The commoners' hall bustled with tired voices and low laughter. Students slumped against the stone benches after training, some groaning, some boasting, most simply breathing hard.
Cassiel Draemond sat apart, his head lowered, his breath ragged. For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped — no smirk, no arrogance, only a boy whose shoulders bore invisible chains.
Then footsteps echoed. The moment he rose, the mask returned. His lips curved into that familiar, sarcastic half-smile, and his eyes burned with the confidence of someone untouchable.
But the air shifted.
From the noble's wing strode a figure clad in velvet black and silver trim, her long orange hair cascading like fire. She moved with the ease of one who had never known the word "denial." Her gaze cut sharper than a blade.
"Sister," Cassiel said, his voice smooth but faintly strained. He spread his arms as though to welcome her. "What brings you here, among us lowly commoners?"
Her lips curved, but it was no smile. "Trash," she said, her tone cold, every syllable meant to slice. "You don't need to know why I am here. Nobles' trash has no right to ask questions."
The hall fell silent. The whisper of her words felt louder than a shout.
Cassiel's mask shattered. His smirk faltered, his confidence broke. For the briefest moment, all saw the boy behind the sharp tongue — tired, cornered, small.
Slowly, deliberately, he bent the knee. His head bowed low, his hand over his chest, the gesture drilled into him since childhood. A sign of respect demanded by custom.
She looked down at him as one might at filth upon a boot. "Pathetic," she spat, her voice ringing clear through the hall. "Trash will always remain trash."
With that, she turned, the fire of her hair trailing like a banner as she vanished back into the noble's wing.
For a long moment, silence ruled.
Then came the whispers. "Did you see that…?""Even his sister—""Pathetic… a Draemond bowing in the commoners' hall…"
Cassiel slowly straightened. His face was once more hidden beneath that faint smile. But beneath it — buried where none could see — his eyes shone not with defeat, but something else.
Resolve.
Later that evening, while the commoners' hall simmered with gossip about Cassiel's humiliation, another scene unfolded high above, in the marble tower of Highwarden's principal office.
The chamber was vast, its windows spilling moonlight across walls lined with relics and banners of forgotten ages. At the center sat Headmaster Altharion, his silver beard flowing like a river of frost, eyes glimmering with both wisdom and weariness.
The door creaked.
She entered — Cassiel's sister. Her orange hair flared like fire against the stone walls, and her noble cloak swept across the floor as though the tower itself bowed to her.
"Lady Draemond," the Headmaster greeted, his voice calm. "You bring fire even into silence. Why come to me at such an hour?"
She curtsied with flawless grace, but her eyes shone sharp with intent. "I come to discuss… my brother."
"Cassiel?" the old man asked, brows rising. "He has already caused whispers."
"That is his nature," she replied smoothly. "But he is young, reckless. His pride will be a blade that cuts him before long."
She stepped closer, her tone lowering, almost conspiratorial."I ask this: place him with weaker students. Those who lack ambition. Those who will not drag him into dangerous rivalries too soon. Let him shine only where it is safe to shine."
The Headmaster studied her, his hand stroking his beard. "Strange. Before the hall, you called him trash. And now you beg for his protection."
Her lips curved — but not in cruelty. This smile was softer, fleeting, almost human."Because he is trash, Headmaster. But he is my trash. And no one else will break him while I still draw breath."
The silence that followed was heavy. At last, Altharion nodded slowly."Very well. He will be paired as you ask. Few will suspect… but his path may be quieter than you expect."
"Good." She straightened, her fire returning, her noble mask falling back into place. "Let them think I despise him. That is how it must be. Only then can he grow into what he was meant to be."
And with that, she swept from the room, her cloak trailing behind her like a comet's tail.
When the door shut, the Headmaster exhaled softly, whispering into the quiet tower:
"Ah, Cassiel Draemond… cursed by family, yet loved in ways you may never see."
The day's trials faded into memory as the sun bled into the horizon. By the time the bells of dusk tolled, shadows stretched long across the academy's peaks.
In the high spire of the Headmaster's office, Lady Draemond stepped from the chamber with victory sealed in silence. Her words had bent the old man's will; Cassiel's path would be softened, disguised, protected.
When she descended the marble steps of the Noble Tower, a chariot was already waiting.
It was drawn by three white horses, their manes braided with silver thread, their hooves glimmering faintly as if they struck sparks from the cobblestones. The chariot itself was sleek, dark lacquered wood trimmed with gold — not ostentatious, but undeniably noble.
The rider waiting by the reins was no knight, no armored retainer. Instead, he wore casual garb: a loose gray tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbow, dark trousers tucked into weather-worn boots. His face was lean, a short beard shadowing his jaw, and his eyes glowed faintly amber in the dusk. He carried himself not with the stiff formality of a servant, but the easy confidence of a man who belonged anywhere.
"Evening ride, Lady Draemond?" he asked with a crooked half-smile, holding out a hand to help her step into the chariot.
"Just take me home," she replied curtly, lifting her chin.
The wheels rolled softly over the stone paths, and soon the academy's spires dwindled behind her. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of pine as the road bent toward the forest's edge.
That was when she saw it.
A flicker in the trees. A glow too steady to be fireflies, too restless to be moonlight. Flames.
Her eyes narrowed. "Stop."
The rider frowned. "My Lady?"
"Stop, I said."
Reluctantly, he drew the reins, and the horses stamped to a halt. The chariot settled in silence, the white steeds tossing their heads impatiently.
Lady Draemond stepped down, her cloak brushing the dirt path. She moved through the undergrowth with swift, silent grace — curiosity sharper than her caution.
And there, in a clearing at the forest's heart, she saw it:
A small fire, flames crackling softly, scattering sparks into the night. And beside it, a boy sat in full uniform.
Black trench coat. Half-eclipse sigil. Cap shadowing his face.
He wasn't warming himself. He wasn't tending the flames.
He was simply staring upward. His eyes locked not on the fire, but on the vast, endless moon, pale and watchful above the trees.
For a moment, the forest was still. No sound but the crackle of fire, the faint snort of restless horses behind her.
Lady Draemond stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. She had expected a runaway, a fool wasting curfew hours. Not… this.
Not a boy sitting as though the world itself were a weight he carried, his gaze fixed on a moon that offered no answers.
Gareth Valven.
The name stirred faintly at the edge of her memory, whispered in corridors and carried by rumor.
And now here he was, framed in moonlight and fire.
The firelight cracked softly, shadows swaying against the trees. Gareth hadn't moved since she stepped into the clearing. His eyes, pale and hollow, stayed fixed on the moon above, as though it were more real than the woman who approached.
Then, slowly, his gaze dropped. It fell on her — the proud figure with hair like flame, cloak brushing the leaves. His voice, when it came, was flat, almost indifferent.
"…What do you want?"
Lady Draemond paused, lips parting as if to deliver some sharp retort. But instead, she exhaled, straightened her posture, and gave the answer plainly.
"I am Elira Draemond," she said. "Cassiel's elder sister."
At that name, Gareth's expression shifted. Not much — only the faintest trace of warmth in his eyes, as though a shadow stirred. He nodded once.
"Cassiel is my friend."
The words were quiet, but sure.
Something flickered across Elira's face. Relief. Joy. The kind that didn't belong to the sharp-tongued noblewoman who had cut her brother down in front of the crowd hours earlier. For the first time that day, her smile was unguarded.
"…Your friend," she repeated, as if tasting the word. Then, almost cautiously, she crossed the clearing. A thick fallen log lay opposite Gareth, and she lowered herself onto it, smoothing her cloak as she sat.
The firelight painted her hair in molten orange, her eyes softer now, almost vulnerable.
"I want to know about him," she admitted, her voice quieter, less fierce. "His days. His habits. What he's like when no one is watching."
She leaned forward slightly, her tone carrying something rare — not calculation, not command, but genuine hope.
"Tell me, Gareth. Tell me what kind of life my brother lives here."
The night pressed close, holding its breath. For once, Gareth wasn't looking at the moon, nor the fire. His gaze lingered on her — measuring, weighing, as though deciding whether the truth she showed was real.
And Elira… smiled faintly, her noble armor set aside, if only for this moment.
The fire's glow danced between them, sparks curling up into the night like fleeting stars. Gareth leaned back against the log, eyes half-shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. Elira's question still hung in the air — fragile, earnest, waiting.
But Gareth didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his voice calm and even:
"If you want me to tell you about Cassiel… then you'll give me something in return."
Elira blinked, her proud composure cracking for a heartbeat. "You would bargain with me?"
Gareth's gaze didn't waver. The flames reflected in his eyes, sharp and steady."I don't waste words. Information for information. That's the only way I'll talk."
For a moment, silence. She stared at him as though weighing whether to be offended, or amused. At last, she exhaled, a hint of exasperation in her tone.
"…Fine. What do you want?"
Gareth's eyes shifted from her to the horizon, to where Highwarden's vast silhouette rose against the night sky. The mountains loomed, their ridges black against the silver moon.
"How many cities does Highwarden hold?"
Elira tilted her head, surprised by the question. But after a moment, her tone softened into something almost lecturing, almost proud.
"Too many to count in their colors and tongues," she admitted. "But seven great ones — seven that hold the crown of Highwarden's name. Each different, each proud, each fighting to outshine the other. They are the heart of our nation, the pillars of our banner."
Her words carried weight, but Gareth only nodded once, storing it away in silence.
"Good," he said simply. His eyes returned to her, dark and unreadable."Now… do you still want to know about your brother?"
The noblewoman's composure faltered again. She leaned forward, hands curling slightly against her lap, eyes shining in the firelight with a rare hope. "…Yes."
Gareth shifted, the shadows of the fire tracing sharp lines across his face. For the first time that night, he seemed ready to speak more than fragments — but only because the bargain had been struck.
The fire crackled low, its warmth flickering against the trunks of the dark woods. Gareth glanced at Elira once more, his expression unreadable.
"Hide," he said flatly.
She blinked, startled. "What?"
"Bushes. Now. Don't argue."
For all her noble bearing, something in Gareth's tone brooked no refusal. Hesitant, Elira gathered her dress and slipped into the undergrowth, crouching low. The leaves whispered faintly as she stilled herself.
Moments later, footsteps broke the quiet. Cassiel emerged from the shadows, a bundle of four fresh fish hanging by a cord. His uniform was disheveled, damp from the stream, but there was a small glimmer of pride in his eyes as he dropped the catch by the fire.
"Not bad, huh?" he muttered, sitting exactly where his sister had been moments ago. He set to roasting the fish, the scent of crackling skin rising into the night.
In the bushes, Elira shifted, resting her cheek against her knees. At first, she waited with a faint smile, but as minutes stretched on, her patience frayed. She almost stood to leave—until Gareth's voice cut through the firelight.
"…Do you hate your older sister?"
The words struck like a stone tossed into still water. Elira froze, her breath caught.
Cassiel stared at the fire. For a long while, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice quiet, raw.
"…I do."
Elira's heart clenched.
"But…" he added, gaze tightening. "I still love her. A bit."
The confession hung heavy in the air.
"She's given me nothing but coldness," he continued, each word dripping like a wound reopened. "Mocked me. Ordered me around like a servant. Turned every glance into judgment, every word into a knife. Every year, I feel like I'm just… drowning in it."
His fists trembled. Then, with a sharp cry, Cassiel struck the tree beside him. The trunk split with a resounding crack, shards of bark scattering.
Elira's smile vanished. Her hands curled into her lap, her throat tight.
"She's still family," Cassiel whispered, shoulders shaking. "And I… I miss her. I miss when she was kind, when we'd play and laugh and it didn't matter who was older or stronger. I miss my sister."
His breath shuddered, and tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I want her back," he choked, his voice breaking. "And I want Mother back too. Why… why did it have to turn out like this?"
He lifted his eyes to the moon, pale and distant above the branches. His sobs carried into the night, ragged and unguarded.
In the bushes, Elira's composure broke. Tears streamed down her face as she pressed a hand against her mouth, trembling silently. She had come here with schemes, with manipulation — but none of that mattered now. Her brother's voice had stripped her to her heart.
Cassiel's words came one last time, faint and desperate:
"…Deep down… I love her."
Elira's tears only flowed faster. She smiled through the ache, crying somberly into her hands.
By the fire, Gareth reached over, placing a firm hand on Cassiel's back. "Let it out," he said simply.
And Cassiel did. He wept until his voice was hoarse, until only the fire's gentle crackle filled the woods. Then, the two boys ate the roasted fish in silence, their bond wordless yet stronger than any oath.
From the shadows, Elira slipped back toward the road. Her steps were light, hesitant, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace. By the time she reached the chariot, the rider straightened, his casual clothes rustling in the breeze. Without a word, she climbed inside, her tears still fresh upon her cheeks.
The carriage wheels turned softly against the earth, carrying her away into the quiet night.
The carriage rolled on through the night, wheels whispering against the earth.
Inside, Elira pressed a trembling hand against her lips, her tears refusing to stop. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she wasn't Lady Draemond, proud and untouchable. She was only a sister — remembering a sunlit garden, where a little boy with orange hair had run to her, laughing, calling her name. Remembering the days when her hand had fit perfectly around his small fingers, when she had promised to always protect him.
Her shoulders shook. Her voice was only a whisper, but it filled the hollow carriage like a vow.
"…I miss those times too."
Her hand clenched over her chest, aching, burning.
"All of this… is for you, my little king."
The rider glanced back once at her in silence, then turned forward, guiding the white horses into the moonlit dark.