Chapter 856: Telling the tale ?
There was a pause.
Not silence—just the breathless kind of stillness that followed something unexpected. Like dust suspended midair, waiting to fall.
Then came the next voice—older, female, Arcanis-born by the lilt in her vowels. Dressed in ivory silks and jeweled cuffs, her eyes flicked toward Valeria with a blend of curiosity and lightly veiled concern.
"You went alone?" she repeated, voice more incredulous than accusatory. "To Andelheim?"
Valeria nodded once. "Yes."
"But surely you brought at least a guard—an escort?" another noblewoman asked, frowning, her expression tightening in quiet disbelief. "Even for someone of your standing, traveling that far alone… that's hardly safe."
"It's the outer-east," someone murmured. "Marquis Vendor governs, yes—but the borders aren't without risk. Especially for a noblewoman."
A ripple moved through the group. Several heads nodded, especially among the young noblewomen. Whispers of concern, subtle but pointed, floated like perfume through the circle.
They weren't questioning her ability—not directly.
But they were pointing to the rules they themselves were forced to live by. The expectations. The limitations. The unspoken bindings around their wrists in the form of titles, etiquette, lineage.
Valeria's eyes moved between them. Their worry wasn't false. But it was distant.
They had never had to go alone.
"I didn't think it was dangerous," she said simply.
One of the younger girls—a diplomat's daughter from House Aures, if Valeria remembered correctly—tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "But the roads aren't patrolled as tightly out there. And what if something had happened?"
Valeria's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Then I would have handled it."
"But still," the girl persisted, her voice more puzzled than critical, "you're the daughter of House Olarion. Surely your family wouldn't have permitted something so reckless—"
"I didn't ask," Valeria said softly.
A pause.
No sharpness in her tone. No pride, even. Just truth, quiet and unsentimental.
The noblewoman who had spoken—soft-laced and wide-eyed—lowered her gaze slightly, unsure how to respond. Across the group, a few expressions stiffened. Others turned contemplative. And a few, notably, flicked briefly toward Jesse, as if wondering whether she too was the kind of girl who didn't ask for permission.
The air shifted again. A slow breath of contrast between those who could never step outside their house without three names, two attendants, and the approval of their father's steward…
And the girl who had gone to Andelheim alone.
Not as a lady.
As a swordswoman.
One of the older noblewomen, this one from a lesser branch of House Feron, spoke next—her voice tinged with a faint, polite edge.
One of the older noblewomen, this one from a lesser branch of House Feron, stepped forward slightly. Her voice, though polished and courteous, carried an unmistakable tightness.
"Lady Olarion," she began, offering a shallow bow, "your… resolve is admirable."
The pause before the word "resolve" was short—but sharp.
Another chimed in. This one younger, draped in sky-blue silk and pinned with at least four sigils of academic merit. "Truly. I can't imagine making such a journey without a retinue. Even with training, there are matters to consider—weather, supplies, comfort."
"And maintenance," another added, with a forced chuckle. "Who packs your tents? Polishes your boots? Surely you didn't ride across the hills and streams of the outer-east in a gown?"
Laughter fluttered at the edges of her voice, light and fragile.
Valeria didn't answer. She didn't need to.
They weren't mocking her, not openly. Their tone was all wrong for that. Dainty, admiring, impressed—even deferential. But beneath the filigree, the envy curled sharp. Not because they thought her foolish.
But because they knew they couldn't do what she had done.
And perhaps, more painfully, that they would never be allowed to try.
"I've had to change gloves twice just crossing from the Academy to the outer wards," someone muttered with a rueful laugh. "Can't imagine what condition your hands must've been in after that trip."
"Gods," another sighed. "I get saddle sores in controlled patrol drills. Doing it alone? Without rest stops? I'd have turned around by day two."
"It's not just the risk," a quieter voice said, just behind a fan. "There's a certain dignity we're taught to preserve."
The word dignity hit the air like a silver pin dropped on stone. Polished. Precise. And pointed.
Valeria's expression didn't shift. Her eyes were still, her chin slightly tilted, the faintest smile touching her lips—but not with amusement.
Control.
That was what she wore now.
She didn't move to defend herself. Didn't argue. Because there was nothing to defend. The facts had already been stated. The story already shaped.
But that only made it worse for them.
Because she had said it so plainly.
Because she didn't need them to understand.
And because the life she described—stripped of embroidery, unguarded by titles, uninsulated from dirt, from decision, from danger—was one they'd only ever read about in war memoirs or watched from behind reinforced balconies.
Yet, in some dark, quiet corner of their hearts, they envied it.
The freedom of it.
The audacity.
The ownership.
"I wouldn't last a day," one girl finally confessed with a sigh, folding her arms. Her rings clinked softly against her sleeves. "Honestly. I rely on my steward to even repack my satchel."
Soft laughter broke the tension—but it was laughter laced with resignation.
Another added, more cautiously, "My uncle wouldn't let me leave the estate without three attendants and a formal petition. Even for Temple visits."
"That's true for most of us," someone murmured. "Andelheim isn't a battlefield, but it's hardly central. I suppose… we just assumed our kind didn't do that sort of thing."
Valeria's gaze narrowed.
Just slightly.
But it was enough.
That phrase—our kind doesn't do that sort of thing—echoed longer than it should have, snagging like a burr in the folds of her mind. Her posture didn't change, but there was a shift behind her eyes. A coolness. Not sharp. Not hostile. But measured. And tightening.
Because beneath the laughter, beneath the veiled awe and light envy, that line had drawn a boundary.
One she'd spent her entire life quietly dismantling.
Her mouth parted, as if to speak.
But before she could—
"Anyway," said a girl in emerald cuffs, her voice bright and sudden, slicing through the tension with a practiced smile, "I'm sure House Olarion has its own traditions. Perhaps we just need more… variety in our experiences."
Her words were smooth, but the glance she threw at the ivory-robed girl from earlier was pointed.
Another noblewoman followed suit. "Yes, absolutely. It's good for the court to be reminded that nobility doesn't have to mean detachment."
"I've always admired the old knight-tales," chimed in someone else, eyes on Valeria now. "The ones where heirs and heiresses took to the road themselves. Your story fits right in."
The tone had shifted again—graceful, diplomatic, deflecting. Whatever bite had existed moments ago was now dulled by a tide of strategic compliments. They didn't want to be on the wrong side of her attention. Not now.
Especially not when the subject hanging in the air was Lucavion.
"So, Lady Olarion," said one of the Arcanis boys gently, a tactful step back from the stir, "forgive us if we're pressing too hard, but… how did you meet him, then? Lucavion."
The question wasn't laced with gossip. It was too careful for that. Genuinely curious, perhaps, but trimmed with restraint.
Valeria's shoulders eased.
Slightly.
She let her fingers rest over the stem of her glass, cool and still.
the voice that followed wasn't framed in courtly polish or silken restraint.
It came with fire.
"Indeed, Lady Olarion?" Jesse said.
Smooth. Clear.
Too clear.
She stepped forward—not much, just enough that the shadows broke differently across her collarbone, the Lorian crest on her sleeve catching a flicker of light. Her eyes—burnished orange—settled directly on Valeria, unflinching.
"How did you meet him?" she asked again, tone light, but pointed. "After all, your relationship with Lucavion seems… quite deep, doesn't it? Surely you can give us some details."
That word.
Deep.
It wasn't an accusation.
It wasn't even a taunt.
It was a claim tossed to the center of the circle like a coin daring someone to call it false.
Around them, the group stilled—soft movements slowing, breaths quieting, fans lowering, glasses suspended mid-air. Everyone was listening now.
But Valeria?
She didn't look away.
Not once.
Not from Jesse's eyes. Not from the embers burning behind them.
Because now it was clear.
Whatever Jesse had been holding back in the quiet after the duel, whatever she had buried beneath silence and poise—
It was no longer content to sit quietly.
She wanted to know.
'This gaze…'
No, it was a little different from that…..
It wasn't just that she wanted to know.
They way Jesse was looking at her was as if…
She needed to know.
And she had chosen to ask here, in front of the others. Not in private. Not in passing.
This was deliberate.
A challenge dressed as curiosity.
Valeria's lips curved. Not in amusement. Not in victory.
In understanding.
"You're right," she said, voice low and poised. "Our connection runs deep."
Chapter 857: Friends....?
Valeria's gaze didn't falter.
But inwardly—just beneath the polished stillness—her thoughts shifted.
To Rackenshore.
The air was different there. Salt-bitten. Brushed with fog and smoke from old torches. It wasn't a place where names carried weight—only steel did. And that was exactly why she had gone.
To verify rumors. To see for herself whether the man who had slain Korvan—Korvan, a bandit-lord with a bounty older than most nobles' titles—was truly worth the breath behind his name.
What she found?
Was him.
Lucavion.
Unruly. Rough around the edges. Worn like a half-unsheathed weapon.
He didn't bow.
Didn't flatter.
Didn't even seem to care that she wore the crest of Olarion.
But when they crossed swords—
That was where she saw it.
The legitimacy. The precision. The reason Korvan fell.
He didn't best her easily. No. She would never grant that to anyone.
But he did win.
And for the first time, Valeria had met someone who didn't wield skill like a showpiece—but like breath.
He didn't chase glory. He wasn't refined.
But he was real.
She hadn't seen him again until Andelheim.
By then, she'd chosen to travel alone—left behind the shield-bearers and retainers and the always-watching eyes of court. She hadn't expected to see him again. She didn't intend to.
But he was there.
And this time, he didn't just pass through.
He stayed.
Not by force.
Not exactly.
But Lucavion had a way of folding himself into things. Not loud. Not possessive. Just present. Unapologetically.
She should've sent him away.
She didn't.
Maybe because she was tired of silence. Maybe because there was a comfort in how little he asked of her. How little he needed her to be anyone but herself.
He was infuriating at times—wandering off, challenging strangers to bouts in the early fog, rarely speaking unless it was necessary.
But when he was there—beside her at the hill's edge, or matching her pace down the vendor trails, or silently offering her half of a stolen meal like it was the most natural thing in the world—those moments had been…
Not soft.
Not gentle.
But hers.
And now, Jesse stood in front of her, voice laced with heat, asking a question that neither of them were truly prepared to answer.
Valeria took a breath. Measured. Quiet.
And she answered.
Valeria's voice came smooth and deliberate, each word steady as a polished blade.
"When I first met him," she began, "it was in Rackenshore."
A murmur ran through the gathered circle—half recognition, mostly irrelevance. After all, most nobles didn't know where that was.
"A small town," Valeria continued, "toward the empire's outer skirts. Harsh winters. Empty trade roads. Not exactly the kind of place one visits unless they have reason."
"And you had reason?" one of the Arcanis girls asked, brows raised.
Valeria's lips curved, faintly. "There were reports of bandits. A resurgence. And one name in particular—Korvan."
That name drew more than murmurs. Some froze outright. Korvan wasn't just another name in the Empire's criminal ledger—he was an old nightmare, a symbol of what happened when the Empire looked away too long.
"I went to see if the reports were true," she said. "To assess. To act, if necessary."
"And?" someone asked, leaning in. "Did you?"
Valeria paused.
"When I arrived… it was already over. The bandits were dead. Korvan among them."
"And Lucavion?" another asked.
Her eyes flicked across the group once before returning to Jesse.
"He was the one who'd done it."
A few gasps. A stilled breath or two.
"He didn't brag," Valeria went on. "Didn't even admit it, at first. Just stood there in the ash of what had been a bandit stronghold. No house sigil. No authority. Just…" Her voice slowed. "Presence."
"Oh?" Jesse said then, voice low and almost amused. "So you met him there."
"But how did that translate?" a nobleman asked. "Surely you couldn't just… accept some nameless swordsman's word on something like that."
Valeria exhaled through her nose. A slow, poised breath.
"Even from the start," she said, "he was insufferable."
A ripple of surprise moved through the circle. Valeria's tone hadn't changed. But the word landed with weight.
"He didn't respect my title. My name. My station. Not even my presence as a noble, let alone as a knight."
A chuckle here and there. But they were tentative.
"I was—" Valeria paused, as if choosing the exact weight of the next word. "—considering prosecuting him for that."
"Prosecuting him?" one of the girls echoed, wide-eyed.
Jesse, however, narrowed her eyes. Her tone was sharper now—precise.
"For just that?" she asked.
Valeria turned her head slightly, meeting her gaze directly.
"As a knight," she said, calm but firm, "it's my duty to uphold the laws."
A beat of silence.
The response was airtight. Unapologetic.
But Jesse didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
For something unspoken.
But Valeria didn't give it.
She held her ground, the way only someone who'd already fought that memory could.
And decided which parts to keep.
Valeria's voice remained composed.
But in her chest, something tightened.
"When I went to Andelheim," she continued, "I didn't register under my name."
That drew attention—real attention. A few nobles leaned in, not out of decorum, but surprise.
"I didn't use the Olarion title. I wanted to prove something… without the shield of lineage. So I went through the same process as everyone else."
She could still remember the morning air—dusty, crisp with the scent of horses and spiced grains from the merchant stalls. The vendor square had been crowded, the line coiled past the courtyard and around two gates. Even though it was the last day of registration, the queue stretched endlessly.
"I stood in line," Valeria said plainly. "Four hours."
Soft murmurs spread—disbelief, mostly. Four hours? For them, even a four-minute wait was an indignity. But Valeria wasn't recounting it for sympathy.
She was laying down facts.
"I was two away from the front," she said, "when he arrived."
Her gaze drifted slightly—not far, but just enough to conjure the memory more vividly. Lucavion's silhouette cutting through the crowd. Lazy posture. Dust on his collar. Confidence like it cost him nothing.
"He joined the queue."
A pause.
"And then bribed the officer."
Small gasps—amused, half-stifled laughter.
"He stepped past me like I wasn't there. Walked straight in."
"And you knew him already," someone noted.
"Yes," Valeria said simply.
"And he knew you?" came another voice.
Jesse, however, was the one who leaned in.
"And he taunted you, didn't he?"
Valeria's lips pressed into the thinnest line.
"Yes."
She didn't elaborate. But her eyes said enough. Jesse's own gaze sparked.
"And you couldn't do anything?"
"I didn't go as Lady Olarion. I'd have undermined the whole reason I was there if I invoked it."
"But you could've challenged him," someone offered, grinning. "Beat him one-on-one, right?"
Valeria didn't answer.
Because she didn't need to.
The silence itself was the answer.
She hadn't thought she could win.
Not then.
Not yet.
Instead—
"He followed me," she said.
Her tone was almost bemused now. As if she still couldn't quite believe it.
"Came to my side afterward. As though nothing had happened. As though we were…"
She stopped.
The word didn't come.
Not because she didn't know it—but because she didn't know if it was true.
"…Were you?" Jesse asked.
Her voice was soft. But her eyes were anything but.
Valeria's breath caught—just slightly.
She looked at Jesse.
And didn't speak.
Because for the first time in this conversation—perhaps in any conversation about him—she realized she didn't have the answer.
Friends?
Is that what they were?
Two weeks. That was all. A brief window of strange mornings, shared silences, infuriating detours, and passing glances that said more than they should.
They hadn't sworn allegiance. Hadn't fought back-to-back in war. Hadn't confessed anything.
But there had been moments.
Moments that lingered.
And yet—
Was that enough to call it friendship?
Companionship?
She could call many people companions. Fellow knights. Commanders. Strategists.
But with Lucavion, it hadn't been forged in duty.
It had been…
Unclear.
And the more she thought about it—
The more uncomfortable the word friend felt in her mouth.
Not because it was wrong.
But because it felt too simple.
Chapter 858: Lady...
Valeria still hadn't spoken.
The silence had stretched—not long, not painfully—but just enough for the weight of uncertainty to settle in the air.
She didn't look away from Jesse.
Couldn't.
Those orange eyes were relentless. Not loud. Not cruel. But exacting. They searched through her words, her breath, her hesitations—measuring not what she said, but what she didn't.
And Valeria?
She didn't have an answer.
Not one that fit.
Not one that didn't feel like a lie.
So the silence lingered.
Until—
"Oh," said one of the noblewomen, a Lady from House Vilene, tilting her head with an air of cheerful finality. "So that's how you became friends with Lucavion."
There it was.
Simple. Unquestioning. Delivered with a tone that carried no suspicion, no curiosity—only certainty.
Valeria blinked.
Her throat caught.
"Yeah…" she coughed, soft and a little too quick. "Like that."
It didn't sound convincing.
It didn't sound false, either.
Just... unfinished.
And Jesse?
She didn't move.
Didn't smirk. Didn't react like the others—who, relieved to have a clean label for something they didn't understand, were already nodding as if that explained everything.
No. Jesse stood very still.
Unblinking.
Boring into her.
Not as if she were trying to prove her wrong.
But as if she knew Valeria didn't believe it herself.
Like she was waiting.
Jesse's voice came quiet—measured. But the words rang like a knife turned gently on its edge.
"So," she said, "Miss Valeria is Mister Lucavion's friend?"
The phrasing was deliberate. Careful. Wrapped in civility, but not without bite.
Valeria hesitated. Not long. Barely more than a breath.
"…Yes," she said.
Soft. Controlled. But in the way a truth sounds when it's finally acknowledged out loud.
Jesse's lips curled—not quite a smirk. Not a grin.
Just a smile.
"Is that so?"
Her gaze didn't leave Valeria's. And in that gaze, something settled. Or perhaps… stirred.
But before anything else could be said, another voice—curious and unguarded—floated in.
"So then… what kind of person is he?"
The question was light, meant to reset the tone. But it carried genuine intrigue.
And why wouldn't it?
They had all seen Lucavion today.
The man who had stood, unflinching, before the Crown Prince. Who had moved like smoke across the arena. Who had spoken in a way no one should have—to Lucien, no less—and walked away untouched.
"He's… strange," someone else added. "Not just his demeanor, but the way he holds himself. It's like he's watching everything without letting anything in."
"There's something foreign about him," said another. "Not in blood, but in manner. Like he didn't grow up under the same rules we did."
"He acts like a charlatan," one of the older nobles offered, frowning. "But he fights like someone who's survived a war no one told us about."
"And he's smart," another girl cut in. "Quick with words. But also insufferable. I don't think I've ever seen someone so... unreadable."
They weren't mocking. Not really. If anything, there was a strange reverence in the way they spoke—like describing a creature they didn't quite believe belonged to their world.
Valeria listened quietly.
And each word felt… familiar.
Because they weren't wrong.
He was strange. Witty. Unyielding. Disruptive.
He did have a way of speaking that made you question things you'd long accepted. He refused to play by the rhythms of noble society—not because he didn't know them, but because he didn't care to follow them.
That's what she had noticed back then, too.
That oddness.
That freedom.
He was insufferable.
And yet—
She didn't mind it.
"He was like that then as well," she said softly, answering their words now. "Always half out of reach. Always saying just enough to get under your skin—but never more than he meant to."
A ripple of nods passed through the group.
Then came a voice, airy and amused: "Ah… it must be hard on Miss Valeria, then. Dealing with someone like that."
There was a pause.
And Valeria—
Her mouth curled up.
She didn't mean for it to.
She didn't even notice, at first.
It wasn't a smirk. Not a court-trained smile. Not a reaction forged from politeness or posturing.
It was something quieter.
Softer.
Like muscle memory stirred by a name.
Like remembering something without needing to speak it aloud.
Just the trace of a feeling—
The flicker of a moment—
Unbidden.
Unexplained.
But there, all the same.
******
Jesse didn't say anything right away.
She couldn't.
The voices around her had drifted off into lighter threads of conversation—court gossip, training rotations, and the subtle one-upmanship of pedigree politics—but Jesse's thoughts remained pinned to the words Valeria had just spoken. They hung there, fragile and echoing.
He was like that then as well.
Always half out of reach.
Always.
That word stuck more than any other.
She hadn't known.
Not really.
Lucavion had always been—was—an enigma. Sharp, elusive, cutting through silence like a blade through mist. But she'd assumed, maybe arrogantly, that she'd known him in ways others hadn't. That their bond, as strange and wordless as it was, had been singular.
But the way Valeria spoke of him…
Not fondly. Not longingly.
Just truthfully.
And that was worse.
Because there was a steadiness in her voice, an intimacy born not from distance, but from proximity—the kind of understanding that didn't come from titles or assigned duties, but from time.
Time spent.
Time shared.
And she knows how he speaks. Jesse could hear it now. The casual cruelty. The too-clever jabs wrapped in nonchalance. The silence that said more than anything else. She's dealt with that too.
And somehow, the image—Lucavion being himself around someone else—dug a strange ache into Jesse's ribs. Not jealousy, not yet. But the early press of something unsettled.
Because now… she was imagining it.
Lucavion, in some old Arcanis town. Standing on a broken balcony somewhere above the sea, throwing careless barbs into the wind while Valeria looked up at him with that calm, unreadable expression. A conversation held in riddles and dismissals, threaded with the kind of familiarity that didn't need explanation.
And worse—Valeria understood it.
She didn't flinch at his arrogance.
She didn't bite at his mischief.
She knew how to parse him.
Jesse had clawed her way through those moments—biting, spitting, calling him out when he got too clever for his own damn good. She'd struggled with him. Argued. Almost hit him, more than once. Because Lucavion tested her.
And now she realized: he probably tested Valeria too.
And she didn't break.
She passed.
Jesse folded her arms. The warmth of the banquet felt too tight around her throat now, like a room that had grown one size too small.
What else don't I know about you…?
Lucavion never spoke of his past. Not really. He dropped hints like traps. Let you think you'd uncovered something when really, you were dancing around the edge of some abyss he didn't want you seeing into. He gave you fragments, never the whole.
And Jesse had accepted that. Because back then, she didn't need to know him. She just needed to survive.
But now?
Chapter 859: Lady..... (2)
But now?
Now, Jesse found herself angry.
Quietly. Deeply. Unreasonably.
Not the kind of anger that boiled over and screamed. No, this was the kind that simmered low—settling in her gut like something curdled and unwanted.
It wasn't just what Valeria said.
It was what it meant.
Lucavion—her Lucavion, the one who had once stood beside her in the mud and blood and given her grit when she'd had none left—that Lucavion had been someone else's too. To this girl. This pink-haired statue of nobility. This walking heirloom of a ruined House.
Jesse had always thought herself the exception. The one person who hadn't been swept away by his riddles and masks, but who saw him. Even if she never voiced it, even if she couldn't articulate what Lucavion meant to her—what that presence, that voice, that infuriating smirk in the dead of night meant—it had been hers.
Hadn't it?
And now, she was realizing…
No.
No.
There had been others. Maybe not many. But they existed. And this one?
Valeria Olarion hadn't just known him.
She'd seen beneath him.
The thought twisted in Jesse's throat like splinters.
Her gaze lifted, searching Valeria's face, waiting for something—anything—to give her permission to despise her. A smug twitch. A knowing look. A glint of pride tucked beneath her lashes. Something Jesse could seize with her temper and flay it clean.
But then—
She saw it.
The smile.
Not the court one. Not the carefully constructed veil of civility Valeria wore like silk armor.
This one was—
Pure.
Unpracticed.
Radiant.
A brief flicker of sunlight carved into flesh and soul. It wasn't even directed at anyone. It wasn't performed. It wasn't polished.
It simply was.
A warmth that glowed, gently and without effort, across her face as she listened to someone speak—not Jesse, not even the nobles. Just… someone. Something. A memory, perhaps.
And for a heartbeat, Jesse forgot to breathe.
Because Valeria, in that moment, didn't look like a noble.
She didn't look like a rival.
She didn't even look like a girl who held a powerful name or some secret claim on Lucavion's past.
She looked human.
And beautiful.
Not in the elegant, distant way she usually was. Not like stone carved too smooth to touch.
But beautiful the way feelings are beautiful.
Alive.
Vulnerable.
It hit Jesse like a blunt force—how someone so composed, so icily controlled, could carry something so soft inside her.
And worse—how that softness had clearly been touched by Lucavion.
He made her smile like that.
Not because he tried to. Not because he wooed her.
But because something about him moved her. Reached whatever place inside that perfect façade still beat like a girl's heart instead of a duchess's duty.
Jesse looked away.
Suddenly the air felt too tight again.
The warmth of the room. The laughter. The music threading beneath glass and silver—it all dulled.
Because even if she wouldn't admit it out loud…
Some part of her hated the idea that someone else had reached Lucavion before her.
Not just known him.
But been known by him.
And yet—
That smile.
It lingered behind her eyes, mocking her.
No.
Not mocking.
Just… existing.
This—
This was worse.
Because Jesse couldn't be angry anymore.
Not really.
Not when she looked into Valeria's eyes and saw… nothing but truth. No schemes. No performance. No quiet satisfaction in stealing something Jesse had thought was hers.
There was no smugness.
No veiled triumph.
Not even that polished Arcanis self-importance that wrapped so many nobles like a second skin.
Just… memory.
Memory and a smile that was real.
It was unbearable.
And it was honest.
"Beautiful…" Cali's voice drifted beside her, soft and startled—as if the word had escaped without permission.
Several heads turned. A few others—Arcanis and Lorian alike—nodded, almost reverently.
"Truly…" murmured a girl with snow-pinned hair. "Like something out of a painting."
"That smile just now…" another added, "I didn't think she could…"
"She looked… warm," someone whispered. "I didn't know she could look warm."
Jesse didn't respond.
Couldn't.
Because she felt it too.
That fleeting glow, that almost-sacred contradiction, was burned into her sight now. The girl who had stood like marble beside them moments ago—regal, untouchable, perfect in poise—had, for a single heartbeat, cracked open.
And what shone through…
was human.
Valeria's expression was shifting back now—shoulders drawing subtly upright again, lashes lowering, mouth evening into that soft, courteous line. But the damage had been done. The image lingered.
And Jesse hated that it moved her.
"Lady Olarion," one of the boys asked suddenly, with the cautious politeness people reserved for royalty and spirits, "After Andelheim… did you ever see him again?"
The room stilled again—quiet, but attentive.
Valeria's head turned slightly, the soft pink of her hair catching in the chandelier light like dawn through frost. She met the question with a pause. Not theatrical. Not heavy. Just… honest.
"No."
She shook her head gently.
"I never heard from him again. Not until today."
The words weren't sad. They weren't bitter.
They were… resigned.
But there—
in those simple words, Jesse heard something.
Not sadness.
Not regret.
But a quiet truth that echoed too close to her own.
I never heard from him again.
Valeria had meant it plainly. But Jesse… she heard more.
She heard the same silence Lucavion left behind in her.
The same gaps between what he said and what he never would.
The same vanishing act that wasn't cruel—but was him.
If he's like this to everyone…
That thought stung at first. Like she'd been tricked into believing she was different.
But now, standing here, watching a girl like Valeria—so composed, so sharp, so hauntingly real—say it without bitterness…
She could feel the tension in her chest begin to loosen.
Not disappear.
But loosen.
Maybe…
maybe she could forgive him.
Just a little.
Forgive him for the way he left.
For the way he appeared again without explanation.
For being who he was—so completely, so unapologetically—that people like them kept trying to fill in the blanks he left behind.
Someone in the group chuckled, drawing Jesse's attention back.
"Do you remember when he dropped Rowen mid-swing with a backhand movement of sword? Didn't even break stance."
"Oh, he toyed with Rowen," someone else said.
Cali snorted. "That's generous. Rowen's avoiding mirrors."
Laughter followed. Light. Easy.
Jesse found herself smiling. Not wide. But real.
This was… fine. This conversation. This strange shared mythology around Lucavion.
They were building it together, piece by piece.
And maybe that was okay.
But then—
"Hello."
The voice came like silk pulled through wine.
Soft.
Smooth.
Unhurried.
And every person in the circle—Lorian, Arcanis, noble or soldier—turned at once.
"Would you mind," the voice continued, each word dipped in subtle grace,
"if I were to join?"
Lavender eyes.
Silky platinum hair.
Isolde.
Her presence did not demand attention—it gathered it. Like a storm cloud that hadn't rumbled yet, but could.
She moved slowly into the circle, not like someone requesting permission, but like someone offering the illusion of it.
Chapter 860: Probing...
The moment Isolde stepped into the circle, the atmosphere reshaped itself.
Not broke.
Not shifted.
Reformed.
As if every conversation, every shared breath, every gaze had simply been waiting for her.
And maybe they had.
Because this was Isolde—the fiancée of Prince Adrian. Not merely a noble, but the one tethered to the future Crown. Her rank alone placed her second only to royalty among the Lorian students. But what drew the circle in now wasn't just title. It wasn't just legacy.
It was presence.
The silk of her voice. The fluidity of her movement. The way her lavender eyes skimmed the gathering—not with judgment, not even with scrutiny, but with command.
Effortless.
The group parted without thinking. A gentle sweep of shoulders. A few murmurs. Soft nods.
"Of course," someone breathed.
"Lady Isolde… an honor—"
"Please, join us—"
Even some of the boys, who had been mocking Rowen just moments earlier, straightened their collars and adjusted their stance, as if caught out of place. One of them—an Arcanis noble with a wine glass trembling ever so slightly—blushed faintly as Isolde passed.
She smiled once.
Just once.
And it was enough.
But Jesse—
Jesse didn't smile.
She watched the unfolding with a stillness that wasn't envy, exactly. Not even dislike.
But something colder.
A disconnect.
Because while others were caught in Isolde's gravity, Jesse remained... untouched by it.
She couldn't even explain why.
Maybe it was the way Isolde's elegance felt intentional—crafted rather than discovered. Maybe it was the way her voice coiled through air like something practiced. Or maybe—maybe it was the eyes.
Those lavender eyes.
Because while they glowed, Jesse didn't see light behind them.
What Jesse saw in Isolde's eyes—
It wasn't light.
Not really.
It was a glint. A shift behind lavender irises that came and went too quickly. The kind of flicker a knife makes when it catches light from beneath velvet. Barely there. Almost imagined.
But Jesse had learned, in the war, in the quiet corners of rooms where too many powerful people said too little—that almost imagined was often the only warning you got.
So she watched.
Isolde moved with the grace of someone born under chandeliers and maps of conquest. She took no seat, made no demand—she simply stood, the center of attention without lifting a finger.
"Everyone," she said softly, nodding once to the circle. "Please don't let me interrupt."
"You honor us, Lady Isolde," someone murmured, hand to chest.
"Indeed," added a girl from House Derain. "We were just…"
But Isolde had already turned.
Her gaze met Jesse's. Not piercing. Not warm.
Measured.
"I wanted to offer my compliments," she said gently. "Your performance earlier today—it was exceptional. A proud showing for Lorian. You held the court's eye." A pause. "And mine."
Jesse dipped her head slightly. "Thank you, Lady Isolde. I'm honored."
Her tone was even. Controlled.
But inside, her thoughts curled like smoke.
What are you doing? Why are you here now?
The timing... the poise...
None of it felt accidental.
Isolde smiled again—pleasant, smooth. "May I ask what the conversation was before I arrived?"
There was no edge in her voice. Only that velvet grace that lulled others into forgetting to think too hard.
But one of the Arcanis students answered without hesitation.
"Oh! We were talking about Lucavion, Lady Isolde."
And then—
That was the moment.
Barely half a second.
Just a flicker.
But Jesse saw it.
A shift.
A change in the set of Isolde's mouth.
A faint brightening in her eyes, so subtle it might have been a trick of the candlelight catching her lashes.
Jesse narrowed her eyes.
Did I actually see it?
Or had her mind just filled in the shape it expected to find?
She'd been reading people for too long—across war tables, behind drawn curtains, in the thrum of battlefield silences. But this…
This wasn't like that.
This was a ballroom. A gathering. A place of wine and compliments and conversations too polished to trust.
And maybe—just maybe—Jesse had come in expecting to dislike Isolde.
Not just because she was Adrian's fiancée. Not just because she moved with the kind of untouched grace that didn't feel earned.
But because there was something in her that Jesse couldn't read.
And Jesse hated unreadable.
Whatever, she thought. Let her speak.
Because now—Isolde was turning toward the conversation again, her fingers loosely laced in front of her, expression calm.
"Lucavion, was it?" she asked, her voice honeyed but light, the tone of a woman unbothered by the ripple her name could send. "I see he's been a popular subject this evening."
"Well, how could he not be?" said one of the Arcanis boys—Kellen, she thought, from House Vire. "He made Rowen look like he was fencing with his own reflection."
Laughter scattered lightly again. Even Cali grinned, her earlier tension softened by wine and performance gossip.
Isolde smiled politely at the response. But then—tilted her head slightly.
"And what about him?" she asked. Not accusing. Not even curious.
Just… level. Measured.
"Well, we were just wondering," Cali answered, stepping in with a playful lilt, "what kind of person he is. You know, behind all the wit and theatrics."
Someone from behind added, "We heard he's a little… unpredictable."
"Insufferable," said a voice from the right.
"Brilliant," said another, quieter.
Isolde's lashes lowered just slightly. Her gaze didn't shift, didn't flutter. But Jesse watched the line of her mouth flatten, as if smoothing out a crease only she could feel.
Someone shifted closer in the circle—Kellen, from House Vire—his voice warm with deference and curiosity.
"Well, Lady Isolde… your judgment's sharper than most of ours. What's your impression of someone like Lucavion?"
It was a clean question.
No assumption of prior meetings.
No suggestion that she knew him.
Just a call for insight—from someone whose opinion carried weight.
Isolde's head tilted slightly. She didn't rush. She never did.
"I'd rather not say," she replied, voice light and unhurried.
A hush. Not tense—just expectant.
"Ah?" someone teased gently. "You sound like someone who knows something."
A ripple of amused chuckles. But Jesse's eyes narrowed.
Isolde smiled again—poised and unreadable.
"I just prefer not to speak too early. Especially about people who defy easy explanation."
"Defy explanation?" another asked.
She met the question with a calm nod.
"People like him tend to change shape depending on who's watching. Say too much, and you risk saying something untrue. Or worse—something you believe, that was never real to begin with."
Soft laughter followed. One of the girls sighed, dreamily.
"That's even more cryptic than he is."
"Fitting, then," Isolde said, lips gently curved.
"But if anyone knows him," came a chiming voice from one of the Arcanis girls, "it's Lady Valeria, isn't it?"
The words were light—playful, almost—but they fell like a soft stone in still water.
And just like that, the focus shifted again.
All eyes turned.
Valeria didn't flinch beneath the attention. Her posture remained immaculate—chin slightly tilted, expression composed. But her gaze… it lifted and locked.
Straight across the circle.
To Isolde.
Lavender met violet.
And for a single, stretched breath, there was no court, no music, no polite conversation.
Just the quiet weight of two names meeting.
Two legacies.
Two minds.
Jesse felt the shift even before either of them spoke.
Something quiet. Something precise. Like swords being drawn beneath velvet cloth.
Then—graceful as always—Isolde moved a half-step forward.
"My apologies," she said smoothly. "It seems I've been rude."
Chapter 861: Probing...(2)
Valeria stood still amid the shifting circle, the low murmur of voices coiling and unraveling like silk around her ankles. The air, which had felt warm only moments ago—thick with the scent of wine and flickering candlelight—now seemed cooler. Still. As though holding its breath.
Isolde.
The name had floated ahead of her, like perfume in a closed room. And now, here she stood—slender, poised, framed in the elegant halo of the chandelier above. Her hair shimmered like spun platinum, curling softly at the ends. Her gown—a deep lavender offset with silver-threaded lace—clung and fell in all the right places, modest and regal, yet impossible to ignore.
She was beautiful.
Undeniably so.
Valeria watched her with a gaze that neither narrowed nor warmed—simply studied. The girl reminded her of something carved. Not marble, like most of the court would say. No, Isolde had the softness of porcelain. A painted delicacy. Smooth lines, effortless movement. Not fragile—but composed in a way that gave the illusion of gentleness.
A doll.
That was the word that surfaced in Valeria's mind as she watched Isolde's fingers move—light and practiced as she folded them in front of her. As if the world was something she'd been trained to hold, and would never drop.
And everyone else felt it too.
They leaned in. Smiled wider. Even the tension in the more unruly nobles lessened, their posture unconsciously shifting to accommodate the presence that had graced them.
Valeria didn't feel threatened.
Not in the way Jesse made her feel. Jesse had storm-wind in her. Unpredictable. Crackling. A step too close to shatter. But this girl?
This girl felt… clean.
Too clean.
Valeria had noticed her when she entered—of course she had. One did not ignore the future Princess of the Empire. And even then, before a single word had been exchanged, a part of her had thought:
Beautiful.
But now, as Isolde's voice brushed the air like velvet ribbon, as she deflected and defused with the same grace as a court-trained blade… Valeria felt something unfamiliar twitch beneath her skin.
It wasn't suspicion.
It was…
Recognition.
When Isolde spoke of Lucavion—people who defy easy explanation… who change depending on who's watching…—Valeria felt her fingers flex slightly against the stem of her glass.
The words were elegant. Safe. And yet—
They echoed.
Too specifically.
Too precisely.
And for a moment, she felt it again—that same sensation she had felt from Jesse not ten minutes prior.
That subtle flicker. The silent code between tones. As if what was being said wasn't quite the message—but the rhythm beneath it.
She knows him.
The thought came unbidden.
And she hated that it did.
Valeria had no reason to believe it. No tangible proof. But her instincts—sharp as they had ever been on the battlefield—tightened in her chest like a cinched strap.
She had lived through that strange rhythm before. In Andelheim. In the quiet between Lucavion's words. In the long hours spent not knowing what he would say next—or what he already knew and simply chose not to reveal.
And that rhythm… it was here again.
Draped in lavender and lace.
"I just prefer not to speak too early," Isolde had said. "Especially about people who defy easy explanation."
Why would you say that?
Not how she said it.
Why.
It wasn't the words themselves. It was the cadence. The weight she'd given to them. Valeria had lived long enough at court to know when someone was speaking for the room… and when they were speaking for themselves.
Isolde stepped closer, and the ambient chatter dimmed as if the room itself adjusted to accommodate her. Her movements were slow, smooth—each step purposeful without feeling deliberate. The effect was uncanny, like watching a dancer float into position rather than a noblewoman enter a conversation.
Then—at last—her lavender gaze settled fully on Valeria.
And she spoke.
"My apologies," she said gently, folding her hands once more in front of her. "It seems I've been rude. I joined without offering proper greeting to the honored guests." A slight dip of her head. "Especially to you, Lady Olarion."
Valeria studied her a heartbeat longer, weighing tone against expression.
There was no mockery. No insincerity.
Just refinement—refinement so cleanly drawn that it left no smudges behind. A courtesy sharp enough to cut, though never openly.
Valeria inclined her head in return, her voice cool and composed. "There's no need for apology. We're your guests. I should be the one offering mine."
Isolde raised a brow, just faintly. "Offering yours?"
"I've not been to Lorian before," Valeria said. "And I've not always followed your customs perfectly. For that, I extend my regret."
A pause.
Then—Isolde smiled.
Soft. Precise. Almost… admiring.
"Honorable," she said, as though the word had texture. "That is what I've always heard of Valeria Olarion."
Valeria tilted her head slightly, unsure whether to accept it as compliment or observation. Perhaps both.
"That is what I strive to uphold," she answered evenly. "In name and deed."
Isolde's smile held, unbroken.
"I see."
There was a beat of stillness between them. A quiet space filled only with the ambient sounds of distant conversation and clinking glasses. Yet the center of the circle had already shifted, drawn magnetically to where the two stood—two legacies colliding like threads stitched into the same tapestry from opposite corners.
Then—at last—Isolde spoke again, voice smooth as drawn silk.
"Isolde Valoria," she said formally. "Heir to House Valoria of the Lorian Dukedom. And…" Her eyes didn't flicker. Her smile didn't change. "Betrothed to Prince Adrian."
The words were not boastful. They didn't need to be.
They simply landed with the weight they carried.
And Valeria, ever poised, nodded once.
"Valeria of House Olarion," she replied, voice low and clear. "Knighted under the Silver Order."
There was no shift in her posture—but she extended her hand.
Palm up.
Respectful. Formal. A gesture of knightly courtesy, extended to a peer.
Isolde's gaze dropped, just briefly, to the offered hand.
Then she stepped forward and took it.
Isolde's hand met hers.
Cool.
No—cold.
Not the simple chill of a room left under-serviced, or the brief coldness of a noble whose warmth was reserved only for show. This was something else.
Valeria noticed it immediately.
The temperature of her fingers—too low for someone so composed, so poised beneath chandelier heat and candlelight—felt like frost kissed beneath silk. The kind of cold that lingered. Quiet. Clinical.
Like an illness that had never fully left.
And yet—there was no tremor. No weakness.
No sign that the girl before her felt it.
The grip was light, but firm. Isolde's posture unbroken, her eyes calm and unwavering. Her skin might have been cold—but her presence wasn't. There was no fragility in her touch. Only precision.
No hesitation.
Valeria's knight-trained instincts, honed sharp and quiet across a decade of command and steel, caught something odd in the contrast. The strange dissonance of a body that moved like a dancer, spoke like a diplomat… and felt like marble.
But she said nothing.
The handshake ended.
And just like that, the moment passed—though the cold remained against her palm like the ghost of pressure.
Isolde drifted back into the circle with the kind of practiced smoothness that made it feel unintrusive. She didn't demand space—people gave it to her. She didn't interrupt—she folded seamlessly into whatever conversation the room wanted to have.
And then she steered it.
A single smile.
A single glance.
That was all it took.
"Earlier," Isolde said, voice light as velvet string, "it was mentioned that Mister Lucavion shares a rather… unique rapport with Lady Valeria."
Chapter 862: Probing....(3)
"Earlier," Isolde said, voice light as velvet string, "it was mentioned that Mister Lucavion shares a rather… unique rapport with Lady Valeria."
The words were carefully chosen. Dipped in courtesy, but placed with intention. And though her tone bore no overt pressure, the shift was palpable. A turn of the tide within a polished sea.
Valeria felt the air draw inward again—like the ballroom itself paused to listen.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, her head tilted, just slightly.
Composed.
Controlled.
Predictable movements—because if there was one thing Valeria had learned among nobles, it was that stillness could carry more force than words.
"Yes," she said, her voice even. "We met during a tournament in Andelheim."
A pause followed.
Brief. Subtle.
But noticeable enough that even the softer clinks of wine glasses seemed to quiet.
Isolde's head tilted gently to one side, her lavender gaze curious. "Andelheim… I'm afraid I don't know it. A city within the Empire?"
Before Valeria could respond, another voice—confident, almost too eager—spoke up from the side.
"It's the capital of the Vendor Territory," said Lord Emeran of House Durell, a young man whose family specialized in land logistics and fealty trade across the middle provinces. "Far west. It was under provisional governance until last winter. Now it answers directly to the Marquis."
"Ah," Isolde said, nodding faintly. "Marquis Vendor."
Her tone was calm, but the name didn't land idly.
Someone else caught the moment too.
"You know of him?" one of the court ladies asked, slightly surprised. "He's been getting famous only recently."
Isolde offered a soft smile. "Titles travel faster than people. Especially when tied to new influence."
Another pause.
Then someone else murmured, "He's been getting quite a bit of attention lately. His holdings are stabilizing faster than projected. And some of his proposals—"
"—are being cited in court debates," finished another.
Isolde's eyes stayed on Valeria, even as the low chatter rippled briefly around them.
"So," she said gently, "you met Lucavion there?"
"Yes," Valeria replied, her voice steady.
Simple. Confirmed.
And yet… that was the third time she'd said it tonight.
She met him there.
Each time, it changed.
Each time, it echoed differently depending on who was asking.
"You mentioned a tournament?" Isolde continued, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "He doesn't strike me as the type to participate in formal contests."
"You mentioned a tournament?" Isolde continued, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "He doesn't strike me as the type to participate in formal contests."
Valeria's gaze didn't shift, but her posture adjusted slightly.
"What does Lady Isolde mean by that?" she asked.
The question was posed lightly—no sharpness, no accusation. But it landed with unmistakable precision. Enough to still the surrounding voices again, just slightly. Enough to turn curiosity back into attention.
Isolde didn't answer right away.
Instead, her eyes drifted.
Just a glance.
Over Valeria's shoulder, toward the edge of the ballroom—where, sure enough, Lucavion stood alone.
He wasn't postured for company. Wasn't preening for attention. His stance was relaxed, one hand resting lazily against the rim of a decanter table, the other casually lifting a glass toward his lips. Watching. Not lingering. Not engaged.
Simply present.
As if the room were happening around him, and not to him.
Isolde's gaze lingered for a moment longer, then slipped back to Valeria.
"He seems rather…" she said softly, "free-spirited."
A ripple of quiet amusement stirred the circle again. Not laughter. But interest.
Valeria, however, didn't smile.
"That is correct," she replied evenly. "But he is not one to shy away from any competition."
Her tone was polished steel. Not sharp—but polished enough that the reflection showed intent.
Isolde's brow lifted the smallest degree. "Is that so?"
"Yes," Valeria answered.
No embellishment.
Just the truth—delivered in full armor.
Isolde held her gaze. "Then perhaps I misjudged him."
"Perhaps," Valeria said, with equal poise. "Or perhaps you simply haven't seen the right kind of contest."
A quiet murmur passed between two of the nearby nobles, though they quickly masked it in sips of wine.
Isolde's lips curled—delicately. Not a full smile. Not concession.
But the kind of acknowledgment one gave to a move well-played.
"Then I hope," Isolde said, "that I will have the chance to observe him in such a setting."
Valeria didn't miss a beat.
She shook her head, slowly. Once.
"You would rather not," she said.
The words were calm—polite even. But they settled over the group with a peculiar finality, like frost drawn across glass.
Isolde's brows rose slightly, curious. "No?"
Valeria's voice dropped by a breath.
"When he holds a sword," she said, "he isn't the man you saw earlier. He's not just bold or unruly or free-spirited."
She paused. Just long enough for tension to draw itself in again.
"He's like a demon."
That landed.
The murmurs returned, softer this time, tinged with something else—intrigue, yes. But also wariness.
Valeria tilted her head slightly. "That's why the name followed him. Sword Demon."
And with that, something shifted.
Recognition flashed in one of the younger nobles—a boy from House Alborne, who straightened with a sudden gasp of memory. "Wait—that's him?"
Others turned.
"You mean the one who fought Reynard Vale in the entrance duels?"
"That match was broadcast to half the region—"
"Didn't he beat Vale who was using artifacts and strange powers?"
"Yeah," someone else muttered.
Valeria said nothing.
She didn't need to.
Because now the tide was moving without her.
"His popularity exploded after that," said Lady Rynn, folding her fan with a soft snap. "The nobles were confused at first—no pedigree, no recommendation seal—but the commoners were calling his name like he was some returning war hero."
"And then Andelheim," another said. "It wasn't even the formal duels. Just... the stories. The way people talked about him. Like a ghost walking among soldiers."
"The Sword Demon of the Western Outlands," someone recited.
"Terrifying, isn't it?" a man said, half-laughing. "To think that name belongs to that man. Just standing over there like he hasn't broken a spine or two."
"Yep."
Isolde listened to the hum of recollections and rising recognition with a poised stillness. The threads of Lucavion's reputation were weaving themselves into full color now—rumors turning to confirmation, myth hardening into memory. And all of it rooted, quite clearly, in him.
She let the voices finish. Let the stories breathe.
Then she smiled.
Soft. Curved like the edge of a sealed envelope. Not warm, exactly—but attentive.
"So," Isolde said lightly, "Lady Valeria has stood beside such a man."
Valeria's gaze didn't shift.
"Yes."
Simple. Unshaken.
Isolde tilted her head, just a little. A strand of pale hair slipped against her collarbone, catching the chandelier's light.
"I see…" she murmured. Her tone carried no judgment. No surprise. Just a steady quiet. "I suppose that explains why you went to his side… even after he made a rather peculiar scene."
Another stir among the nobles. Some amused. Some cautious.
Valeria didn't look away. Didn't smile.
"That is correct," she said, tone as composed as glass held at the edge of heat. "Since he is someone I'm close to."
A beat.
And then Isolde repeated, almost curiously, "Oh… Close to…"
Valeria's voice stayed level.
"Yes. Close to."
No hesitance. No inflection. But enough weight to make it land. The circle quieted again, as if the word itself had more shape than they expected.
Isolde's expression didn't shift.
She didn't raise a brow. Didn't press.
Instead, she let the silence stretch.
Then—very gently—she nodded.
"I see…"
And then came the softest curl of a smile.
"As a lady knight like yourself," Isolde said, "I would love to say that… it's quite fitting of you."
The words floated on the surface, sweetly composed.
But Valeria—trained not only in swordplay but in speech, in gesture, in the thousand masks of diplomacy—heard the second blade beneath it. The unsaid.
She stood in that silence, watching Isolde with the same clarity one might watch the first snow fall during a ceasefire.
And replied with the faintest smile of her own.
"Thank you," she said.
Chapter 863: Probing... (4)
The ripple of conversation that followed eased the tension—though not completely. Courtiers shifted subtly back into their patterns, the exchange between Valeria and Isolde having been dissected and reassembled in the time it took for a hand to lift a wineglass. There were a few light laughs. A return to chatter.
But that silence between them—the one born not of awkwardness, but of understanding—remained.
Valeria took another breath. Not tired. Not disarmed.
Simply ready.
She turned slightly, just enough to address the cluster surrounding her. "If you'll excuse me," she said with a slight nod, "I should see to some of the other houses before the hour grows late."
Gracious. Detached. Unassailable.
There were nods in return. Courteous bows. One or two murmured well-wishes and compliments. The circle began to loosen.
But before Valeria could fully step away, a softer voice followed at her side.
"Then I shall take my leave as well," Isolde said, folding her hands with impeccable grace. "Standing too long in one place tends to invite… assumptions."
Her smile was polite. Still.
But her eyes held a shimmer of calculation—sharp and sweet as chilled wine.
Valeria met her gaze for one final moment. And with that same composed expression—one forged from a thousand palace hallways and one too many battlefield dawns—she inclined her head.
"Then I'll leave you to it," she said. "Lady Isolde."
Isolde returned the gesture. "Lady Valeria."
And just like that, they parted.
Not coldly.
Not as rivals.
But as two figures who had seen each other clearly—and chosen, for now, to let the curtain fall between acts.
Valeria's footsteps were quiet against the polished floor. Her poise unshaken. She didn't look back.
And neither did Isolde.
*****
The chandeliers burned lower now, their crystal arms casting gold-tinted halos onto velvet carpets and polished marble. The banquet had softened—no longer sharp with announcements and spectacle, but warm with wine and carefully measured laughter.
At the far end of the grand hall, near a half-curved balcony veiled by dusk-blue curtains, Lucien stood among them.
His faction.
The nobles.
The real ones.
The ones who hadn't flinched when the room turned volatile. The ones who knew how to smile through blood and lace. The ones who, even in the face of tonight's disruptions, had never doubted whose shadow they served beneath.
They stood loosely in a crescent around him—cloaked in silks, embroidered coats, and quiet arrogance.
Marquis Teran's heir, Dain—tall, bronze-haired, and built like a marble statue someone had given a sword and too many chances to win.
Elaris Vonte, daughter of Countess Vonte, all pearls and venom. Her laugh could gut a debutante and still sound charming.
And then there was Allaire Montclaire, heir to the southern earldom, whose honeyed voice always found the precise balance between adoration and suggestion.
More filled in the circle. Five. Then eight. Then ten. Nobles of all ranks, gilded by birth, each carrying the pride of centuries in their names.
Lucien, of course, didn't command the conversation.
He simply stood there.
And it bent to him.
"Your Highness handled that display earlier with remarkable restraint," Allaire said, her hand gently resting on the stem of her crystal goblet. "Truly. I don't think I would've had the poise."
Lucien offered her a smile—just enough curve to show favor, just enough cold behind his eyes to keep her guessing.
"Poise," he said, "is often just knowing where the blade should land—and when."
That drew soft laughter from a few of them. Dain raised his glass.
"Well said, Your Highness."
"And frankly," Elaris cut in, eyes gleaming beneath lashes thick with powder, "I think it only made your authority shine brighter. Let them talk about theatrics. Anyone with blood worth counting knows who stood tallest tonight."
A few of the younger ones murmured agreement, eyes flicking between Lucien and each other, chasing the comfort of consensus.
Then the topic shifted.
As it always did.
To the Academy.
And what came next.
"We'll need to be more assertive this term," Dain said, eyes narrowing. "Some of the lesser houses are grouping with foreigners. The Lorian delegation in particular… They're not just here to observe. Everyone can see that now."
"Let them gather," Allaire said with a dismissive flick of her fingers. "They don't have the infrastructure. Not like us."
"But if they start aligning with our outliers…" Elaris's voice trailed off, loaded with implication.
Lucien let the wine swirl slowly in his glass, his gaze drifting—not inattentively, but with that deliberate slowness of someone who already knew what he would see.
The conversation had taken its turn. As it always did.
From power, to plans, to politics.
And now—
To Lorian.
It began as a passing glance. A shared murmur among the circle. And then all at once, their focus shifted.
Across the banquet hall, where the music curled gently through low conversation and velvet drapes, there was a subtle convergence. A quiet pull of attention.
Not because of a spectacle.
But because of a pair of women seated together, like pearls set apart on a darker cloth.
One with hair the color of snow-reflected moonlight, skin fair as frost, and lavender eyes that shimmered without need for expression. Isolde Valoria. Lucien's gaze lingered on her just a beat longer than most. Not because of vanity—but calculation.
She was not simply beautiful. She was elegant in that detached, quietly terrifying way that made men lean forward while wondering if they were already bleeding.
He'd seen her file.
One of the sharpest minds among the Lorian delegation. Said to have turned three noble houses into vassals before her sixteenth year, not with blood, but with favor. And threats implied so delicately, they tasted like compliments.
The perfect diplomat.
The kind of woman who wore her country like silk and steel both.
The kind who could smile in a court and have a duke executed two rooms away.
'She'll rise,' Lucien thought, tilting his glass slightly. 'If she hasn't already.'
And beside her—
The pink-haired one.
Ah. That one.
Valeria Olarion.
No title echoed too loudly yet. No string of victories or storied family prestige to shout her name through the marble of court.
But still—
There she was.
Eyes like deep violets under glass. Lips relaxed into a faint curve that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite a warning. A woman who, by every rule of Arcanis, should have been politely overlooked.
But still—
There she was.
Eyes like deep violets under glass. Lips relaxed into a faint curve that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite a warning.
A woman whose name had begun surfacing lately with increasing frequency—not in fanfare or scandal, but through the quietly dangerous channels of intelligence briefings and noble gossip.
Valeria Olarion.
Olarion—a name most in the upper court had long associated with soft harvests and border trade. Useful, but unremarkable.
Until recently.
It began with a report. Then two. Then a flood of murmurs from the provinces. The Marquis Vendor's name had been attached—always at the periphery, always cloaked in duty—but the center was unmistakable.
Valeria.
Moving with precise obedience, prosecuting nobles who had overstepped, rerouting assets with technical legality, delivering decrees with a cold, meticulous grace that left seasoned councilors stunned silent. She didn't act like a baron's daughter. She acted like a scalpel.
And now—
She was on his floor. In his Academy. And had chosen, of all people, Lucavion.
Lucien's jaw tensed—barely—but Elaris, as ever, noticed.
She leaned in, voice like a silken coil tightening behind his ear.
"You've heard about her, haven't you?" Her tone was amused, but there was something darker nestled in its folds. "She's been rather… active lately."
Lucien didn't respond. Not yet.
Elaris smiled, as if indulging a game only she knew the rules to. "Valeria Olarion. Crown prosecutor under Vendor, unofficially of course. She's made quite the name for herself—cut down a Count's estate last winter. I heard the man's mistress ended up joining a cloister just to avoid testifying."
Lucien exhaled slowly. His gaze didn't move from Valeria.
Elaris's smile widened.
"Oh, and—of course. She was the first to approach Lucavion after that moment. The only one who did."