Chapter 864: The price
"Oh, and—of course. She was the first to approach Lucavion after that moment. The only one who did."
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The shift in his eyes—just a flicker—was enough.
A slight hum of wine on his tongue. The sound of silk brushing against itself as he turned the stem of his goblet between his fingers.
A long pause.
Then—
"...She forgot whose crest she lives under," he said softly. "And should be reminded."
Elaris inclined her head. "Shall I?"
Lucien turned to her, that familiar smile blooming—handsome, charming, lethal.
"Of course. I'm sure you'll be... gentle."
The word hung between them like a blade draped in lace.
Elaris dipped in a small, curtsying nod. "Always."
And then she turned.
Effortless. Effervescent.
And began walking across the floor.
Her gown glided in smooth rhythm, all measured grace and feigned civility. She didn't need to scan the room. She already knew where Valeria would be.
The pink-haired girl was just stepping away from her table, murmuring something to a Lorian noble before excusing herself with perfect etiquette.
She looked, in that moment, wholly unaware.
Unaware of the quiet storm that had just been dispatched her way. Of the eyes now trailing her steps like hounds waiting for a crack in her stride.
But Elaris knew better.
She'd seen the way Valeria had walked across the line the moment Lucavion became more than a curiosity.
And now, she would see what walking back would cost.
Elaris's smile deepened—gorgeous and cruel.
Let the little prosecutor play her games.
It was time to show her that in Arcanis, power wore perfume and silk—and sharpened its teeth on loyalty.
******
Valeria's steps carried her with silent purpose across the banquet floor. Her heels barely sounded against the marble—each movement efficient, rehearsed, yet never hurried. The brief conversation with a Lorian envoy still lingered in her wake, polite as ceremony demanded.
She moved to return to her table. A short breath. A stretch of calm.
And then—
A shift.
Like a change in wind before the storm reaches your door.
"Lady Olarion."
The voice was smooth. Almost sweet. A practiced softness that settled just behind the ear, not in front of the face. And yet—it was not truly a voice that greeted.
It was a gate.
A signal.
Valeria stopped.
Turned.
Elaris Vonte stood there, all elegance and powdered perfection. Her dress shimmered faintly in the golden spill of chandelier light, a cascade of pale sapphire silk and violet accents—chosen, Valeria noted absently, not for fashion, but contrast. Something to mark her from the others. To glint just sharp enough beside someone else's grace.
"Lady Elaris," Valeria said, inclining her head. "A pleasure."
Elaris smiled. Or something like it.
"It's been some time since we've had a proper introduction. I thought it remiss not to say hello before the evening's end."
Her posture was flawless. Her tone serene.
But her eyes—
Those didn't smile.
Not truly.
Valeria watched the slight tension along the cheekbones. The way the words tasted just a bit too polished. Too sequined with etiquette.
Here it comes.
She'd expected this. Of course she had. Ever since the moment she crossed the ballroom to stand beside Lucavion, she had felt the clock start ticking.
And Elaris—
Of all the dogs Lucien kept on a jeweled leash—
Would be the first to slip hers.
Valeria smiled softly in return. The kind that matched temperature, but never surrendered warmth.
Elaris stepped closer—never enough to be improper, but just enough to breach into private space. The edge of her perfume was crisp: citrus and white lily. A scent designed to seem harmless. Fresh.
Fleeting.
"I imagine the past few weeks have been... eye-opening for you," Elaris began, her tone light. "The Academy. The balance. The new alliances forming."
Valeria didn't interrupt. She merely inclined her head a degree.
Elaris's smile widened, delicate as hand-painted porcelain.
"You must understand," she said, "Prince Lucien carries more than a crest. He carries the Empire's future. And for those of us loyal to it... loyalty is not simply preferred. It is required."
A pause.
Measured.
Then: "So you can see how some may have found your actions tonight... concerning."
Valeria tilted her head. Not dismissively. Not challengingly. Just enough to show she had heard every syllable.
"Concerning?" she asked. "Because I acknowledged someone the court refused to?"
"Because you chose to align," Elaris answered, her voice never rising, "in a moment where silence would have cost you nothing."
She didn't blink as she spoke. And that—Valeria noted—was the point.
Not just to confront her.
But to show how carefully they were watching.
Elaris's smile thinned, but remained.
"Wrong side, Lady Olarion," she murmured. "You may not have meant it that way. But choices ripple outward. Even the smallest ones."
Valeria met her gaze without softening. "You mean Lucavion."
"I mean Lucien," Elaris said simply. "And everything that stands beneath him."
Another breath passed between them. Court dancers swayed softly in the background, strings humming low like a murmured warning.
Valeria folded her hands in front of her.
"And House Olarion?"
Elaris's eyes sparked at that.
"Neutral," she said. "At least, publicly. A smart stance. Traditional. And yet..."
She let the word linger—like something dangling over flame.
"You speak in his name. You stand at his side. The Empire rarely distinguishes personal sentiment from house loyalty, I've found. Especially when the eyes watching don't wish to."
Valeria felt it now.
The noose, silk-wrapped and sweet-scented, beginning to tug.
Not a warning.
An offer.
Dressed as a kindness.
Elaris's voice lowered, almost fond. "We've always respected House Olarion. A noble line. Principled. Efficient. The kind of house that serves the realm better when its loyalties are... clear."
Valeria's lips didn't move. Not yet.
Because she saw it now.
This wasn't about Lucavion. Not directly.
It was about shifting weight. Folding the Olarion name under the Crown Prince's banner. Not through war. Not through violence.
But through her.
Valeria's fingers brushed lightly along the edge of her glove, the movement idle—elegant—but inwardly she had already pieced together the shape of this dance.
She'd seen it before.
Not just the tone. The method.
The honeyed threads woven over dinner conversations. The soft, coiled pressure dressed in civility. Nobles who did not raise swords, but tilted dynasties with smiles. Who whispered compliance into family names until their roots bent toward the crown like softened branches.
This was not just a conversation about her.
This was the beginning of a siege.
And Elaris? Elaris was simply the instrument they'd polished for tonight's recital.
Valeria smiled.
It was not mocking. Not defiant. But unyielding. A smile shaped like a wall of stone—not wide, not sharp, but immovable.
"I see," she said softly, her voice calm. "It's good to know where you stand, Lady Elaris."
Elaris blinked—just once. As though trying to gauge whether Valeria was conceding... or setting the stage.
Valeria's eyes held steady.
"But allow me to clarify something," she continued, her tone never shifting from its poised cadence. "Before I am the daughter of House Olarion... I am a knight."
The words dropped gently.
No aggression. No heat.
But the weight behind them was unmistakable.
"A knight," Valeria said, "does not look at crests before drawing their sword. They do not tally titles before stepping forward."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes thoughtful—though the chill within them was settling now, deliberate.
"They stand," she said, "where justice has been made a mockery. And they walk beside those who should never have stood alone."
And as she spoke, her thoughts flickered—briefly, quietly—to the earlier moment in the ballroom. To Lucavion's stillness, his silence, the way the court had bristled like animals before a storm they didn't understand.
To the way she had stepped forward—not for spectacle, not for defiance.
But because it was right.
That was what she had said to him.
That she would not look away.
Not then.
Not now.
"If that action draws lines where there once were none," Valeria added, "then it is the court's shame. Not mine."
She held Elaris's gaze.
Calm.
Grounded.
And final.
"I stood," she finished, "because I chose to. And if tomorrow it is someone else in his place, wronged beneath the gaze of silence... I will stand again."
Chapter 865: Fade
Elaris's smile didn't fade.
If anything, it deepened.
But the shimmer in her eyes had shifted—less velvet now, more edge. The kind of smile one offered before drawing the veil over a guillotine.
"My," she said, almost thoughtfully, "so principled. So... poetic."
She leaned forward just slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that still carried with perfect clarity between them.
"I do hope that same conviction holds," she said, "when the Academy corridors begin to narrow. When your schedule fills with errors that no one recalls assigning. When your requests go unanswered. When the dueling invitations start coming… from names you were never meant to cross."
A pause. Just long enough to let the implications settle like frost along the skin.
She tilted her head, almost wistfully.
"It's remarkable," she mused, "how swiftly one's school life can become… inconvenient."
Valeria didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Only answered, her voice soft, level, and iron-clad:
"Being on the side of truth," she said, "has never been easy."
Silence curved between them like the arc of a drawn bowstring.
"…I see," Elaris murmured.
But her voice had changed. The warmth—feigned as it was—dissolved, replaced by something colder. Not rage. Not even threat.
Pity.
The worst kind of cruelty.
Elaris looked at her as one might a cracked porcelain figurine—fragile, already failing, destined to be swept aside.
"All this," she said quietly, "because of him."
Her gaze flicked, not to the past, but the present—the shadow that had crossed the ballroom earlier, the one Valeria had walked toward without hesitation.
"A man like that," Elaris said, "a stray man with no future, no house, no throne—he'll take everything you've built. Getting seduced by such a man…."
She leaned in.
"Do you know what that is, Valeria?"
Her smile returned.
Thin.
Cold.
"Stupidity."
Valeria's hand curled—gloved fingers tightening against the fabric. Her breath stilled.
And for the briefest moment—
She wanted to act.
To let the fury rising beneath her ribs break the poise she wore like armor.
But she didn't.
Not here. Not now. Not with Elaris.
Because a snake like her didn't strike without the room watching.
Instead, Valeria forced herself to breathe—slow and even.
To master her anger.
To remember the rules of the court.
Elaris saw it. Saw the restraint—and mistook it for weakness.
She smiled again. As if she'd won something.
"Well," she said sweetly, drawing back a step, her voice returning to that measured rhythm of politeness, "you've made your choice. I won't say more."
Another small nod, a tilt of her head laced with deceptive grace.
"It's clear you have no intention of changing your mind."
She turned, her dress sweeping behind her like a curtain falling over a performance's end.
"Do take care," she added lightly, already walking away. "Some truths… come with a very steep education."
Valeria inhaled—slowly, deeply.
Let the breath settle behind her ribs. Let the fury coiled in her spine sink back beneath the stillness of control.
That had gone as expected. Almost to the word.
Which is why it didn't sting as much as it should have.
Of course the Crown Prince wouldn't let her walk the floor untouched. Of course he would send his velvet-clawed proxy to whisper poison in her ear. The moment she stood beside Lucavion, that moment…
She exhaled.
'Such façade.'
Elaris's elegance was just embroidery over threat. Framed in pleasantries, dipped in perfume. But still a blade. Still sharp. Still predictable.
Valeria's hands relaxed, fingers slipping back into proper place against the folds of her gown. Her expression smoothed.
She was tired.
Not in the way that sleep could cure—but in the way that came from watching the same game played with different faces.
'Let this damn banquet end already… It's grown dull.'
Even the chandeliers seemed dimmer now. Even the laughter in the far alcoves, more brittle. The political rhythms of the night had begun to drag, repeating themselves like a poorly rehearsed play.
She turned slightly, intent on reclaiming her space near the balcony. Just one breath of fresh air.
And then—
A familiar voice, calm and irritatingly amused, cut across the distance.
"Hmm… this one's not bad."
She blinked.
Lucavion.
Plate in hand.
Mouth half-full.
He stood there without a care in the world, sampling what looked like a delicate cream-stuffed pastry, his coat slightly rumpled from whatever corner he'd vanished to. As if the war of words she'd just endured had happened in another lifetime—or another room entirely.
The absolute bastard.
Valeria stared at him. Just stared.
Her eye twitched.
She had faced veiled threats, survived a verbal siege, and managed not to commit a courtly crime—and here he was, casually critiquing canapés like some culinary scholar sent from the heavens to mock her restraint.
The urge to slap him across his ridiculously composed face surged like a second heartbeat.
Because of him, she had been cornered. Threatened. Painted as traitor-adjacent by a noble viper with powdered lashes and too much charm.
And what was Lucavion doing?
Sampling hors d'oeuvres.
He glanced her way.
Paused mid-chew.
Swallowed.
"...You didn't eat anything, did you?" he asked, as if that were the primary offense committed this evening.
Valeria's jaw tightened.
Her glare could have cut through marble.
And yet—
Lucavion smiled, just faintly, his black eyes glinting like stars that knew too much and said too little.
"Pity," he said, lifting another bite to his lips. "You missed the good part."
Valeria exhaled through her nose, quiet and slow.
I swear, she thought, if he says one more word—
Lucavion, as if pulled by some godless compulsion to test the limits of her restraint, extended the plate toward her.
"Do you want some?" he asked, tone maddeningly neutral. "You look like you want one."
Valeria's stare sharpened. A touch colder. A touch more surgical. If looks could draw blood, he'd be bleeding into his boots.
Lucavion, undeterred, simply tilted the plate a little closer, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was daring her to throw it back at him.
"Come on," he said, with that same infuriating casualness, "don't be like this."
Like this, she echoed inwardly, the phrase grating as it landed.
Her glare deepened, as if she were contemplating not just slapping him, but snapping the plate in two and using the shards to carve civility back into his face.
Lucavion only raised an eyebrow, taking another bite for himself, entirely unhurried.
Then, with a flick of his wrist—graceful, practiced—he plucked a smaller pastry from the plate, something wrapped in flaky gold layers and dotted with what looked like sweetened herbs.
Without asking again, he stepped closer.
Too close.
And in a movement so casual it bordered on insolence, he brought it up to her lips.
"Here."
Valeria blinked. Once.
Her jaw locked.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "You've had a long evening," he murmured. "And you're hungry. Don't lie."
"I am not—" she began, but he cut her off with a low hum and the flick of the pastry a fraction closer.
"Mm, I think you are."
She could feel the eyes nearby—not many, but enough. Enough to make a scene if she snapped. Enough to start whispers if she didn't. And Lucavion—damn him—knew exactly how far he could push her without tipping the cup.
She should have slapped it away.
She should have turned and walked.
Instead—
She bit.
The pastry was warm, annoyingly perfect. Sweetened with orange blossom and just the faintest trace of spiced clove. It melted on her tongue with a frustrating grace that only made her more furious.
Lucavion watched her chew with the air of a man who had just proven a very petty, very deliberate point.
"See?" he said quietly, smiling now—subtle, sharp. "Told you. Good part."
Chapter 866: How do you know her?
Valeria chewed in reluctant silence, her jaw tight even as the flavors soothed the last tremor of frustration coiled behind her ribs. The pastry was too good for its own damn good—soft, layered, the kind of thing that demanded appreciation even when she didn't want to give it.
She swallowed.
And—against her better judgment—some of the tension left her shoulders.
Lucavion, of course, noticed. He didn't say a word. But the glint in his eye deepened, like a cat that had successfully nudged a cup just far enough off the table.
The bastard.
She turned her gaze slightly, watching the crowd. The dancers, the nobles, the glittering rot of conversation spinning around them like gilded wheels. But beneath it all, she could still feel the burn of Elaris's presence like a lingering scent in her lungs. Cold. Measured. Smiling.
Lucavion's voice came again, soft, cutting through the orchestra of court life like the flick of a blade's tip.
"They didn't leave it at that, did they?"
Valeria's body stilled.
But she didn't answer.
Not because she was afraid.
But because speaking it aloud… felt like indulgence.
The weight of what Elaris had said—the veiled threats, the measured cruelty—it sat with her like wine left too long in the glass. Dense. Bitter.
And for some reason…
She didn't want to talk about it.
Didn't want to feel like she was recounting it just to show that she'd withstood it.
Like some child listing bruises for praise.
Why?
Why did speaking about it now feel like bragging?
Valeria exhaled through her nose and said nothing.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, studying her expression with something almost unreadable—then, predictably:
"So… is she someone important?"
Valeria's eyes narrowed faintly. "You don't know her?"
Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to?"
A pause.
And then the smallest, most internal sigh pressed through her.
'Right… this guy is like that.'
The man who could sense danger before it struck, who could name pressure points in a person's soul with a glance—and yet somehow remained completely oblivious to the political strata of Arcanis. He could slice through a lie like silk, but would forget the name of a Count who ruled half a province.
He knew things no one dared say.
And didn't know the things everyone else wouldn't shut up about.
A strange man.
In every sense.
"…Her name is Elaris Vonte," Valeria said at last, her voice low. "Daughter of Countess Vonte. One of the Crown Prince's closest supporters. She's part of his inner circle—his whispering hand. He sends her when he wants something cut without blood on his boots."
Lucavion blinked slowly.
Then bit into another pastry.
"Mm," he said, mouth half-full. "She's the one who tried to behead you with compliments earlier."
Valeria glanced at him.
His tone was dry. But not mocking.
And somehow, that helped.
"Yes," she said. "That one."
Lucavion watched her a moment longer, eyes drifting lazily past the milling courtiers, before he spoke again.
"She doesn't look scary."
Valeria raised a brow. "That's because you don't know what you're looking for."
He tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. But a woman's appearance is rarely related to her scariness anyway."
That earned him a longer glance. Flat. Measured.
"What do you mean by that?"
Lucavion blinked. Innocent. Too innocent. "What what?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You speak like—like there's something behind that sentence."
He smiled. Slowly. Wolfishly.
"There is," he said. "Take you, for example."
Valeria felt her spine straighten just a fraction.
Lucavion stepped a hair closer—just enough to lower his voice, just enough for his words to slip beneath the music and settle somewhere near her throat.
"If someone were to look at you," he said, "just at your face, your posture, the way your dress fits that—" a pause, deliberate "—knightly frame of yours…"
She gave him a warning look.
He continued, undeterred.
"…they wouldn't think enforcer, or sword-arm of Vendor."
"And what would they think?" she asked dryly.
Lucavion smirked. "That you were some sort of court muse. A lady meant to be painted beside fountains and marble lions. The kind that makes bards go poor trying to describe her properly."
Valeria blinked.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks before she could stop it. A pulse of color, stubborn and immediate, rushing upward like it hadn't learned restraint the way the rest of her had.
It wasn't a soft kind of flush—it struck high on her cheeks, betraying her even as she straightened her back and tried to summon composure. But her expression had already twisted into that familiar, defensive scowl. Her lips pursed. Her brow tensed.
And then—
"W-What are you even saying?!" she snapped, voice dropping low but sharp enough to slice cleanly through the space between them. "Don't go saying such indecent things in public! Are you insane?!"
Lucavion laughed.
Open. Warm. Wicked.
The kind of laugh that rolled through his chest like a taunt dressed in silk, loud enough to draw a passing glance or two from nearby nobles—but not enough to care.
"Oh, stars, there it is," he said. "There's the part where the knight draws her sword because someone dared say she was beautiful."
"You make it sound perverse!"
"Depends on who's listening," he replied smoothly, still grinning. "I'm fairly sure you're the only one blushing enough to match your hair right now."
"I—I am not—!"
He raised an eyebrow. She stopped.
Breathed.
Tried, desperately, to erase the color from her face through willpower alone.
Lucavion just tilted his head, that smile refusing to vanish, before—graciously, finally—changing the subject.
"But speaking of bold choices," he said lightly, "I saw you with Lorian's little star just now."
Valeria's mouth closed.
Her expression cooled, just slightly. Controlled again. She folded her arms, gaze shifting toward the edge of the ballroom.
"…You saw that?"
"Of course I did." Lucavion leaned against a marble column as if he'd been born to lounge in the presence of royalty and threats alike. "Couldn't have missed it."
Lucavion's gaze lingered on her a second longer—just long enough to make her suspicious—before his smile curved again, softer now. A little lazier. A little too satisfied for her liking.
"You know," he said, voice low and annoyingly casual, "you keep drawing everyone's eyes tonight… but mine never seem to leave you."
Valeria snapped her head toward him with a glare so sharp it might've dented steel.
"Shut up. You are cringe."
He laughed again—quieter this time. But wholly unrepentant.
"Oh, come now," he said, gesturing faintly as if to absolve himself, "I'm just giving credit where it's due."
"You're fishing for a slap."
"Wouldn't be the first time," he said with a grin. "Still worth it."
Valeria scoffed and turned her face away, heat nipping at her ears again—but this time she didn't fluster. Not fully. She held her ground, jaw tense. She wasn't in the mood for his games tonight—not after what Elaris had done. Not after all those threads were suddenly winding toward her throat.
Lucavion read it. Felt it.
And so, after a pause, he dropped the grin.
"So?" he asked, leaning in slightly. "What do you think of my opponent?"
Her body stilled.
And just like that, everything else drained.
Her gaze sharpened instantly. Not toward the crowd, not toward the chandeliers, but directly—cleanly—into Lucavion's eyes.
A breath passed.
And then: "That girl. Jesse."
The air around them shifted.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled. But something in it struck down with the weight of an unsheathed blade.
"How do you know her?"
Chapter 867: Later
"That girl. Jesse."
The air around them shifted.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled. But something in it struck down with the weight of an unsheathed blade.
"How do you know her?"
Lucavion didn't answer right away.
He didn't deflect. Didn't tease. He simply met her stare, the sound around them dulling to background haze. And for once, his expression didn't give her anything.
Not a joke.
Not a smile.
Just… silence.
Waiting.
And Valeria… was already brimming.
Because she hadn't forgotten the tension in Jesse's stance. The controlled movements. The eyes like a mirror polished by grief and something older than her age should allow. Valeria hadn't forgotten the way she'd looked at Lucavion—not with hate, not exactly—but with something more intimate.
Lucavion stayed silent for a breath too long.
Not the kind of pause that masked thought, but the kind that betrayed it. Intentional. Measured.
Calculated.
As always.
Then, with that maddening ease, he leaned just slightly back against the column again, tilting his head toward her like this entire exchange was as casual as discussing weather patterns.
"What do you mean by know her?" he asked, voice light. Almost amused. "People toss that word around all the time."
Valeria's gaze didn't waver.
"I mean what I say," she answered, sharp and quiet. "How do you know her?"
Lucavion blinked. Slowly. As if still pretending to misunderstand.
"Why do you think I do?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't dodge the question, Lucavion."
He exhaled—soft, not quite a sigh. Not quite a surrender.
"Am I dodging?" he asked, one brow lifting. "I'm just asking how you came to that conclusion. I haven't said anything that implies I know her. What makes you think that?"
Valeria's jaw tensed.
She stepped closer.
Not enough to breach formality. But enough to make her next words impossible to ignore.
"Something makes me think that," she said flatly. "And it doesn't matter what. Just answer me."
Her voice didn't rise.
But it cut. Clean. Unyielding.
Because she had seen the flicker in Jesse's expression—the one no court tutor could teach, no noble mask could mimic. That subtle, defensive pull when Lucavion had entered the room. Not fear. Not anger.
Recognition.
Old.
Deep.
Lucavion looked at her again—really looked.
The air between them shifted. Not cold. Not warm.
Just still.
And then—
He finally spoke.
Quietly.
Lucavion's silence finally cracked—not with words at first, but with a smile.
That damn smile.
Not smug. Not cruel.
Just… knowing.
And far too calm for a man who'd just been cornered.
"A woman's intuition," he murmured, "is strangely scary sometimes."
Valeria's eyes narrowed further, her jaw grinding behind the press of decorum. But she didn't interrupt. Not yet.
Lucavion's gaze didn't waver. "You're right," he said at last. "I do know her."
Her breath caught—ready to speak, to demand, to pry open the truth—
But he lifted a hand first, slow, casual, already stealing the tempo of the conversation again.
"And as for how I know her…" His voice dropped into that low, maddening cadence that always hinted at shadows beneath the surface. "You'll find out. Very soon."
Valeria's patience snapped like a thread drawn too tight.
"No," she hissed. "No more of this. You always do this. You say soon, or you'll learn, or some other vague riddle like the world is a stage and you're playing seer."
Her hands curled at her sides, the fury finally pushing past her trained composure.
"It's exhausting. And childish. And insufferably you."
Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Instead—
He raised a single finger.
And without warning, gently placed it against her lips.
"Tu-tu-tu…"
The contact was featherlight, but the audacity of it—
Valeria went stiff.
Lucavion leaned forward just a breath, eyes dancing with mischief.
"Don't pout like that," he said. "You won't get any answers from me if you do."
She drew back half a step, scowling, swatting his hand away—not hard, but enough to signal just how close he was to losing a limb.
"I won't get an answer from you either way."
He grinned.
"Exactly. So why pout and ruin your beautiful face?"
Valeria's brow twitched—visibly.
"Compliments," she snapped, "won't get you out of this."
"Really?" he asked, mock innocence lacing his tone. "They usually work on everyone else."
She glared.
Unmoved.
Lucavion shrugged, utterly unfazed. "Still," he added, stepping back at last, "I suppose it's fair you're irritated."
"Suppose?"
He offered her a half-bow, maddeningly elegant. "It's part of my charm."
"You're confusing charm with arrogance," she muttered.
"I've been told the line is very thin," he replied, already turning away. "And honestly… I quite enjoy walking it."
Valeria exhaled sharply through her nose.
This man—
He would be the death of her.
Lucavion's back was half-turned, as if he might vanish into the crowd again with all his riddles and non-answers, but instead of walking away, he pivoted lightly on his heel, settling into an easy lean against the nearest marble column.
He studied her.
And then, just like that, the tension of the last few moments slipped from his posture, like a coat shrugged off in summer.
"Well then," he said, too breezily, "since you've spent some quality time mingling with the Lorian nobility tonight…"
Valeria narrowed her eyes.
"...What do you think of them?"
She blinked. Once.
"That's a sudden shift," she said.
Lucavion smiled. "What? I'm not allowed to be curious?"
"You're never just curious."
"True," he said, entirely too pleased with himself. "But humor me. You spoke to them. What's your impression?"
Valeria hesitated—not because she didn't have thoughts, but because she was now wary of being pulled into another one of his threads. Still, the question wasn't unreasonable. And she had already spoken to a few of them this evening.
"The Lorians," she said slowly, "seem... cordial. On the surface."
Lucavion raised a brow.
"But underneath that, there's an elegance that isn't just performative. It's measured. Deliberate. They've mastered how to say very little while making it sound meaningful."
"Mm." He nodded along, clearly listening.
"They remind me of fencing masters who win by feinting three steps ahead," she added. "Their smiles don't hide daggers. They are the daggers."
Lucavion chuckled. "Beautifully said."
Valeria looked at him warily. "You're not writing a book, are you?"
"Only in my head," he said, tapping a finger to his temple. "Every day, a new chapter titled Valeria Olarion Is Judging Everyone."
She gave him a withering stare.
He only grinned broader.
"But more specifically," he continued, with a casual glance toward the end of the ballroom, "what do you think of Isolde Valoria?"
Valeria's brow twitched.
Now that was interesting.
Her answer came slower this time. More cautious.
"…She's polite. Calculated. Intelligent. Not easily shaken."
Lucavion nodded again, a little slower this time. Still unreadable.
Valeria crossed her arms. "Why do you ask?"
He blinked. "Hmm?"
"Isolde," she repeated. "Why ask about her in particular?"
Lucavion hesitated. Just enough to confirm her suspicion.
Then he waved a hand lazily. "No reason. Just curious."
She stared at him.
Flat. Silent.
He stared back.
Innocent.
Too innocent.
"…You're lying."
"I don't lie," Lucavion said.
The words came gently. No flourish. No smirk this time.
Just a statement—quiet, solid, and maddeningly calm.
Valeria's gaze narrowed.
She searched him.
Not the way she scanned liars at court, not the way she read nobles dressed in silk and hypocrisy.
No.
She searched him.
Because he'd said it before. More than once. I don't lie.
He wielded omission like a scalpel, yes—wrapped truths in riddles and wrapped riddles in charm—but lies? He avoided them like poison. Or perhaps, like memory.
Still…
Her breath caught on something.
A knot, subtle and sudden, tightening beneath her sternum.
She didn't want to admit it. Not even to herself. But it was there.
Something about the way he'd asked.
Isolde Valoria.
Valeria hadn't missed the tone. The slow precision behind the name. The way he'd watched her speak—not distracted, not playful, but… attentive. Interested.
And that?
That irritated her more than it should have.
Why?
Why should it matter if he was curious about Isolde?
Why should it matter if his gaze lingered a little longer on someone else?
'It doesn't,' she told herself.
And yet—
The knot remained. Quiet. Stubborn.
Her arms folded more tightly across her chest.
But then—
She glanced at him again.
Really looked.
Lucavion wasn't smiling. Not in that usual, crooked way. Not even the one he used to lure secrets from people without them realizing.
His eyes…
They weren't filled with lust. Or hunger. Or anything that typically clung to a man watching a beautiful woman across a ballroom.
No.
They were deep.
Not like a storm. Not like fire.
But like—
Like shadows that remembered light.
Chapter 868: Later (2)
He wasn't watching Isolde like a man watches something he wants to possess.
He was watching her like someone studying an equation with an answer he already feared.
And just like that—the knot unraveled.
Valeria blinked.
The weight in her chest lightened.
Not vanished, no. But softened. Receded into something calmer.
Still—
She lifted her chin, expression cautious.
"You're always hiding something," she murmured, eyes never leaving his. "But if you say you don't lie…"
She trailed off.
Lucavion tilted his head, curious. "Then what?"
"…Then I suppose I'll believe you."
He smiled at that. Not wide. Not smug.
Just… softly.
"Progress," he said.
Valeria rolled her eyes. But a faint breath of something—not quite amusement, not quite relief—passed between them.
He looked away then. Only briefly.
Back toward the far end of the ballroom.
Toward where Jesse had vanished.
And where Isolde still remained.
"Still," he murmured, "your read on them… was more accurate than most."
Valeria's gaze drifted lazily back toward him, sharp despite the nonchalance she wore like a second skin.
"I would ask how you know that," she said, tone dry, "but knowing you, you wouldn't answer even if I wanted."
She raised one brow, voice tilting with just the right amount of disdain.
"Isn't that the case?"
Lucavion's lips curved.
Not the sly, cutting smirk he wore when playing with nobles' nerves, but something gentler. Warm, almost.
"You're starting to know me well."
"Starting?" she echoed, her tone incredulous.
He gave a small shrug, playful. "This is just the beginning."
And then, too fast—too carelessly—he added, "There's someone ahead of you."
Valeria froze.
"…What?"
Lucavion blinked. A fraction too slowly.
Then came the backpedal. Smooth. Rehearsed. Almost convincing.
"Forget what I just said," he said, waving a hand with exaggerated ease. "Slip of the tongue. Nothing important."
'Nothing important, he says.'
Valeria didn't move.
Didn't smile.
Didn't breathe.
Because something about the way he said it—the someone ahead of you—it struck too clearly to be a joke.
No teasing cadence. No wink.
Just a quiet truth that had slipped through the cracks of his control.
And now he wanted to seal it back up again.
'Someone ahead of me…?'
She didn't know why that phrase clung so bitterly to her ribs.
Didn't know why it felt like salt spilled on something not yet wounded.
It wasn't like she cared—not like that—but still.
Still.
Her brow furrowed, lips thinning.
"Lucavion."
Her voice was quieter now. Too calm.
He met her gaze, and for the first time, looked slightly unsure.
"…Yes?"
"Who is it?"
"Aha…" He chuckled—nervous, light. "Just a slip. You know me. I say things."
"Yes," she said slowly. "You do. And most of them mean something."
She took a step forward.
The sound of the ballroom faded behind the steel of her stare.
"Who is that someone?"
Lucavion hesitated.
Just long enough.
Just deep enough.
To confirm what her instincts already screamed.
'He knows. He knows exactly what he said. And he doesn't want me to know who it is.'
Why?
Why did that make her chest tighten?
Why did the thought of someone else being ahead of her—in knowing him, understanding him—grate so harshly against her composure?
It shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't.
But it did.
And that angered her more than anything.
'This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.'
Still, her voice softened—dangerously.
"Lucavion. Look at me."
Lucavion did look at her.
But not with the easy charm he usually wore like armor.
No. This was the look of a man teetering between evasion and confession—hovering on the precipice of something he didn't want touched.
And Valeria saw it. Felt it.
Which is why, when he shifted ever so slightly—like he might turn, like he might vanish again—she stepped into his path.
Subtle.
Decisive.
Her arm brushed against his just barely, but her eyes stayed locked to his, the weight of her stare anchoring him in place.
"You're not getting away that easily," she said, voice low and firm.
'Not this time, Lucavion.'
But he smiled again—too quickly. That familiar flicker of mischief thrown like dust into the air.
"Oh, I wasn't leaving," he said, backing a half-step like it was part of some playful dance. "Just… repositioning."
Valeria's eyes narrowed. "Coward."
"Strategist," he corrected, lips curving. "There's a difference."
"You said there's someone ahead of me," she said, not letting go of the thread. "So tell me who—"
But before she could finish—
A sharp sound rang out across the ballroom.
Clang!
Not quite metal. Not quite glass.
Just enough to freeze motion. To draw eyes.
To silence the edges of every conversation at once.
And then, moments later—rising clear and ceremonious above the hush—
A steward's voice echoed through the chamber:
"Attention please."
*****
A steward's voice echoed through the chamber:
"Attention, please."
The sound didn't need to shout.
It carried the weight of coordination, not command—threaded with the kind of mana that tugged at instinct, not ears.
Lucavion turned toward the voice without urgency. But Valeria's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, watching for any trace of that earlier slip.
None came.
Only that maddening smile. Still soft. Still distant.
'He let that thread drop on purpose.'
She'd chase it later.
The steward stood near the eastern dais now, flanked by twin columns of silverflame torches and flanked by two junior spellbinders from the logistics cadre—each bearing ceremonial staves etched with the Academy's crest.
His voice lifted again, calm and practiced.
"As per Headmaster's directive, the banquet concludes within the next ten minutes. All students and honored guests are asked to remain in position for the Headmaster's closing remarks."
A low wave of motion rippled across the ballroom—nobles straightening in their seats, scholars adjusting their robes, and the occasional Lorian envoy stiffening ever so slightly, posture returning to parade form.
Lucavion watched them all with the kind of dispassionate curiosity one might offer a board resetting itself after a game.
Valeria exhaled through her nose, the tension in her jaw easing—but only slightly.
This wasn't over.
"Later," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
Lucavion tilted his head. "Can't wait."
Then, silence resumed.
Not awkward.
Ceremonial.
And through that hush, the air shifted. Bent.
Not with spectacle—but reverence.
The Headmaster entered the platform.
Verius Itharion did not glide. He arrived.
His steps were unhurried. No cloak billowed, no mana surged theatrically. But even so, the space around him seemed to bend in acknowledgment. The chandeliers above didn't flicker—but the shadows beneath them softened. Magic didn't flare—it breathed.
He stood alone.
No heralds. No attendants. Just a single presence at the center of a gathering meant to worship legacy.
He raised one hand—only slightly.
And the room settled.
Not silenced. Settled.
"Tonight," Verius said, his voice low and steady, "was not simply a feast. It was an introduction."
Not a single ripple of dissent.
No clink of glass.
Not even the fidget of cutlery.
"You have seen your peers. Your rivals. Your allies. And your challenges."
His eyes moved—not dramatically, but deliberately.
From Lucien's table…
To the Lorian delegation…
To Lucavion's group.
And finally—to the staff balconies overhead, where the professors stood in quiet watchfulness.
"You will forget parts of tonight. The menu. The music. The pacing of each toast."
His tone didn't shift. But there was something almost dry beneath it.
"But I promise you—"
A pause.
"You will remember who you watched. And who watched you."
Soft. Unthreatening.
But several nobles shifted uncomfortably anyway.
Verius continued.
"This Academy does not exist to flatter bloodlines. Nor to preserve them."
"It exists to burn the weakness out of genius, and forge those who go past it into something greater."
The firelight on his robes seemed to deepen.
Or maybe it was just the weight of his words.
"Let it start now."
Silence.
Then—only then—he inclined his head.
"Welcome, once more, to the Arcanis Imperial Academy. May your year be... enlightening."
Chapter 869: End of the banquet
"Welcome, once more, to the Arcanis Imperial Academy. May your year be... enlightening."
A final nod. Dismissal without fanfare.
Then he stepped down from the platform—already vanishing into shadow before applause could be offered.
The room remained still.
For three full heartbeats.
Then—
Motion.
Cups raised. Cloaks pulled tighter. Whispers like breath between stones.
The spell had broken.
But not forgotten.
Valeria looked sideways, only to find—
Lucavion was already gone.
She didn't sigh.
Didn't chase.
But something in her expression…
Tightened.
'Someone ahead of me…'
The thought itched like a thread caught beneath her collar.
She would pull at it later. Hard.
For now—
Another presence approached the center of the hall.
This one did not bend the atmosphere like Verius Itharion had.
But he did command it.
Kaleran.
The Vice-Head.
Every step he took was clean, efficient—measured as if part of a larger mechanism ticking behind his eyes. His black and silver robe bore no ornament, only the insignia of the Arcanis Seal stitched directly into the fabric at his left shoulder.
He did not mount the platform. He simply stood near the base of it—near power, but not within its shadow.
When he spoke, his voice was cool. Unembellished.
"Students. Guests. Faculty."
A pause. Not for effect—but for rhythm.
"As the Headmaster has concluded tonight's ceremony, I will now issue final instructions before the night comes to a close."
Valeria straightened. So did many others.
Even the Lorian nobles ceased their low murmurs.
"Carriages have been prepared," Kaleran continued, "to ferry you to your assigned dormitories. You will find them waiting at the east wing of the Hall."
His gaze flicked—briefly—toward Lucavion's now-empty position.
He did not comment.
"But given the length of today's events, you will not be expected to attend any formal briefings tonight. The full orientation—including schedules, regulations, and facility access—will be provided over the next two days."
A subtle shift rippled across the crowd. Some relief. Some curiosity.
Kaleran went on, tone even.
"Until that time, you are encouraged to rest. Recuperate. And familiarize yourselves with the base campus layout—either via the public Academy schematic provided through your student channel, or by asking your assigned dormitory steward."
His eyes scanned the room. Not with warmth. Not with disdain.
With function.
"You are now part of an institution older than memory and more demanding than any banner you serve. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
Kaleran's eyes scanned the room once more—sharp, expectant.
Then, calmly:
"Are there any questions?"
For a moment, no one stirred.
Then—
A single hand rose. Not high. But firm.
It belonged to a boy dressed in the deep navy of a lesser noble house—one of the coastal provinces. Not arrogant. Not timid either. Just… calculating.
He cleared his throat. "Vice-Head Kaleran. I've heard the Academy uses a class system. Based on strength. Status. Will that affect dormitory assignment?"
A low ripple moved through the room—barely a whisper, but felt all the same.
Kaleran did not nod. Did not frown.
He simply turned to face the speaker more directly.
"You will be informed of the complete structure during the formal orientation," he said evenly. "However, since the question has been raised—allow me to clarify."
Silence stretched again.
Kaleran continued.
"For the first week, all students will reside in their initial placements. These have been prepared for logistical balance, not evaluation."
His tone remained flat—fact, not reassurance.
"During this week, each of you will undergo assessment. Not in the form of a single exam. But through a series of trials—some visible. Some not."
The nobility stirred again. Even some of the Lorian envoys shifted in their seats.
Kaleran's gaze sharpened.
"These trials are comprehensive."
Valeria's eyes narrowed slightly.
Not from surprise.
From interest.
Kaleran's voice pressed on, clipped and final.
"After this week of evaluation, the Academy's class structure will be implemented. Dormitory positions, access to advanced facilities, elective permissions, and mentor availability will be revised accordingly."
Kaleran's gaze sharpened.
"Each trial is designed not merely to test what you are—but to expose what you could be."
His words settled across the room like falling ash. Soft. Coating. Lingering.
"This Academy is not here to reinforce what you've already decided about yourselves," he said. "It exists to challenge it."
He let that hang for a moment—just long enough for discomfort to bloom in a few corners of the hall.
"You may enter these halls as an aspiring mage, a swordsman, a rune-master, or alchemist. A summoner. A scholar. A craftsman. Many of you have already begun to walk those paths."
He stepped once to the side—not pacing, but redirecting the current of attention.
"But understand this: mastery is not the only measure of power."
His voice deepened slightly. Not in volume. In weight.
"You may discover affinities untested. Skills long buried by family expectation or personal doubt. Some of you will learn that your chosen path is a fraction of your true potential."
Across the chamber, a few brows furrowed. Some faces tightened in thought. One or two in dread.
Kaleran didn't pause for them.
"You are here to become better Awakened. That is the foundation. But what you become beyond that—what shape your legacy will take—that is what the Academy intends to uncover."
He inclined his head slightly toward the upper tiers where instructors stood, barely visible in the shadowed balconies above.
"Instructors have been selected to represent a full spectrum of disciplines—combat and arcane, creation and theory. Every art of Awakening is reflected here. And every instructor… has the right to challenge you."
His eyes found the coastal noble boy again.
"Whether you accept that challenge… is your decision."
The boy nodded once. Not proud. Not shaken. Just aware.
And Kaleran turned back to the hall.
"The dormitories are open. The carriages await."
Then, as if only now remembering it—
"One final note."
The crowd stilled again.
"Your trials begin in three days."
A ripple.
Not loud. But sudden.
Some students straightened. Others stilled entirely.
"Your first evaluation will not be announced in advance. It will arrive. As all true challenges do."
Kaleran gave no parting nod. No ceremonial bow.
He simply walked.
And the moment he disappeared into the corridor at the far end of the hall—one more shadow vanishing into the machinery of the Academy—
The doors behind the students unlocked with a quiet, synchronized hum.
It was time to move.
********
The hall had emptied in ripples, not floods. Cloaks trailing behind laughter too polished to be genuine. The music still played somewhere distant—soft now, veiled by the hush of departing power.
In the small, open courtyard just beyond the east corridor, beneath the stained-glass shadow of the lion crest, Mireilla Dane stood leaning against a marble balustrade, arms folded, face turned to the wind.
The others were gathering slowly.
Caeden arrived first, quiet as always, his steps soft but assured. He gave her a nod, then settled against the stone beside her, shoulder brushing shoulder in companionable silence.
Elayne came next—fan tucked away, dark eyes alight with something sharp and almost amused.
Toven, of course, sauntered—his stride a deliberate counter-rhythm to the weight of the evening, cloak half-unbuttoned, hands shoved into his pockets.
They didn't speak for a moment. Not because they lacked the words—but because they had too many. And some thoughts needed to land first.
Finally, Elayne exhaled—long, theatrical. "Well," she murmured, "that was… unexpectedly survivable."
Mireilla quirked an eyebrow. "High praise, coming from you."
Elayne tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. "I admit I expected more venom. Less… curiosity."
Caeden nodded faintly. "Some of them looked at us like we were curiosities. But not threats."
"Yet," Mireilla said, gaze distant.
Toven flopped into one of the stone benches, legs splayed, head tipped back to the star-pocked sky. "I'll say it—some of them weren't completely terrible." He rolled one hand lazily. "That brunette from the Isle of Elar—what was her name? Liora? She actually asked what my rune type was, not who my grandfather wasn't."
Mireilla smirked faintly. "Progress."
"Mm. A low bar, but I'll take it," Toven said.
Elayne fanned herself with her hand, absent-minded. "Some nobles were better than expected. The minor houses mostly. Less entitled, more… uncertain. As if they're also learning how to play in a new court."
Caeden looked down at the stone beneath his feet. "Still," he said quietly, "the highbloods watched us like we were cracks in the glass."
"Not all of them," Elayne countered. "Priscilla—she could have let it spiral. She didn't."
"She didn't stop it out of mercy," Mireilla said, voice cool. "She stopped it because Lucavion let her. Big difference."
That earned a beat of silence.
Then—Toven's voice, lighter.
"Still feels surreal, doesn't it? We're here. We made it. Banquet and all."
Caeden offered a thin, wry smile. "And no one died. That we know of."
That got a small chuckle.
Then—
Toren spoke.
He'd been sitting quietly on the edge of the courtyard garden, half-shadowed, watching the rest of them.
"I didn't like their gaze," he said simply.
Chapter 870: What do you mean why
Toren's voice lingered in the air, quiet but unyielding.
"I didn't like their gaze."
The words weren't sharp. They didn't need to be. There was something in the way he said it—measured, like a blade drawn not to swing but to warn.
He shifted his weight, still seated on the edge of the garden wall, shadows pooling at his boots.
"Some of the ones from baronies, viscounties... they weren't bad. Spoke plain. Asked questions that actually mattered. One of them—Marian, I think—offered to trade training drills."
Caeden nodded, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Tall girl, braid like a whip? She's from Varnholdt's coast. Good reflexes."
Toren gave a quiet grunt of assent. "But the others. The real ones. The old names. The ones that didn't introduce themselves—they just looked. Like they were memorizing our weak points."
He didn't say it with bitterness. Just clarity.
"They smiled like it was polite," he added. "But it didn't reach their eyes. I've seen merchants size up livestock with more kindness."
Mireilla didn't comment. She just tilted her head, thoughtful.
Elayne, though, hummed. "House Veyre was like that. The younger daughter, Clarisse—I swear, she stared at me for three whole minutes and didn't blink. I thought maybe she'd been enchanted into a doll."
Toven snorted. "I met a De Alraic. Didn't catch his first name. Just kept calling me 'the Vale-born.'" He made a mock bow. "'You dance surprisingly well for someone who grew up barefoot.'"
"Did you step on his shoes?" Mireilla asked dryly.
"Oh, twice." Toven's grin flashed. "The second one might've been on purpose."
Caeden rubbed the back of his neck, frowning slightly. "That older one from House Taeril. He didn't speak to me. Just... stared. Like he was trying to solve a riddle. Or wondering if I was worth the risk."
"Or the waste," Mireilla murmured. "They're trying to place us. Not as students. As pieces."
Elayne folded her arms, her voice quieter now. "The nobles that treated us like people? They were the ones still learning where they stand. The ones who already know their place?" She shook her head. "They don't think we belong."
There was a pause. A breath.
And then—
A footstep.
Not loud.
Not hesitant.
Just enough.
Lucavion.
He stepped into the edge of their circle, the moonlight brushing the edge of his cloak, catching the faint glint of steel along his bracer.
"Yo."
Silence.
For a heartbeat, the group stilled.
Not because they didn't know how to respond.
But because something shifted when he arrived—like the last piece of a strategy falling into place.
Lucavion let the quiet stretch, just enough to notice, before giving a small, lopsided smile.
"Didn't interrupt, did I?"
Lucavion let the silence stretch, the soft stir of wind pulling at his cloak, a quiet beat between him and the rest of them.
Caeden's jaw ticked. Mireilla's arms stayed folded—tighter now. Elayne looked away entirely, her eyes flitting to the curve of the balustrade like it might offer better conversation. Even Toven, usually the first to fill silence with some well-timed smirk or quip, said nothing.
Their quiet was not reverence.
It was reprimand.
Lucavion's smirk faded, just slightly.
"Didn't interrupt, did I?" he asked again, this time softer. A feeler. Testing the edges of their restraint.
Still no one answered.
Not immediately.
Because they didn't need to speak for the truth to press against the air between them: You did the one thing we agreed not to.
He'd promised—or at least implied—that he'd stay low. Blend. Keep the fire on a slow burn until they understood the architecture of the Academy, until they could navigate it without torching themselves.
Instead?
He went after the Crown Prince.
Publicly. Sharply. Brilliantly, yes—but also stupidly. Dangerously.
And who bore the cost?
Them.
The subtle shifts had started before dessert had even arrived. Eyes that had warmed over drinks now turned cool. Nobles who'd chatted about spellwork and blade-forms now excused themselves with vague apologies and sharper glances. The group that had once been novelty had, in a single hour, become liability.
Lucavion had not been shunned.
They had.
Caeden was the first to speak, voice low, even.
"You were supposed to wait."
Lucavion's shoulders didn't move, but the tension behind them coiled tighter.
"I know," he said.
Lucavion's shoulders didn't move, but the tension behind them coiled tighter.
"I know," he said.
That word sat in the air like a stone in a cup of glass. Insufficient. Weighty. Shattering.
Elayne was the one to break the stillness this time—sharp, clean. "No. You don't know, Lucavion."
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut because it was precise.
"We spent hours keeping our posture right, our tones even, our jokes soft enough to be palatable but not so hollow they smelled like begging. Do you understand what that's like? To be watched like a half-trained beast in a royal menagerie, and still make progress?"
Toven leaned forward, elbows on knees, not looking at Lucavion when he added, "And then you threw a brick into the glass."
Lucavion didn't flinch.
Caeden glanced at the others, then spoke quieter. Not kinder. Just cooler.
"There was already ice between us and them. Thin. But some of them crossed it tonight." He paused, jaw tightening. "Then you pulled a stunt that made it shatter under all of us."
"They didn't just retreat," Elayne added. "They recoiled."
Elayne's words had barely finished echoing when Lucavion raised a hand.
Not abrupt. Not commanding.
But final.
The kind of gesture that didn't need volume to carry weight.
And they stopped.
Not because they were done—but because something in his posture made them listen. His expression wasn't defensive. It wasn't even proud. It was tired. Hollowed out, like someone who had already argued with himself all night and still lost.
"So me exposing the truth was wrong," he said.
Not a question. A blade honed smooth.
"That's not what we—" Caeden started.
But Lucavion cut across him, voice steady.
"Sure. If I'd stayed silent, the banquet would've flowed better. The smiles would've lingered longer. The music wouldn't have skipped a beat. Nobles would've kept mingling with us like we weren't landmines waiting to go off. It would've been comfortable."
He laughed once. Quiet. Bitter. A scrape of steel on steel.
"Comfortable for who?"
No one answered.
Lucavion's voice lowered.
"What about me?" he said. "Or Reynald? Or Lucien?"
He took a step forward, not threatening—just closer. Realer.
"What happens if I stay silent? The prince goes on with his little lie—clean, elegant, royal. Reynald's name dragged through mud so thick that for it to get wiped clean, it would be the accuser who is stamped deeper into the mud itself. The truth buried with the next toast. The next dance. And life goes on."
His gaze swept the circle now.
"And it does go on. For everyone else."
No one moved.
Lucavion's tone sharpened, not in pitch but in focus.
"All so the ones not affected don't have to feel a little uncomfortable."
Then—his eyes landed on Mireilla.
And this time, he didn't look away.
The wind moved her hair, soft at the edges, but she didn't blink.
"Would you say the same," he asked, voice barely above a whisper, "if you were the one harassed?
Her lips parted—but no sound came.
He stepped once more into that fragile stillness, gaze unwavering.
"What if it had been your sister they spoke about like that? Dragged through polished words and court-approved mockery until her truth was unrecognizable?"
Mireilla's arms were still crossed—but her fingers tightened, nails digging into her sleeves.
Lucavion kept going. Quiet. Razor-sharp.
"What would you do if everyone else just smiled and stayed silent because speaking up would inconvenience them?"
Chapter 871: I just made sure
"What would you do if everyone else just smiled and stayed silent because speaking up would inconvenience them?"
He wasn't angry. Not now.
He was asking.
Genuinely.
Painfully.
Would you still tell me I should've waited?
The silence that followed wasn't accusatory.
It was intimate.
It held weight.
And regret.
And the pieces of a world that wasn't fair enough to hold truth and comfort in the same hand.
Toven looked down at his boots. Caeden exhaled through his nose, something unreadable behind his eyes. Elayne's mouth was drawn tight—not in defiance, but in thought. And Mireilla…
She looked straight at him.
Her jaw locked.
But her silence said what words couldn't.
Because the truth hurt.
And sometimes it hurt more because it was right.
Lucavion let the moment hang.
Toven was the one who broke the silence this time—quiet, uncharacteristically serious.
"…We get it, Luc."
Lucavion turned his gaze toward him slowly.
Toven wasn't smirking now. He wasn't folding it into a joke. He just looked… older. Just for a moment.
"We get why you said what you said. Why you had to. But it didn't start there."
Caeden nodded, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable. "You provoked him."
Lucavion didn't flinch. But the shadow behind his eyes deepened.
"You stood in front of the entire hall and called out Reynald's lies. But before that, you were the one who refused to show him respect. You came at him like a blade already drawn."
"And that moment on the terrace," Elayne added, arms tight across her ribs, "You accused him first. We weren't even sure what happened yet, not fully. And you made it public. That's what turned it into a storm."
Mireilla spoke then, her voice even, but edged. "Then Priscilla got involved. Testified. Things were still balancing—barely. Until Lucien himself stepped in to defend Reynald. That's when everything tipped."
She tilted her head. "If you hadn't provoked Reynald… none of that would've happened."
Lucavion's eyes slowly slid from one face to the next. Each word they spoke was logical. Understandable. Strategic.
And entirely beside the point.
His glare turned colder.
"Why?"
Mireilla frowned. "What do you mean why?"
Lucavion took a step forward. His voice was low, but it struck like the crack of a whip in the hush of the courtyard.
"Why must I stay silent?"
They stilled.
"Why should I shake hands with someone like that?" he asked again. "Because it's cleaner? More convenient? Because playing nice with scum like Reynald makes it easier for the rest of you to be accepted?"
No one answered.
He continued.
"I won't do that."
His voice was steady. Not raised. But beneath it ran a fury so sharp it felt cold.
"I don't care about his crest. I don't care about his alliances, or who stands behind him, or how many noble sons and daughters think he's worth protecting."
He pointed a finger toward the empty banquet hall behind them.
"All of that—every laugh, every toast, every word of carefully filtered charm—it's built on silence. Silence from people who know, and choose to pretend they don't."
Lucavion's mouth tightened.
"I won't."
Toven shifted, uneasy. "But we were making progress."
Lucavion looked at him, and the fire in his eyes was almost pitying.
"Progress built on swallowing our voices isn't progress," he said. "It's assimilation. And that's not what I came here for."
Caeden was watching him now with something closer to understanding—reluctant, but real.
Lucavion's jaw eased—just barely—as he took a half-step back, the weight in his stance shifting from confrontation to clarity.
"I'm not saying you should've done what I did," he said quietly. "I'm not asking you to burn your bridges or bare your throat."
His eyes swept across them—measured, but not distant.
"I know what that night cost us. I saw it in the glances, in the way the room pulled back from you. That wasn't by accident. That was calculated."
He let the words settle, and then—
"But don't twist that into thinking I don't care."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"Every step I took tonight, I knew exactly what it would do. Who it would affect. You, most of all. And still—I did it."
He inhaled. The night wind tugged at the edges of his coat, pulling shadows from the corners of his frame.
"Because there are things more dangerous than social exile. Things worse than having a few nobles cut ties."
He paused.
"You all need to understand something."
They looked at him now—properly. No longer with just the burn of protest, but with the weight of something colder creeping in. Lucavion's voice dipped low.
"The faction that surrounds the Crown Prince? It's called the Blood Faction. That isn't just a name."
Elayne blinked. "We… we've heard of it. Briefly."
Caeden nodded slowly. "Our history instructor mentioned something—an offhand comment. Nobility loyal to the idea of bloodlines being divine right."
Lucavion's eyes hardened. "That's the sanitized version. The Blood Faction isn't just about classism. It's about purity. Old blood. Magic that comes from lineage, not merit. Power inherited—not earned."
He looked each of them in the eye, one by one.
"They believe commoners can be tools. Occasionally assets. But never equals."
Toven swallowed, visibly unsettled now.
Lucavion didn't pause.
"And Lucien—the Crown Prince himself? He's not just part of it. He built it. Refined it. You think Reynald's condescension was harsh? That's just the curtain. Lucien has entire circles built on blackmail, debt webs, whispered coercion. His strength isn't just in his magic. It's in how well he makes you forget you have a voice."
Elayne drew her arms around herself, the fire in her earlier gone to embers.
"But… we're not involved in that," she said slowly. "We're just students."
Lucavion's gaze snapped to her. Sharp. Sad.
"Do you think that matters?" he said. "Do you think he sees that distinction? A common-born prodigy is still common-born. And that makes you dangerous. Not because of what you've done. But because of what you could become."
Caeden's fingers curled loosely into a fist. "So even if we stayed quiet…"
"He'd find another reason," Lucavion said. "Another excuse to put you in a smaller room. Another moment to remind you of the ceiling he wants built above your heads."
Mireilla's brow furrowed. "You're saying we were already enemies."
Lucavion nodded. "I'm saying you were already threats."
A silence followed—different from before. Not bitter. But shaken.
And finally, Lucavion spoke again—quieter this time.
"I didn't drag you into this."
He looked down.
"You were already standing in the fire. I just made sure they saw it."