse looked away. If she let the weight of decorum pull her gaze aside. But she didn't. Not even after the duel ended. Not after Lucavion stepped away. Not even when the last echo of clashing steel faded from the air like smoke chased by wind.
She held Valeria's gaze like it meant something.
As if she had a right to it.
And Valeria—
Valeria didn't look away either.
Her chin rose by a fraction. Subtle. Intentional.
It wasn't posture. It was command.
She had seen the fight. Every step. Every cut. Every pivot that belonged to Lucavion and every echo that answered it from Jesse's blade. It wasn't a duel—it was a conversation. One Valeria wasn't invited to. One that carried a rhythm she didn't recognize.
Yet she could recognize one thing.
One single, irrefutable truth.
That girl—Jesse Burns, as announced—
She and Lucavion shared a past.
Valeria didn't need to be told. Didn't need some whispered rumor or a noble's slip of tongue to confirm it.
It was obvious.
Not in the way Jesse moved, but in the way Lucavion didn't.
He hadn't danced around her with the same evasive polish he used against Rowen. He hadn't probed, hadn't tested the waters. He'd responded. Reacted.
Listened.
To her blade.
To her breath.
To her.
And Valeria—
She stood still, watching a girl from an enemy empire wield familiarity like a weapon she hadn't earned. A woman shaped by Lorian steel and shadow. A survivor of camps and marches and bloodied banners.
How does she know him?
That question burned hot and useless behind her ribs.
How did they meet?
No answer.
She couldn't answer—because he never told her.
Because he never says much of anything.
Lucavion, for all his precision and clarity in battle, was a master of silence everywhere else. Everything about him was calculated disarray. A man who defied allegiance, who answered to no house, who moved through noble politics like smoke—ungraspable and always a step removed.
She had been beside him for months now. Walked next to his shadow. Sat across from him while he drank tea like it was ritual. Fought beside him. Spoke with him.
And yet...
And yet.
Jesse Burns looked at him like she already knew the answers Valeria hadn't dared to ask.
Her eyes narrowed by a breath, barely a twitch in the marble light. Not in jealousy. Not yet. But in something quieter. More dangerous.
A calculation.
That girl from Lorian didn't just swing a sword.
She swung history.
And Valeria?
She couldn't read it.
And that—it coiled.
It tangled something inside her chest she hadn't named before.
Not until now.
Just earlier, she had watched Lucavion clash with Rowen. The empire's heirloom. The golden boy of doctrine and dynasty. And it had been—gods—it had been clarity. The kind of duel that made her hands itch, made her breath shallow, made her want to throw off her ceremonial bindings and move. It had spoken to the soldier in her. To the beast beneath the crest.
And yet—
Just now—
Watching Lucavion and Jesse?
It didn't make her want to move.
It made her freeze.
Because when she saw the way Jesse looked at him…
She felt something she didn't expect.
A knot.
*****
The moment the tip of Lucavion's estoc found its resting place against Jesse's throat—light, symbolic, final—the courtyard did not erupt.
It simply… breathed.
A quiet exhale. No cheers. No outrage. Just the slow acceptance of what had already been spoken through steel.
Lucavion had won.
And it was expected.
Compared to the earlier storm of sparks and myth between him and Rowen, this bout felt almost subdued—measured. Controlled. Even with the emotional undercurrent boiling beneath Jesse's blade, even with the history bleeding between them, the fight hadn't matched the grandeur of the first.
Which, of course, was the point.
Thalor hadn't needed this duel to match the first in spectacle. That would have been a risk—too much weight on balance. He needed only contrast. Sharp. Intentional.
One contest, a clash of giants.
The other, a clean, imperial victory.
Enough to make Arcanis look poised. Dominant.
And the Lorian delegation? They couldn't argue.
After all, the matches had been perfectly aligned, hadn't they? Rowen against Lucavion. Lucavion against Jesse.
An heirloom, a shadow, and a foreign spark.
Everything matched—on paper.
But to Thalor, standing once more at the court's edge with his fingers brushing his chin and his eyes half-lidded in thought, this was the real win.
Not the outcome.
The confirmation.
Jesse Burns—her blade, her breath, her gaze—had given it away. Not in some dramatic scream, not in declarations or confessions. But in the way she looked at Lucavion.
Not as a stranger.
Not as a foreign opponent.
But as something… known.
That wasn't formality. That wasn't politics.
That was personal.
'So… they share a past.'
The corner of Thalor's mouth twitched upward.
'Heh…'
It was subtle, almost silent. But inwardly, he was already cataloguing the value.
A past connection with a Lorian combatant. One who had clearly grown in the shadows of Lucavion's absence. One whose techniques were self-forged, molded in abandonment.
Which meant: he had left her behind.
Which meant: there was a gap. A wound. A debt.
Thalor wasn't a seer. He couldn't read souls or pluck emotions from the air like threads. But he'd seen enough of ambition, of politics, of people, to know—
That kind of stare doesn't happen unless something real was lost.
'This woman...'
His gaze lingered as Jesse stepped back into her line, her fingers still trembling slightly despite her composed breath.
She wasn't remarkable by lineage. Nor status.
But Lucavion had looked at her like she mattered.
Just like Valeria Olarion.
Thalor chuckled softly again, this time audible.
Another name on the board. Another echo of the past peeking through the smoke that Lucavion wore so well.
He didn't know the full story yet.
But he didn't have to.
Thalor took one final look at the courtyard—at the ripples that still hadn't settled.
Then he stepped forward.
Hands clasped neatly behind his back, his voice rose—not in force, but in precision. It curved through the evening air like a crafted blade, slipping into every ear.
"Esteemed guests," he began, smile warm and glinting at the edges, "I do believe we've all just witnessed a rather elegant exchange."
A soft murmur of agreement moved like velvet through the gathered nobles.
He gestured lightly toward the courtyard. "A display not just of form or discipline, but of meaning. Each stroke spoke. Each step answered. And in their silence… our understanding deepened."
His gaze drifted—deliberately—toward Lucavion.
"And what clarity we've gained. Lucavion, you have shown us tonight that mystery is not absence… but potential. Your blade speaks as eloquently as any name ever could."
Several nobles stirred at that. A few stiffened.
Thalor's smile didn't waver.
"And to our honored guests from Lorian—your representative fought with a style that was not only sincere, but sincere in its roots. There is something raw and beautiful in that authenticity. Something worth hearing."
He did not bow, but his chin inclined the faintest degree toward the Lorian line.
Only then—after a breath, like a punctuation mark—did he nod to Rowen.
"And of course, Rowen Drayke. Ever unwavering."
That was it. No embellishment. No ceremony.
Because Rowen needed none.
And because, politically, less said more.
Thalor's fingers moved once—an unspoken signal.
At the far end of the courtyard, the quartet began to play again. Soft strings at first. Something elegant, not ostentatious. Meant to glide across the tension, to balm it into ambiance.
Thalor turned back toward the ballroom, steps smooth, voice laced with finality.
"And now… let the banquet continue. With full hearts. And open eyes."
Chapter 842: Cassiar, the rich
The banquet had rebalanced.
Music returned, laughter slowly layered back into conversation, and the polished masks of nobility were once again fitted neatly to their hosts. Waitstaff moved with choreographed grace, trays of crystal glasses weaving between silk-clad guests. What had been sharp tension an hour ago had softened—diffused, like wine after a deep pour.
Thalor, of course, was satisfied.
He walked slowly toward the center of the hall again, robes swaying with his measured pace, a glass of red still untouched in his hand. His fingers traced the rim idly, but his mind was already organizing the next threads—evaluations, impressions, leverage. The duel had done its work.
Yes… it was a draw on paper.
But in truth?
It was placement.
Rowen's contempt still pulsed faintly beneath his forced calm, that much was obvious. He had treated Lucavion like a disruption, not a rival. And yet, now, even in silent denial, he couldn't erase the sound of steel echoing equal.
That mattered.
Lucavion didn't need to win.
He just needed to survive visibly.
And now, he had—twice.
Not just against steel.
But against narrative.
Very good… Thalor thought. The pressure has softened. The court won't reject him now. They might still whisper… but they'll whisper differently.
He was mid-step, eyes already scanning the crowd for the next person to engage, when a voice stopped him.
Sharp. Raw. Singular.
"You…"
It wasn't loud.
But it cut, all the same.
Thalor's foot paused, heel hovering just above the floor as he turned his head slightly. His eyes narrowed—just for a moment. Because the voice hadn't come from someone postured in diplomacy. It hadn't been wrapped in pleasantries.
It wasn't the voice of someone meant to speak just then.
Thalor's turn was slow—graceful, but laced with a stiffness that only surfaced when decorum gave way to distaste.
The voice belonged to a man he knew.
Of course it did.
And of all the names in the Empire's courtly archive, this one was etched in lacquered gold and personal irritation.
Standing with one shoulder cocked lazily against a marble pillar, half-shadowed by the candlelight but fully unaware of any need to dim himself, was Cassiar Vermillion.
The man shimmered.
Not metaphorically—literally.
Gold-threaded embroidery wound across his deep crimson doublet like ivy, catching the light with every subtle breath. Rings adorned each finger, some set with gemstones that hadn't seen sunlight since the founding of the Empire. A heavy chain of polished ivory was looped twice around his neck, each link carved with runes that had no magical effect—only the effect of cost.
And in his hand?
A black silk cravat. Someone else's, likely. He was absently twirling it between two fingers, spinning it like a noble's idea of boredom.
His smile was the worst part.
Too wide.
Too white.
And too familiar.
Thalor's eyes narrowed a breath further. The wine glass in his hand tilted just slightly, though he still hadn't taken a sip.
"Cassiar," he said evenly.
Cassiar's smile didn't shift—but the weight behind it deepened.
Not malice. Not play.
Just pressure.
The kind of pressure that came from knowing you could—if you wished—tilt the entire room with one phrase. And more importantly, that no one would stop you. Not even Thalor.
Not openly.
Thalor held his silence a moment longer, just enough to remind himself of the stakes. This wasn't one of the barons he could maneuver. Not some court-bought noble fawning for scraps.
Cassiar Vermillion wasn't bred from the spine of Empire like the old guard.
He was bred from the arteries.
Gold. Trade. Artifice.
And lineage just esoteric enough to frighten scholars.
The Vermillion family bore the title of Marquis, yes—but only in name. Their true standing was carved in vaults, in ledgers, in the lattice of influence that fed every corner of Arcanis from beneath. And more than that—
They were rune-blooded.
Descendants of the Rune Masters. Artificers without peer. Their forgecraft helped develop the modern principles behind half the Tower's stabilizers.
And they were Draycott's allies.
More than allies. Partners.
Which meant Thalor couldn't dismiss Cassiar.
Not with words.
Not with disdain.
No matter how much he wanted to.
Cassiar let the silence stretch a second longer before finally pushing off the pillar, the cravat still idly spinning in his hand. His walk was fluid, hips loose, shoulders relaxed—like nothing around him ever required tension.
And yet everything about him dripped with purpose.
"I was watching," he said, as if announcing a divine indulgence. "That little contest of yours. You do love a good curtain call, don't you?"
Thalor took a slow sip of his wine this time. Controlled. Elegant.
"I prefer moments with weight."
Cassiar laughed, soft and amused. "Oh, it had weight, certainly. That boy—Lucavion." He twirled the cravat once, then caught it mid-spin. "He has a lovely way of stealing thunder."
"Only what he earns," Thalor said lightly.
Cassiar's amber eyes flicked to him—sharp now, but not unkind.
"And what exactly are you earning with him, I wonder?"
A simple question.
Cassiar's grin didn't fade—but the angle shifted, the warmth curling into something thinner. Not cruel. Just... inquisitive with teeth.
He took a half-step closer, not to threaten, but to drop the tone of their conversation to something just under the music's veil.
The silk cravat twirled once more in his fingers, lazily coiled and released.
"And that artifact," he said casually, almost too casually, "the one our dear Lucavion carried to your stage…"
His gaze flicked sideways.
"That wasn't just a party trick. That was... crafted. Aligned. Stabilized."
A pause.
"Delicate."
Another pause, sharper this time.
"Expensive."
He turned his full attention to Thalor now—amber eyes shining faintly beneath the chandelier light.
"You wouldn't happen to know where he got something like that, would you?"
The tone was still light. But it felt like a thread dipped in oil.
Because Cassiar knew exactly how many hands it took to make an artifact like that. And more importantly, how many guilds controlled such work.
The implication wasn't loud.
But it was there.
Did you give it to him, Thalor? Did you think we wouldn't notice?
Thalor didn't move. Didn't flinch. But the smile that had hovered along the corners of his mouth now receded into something sharper. Not cold. Just precise.
He met Cassiar's eyes fully for the first time in the conversation, and when he spoke, it was without pretense.
"I'm not a fool," Thalor said, the words low, still, and firm. "Certainly not foolish enough to hand an unsanctioned artifact to someone under Lucien's watch."
Thalor's eyes narrowed—not overtly, but with the kind of micro-shift that said you've crossed the line, even if decorum prevented the words.
Still, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Instead, he tipped his glass back slightly—more gesture than drink—then said, calmly:
"And yet, you ask me that question. When you're the one who'd trade the empire's heirloom if the bid was high enough." He tilted his head. "Remind me—how many artifacts pass through Vermillion channels without being declared to the Tower? Or is that just rumor?"
The jab landed—pointed, laced in velvet—but Cassiar didn't blink.
He grinned instead.
That maddening, infuriating grin of someone who knew exactly how far the leash reached. And that he stood just outside of it.
"Please," Cassiar said, mock-offended. "I only trade in legally sanctioned goods."
He let the silence linger for half a breath.
"Mostly."
Then he stepped closer—just enough for the world around them to blur into background music and wine-slicked laughter. Just enough for his words to dip low, intimate.
"If you can understand how not to antagonize Lucien Drayke with that brain of yours—one that only wakes up for circuits and glyphwork—then surely, I can manage the same."
Chapter 843: Cassiar, the rich (2)
"If you can understand how not to antagonize Lucien Lysandra with that brain of yours—one that only wakes up for circuits and glyphwork—then surely, I can manage the same."
The words were smooth.
But they landed like acid.
Thalor's jaw clenched—barely. His fingers curled tighter around the glass. That line… that line, Cassiar knew would sting.
Because Thalor was many things—genius, strategist, architect of mana infrastructure—but Cassiar's insult wasn't about intelligence.
It was about value.
The implication that Thalor only thought in patterns. That he couldn't understand people the way Cassiar could. Couldn't bend them. Couldn't play them.
Not like a Vermillion.
And the worst part?
Thalor couldn't do anything.
Not to him.
Not with the Vermillion family sitting on half the Tower's research budget. Not when the Draycotts—his own bloodline—were still tied to the artifact labs through Vermillion funding.
Thalor didn't move for a second.
Just the slow, calculated swirl of wine in his glass. The curl of thought gathering like stormlight behind his eyes.
Cassiar Vermillion always danced too close to the fire—but he forgot sometimes that mages made the flames.
"You mistake clarity for limitation," Thalor said at last, voice smooth as ever, but now laced with a quiet venom. "My mind may stir for circuits and glyphwork—but yours only wakes for gold."
He stepped closer, glass still steady in his hand.
"Which is why you'll never build anything of your own. You'll only ever buy it. Lease it. Steal it when convenient. You trade in power like it's silk, but power doesn't admire you, Cassiar. It just tolerates you."
Cassiar didn't smile this time.
His lips flattened. Just slightly. But the temperature changed.
A flick of his fingers twisted the black cravat tighter, like a casual garrote.
"You say that like gold doesn't command more loyalty than blood these days," he murmured. "Remind me, Thalor—how many students you would've gotten into the Tower without my family's rune-paved donations?"
Thalor's stare sharpened.
Cassiar leaned in a breath closer.
"How many doors your name opens on its own—without Vermillion contracts behind them?"
The air between them tensed, polished civility stretched like a thread soaked in acid.
One more word—
"Gentlemen,"
Rowen's voice cut through the venom with casual precision—measured, unmistakable.
The two turned as he approached, his steps steady, composed. He wore no expression of irritation or concern—just the quiet knowing of a man who had heard enough to calculate the blade behind every word.
Rowen stopped beside them, glass in hand, eyes sharp with dry amusement.
"Are you bickering again?" he asked, lifting his drink with a lazy grace. "Honestly, it's like watching two wolves try to out-stare each other. Inefficient."
Cassiar gave an exaggerated sigh. "I simply came to offer congratulations. And our dear Thalor decided to return the gesture with… fire."
Thalor's lips twitched, but his tone remained level. "And Cassiar, as ever, came to the fire with oil."
Rowen took a slow sip of his drink—nonchalant, almost bored. But his eyes never left Thalor's.
"Fine," he said. "Then let's ask something worthwhile."
Thalor raised an eyebrow.
Rowen tilted his head slightly, voice still mild, but edged now with focus.
"Why did you do it?"
Thalor didn't answer immediately.
Rowen went on, gaze steady.
"This whole setup. The duel. The prompt. Calling Lucavion out first, giving him to me, then setting him against the Lorian girl… That wasn't just for balance. Not entirely. So…" A pause. Then, quieter: "Why?"
Thalor's glass hovered near his lips for a long breath.
Then, slowly, he lowered it.
"Does it matter?" he asked softly.
Rowen's response came without hesitation.
"Yes."
There was no accusation in his tone—only curiosity. And something else. A tension not between anger and suspicion, but between pride and pressure. Between what had been done… and what it meant.
Thalor gave a faint sigh.
Then, voice smooth as frost over stone, he replied:
"To see what Lucavion was really made of. And to see what you would do when faced with someone like him."
He met Rowen's gaze directly.
"And because pressure carves truth faster than praise ever could."
Cassiar chuckled under his breath. "Now there's the Thalor I know."
Rowen didn't speak at first.
But the look in his eyes—quiet, unreadable—lingered long.
Then, at last, he turned away, finishing the last of his drink with a low murmur.
Thalor watched the back of Rowen Drayke retreating form with the same expression he wore when studying an unsolved theorem—impassive on the surface, but lined with an intensity no wine nor ballroom light could veil.
The room moved again around them—laughter rebounding, string music swelling just enough to mask the weight of what had been said. But Thalor stood still.
Unmoving.
Calculating.
He didn't sip his wine. Didn't even twitch. Just held the glass aloft, an anchor for poise while the storm started behind his eyes.
Rowen.
Of all people.
'He noticed.'
Not just the shape of the stage, but the craft behind it. The seams. The angles.
He always notices.
And unlike Cassiar, Rowen's questions weren't meant to needle or provoke.
It wasn't fear.
Thalor Draycott didn't fear men like Rowen Drayke.
But there was something in his presence—something intolerably measured, disarmingly dry, quietly observant—that made it hard to breathe quite the same when he entered the room.
Not because he threatened.
But because he didn't have to.
Rowen didn't warn. He concluded.
And that made him incredibly difficult to deal with.
Thalor's fingers flexed once around the glass. Subtle. Controlled. Barely enough to shift the wine.
Because Rowen wasn't just some highborn observer with a sharp tongue and better posture than most.
He was the son of the Knight Commander Drayke.
The next in line to the Empire's most formidable blade—and the only man in the court who could speak with both imperial weight and military independence. He didn't inherit authority like the rest of them. He moved with it, bone-deep, earned and ingrained.
Rowen didn't posture.
He assessed.
And that was what made him dangerous.
Because Thalor could play men like Cassiar Vermillion all day long—joust with wit, veil barbs in lace and silk. But Rowen?
Rowen didn't spar.
He listened.
He stood there in that unbothered way, drink in hand, half-smiling like none of it mattered—until suddenly, it did. Until the conversation had turned, and you didn't realize he'd been guiding it from the first sentence.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Not just politics. Not just strategy.
Motive.
And unlike the others, Rowen didn't react to scandal. He didn't scurry to exploit it. He simply… filed it away. Like a swordsman judging your stance before the blade leaves the scabbard.
That was what worried Thalor.
Rowen's silence wasn't indecision. It was somehow the ability to sense things.
And if he was calculating now—if he'd seen the pattern behind the duel, the artifact, the rise of a provincial enigma like Lucavion—
Just as the music took on a new rise—soft flutes layered beneath murmured strings—Rowen Drayke's glass lowered from his lips with a quiet clink. The drink was gone, the edge in his gaze not.
He didn't speak immediately. Simply stood beside Thalor again, the air between them stretched taut with something unspoken.
"I didn't like him at first," Rowen said finally, his voice mild. "Lucavion. The way he walked in. That posture—" he made a vague, dismissive motion with his hand, "—like the room should already know his name."
Thalor gave a small nod, not interrupting. Just watching.
"I don't like pretense," Rowen continued. "Especially not from someone who hasn't bled for what they carry."
A pause.
Then:
"But he didn't flinch."
Rowen turned his head just slightly, eyes scanning the chandelier's reflection in his empty glass. Not sentimental. Just observant.
"In the ring. Under pressure. When I struck cleanly—he didn't falter. He adapted."
Thalor let the silence answer for him.
"And that artifact," Rowen added, quieter now, "wasn't borrowed. He knew it. Like a blade he'd been sharpening himself."
That drew a very subtle glance from Thalor. Not alarmed. Not quite pleased either.
Rowen sighed once through his nose. "Which means someone taught him. Or handed him something they shouldn't have."
Chapter 844: Varen
"Which means someone taught him. Or handed him something they shouldn't have."
He didn't look at Thalor when he said it.
But he didn't need to.
Thalor's lips parted, a breath drawn—but just before a reply could form—
The atmosphere shifted.
Not sharply. Not with fanfare. Just… changed. Like a draft sneaking into a sealed chamber.
Both men felt it.
Thalor straightened slightly.
Rowen's head turned, slow and deliberate.
And there—stepping past the etched columns near the east side of the ballroom, flanked by two junior nobles dressed in quiet finery—was a man they both recognized.
Varen Drakov.
The heir to House Drakov. The blood-rival of the Draykes.
"That is…..Varen Drakov."
The name moved like a slow ripple through the crowd, even if no one dared speak it aloud. He didn't announce himself. He didn't need a fanfare or family seal. His arrival moved air.
Because that was what Varen did.
Where Rowen's presence was pressure—silent, focused, inexorable—Varen's was flame. Not unruly, not wild. Just contained heat. The kind of heat that didn't crackle or roar. It waited. Patiently. Unapologetically.
Thalor's eyes tracked him with a kind of stillness usually reserved for counting detonations.
'What is he doing?'
Varen didn't waste his time with courts unless it served something larger. The Drakovs didn't entangle with pageantry the way the rest of the noble web did. They didn't climb the Tower's gilded staircases or kneel before the Emperor with gloved hands and vows stitched in velvet.
No.
The Drakov family built their own domain—one of steel, of ritual, of ancient fire.
They were Earls, technically. Politically.
But they didn't need the Crown's validation.
Because they had the Silver Flame Sect.
And that meant they had disciples. Devotees. Fighters.
An entire martial network loyal to their bloodline—not out of inheritance, but out of belief.
And in Varen?
They had a dragon in human skin.
"…That guy….."
The words left Rowen's mouth with no emphasis, no urgency—just fact. As if he were naming a natural phenomenon. Like watching a storm roll over a distant hill and saying rain is coming. Though his eyes were indeed narrowed.
Thalor didn't respond.
Not aloud.
His gaze remained fixed on Varen, tracking the heir's path like a scholar tracking a faultline before a quake.
He's not supposed to be here.
Not publicly. Not like this.
Varen Drakov—the so-called "silent dragon" of the Silver Flame Sect—rarely left the compound. He wasn't bred for banquets. He wasn't groomed for etiquette or the Tower's endless spin of political theater. His appearances in imperial court were so few that most nobles had started treating him like a whispered name—an heir in title only. A recluse. A phantom behind sect walls.
But that was the mistake.
Varen didn't show his face because he didn't have to.
And now….
He just chosen to?
Cassiar Vermillion was already watching.
Of course he was.
The moment the air changed—before names were spoken, before eyes turned—Cassiar had leaned just slightly to the left, like a man making room for a shift in gravity. His cravat now hung idly from two fingers, the fabric limp, forgotten.
He gave a quiet, almost delighted chuckle.
"Well, well… he emerges."
His voice didn't rise, but it carried—cutting through the subtle hum of violins and idle conversation like a silk thread drawn taut.
Cassiar tilted his head toward Varen, eyes gleaming with amusement and something sharper—interest, yes, but also that predatory curiosity he always carried around powerful people. Especially the kind who didn't play by rules.
"He's been here since the beginning, you know," Cassiar said, as if sharing gossip he'd stored for precisely this moment. "Quiet little shadow in the corner. Didn't speak. Didn't sip. Didn't so much as blink too loud."
He gave a half-smile, one corner of his mouth lifting.
"But I suppose he was just… waiting for the right kind of fire."
Rowen didn't turn to acknowledge him.
Didn't need to.
He simply scoffed under his breath, the sound dry as sand and twice as cutting. "Of course he was."
That was all.
Because Rowen Drayke didn't need to say more.
Not when it came to Varen.
Not when the tension between them was the kind that didn't need names or dates—just a shared history etched into every look and step.
Cassiar, unbothered, raised an eyebrow. "Still convinced you'd have beaten him if the duel ran ten seconds longer?"
Rowen's eyes flicked toward him—cold, unreadable.
"Didn't need the ten."
A pause.
Then he looked away again.
Cassiar grinned. "Gods, I love this court."
But Thalor…
Thalor said nothing.
Watched the way Varen's footsteps never faltered. Watched how the sea of nobility parted without even realizing they were doing it. Watched how every Tower enchanter and military tactician in the room had subtly shifted—not stepped back, not quite—but braced. The way one braces before a spell detonates.
Varen Drakov was not someone Thalor could maneuver. Not like he could with nobles. Not like he did with the Tower's internal politics or the empire's sanctioned systems.
Varen wasn't bound by imperial etiquette.
He was a sect heir.
They were loyal to conviction.
To power.
And Varen had both.
Which meant—
Thalor's eyes narrowed, breath drawn slow.
He was one of the few pieces on the board Thalor couldn't touch.
Not without consequence.
Not without cost.
'You waited,' Thalor thought. 'You watched the duel. You watched Rowen. Watched me. Watched Lucavion.'
And now, for the first time all night—
You move.
But why?
Cassiar's voice broke back in, lighter now, though still needled.
"Tell me, Thalor," he drawled, absently toying with his rings, "you wouldn't happen to have offered him an artifact too, would you?"
Thalor's head turned.
Not fast. Not careless.
But with that quiet snap of precision, like a blade unsheathed halfway out of reflex.
His eyes locked on Cassiar, and for the first time that evening, the mask slipped—not entirely, but enough.
The corners of his mouth pulled tight.
And when he spoke, the words came laced with quiet venom.
"If you think I hand out stabilized prototypes like wedding favors, then you're either more stupid than you look… or more desperate than you let on."
Cassiar's grin only widened.
"Oh, touchy." He pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. "I was only asking. After all, if I had a line to two prodigies in one evening, I'd be practically glowing with hubris."
Thalor took a step forward—not threatening, but close enough to interrupt the angle of Cassiar's arrogance.
"I don't glow," he said coldly. "I calculate. Which is why I don't spend my evenings baiting dragons with silk and sarcasm."
Cassiar blinked once.
Then gave a slow, appreciative nod. "Hm. There he is."
But Thalor had already looked past him.
And that's when he saw it.
Where Varen Drakov was heading.
Through the parting of robes and the glint of chandeliers, through the eddies of noble conversation and courtly laughter, Varen's steps continued in unflinching silence—straight toward Lucavion.
Rowen noticed it too. His eyes darkened
And Lucavion?
Lucavion had only just turned.
His posture relaxed, but alert—like a musician hearing the shift in tempo before the rest of the room catches up. He stood at the edge of a quiet group, half-listening, half-observing.
But as Varen approached, the space between them began to change.
Not in noise.
But in weight.
Varen stopped two paces in front of him. No words. No gesture. Just presence.
Lucavion's eyes lifted.
Everything in the ballroom receded.
No laughter. No music. No movement.
Only that stare.
Varen's gaze was steady.
Lucavion tilted his head just slightly.
His expression? Calm.
But his eyes?
Amused.
And then—he smiled.
Not wide. Not arrogant.
Just that slanted, insolent curve of the lips that said he saw exactly what kind of game this was—and wasn't impressed by the rules.
"Still the same face?" he said, voice low enough that only Varen would catch it. "Wonder where that fieriness comes from. Certainly not expression."
Chapter 845: Varen (2)
Varen's gaze didn't waver.
Didn't flinch.
But something behind his eyes shifted.
A quiet draw of breath.
A flicker of memory.
Like an ember, still hot beneath the ash.
Lucavion's smirk lingered—untouched by tension, untouched by time. He was always like that. Wearing chaos like a coat. Wearing challenge like perfume. Unbothered. Always unbothered.
But Varen…
Varen remembered.
Not the outcome of their match.
Not the crowd.
Not even the final clash that split the arena's platform.
What he remembered—
Was how he had fought.
Back then—
His sword had not been clean.
Not refined.
It had howled.
He had howled.
Internally, of course. Outwardly, his grip had been firm. His footwork impeccable. The crowd whispered of his technique, of how the Silver Flame's heir had burned brighter than ever before.
But they hadn't felt it.
Not the way Lucavion did.
They didn't feel how the fire had scorched, not warmed.
Didn't see how the blade trembled—not with excitement, but with resentment.
Didn't sense how every step, every motion, carried the ghost of a woman with silver eyes and venom behind her smile.
Lira.
He'd fought Lucavion with her in his lungs.
Not as a rival.
As an exorcism.
And that had been the mistake.
'I was trying to win,' Varen thought now, the thought cool and quiet in his chest. 'But I wasn't fighting him. I was fighting her.'
He remembered it all too clearly.
The way his dragon flames had flared too high. Too unstable.
The way Lucavion had dodged—not out of fear, but like a man watching a storm unravel itself.
That grin. That damn grin.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… curious.
Like he was learning something from him.
Even while being nearly overwhelmed.
It had infuriated Varen.
Back then.
He hadn't understood it.
But now…
Now, he looked at Lucavion and saw not the smirk.
He saw the one man in that entire arena who hadn't flinched—
Not at the power, not at the flames, not at the anger.
Lucavion had seen through him.
And instead of recoiling—he'd stepped closer.
"Your fire's louder than your footwork," Lucavion had teased back then.
"Want to talk about it?"
As if the fight had been a conversation.
As if Varen hadn't been trying to break him.
He didn't reply now. Not yet.
Just studied the man in front of him.
Lucavion, ever unarmored, wore no coat of legacy. No sect's crest. No polished weight of nobility. And yet—
He still stood there. Calm. Ready. Dangerous.
And Varen?
And Varen?
He had changed.
Not all at once. Not with revelation or ceremony.
But—
Bit by bit.
Strike by strike.
In the days following that battle, he'd told himself it was just another duel. Another notch. Another record to be corrected.
But in truth—
He'd known.
He knew the moment Lucavion stepped through his flames unshaken. Knew the moment their blades crossed, not as weapons—but as philosophies.
That man.
That damned man.
With his erratic footwork. With his unorthodox stance. With that estoc that didn't flow like a knight's—but danced like it had a will of its own. Lucavion hadn't just fought him—
He had ignited something.
Varen hadn't wanted to name it at the time. Hadn't understood it, not fully. It wasn't rage. It wasn't rivalry.
It was…
Fire.
Not the silver-red blaze that bled from his mana core.
No.
It was the older fire.
The deeper one.
The fire of the sword.
The one he'd tried to bury beneath duty.
Beneath inheritance.
Beneath Lira.
For so long, he'd fought because it was his role. Because he had to. Because the Silver Flame needed its heir, its prodigy, its shield.
But Lucavion—
Lucavion hadn't fought out of obligation.
He had fought because he wanted to.
And that… had cracked something in Varen.
He didn't know it at the time.
Not when he left the arena.
Not even when he returned to the compound and burned through his usual forms for hours without pause.
But days later, in the middle of the night, when he stood alone in the snow-covered courtyard, sword in hand, breath heavy, his muscles aching—
He realized.
He missed it.
The thrill. The pulse. The unknown.
Lucavion had dragged it out of him.
Not with arrogance.
But with possibility.
Since that day, Varen had trained differently. Not just longer—truer.
He had been sharpening more than steel.
He had been reforging himself.
His footwork shifted. His grip changed. His entire style began to adapt—leaner, faster, more instinctual. Less about perfection. More about feeling.
Every form was now haunted by that match.
Every shadowed swing held Lucavion's phantom grin.
Every clash he imagined ended with that same insolent voice:
"Want to talk about it?"
And when he had seen that broadcast—
That ridiculous, chaotic entrance exam for the commoners—
That final moment when Lucavion stood at the center of the frame, black coat torn, estoc balanced lazily over his shoulder—
Varen smiled.
Not out of mockery.
But because he knew.
He knew Lucavion was coming.
He knew their paths would cross again.
And this time—
It wouldn't be a battle with ghosts.
It would be real.
A test.
Of blades. Of fire. Of selves.
And Varen…..
Varen looked forward to it.
And then the banquet happened.
And, of course, Lucavion did what he was best at.
Not drawing attention—no, that would imply intention. Lucavion didn't seek the spotlight.
He bent it.
Effortlessly. Inescapably.
In any space he entered, Lucavion made sure the rules got rewritten. Subtly. Quietly. Sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with a flick of that maddeningly unbothered wrist.
But always with impact.
This time?
He antagonized the prince.
Lucien Lysandra.
The Empire's golden heir.
The one even Varen, for all his lineage and power, tread carefully around.
Not out of fear.
Out of caution.
Lucien wasn't like the others.
Lucien was cold. Surgical. Brilliant.
A strategist with an aura of ice and an empire's patience.
And underneath it all—something worse.
'He doesn't burn like we do. He doesn't rage. He calculates.'
'Every word, every breath, every glance—measured. As if we're already part of a game he started years ago.'
Which is why no one ever baited him publicly.
Except Lucavion.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't spit insults.
He just… spoke.
Said something too casual.
Something that danced right past civility and dipped a toe in provocation.
And Lucien paused.
Just a fraction of a second.
And in that moment—
Everything shifted.
The room didn't react, not aloud. But Varen could feel it.
The way the air grew thinner. The way nobles subtly turned their shoulders, lips pressed tight.
The way Rowen was about to act.
'He did it. He actually did it.'
Lucavion, in his sharp black coat and insufferable confidence, had done what no one else dared.
He mocked a storm and smiled at the thunder.
And well, Lucavion was alone….
And then—
Valeria approached.
Varen's eyes followed her, instinctively.
Not out of possessiveness—he wasn't that kind of man.
But out of respect.
She moved like she fought—clean lines, grounded presence, no wasted motion.
There was weight in her stride, purpose in her gaze.
'Still the same fire from the tournament.'
He remembered their match.
The stubbornness in her eyes.
The way she refused to yield, even as her body wore down.
She wasn't like the others.
She didn't cling to titles.
She carried them.
And she was strong.
Not just in aura.
In spirit.
'She deserved to be on that stage. And she'll be there again. I believe that.'
Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen….
A duel where Varen's hands became itchy again….
Chapter 846: Varen (3)
Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen.
And Varen's hands—
They began to itch again.
That familiar pulse. Not quite adrenaline. Not quite memory.
Something older. Hungrier.
'Sword resonance…'
The moment they stepped into that ring, something in him stilled—and something else accelerated.
First, Rowen.
He deserved it. The attention. The weight. The fear.
Rowen Drayke wasn't just the Tower's golden tactician, the scion of military brilliance.
He was Varen's rival.
Always had been.
The Drakovs and the Draykes—rivals by blood, by tradition, by some ancient wound no one dared put into words.
And yet—
Varen had never hated Rowen.
Because Rowen was the only one who understood what it meant to wield power while trying to stay precise.
Because Rowen—
Rowen could use resonance.
Just like him.
After all, Varen had not been staying idle in all that time…
That rare, whispered state where the sword and the soul aligned. Where the blade didn't respond to your grip—but to your will.
And as Varen watched Rowen shift into form, shoulders loose but coiled, eyes narrowing with that assassin's calm—
He felt it.
'He's syncing again. Good. He hasn't dulled.'
But as familiar as Rowen's tempo was—
As clean and honed as his strikes became—
Varen's gaze drifted.
To the one that mattered more in this moment.
Lucavion.
The wild card. The unknown. The storm in a coat of shadows.
Where had he reached?
'Was he still the same man who clashed with me all these months ago?'
'Or… did he evolve?'
The question beat in his chest faster than his breath.
And Lucavion—
Gods.
He did not disappoint.
He walked into that arena like he didn't belong—and yet owned it all the same.
No sect badge. No noble weight. No fanfare.
Just his estoc.
And that maddening way of holding it—
Like it was both sword and question.
He moved with no formal discipline.
No sequence.
No rhythm that any academy could recognize.
But that was the beauty of it.
Because—
Lucavion didn't dance around the sword.
He made it sing.
Every swing wasn't polished.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was alive.
Fluid when it needed to be. Abrupt when it wanted to.
Like watching wind decide to cut.
'This isn't just technique,' Varen thought, hand unconsciously drifting toward his hip. 'It's… instinct. No. It's philosophy.'
Every movement reminded Varen of their clash.
That one chaotic duel, back when Varen's fire burned too recklessly and Lucavion simply listened to it—only to sidestep and grin.
And that was why—
Now he stood before him.
Varen Drakov.
Face to face with the man who'd haunted every training session since that tournament.
Lucavion.
Still leaning like he had nowhere to be. Still watching the world like it was a performance put on just to amuse him. Still carrying that damn estoc like it was both burden and companion.
And as Varen looked into those eyes—
He saw it.
The same spark.
Unfazed. Undiminished.
Sure, Lucavion looked older now. More worn around the edges. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, a sharper set to his jaw, and a scar just brushing his collar that hadn't been there before.
He'd matured. Slightly.
Roughened.
But not tamed.
Not even close.
Because when Varen stared into those eyes, he still saw the same thing that made his hands itch and his heart race:
That infuriating, intoxicating unpredictability.
The kind that didn't announce danger with rage or declarations—
But with a grin.
Lucavion tilted his head just slightly, as if the silence amused him more than any speech could.
And then, with that same maddening nonchalance—
"Still the same face?" he murmured, low enough for only Varen to hear. "Wonder where that fieriness comes from. Certainly not expression."
The same tone.
From the tournament.
It hit like a memory kicked out of its grave.
And Varen—
He actually cracked a smile.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer.
A genuine, slow smile.
"…Still the same as ever," he said quietly.
Lucavion's eyes gleamed with that insolent, boyish confidence.
"Heh. I am me."
Of course he was.
But then—
Then Lucavion's gaze shifted. Deepened.
For a beat, the mischief dulled.
He looked at Varen. Really looked.
And the grin faded just a touch.
"But…" he said, softer now. "You've changed."
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't even surprise.
Just recognition.
Like two men comparing scars neither had shown the world yet.
Varen's smile didn't falter. But something behind it stirred.
'He sees it.'
Lucavion didn't know the hours Varen had trained under falling snow. The way he'd broken form just to build it back sharper. The way he'd stopped chasing the flames everyone expected—and started chasing the ones that belonged to him.
And yet—
He saw it anyway.
That was the part that always got under Varen's skin.
Lucavion never tried to pry.
He just understood.
"I had to," Varen said finally, his voice low, steady. "The last time we crossed blades… you made sure I couldn't stay the same."
Lucavion's expression shifted again. Not to smugness. Not to pride.
But to something else.
Something… quieter.
He didn't bask in Varen's words. Didn't straighten his back or wear it like an accolade.
Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, his voice barely above a whisper—
"I didn't do anything."
Varen blinked.
Lucavion's gaze didn't waver.
"At that time, I was just there to clash swords," he said. "That was all. I wasn't trying to teach. Or change. Or… light any fires."
He looked off for a beat, eyes catching the flicker of chandeliers above. The quiet laughter of nobles echoing faintly across the hall.
"I just swung," he added, simple. Honest. "You're the one who did something with it."
There was no false modesty in his tone.
Just a shrugging kind of truth.
Like someone describing weather.
A storm that happened to pass through.
Varen looked at him.
Really looked.
And then—
He snorted. Loud enough for Lucavion to hear.
Quiet enough to make it personal.
"Tch. You're unbelievable."
Lucavion's brows lifted. "What?"
Varen exhaled, half-laugh, half-grunt.
"…Whatever."
He turned his head slightly, gaze sweeping across the ballroom—not in panic or paranoia, but with that sharpened awareness that had been drilled into him since childhood.
And sure enough—
The stares were there.
Subtle. Layered.
Nobles pretending to sip from crystal glasses while angling themselves just enough to watch. Whispered exchanges tucked beneath polite laughter. Glances from tower officers, from high-blood scions, from political opportunists who understood what standing near Lucavion meant now.
Not just proximity to chaos.
But defiance.
Because Lucavion hadn't just challenged the Crown Prince with his words.
He had done it with ease.
With audacity.
And now, here Varen stood. Speaking with him. Not out of necessity. Not out of diplomacy.
Just… talking.
To Lucavion.
Which made him complicit in their eyes.
But did he care?
He turned back to face Lucavion, his expression unreadable for a long second.
Then—
He scoffed.
'Let them stare.'
The Drakovs were never with the Crown Prince's faction anyway.
Not since the last purge. Not since the silence between their families had grown too wide to cross with pleasantries.
They had the Silver Flame Sect.
They had their own network.
Their own power.
Varen's jaw flexed, just once, as if to show his relaxation.
Then he shifted.
Only slightly. Just enough that his voice could drop without being overheard. Just enough that the space between them felt… real. Not ballroom. Not theatre. Just two swordsmen at a distance no blade could cleanly swing.
His eyes narrowed—not with judgment.
With intent.
"When you blocked Rowen's strike," Varen said, voice low, edged with something quieter than awe but sharper than curiosity. "That last one. The [Veilpiercer Spiral]."
A beat.
His fingers twitched at his side. The phantom of a grip. The memory of a swing.
"You shouldn't have been able to."Not with that stance. Not with that delay. Not with—"Your center was wide open. Your footwork was all wrong."
He looked at Lucavion now. Truly looked.
And not just like a rival. Like a student.
"…So how did you do it?"
Chapter 847: Three swordsman ?
Lucavion didn't answer right away.
Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
He just watched Varen.
Not with surprise.
Not even amusement.
Just that calm, sharp attention he reserved for the rare moments someone said something that actually mattered.
The chandelier light above them caught in Lucavion's eyes, refracted—cold silver threaded with ember.
And Varen—
He saw it again.
That flash.
That moment.
The instant in the duel where time didn't bend, but yielded. Where Rowen's [Veilpiercer Spiral]—a strike forged through perfect sequence, frame-tight momentum, and lethal precision—should have torn Lucavion apart.
But hadn't.
Lucavion had blocked it.
With wrong footwork.
With an off-angle parry.
With a position that defied every fundamental Varen had trained for fifteen years.
And it had worked.
It shouldn't have.
It shouldn't have.
There was something—fundamentally different—about that move.
It wasn't mana.
It wasn't technique.
It wasn't timing.
It was like…
'The blade didn't move the way it should. It moved the way he willed.'
Something beyond intention.
Beyond instinct.
Not randomness.
Not luck.
Command.
But not the kind that could be written. Or diagrammed. Or taught in a sect.
Varen's voice, when it came again, was quieter.
"I've tried to replicate it," he said. "Frame by frame. Breath by breath. I lined my foot the way you did. Let my hips loosen, let the torque fail. Practiced it to failure."
His eyes darkened—not with frustration. But focus.
"And every time, the sword slips wide. The stance collapses. The center breaks."
He looked at Lucavion.
Into him.
"But yours didn't."
Varen didn't expect an answer.
Not really.
If Lucavion hadn't answered on the battlefield—if he hadn't revealed it beneath the roar of the crowd and the sting of blood and steel—why would he reveal it here, beneath chandeliers and gossiping nobles?
'Still,' Varen thought, his hand tightening near his side, 'I wanted him to know that I noticed. That I saw the crack in the rhythm. The weight beneath the swing.'
And maybe—
Maybe Lucavion would just brush it off.
Or maybe—
Maybe he'd talk.
Because Lucavion was…
Unpredictable.
The kind of man who might toss a secret over his shoulder mid-yawn—or guard it like a dragon hoards gold.
And then—
Lucavion smirked.
Not wide.
Just that slow, irreverent curve that Varen knew too well.
"Why do you think I'd reveal my cards?" Lucavion said, voice almost teasing, but edged with something faintly sharper. Like he was genuinely curious what answer Varen would offer.
Varen didn't blink.
Didn't scoff.
Just gave a shrug, loose and quiet.
"No reason," he replied. "Just wanted to ask."
A pause.
Lucavion hummed.
A thoughtful sound. Low. Drawn out.
And then—
He moved.
Not a full step. Not even a swing.
Just his hand.
A shift of fingers, casual, like brushing hair out of his eyes.
Except—
Varen felt it.
Not mana.
Not pressure.
Threat.
Pure and immediate. A ripple through the space between them. The kind of invisible tension that made the body flinch before the mind understood why. There was no killing intent. No aura flare. But it was there.
Like the split second before lightning strikes and the hair on your arms rises—
Varen's breath caught.
His shoulders readjusted—barely.
Instinct.
Reaction.
Trained response.
What—?
Lucavion's smirk deepened.
And he simply said:
"Something like this."
Varen stared.
The ballroom still hummed. Nobles still laughed. Dancers still twirled in soft layers of velvet and charm.
But here—
Right here—
There was a blade unsheathed without motion. A strike without steel. A philosophy made physical for just a breath.
Varen's lips parted.
His lips parted—
But no words came.
Because there was no vocabulary for what he'd just felt.
Not yet.
The sensation was still echoing in his bones. Not pain. Not awe. Just recognition. The kind that didn't speak in answers—only questions.
Varen's eyes stayed locked on Lucavion's hand, as if watching it long enough would decode the tension in his nerves.
But it didn't.
Because what Lucavion had done—wasn't a move.
It was an imprint.
A moment that shouldn't have mattered. A twitch, a flicker. But it did. Gods, it did. It lodged itself in Varen's mind like a fragment of a technique from a dream he'd half forgotten.
'What was that…?'
It wasn't about posture. Not speed. Not force.
He could see it—
And yet he couldn't.
Like standing before a door with no handle, knowing there's something behind it, knowing it's meant to open—but not knowing what part of yourself you have to unlock first.
'If I refine my form—no, it's not form.'
'If I sync deeper with the blade—no, that's not it either.'
It wasn't refinement.
It was something… else.
Something raw. Elusive. Not hidden—just not his yet.
And in that flickering uncertainty, Varen felt something unfamiliar claw at the edge of his certainty.
Not jealousy.
Not doubt.
Hunger.
And then—
Like frost blooming across warm glass—
A presence slid into place beside them.
Stone cold.
Controlled.
Calculated.
Varen felt it before he saw him. The space near their table contracted—tightened, like a thread pulled taut.
Lucavion's eyes shifted before his body did.
And there he was.
Rowen Drayke.
Of all people.
The one person Varen hadn't expected to approach.
And yet—
He stood just a pace away, arms at his sides, back straight, face unreadable. Not clenched in anger. Not flaring with ego.
Just still.
****
Rowen didn't speak immediately.
Didn't announce himself.
He simply stood there, a blade sheathed in flesh and stillness, letting the weight of his presence be the first move.
His eyes didn't dart between the two—they lingered. Focused. Sharpened.
On Varen.
And then on Lucavion.
And back again.
So that's what this is.
He had watched the exchange. Not from the beginning, but from close enough. Close enough to feel the shift. The tension that wasn't tension. The kind of current that only two swordsmen recognized when standing too near a truth neither could name.
He hadn't expected Varen to approach Lucavion.
But now?
It made sense.
Varen was many things—a sect heir, a symbol of the Silver Flame, a living weapon honed beneath snow and fire. But above all…
He was a pursuer.
Of strength. Of clarity. Of answers buried beneath instinct and steel.
And Lucavion—
Lucavion reeked of answers no one else could give.
So that's how it happened, huh?
The reports Rowen had read came back.
Well, in fact, it was not "reports".
It was just a single report from many people, as they all reported the same thing.
He had always paid attention to Varen.
His most persistent rival.
The last man who could stand before him without flinching—and still offer correction mid-strike.
They hadn't crossed swords recently, not truly. Not since the time when Rowen himself attended a sword competition. But even in absence, Varen's name lingered. His pressure. His reputation.
And well, in the reports….came the tournament at Andelheim.
A remote gathering. Meant for status maintenance and noble theatrics.
Varen had entered. Expected to win. Polished. Sharp. Clinical.
But he hadn't.
He'd lost.
To Lucavion.
And that was the last time Varen had stood openly in the sun.
Since then, he'd retreated.
Disappeared into the compound's courtyards and sparring halls. Training harder. Cutting deeper. Altering his very form.
Rowen had noticed.
Of course he had.
And now here they were. Together. Not clashing. Talking.
He stepped forward—not with urgency. With intention.
Varen's gaze slid toward him. No alarm. No tension.
Recognition.
Rowen spoke, voice even, quiet.
"…Didn't think you'd be the one to ask him."
Varen gave a faint, dry exhale. "Didn't think I'd need permission."
Rowen's eyes didn't leave Lucavion. "Didn't say you did."
Lucavion, for his part, stayed silent. Watching. Measuring.
Rowen didn't flinch under his gaze. Didn't bristle at the grin that had so easily unmade nobles and baited emperors.
He simply said, "That block. In the duel."
Varen's jaw flexed, just once.
"You saw it too."