After carrying the exhausted Mira to her room and ensuring she was settled, Lysandria and Elara stepped out of the mountain hostel. Since the Academy was carved into the heart of the peaks, there were no balconies—only narrow, jagged stone paths that clung to the cliffside.
They stood on a high, wind-swept ledge overlooking the dark abyss of the valley. Aeldir and Eron were nowhere to be found, likely lost to their own preparations or the shifting shadows of the crags.
"My name is Lysandria," she said, her voice small against the howling wind. "I realized that in all this chaos, I never truly introduced myself."
"Just Elara, for now," the other replied, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the stars met the jagged peaks.
Lysandria leaned against the cold stone. "The more I see this family, the more I question what I know. When Mira broke down... we found out their real ages. Mira is eighteen, but Eron and his brother are nearly twenty-six. They look so young, yet they carry themselves like they've seen the world end."
"It's the mana," Elara murmured. "The war, the endless cycle of using elixirs to knit their bodies back together... it preserves the skin while the soul withers. They've been on the battlefield since they were sixteen."
"While we were safe," Lysandria added, a hollow ache in her chest. "They were just kids, forced into a life they didn't choose."
"Yes," Elara replied. "But they also had to withstand the weight of politics without a noble title. It's a cage we were born into, but they were forged in the fires of it."
Lysandria thought of the boy she once knew. "You didn't see him before. From the moment I met him... that saving incident... he was cold. No emotion, except for that exaggerated, terrifying protectiveness for his sister. Are they even kids anymore?"
"No," Elara said bitterly. "Even though we are both Princesses, we are far more childish than them."
"I can't blame us. It's just fate," Lysandria said. She looked at Elara, shifting the topic to the shadow that hung over the other woman. "Are you... happy with this marriage? To Eron?"
Elara watched the clouds drift below the cliffside. "I don't know about Eron's heart. But I am happy to be away from that castle. I was a 'Perfection Doll.' Assassination attempts, constant scolding from parents who wanted a trophy, not a daughter... I was never allowed to breathe."
"I know that feeling," Lysandria whispered, her secret—the power humming within her—remaining locked behind her lips.
Elara noticed a soft, strange smile on Lysandria's face. "Why are you smiling?"
"Just a happy memory," Lysandria said, her mind flickering back to a boy she had known long ago. "A friend I lost when we were children. He was a lazy little genius—the kind of kid who spent half his time acting bored, only to wake up and outplay everyone at any game they dared to start, just so they'd leave him alone. He hated playing with other kids; he said their moves were too predictable. He spoke of the world like it was a set of logical laws waiting to be solved. I have this feeling... he's out there somewhere, finally finding a game worth his time. I just wish he would find me, or that I'll eventually find him."
"He will," Elara said softly, feeling the hope behind the words. "The Tournament starts soon. Will you stay here, or go with Eron?"
"I'll go as a healer," Elara decided. "It's who I am."
"Then I'll be watching your spells," Lysandria smiled. "I might even try to copy a few."
Together, they turned away from the edge, heading back into the stone halls to prepare for the storm.