Chapter 880: Girl
The courtyard fell silent—too silent.
Moonlight spilled across the stone tiles in fragmented reflections, catching faint glints along the edges of the Academy walls. Somewhere in the far distance, a bell tolled once—low, slow, a reminder of time continuing on even when it shouldn't.
Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't need to.
The night stretched around him like an old cloak, familiar and weighted.
But he wasn't cold.
Not in the way others might be.
He exhaled once, slow and silent. It wasn't fatigue that gripped him—not yet. It was something older. Something... unresolved.
'So even now… they don't leave.'
The memories.
He'd buried them well—stacked years on top like bricks, like mortar, like armor. He'd trained until his muscles forgot what rest was. He'd studied until his mind no longer wandered. He'd rewritten his name, his posture, his voice—every aspect of himself forged into something new.
Something controlled.
And yet—
Those eyes.
Adrian's eyes.
They hadn't changed.
Gray like iron, steady like judgment, untouched by the years that had scalded everyone else. When Lucavion met that gaze earlier across the banquet hall, it hadn't just been recognition.
It had been reminder.
Not of the fall. Not of the betrayal.
But of the moment before it.
When he had still believed in certain things.
Still trusted.
'Foolish.'
He leaned back against the pillar again, this time letting his head tilt up to the starscape sky above. The constellations shimmered with gentle mana-light, arranged with such precision that it would almost be calming.
But not to him.
No. The beauty only sharpened the contrast. The quiet only made the noise in his head louder.
'You spent years becoming untouchable… and all it took was a single look to feel it again.'
The edge.
The weight.
The rage, yes—but more than that.
The betrayal that never learned how to die.
He didn't regret the path. The sacrifice. The reshaping. But there were still nights like this—quiet, slow, too wide for thought to stay tucked away—where he could feel it pressing in.
Not weakness.
Not exactly.
Just...
Memory.
And memory, when sharpened right, could cut deeper than any blade.
[Lucavion.]
Her voice didn't prod. Didn't press.
It just was.
A gentle tether, pulling him back from the edge of old shadows.
He blinked once—slowly—and the stars above shifted in his focus. Not symbols now, not constellations burned into forgotten chapters. Just lights. Harmless. Distant.
He exhaled, longer this time. Not to push something away—but to let it pass.
"…Tch," he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "Hells. Thought I'd locked that part tighter."
[You did.] Vitaliara's voice was quieter now, not the usual dry twist of sarcasm. [But locks rust.]
He didn't argue.
Instead, Lucavion pushed off from the pillar and walked a few slow steps toward the central courtyard again. The moonlight swayed across the tiles like breath on water, and his boots made no sound as they moved from stone to moss-lined edge.
It was peaceful, in that curated Academy way. The kind of calm that didn't grow—it was designed. Sculpted. Taught to stay in place.
His gaze drifted toward the dormitory towers.
Some windows glowed faintly—study runes or night-ward enchantments still active. Others had gone dim, their occupants likely already curled beneath self-warming blankets, dreaming of merit rankings and dueling trials.
Students moved here and there along the walkways. Not many. Just enough to suggest that not everyone had the good sense to sleep early. A pair of mages laughed softly as they vanished into one of the smaller garden alcoves.
Lucavion's boots tapped gently across the flagstones, pace slow, unhurried—neither hunting nor hunted. The air carried the muted scent of spell-bloom petals and old, rune-carved marble. Lanterns swayed lazily in their hover-tracks overhead, casting soft gold halos across polished walkways and vine-laced archways.
The Academy was, in many ways, behaving precisely as it was meant to.
And yet—
He looked again.
The students passing through the courtyard weren't all the same. Yes, some wore noble sigils. Yes, a few were still trailed by their household attendants—most of whom looked thoroughly unimpressed by the spartan rooms they'd been assigned to. Luxury luggage shimmered with levitation glyphs. A highborn girl in moon-thread robes was arguing softly with a dorm steward about why her attendant wasn't allowed to stay past curfew.
He could hear it in the distance, the phrase "Do you even know my name?" rising in pitch.
But that wasn't what struck him.
What struck him… was that not all of them looked like they belonged to court.
There were others.
Rougher edges. Hushed voices. Not necessarily commoners—but not polished marble either. Boys with dueling gloves worn from use, not fashion. Girls with scholar bands more worn than their robes. A student with burn marks peeking past his sleeve and a pack clearly held together by mana-glue and raw will.
'So… it isn't just nobles after all.'
He didn't smile. But something in his chest loosened.
The banquet had been a performance, after all. A gilded affair where lineage introduced itself before names did. He'd braced for another political garden where mana and bloodline mattered more than talent.
But here?
This was different.
This was a crucible.
The Academy hadn't been built for comfort. Not really. Its precision was not luxury—it was expectation. Control. Pressure. And pressure revealed what titles often obscured.
[You're thinking again,] Vitaliara murmured, still settled across his shoulder like a small echo of warmth.
"I'm always thinking," he whispered.
[More than usual.]
He didn't get the chance to reply.
Because something shifted.
A breath in the air—sharp, sudden, but not hostile. Like being noticed by the wind.
Lucavion's eyes slid to the side, unhurried.
And there she was.
Standing just across the courtyard, half-shadowed by a frost-touched alcove, her silhouette framed by the soft white sheen of the spellglass behind her.
A girl.
Young. Likely close to his age, maybe a year beneath.
Her hair was a dark chestnut, not styled but still falling in clean, natural waves around her shoulders. Her uniform was simple. Not threadbare—but not overly tailored either. And her posture?
Still.
Unmoving.
As if she didn't need to fidget to belong.
Her eyes were what caught him.
Not for their shape. Not for their color—though the rich hazel, flecked with gold, shimmered oddly well beneath the moonlight.
No.
It was how they looked at him.
Not admiring. Not intimidated.
Not even curious, in the way nobles watched a rare animal.
Just…
Present.
Unflinching.
Direct.
As though she saw something—and wasn't deciding what to do with it. Just accepting it. The silence. The space. Him.
Lucavion didn't move.
But his mind did.
She was not specially beautiful or anything.
Not in the way banquet girls were. Not like the illusion-spun elegance paraded under star-tier lineage sigils.
No enchantments danced over her skin. No mana-laced perfume. No constructed aura of refinement.
But even so…
She was exceptional.
And he didn't know why.
Not her figure—he barely registered it.
Not her clothes.
It wasn't her voice. She hadn't even spoken.
But that gaze—
That way of looking—
It was familiar.
And yet not.
As if a half-remembered rhythm had just begun again, playing a melody he should know, but couldn't name.
It stirred something. Not in the heart—Lucavion had long since taught that part of himself how to sleep with one eye open—but deeper. Beneath the walls. Beneath the armor. Where instinct met something quieter. Something older.
Not recognition.
Not déjà vu.
Just... dissonance.
'Have I seen you before?'
Chapter 881: Main
The carriage wheels murmured against the cobblestone road, the night outside layered in soft mist and arcane glows. Mana-lanterns hung from polished brass sconces flickered with steady, gentle light, illuminating the path back toward the residential towers that climbed like spines behind the Academy's east wing.
Inside, the carriage was crowded but not tense—still warm with the echo of conversations and tentative camaraderie spun from the social swirl of the banquet.
Elara sat near the rear window, her hand propped beneath her chin as she watched the mana fog roll past. Her shoulders were relaxed, but her eyes remained alert, flicking once toward each new voice, each shift in tone. She wasn't anxious. But she wasn't off-duty, either.
Opposite her, Selphine leaned with meticulous poise, already discussing logistical concerns with the same authority she'd used when ordering wine three hours earlier. "Block 7-A has reinforced warding. That's not by chance."
"No," Aurelian agreed, lazily stretching out one leg. "That's them drawing a perimeter around the ones they want to watch most. Us."
Cedric let out a short breath beside Elara—less amusement, more dry acknowledgment. He didn't speak much during the ride, but his presence was quietly grounded. One hand rested on his knee, the other subtly near the hilt of the blade he technically wasn't allowed to wear. His eyes moved when hers did.
The four of them—Elara, Cedric, Selphine, Aurelian—had been placed in the same dormitory block. A coincidence no one believed.
The others in the carriage had filtered into their orbit throughout the night: Marian from the Varnholdt coast, who asked intelligent questions and laughed with her entire face; the Linwen twins, sharp-edged and theatrically attached to each other; and a boy named Dellen who couldn't seem to shut up but managed to do it charmingly.
"It's still strange," Marian said now, her voice bright. "All of us in one tower? I thought room assignments were supposed to be random."
"Oh, they are," Selphine replied coolly. "If you're uninteresting."
The carriage shifted slightly as it passed over a wider stone bridge, the runes beneath the wheels thrumming with faint kinetic enchantments. Outside, the Academy's towers loomed closer, their tops vanishing into the fogged twilight. Block 7-A, the students' temporary haven and silent prison, stood at the edge of that rising skyline.
Inside, the chatter began to shift.
"Did you catch the announcement before dessert?" Dellen asked, halfway through unwrapping the sugar-glazed fig he'd pocketed from the banquet table. "A full week of assessments starting tomorrow. Combat, theory, spell resonance, the whole package."
"You sound surprised," Selphine said dryly, not looking up from the trim of her gloves. "They've done this for the past three decades. Every new term begins with a thinning of the herd."
Aurelian smirked, leaning his head back against the side paneling. "And yet the herd still looks surprised each time."
Marian exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "We just got here. A little grace period would've been nice."
"No such thing here," Cedric murmured beside Elara.
"That sounds familiar," Elara said, her voice quieter than the rest but sharpened by clarity.
They all looked at her.
Marian leaned forward, her expression open. "What about you, Elowyn? Any thoughts on being run through the gauntlet on day one?"
Elara met her gaze without hesitation. "It's expected. And it's useful."
A pause.
"I'd rather know where everyone stands now than wait until it's already too late."
Selphine's mouth quirked slightly. "Practical."
Cedric said nothing, but Elara could feel the subtle shift in his stance—approval, maybe. Or understanding.
Aurelian hummed thoughtfully. "You don't seem fazed."
Elara glanced toward the window again, watching the ghostlight flicker over the mist-covered garden paths below. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass—hazel eyes, chestnut hair, an expression far calmer than she felt.
Inside, she was still unraveling the evening in thin, deliberate threads.
The banquet had been loud. Brilliant. Cloaked in laughter and perfumed illusion.
But she hadn't been part of it.
She had watched it.
Every sip of wine, every courtesan's curtsy, every carefully phrased challenge masked as flirtation—it had unfolded before her like a staged play. She'd watched nobles circle like falcons dressed as peacocks. And among them—like fixed points in a moving storm—Adrian and Isolde.
Adrian had looked every inch the prince. Collected, radiant, the eye of a silent gravitational pull that made courtiers lean forward without knowing why. Isolde had been perfect. As always. Sculpted grace. Forged innocence. The crowd had adored her.
And neither of them had seen her.
That, more than anything, had steadied her.
She had thought it would be unbearable. That rage would claw up her throat like bramble thorns. That her hands would shake. That she'd have to force herself to smile through clenched teeth.
But she hadn't.
She hadn't needed to.
They hadn't looked at her. Not once.
The girl they'd cast down was gone, and the stranger in her place—this poised, quiet "Elowyn"—was just another minor baron's daughter with calloused hands and sharp eyes. No one saw through it. Not even them.
And that, strangely, had made everything easier.
'I thought I'd burn with it,' she thought. 'But instead… I'm cold. Cold and clear.'
When she spoke again, her voice was level. Steady.
"I've trained for worse. If the Academy thinks it can shake us with a few trials and weighted grading curves, it's welcome to try."
Marian let out a breath. "Well. I guess that settles that."
Aurelian chuckled. "Our dear Elowyn doesn't blink easily, does she?"
Aurelian's chuckle lingered, warm and just a shade too smug. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other, and tilted his goblet slightly toward Elara.
"Well," he said, his grin sharpened by something that hovered between amusement and mischief, "I suppose it's to be expected. You are the disciple of our Master, after all."
The words slipped into the air like a pebble dropped in still water—small, but deliberate. They didn't echo loudly, but Elara caught them with the full weight of their meaning.
Her gaze snapped to him. Not theatrical. Not flaring with fire.
But sharp.
A cold, knife's edge glance that cut the distance between them with perfect precision.
Aurelian flinched—slightly. Not from fear, but from the realization that he'd stepped somewhere he shouldn't have. The way her eyes locked onto him wasn't angry.
It was a warning.
Pure and quiet and final.
Selphine glanced between them, brow arched.
Marian blinked, curious now. "Disciple? Wait, what master—?"
Aurelian cleared his throat too quickly. "It's a joke," he said, waving a hand in the air like he could dismiss the moment with gesture alone. "You know, how she acts so composed, so perfectly trained all the time. Makes the rest of us look like we're still fumbling with spellbooks."
Elara's stare didn't falter.
But she said nothing.
Not here. Not now.
Aurelian gave her a small, appeasing shrug. "Honestly," he muttered, "I meant it as a compliment."
Selphine leaned forward slightly, eyes still on Elara, something unreadable flickering behind her expression.
Marian grinned. "Compliment or not, I want a teacher like that. If you've got secrets, Elowyn, I expect a few of them to spill eventually."
Elara offered a faint, cool smile. One that didn't reach her eyes.
"Secrets lose their power when you hand them out like candy."
Marian laughed. "Fair."
Selphine's gaze lingered a second longer before she settled back, arms folding. "Still. Must've been one hell of a teacher."
Elara didn't reply.
But her fingers curled once beneath the table—remembering the exact way Eveline's voice had echoed through her spine, the scent of ozone and steel, the quiet, brutal tenderness of instruction forged in pain and purpose.
A hell of a teacher, yes.
Yet, she was also a hell of a figure.
Chapter 882: Main (2)
The conversation settled for a moment, the gentle clatter of carriage wheels filling the silence like the ticking of some patient, invisible clock.
It was Marian who broke it, voice light. "Well. Banquet or battlefield, I suppose they both serve their purpose. Still—tonight was something, wasn't it?"
Aurelian gave a dry snort. "Gilded peacocks performing rituals of dominance with wine and violins? Classic."
"No," Selphine said, tone measured. "It wasn't classic. Not this time."
The silence that followed Selphine's words was the kind that filled lungs instead of ears.
Aurelian leaned forward slightly, his casual posture gone. Dellen stopped chewing. Even the twins glanced up in sync, for once not theatrical but simply still.
Because they all understood what she meant.
Not classic. Not routine.
Because Lucavion existed.
"I still can't believe it was declared a draw," Dellen muttered, eyes wide, as if replaying the moment again behind his gaze. "That wasn't a duel. That was… I don't know what that was."
"Revelation," Selphine murmured, echoing Valeria's unspoken word from the terrace. "He tore something open."
Elara didn't speak. She didn't have to. She could still feel the residue of it—the echo of blade meeting blade not as contest, but as declaration.
Marian exhaled sharply, the awe still bright in her face. "Rowen's final form—I didn't even know the body could do that. It looked like he was dancing with the air."
"And Lucavion shattered it like it was porcelain." Aurelian's voice was lower now, threaded with something that sounded disturbingly close to admiration. "With a movement that wasn't even elegant. Just… right."
"It wasn't supposed to work," Selphine said softly. "That's the part that rattled everyone."
Cedric, beside Elara, finally spoke again, voice like dry flint on stone. "Because it wasn't a technique. It was an instinct."
Elara nodded once. 'Threading the rhythm instead of following it… That was no swordplay. That was survival.'
"And it made every other duel that night look like practice drills," Dellen added. "No offense to the rest of us."
Aurelian scoffed. "None taken. I already scheduled training tomorrow. Seven bells."
Marian sat back against the velvet upholstery, shaking her head slowly. "I didn't think I'd come here to be humbled this fast."
Selphine's eyes flicked toward Elara again. "What did you think, Elowyn?"
For a moment, Elara was quiet, her fingers curled slightly against her skirt.
She had watched it with a kind of bone-deep recognition—Lucavion's jagged instinct slicing through Rowen's polished forms like a blade through silk. She'd watched nobles flinch, their pride cracking in the reflections of those blows.
But she'd felt something else too.
Not awe.
Not envy.
Hunger.
A sharp pull beneath the ribs. Not toward power—but toward truth.
"He's effective."
A beat.
Selphine turned slowly, brow arching. "Effective?"
"It's not a compliment or a critique," Elara replied, voice even. "It's a fact."
That earned her a low snort from Selphine. "You're impossible to impress."
"Or perhaps," Aurelian said, lips twitching, "she's just not swayed by dramatic boys and pretty swordsmanship."
"I'd argue that wasn't pretty," Dellen said, still a little dazed. "It was… feral. And still perfect."
Cedric didn't speak, but his gaze shifted, faintly approving. He knew. Elara had always guarded herself most when she was most affected.
The conversation meandered, the energy shifting again, lighter now—but not entirely free of weight.
"Still," Marian said, stretching slightly, "Jesse held her own. I'll give her that."
"From the Lorian Empire," Aurelian added, tone more contemplative than mocking. "You'd think she'd be playing at formality and pomp. But that wasn't play."
Selphine gave a short nod. "No. That was grit. Pure, polished, and very real."
"She's not a noble in name," Cedric said then. "Not one that carries weight here. But she fought like she had everything to prove. And didn't flinch when proving it."
Elara turned her gaze out the window again.
She remembered Jesse's eyes—bright with heat, not cruelty. She remembered the way Jesse watched Lucavion—not with strategy, not with rivalry.
With history.
There had been so much in that gaze. Longing. Anger. Need. Not romantic, necessarily—but undeniably personal.
'She looked at him like she'd survived him,' Elara thought.
And Lucavion… Lucavion hadn't danced.
He had responded.
'He knew her rhythm. Or had once taught it.'
That truth rippled beneath the duel like an undertow.
"She might not have won," Marian said, "but she made an impression. That's more than most can say, going up against Lucavion twice in one evening."
"She moved like she wasn't afraid to lose," Aurelian said. "That's what caught my attention. There was no fear in her. Just fire."
"And that," Selphine murmured, eyes distant now, "makes her dangerous."
Dellen gave a low whistle. "So, what you're saying is… the Lorian delegation shouldn't be underestimated?"
Selphine turned to him, smiling with the quiet precision of a blade sliding into its sheath.
"No one at this Academy should be."
The carriage rolled forward, mist curling around the lanterns outside as if trying to listen in. Inside, the warmth of conversation began to fade back into thoughtfulness, the kind that marked the end of a night that had revealed too much—and yet, not nearly enough.
Elara sat still, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Elara remained still as the last of the conversation dulled into thoughtful quiet, her gaze catching briefly on the shifting fog outside. Yet her mind, as ever, wandered elsewhere.
To Jesse.
To that second duel.
Elara wasn't a swordswoman—not in the way Lucavion or Cedric were. She couldn't break down parries or footwork with the trained precision of someone who'd lived by a blade. But there was something in Jesse's movements she had recognized, even without technical fluency.
Anger.
Not the reckless kind. Not the untrained rage that made spells flare wild and strikes miss by a breath. No—this was something older. Sharper. The kind of anger that learned to bleed in rhythm, to move with elegance not in spite of pain, but because of it.
It reminded her, strangely, of Eveline. Of training in silence while her body screamed. Of learning control not as a technique, but as a religion.
Jesse's blade shook with memory. Not fear. Not bitterness.
But history.
That was the kind of weapon Elara could understand.
She hadn't thought she'd find kinship in a Lorian blade.
But maybe it wasn't about where Jesse came from. Maybe it was what she'd had to survive to get here.
'Like me,' Elara thought, as the carriage pulled to a slow, final halt.
The mana-lanterns outside cast long, symmetrical shadows up the curved archways of Block 7-A. The dormitory stood like a bastion—clean-cut stone veined with soft enchantment glow, tall windows kissed by night mist. The wards shimmered faintly along the perimeter, like thin breath on glass. There was beauty to it, but more than that—intentionality.
The students were ushered inside by two attendants in midnight-blue robes, their faces obscured by veils of light-threaded silk. Nothing overt. Just enough to remind them that here, anonymity often wore a uniform.
Elara moved quietly with the others, her steps fluid, her eyes scanning the soft marble corridors without appearing to.
Each room in 7-A was arranged along a gentle spiral curve—individual doors branching off from a main staircase that circled a central tower core. The warding sigils were subtle, woven into the seams of stone like ivy.
At the third curve, her name was read aloud.
"Elowyn Caerlin," one of the attendants said, voice neutral. "Room seventy-two."
Elara inclined her head in acknowledgment and stepped through the threshold.
The room was… efficient.
Stone walls, softened by floating curtains of veilmoss. A large arched window overlooking the misty garden. A desk etched with passive reinforcement runes. A bed—simple, firm, dressed in Academy colors. The air smelled faintly of mountain salt and dried parchment.
It wasn't opulent. But it was clean. Sharp. Functional.
And for now—it was hers.
She closed the door behind her. The ward clicked into place with a soft shhhhht, sealing her into silence.
Elara leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed.
The quiet was jarring after the din of the banquet and the low tide of conversation in the carriage. But it wasn't unwelcome.
She toed off her shoes with slow precision, unhooked the outer layer of her gown, and sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on her knees.
No mirrors here.
But she didn't need one.
She knew what face she wore.
Elowyn Caerlin.
Baron's daughter. Minor nobility. Quiet but not fragile. Watchful. Unremarkable.
And tonight, unrecognized.
Chapter 883: In that night
It didn't bother her.
Not in the way she had once feared it might.
Elara sat there, alone in the hush of the dormitory, fingers still curled against her knees. She let the silence settle like dust around her ribs, breathing it in until her lungs stopped reaching for noise.
No one had seen her. Not truly.
Not Isolde. Not Adrian. Not even the stewards who had brushed past her with shallow bows and polite dismissal. The illusion had held. The layers of spellcraft, voice shift, posture correction, subtle glyphs stitched into her inner sleeve by Eveline's hand—they had all done their job.
She had passed through the heart of the Academy's elite like smoke through lattice.
Unnoticed.
And that was the point, wasn't it?
Her hands curled tighter.
'So why does it feel like this?'
She had expected rage. Shame. At the very least, unease. But instead, there was only this cold... clarity. Like ice on the inside of her chest. Clean, but heavy.
She had imagined it differently. Had imagined her blood boiling, teeth clenched against the mask, fire behind the smile.
But nothing had boiled.
It had simply passed.
The memory of her father's final words flickered behind her eyelids. "You are no longer mine."
And Isolde, watching with that quiet smirk coiled behind her lashes like a snake too bored to strike.
Elara opened her eyes.
'I'm not mourning them,' she realized. 'I'm mourning the death of my expectations.'
That strange grief was heavier than she'd prepared for.
She stood with a slow, exhale, shedding the remnants of thought like she'd peeled off her gown—carefully, deliberately. Then she crossed to the bath chamber, stripped out of the illusion layers and enchanted silk, and sank into the deep stone tub drawn from the central warming spring.
The water was hot.
Too hot.
Good.
She sat there until her skin flushed and her muscles softened, until the ache at the back of her neck faded into something bearable.
Later, dressed in a deep-grey tunic and boots, her hair damp and combed back, Elara opened her door and stepped into the corridor.
The tower at night was quiet—sleepy in a way the banquet had never been. The spiral halls carried every footfall like a whisper.
She didn't have a destination. She just needed… air.
Her feet carried her down one curve, then another, until she found a small open balcony overlooking the western garden wall—wisteria blooms hanging like quiet stars, the wind humming through the lattice in low tones.
She stepped into it—and wasn't alone.
Selphine was already there, her back straight against the railing, a cup of something steaming in her hand. The scent was sharp. Minted tonic.
"Couldn't sleep?" Selphine asked, without turning.
Elara joined her, arms folding across the edge of the railing. "Didn't try."
Selphine hummed. "Figured you'd be one of those."
Before Elara could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind her.
Before Elara could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind her—familiar not just in sound, but in the way it moved through the air. Anchored. Heavy with unsaid weight.
"El—"
A pause. Barely a breath.
"—Elowyn."
Cedric's voice was low, quiet enough that it didn't carry far. But Elara caught the catch at the front of it. The momentary stumble. The name that almost wasn't masked in time.
She didn't turn right away. Let him sit in it for a second.
Then: "Yes?"
He exhaled through his nose, subtle. Almost sheepish. "You look better," he said, coming to lean on the stone rail beside her. "Refreshed?"
"I am," she replied simply, voice unembellished. "Hot water helps."
Cedric gave a small grunt of agreement, and they fell into the kind of silence that didn't require effort. The kind built of shared weight.
Then came the soft scuff of footsteps. The others appeared like shadows rolling through the corridor—Marian first, animated as ever, followed by Dellen, who looked freshly towel-dried and half-dressed for sleep, and Aurelian, in a robe of dark velvet that he wore like it was armor. Selphine barely twitched at their approach.
"Of course you're all here already," Marian said, eyeing them. "You didn't even try to sleep, did you?"
"I rest when the world makes sense," Aurelian replied, yawning, "which should explain a great deal."
Dellen gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the balcony. "Did any of you check out the side wing off the east corridor? There's a whole reading alcove with floormats that reorient to spine posture. I think I fell in love with furniture."
"They really did stuff this place, didn't they?" Marian murmured, running a hand along the balcony rail. "I swear half the corners are charmed. The bed literally adjusted to my temperature when I sat down."
"Mine has a mirror that identifies facial tension and suggests meditative sequences," Aurelian said, brushing something invisible from his sleeve. "Frankly, more helpful than most of the servants back home."
Selphine sipped from her tonic. "It's deliberate. They want to impress us, but also remind us—this is the Imperial Academy. You're not just students. You're investments."
"They want us to remember where we are," Selphine continued, setting her now-empty cup gently on the railing, "and exactly how rare it is to be here."
"That's fine," Dellen said, stretching his arms above his head. "As long as they keep giving us lavender soap and mattresses that breathe, I'll happily pretend I was born to be here."
"Speak for yourself," Marian said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "I nearly got lost just trying to find the bathing chamber. This place has more hallways than sense."
"That's by design too," Aurelian offered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's meant to make us feel like we're always on the edge of somewhere important."
"Poetic," Selphine muttered.
They walked slowly down the spiraled walkway, shoes muffled against the plush carpet inlaid between veined stone paths. The lanterns that lined the arches above glowed a mellow copper, casting warm shadows on the walls as their conversation ebbed and flowed—stories about strange chamber layouts, debates over whether the tea was laced with clarity runes, someone muttering something about how the toilets heated themselves in the exact shape of one's backside. It was mundane and oddly grounding.
Elara didn't say much, but she listened. The warmth of the group was easy to orbit. Softened laughter rose like candle smoke, ephemeral and sincere.
For just a moment, they were not nobles, not warriors, not forgotten exiles or masked names.
They were students. Late-night wanderers in a place built for futures none of them could yet imagine.
Eventually, one by one, the group began to peel away.
Selphine was the first to nod goodnight, saying she needed to "detangle her thoughts with comb oil and patience." Aurelian followed with a dramatic yawn, already muttering about finding the exact center of his mattress. Marian and Dellen drifted off still whispering about a hidden chamber they'd found behind the library's northern wall.
And then it was quiet again.
Just Elara and Cedric, paused beneath a low-hanging arch draped in pale-flowered vines, the mist settling like a hush between them.
He looked at her. Not with concern. Just… awareness.
"You're not going back in yet," he said.
"No."
A small beat.
"I could stay."
She met his gaze then, something gentle and firm in the angle of her chin. "I need to clear my head. Alone."
Chapter 884: Met him again
Cedric didn't move at first. He just looked at her a beat longer, something sharpening behind the quiet neutrality of his expression.
Then, a tilt of the head. That old, familiar furrow between his brows. "Are you really sure?"
Her spine straightened, just slightly. "Yes."
"This isn't the same city. Or the same castle. You're not behind Eveline's wards anymore."
She turned to face him fully now, the garden mist curling soft around her ankles, the wind teasing strands of damp hair across her cheek.
"And this is the Imperial Academy," she said, too level, too fast. "If something happens to me here, it's already far too late for your hovering to stop it."
His jaw twitched. Not in offense. Just that faint pulse of frustration that only surfaced when he thought she was wrong—and knew she wouldn't yield.
"Elara—"
"I'm not fragile."
"I never said you were."
"But you implied I'm vulnerable."
He stared at her for a second longer, and then, slowly, his shoulders eased—not in defeat, but in resignation.
"Fine," he murmured. His voice wasn't cold, but it no longer carried the warmth it had before. He stepped back from the archway, into the curve of shadow where the hallway began to swallow the light.
It looked—for half a breath—like he might say something more.
But he didn't.
He just inclined his head, turned, and walked away.
The sound of his footsteps faded, one by one, until they were gone.
And Elara was alone.
The silence crept in like ink spilled on parchment, slow and steady. She leaned back against the edge of the balustrade, the stone cool through her tunic, and let her gaze wander upward. The stars above the dormitory spire shimmered faintly, blurred by low mist and ward-light, too distant to read but near enough to anchor her.
'He's not wrong,' she thought, 'but neither am I.'
…She'd meant to be alone with her thoughts.
And yet, as Elara leaned against the cool stone of the arch, eyes half-lidded and breath steady, those thoughts refused to settle. They flickered—unmoored and unrelenting. Not just Cedric's words, but older ones.
"You are no longer mine."
Her father's voice again, cutting through her memory not like a sword, but like a verdict. And behind him, that smirk—Isolde's careful, clipped satisfaction, the kind that bloomed when everything fell exactly into place. Her place. Her rise.
Elara clenched her jaw.
'And you still think of her. Still feel it.'
She closed her eyes.
Until—
Laughter.
Soft, real, drifting from farther down the garden walk. Elara's eyes flicked open, narrowing faintly. Her mana pulsed—quiet, measured—as she cast a subtle enhancement around her ears. A simple listening thread. Nothing aggressive. Just… focused.
Voices.
And they did belong to the commoner students, that she has met in the banquet.
Caeden. Mireilla. That curious boy Toren who somehow always sounded like he was recovering from a lightning strike. And—
Her breath hitched slightly.
Lucavion.
Of course.
He'd caused a scene, hadn't he? Not just on the dueling grounds, but across the banquet, slicing through expectations and formality like it was paper under fire.
She listened in silence as the conversation unfurled—light teasing, glancing sarcasm, and something under it all that felt like relief. A group of strangers settling into each other like stones finding their place in the stream.
…She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Not truly.
But Elara didn't move either.
She stayed tucked behind the veil of wisteria and shadow, letting her mana thread the sounds of Lucavion's group into her hearing like a musician drawing strings taut.
Caeden's voice had come first. "I tried cultivating," he said, quiet and unsure, "Just a bit. Couple of breaths. Felt… different."
Mireilla asked how, and he explained: "Like… the mana was watching me."
And then Lucavion—of course it was Lucavion—answered with that distinct clarity. "You're not wrong. This place isn't natural. It's engineered. You don't live in a place like this—you're reshaped by it."
Elara's jaw tensed. That voice. That cadence.
Even when speaking casually, he carried precision like it was a second spine. Too measured for a boy who had moved like raw instinct earlier. Too thoughtful.
Too dangerous.
Then came the chaos—Toren stumbling in, sparks still crackling around him like some half-burnt spellbook had tried to swallow him whole. And the laughter that followed—Mireilla's incredulity, Caeden's attempts at logic, and Lucavion's maddening calm.
"You activated the core weave sequence," he said dryly, while the poor boy whimpered something about muscle annihilation.
The group dynamic shifted between absurdity and warmth, but Elara didn't laugh. She just listened.
When the others began to peel away, she almost let the thread drop.
"Aren't you coming?" Mireilla had asked.
"You all go. I'll walk a bit. Let the night stretch its legs."
Elara's breath caught.
'Just go with them,' she thought, more sharply than she intended. 'Leave. I don't want to see you again tonight.'
But she did.
And she hated that she did.
Because despite the thorned tension curling in her chest, there was another sensation blooming—quiet and uninvited.
Anticipation.
'For what?' she asked herself bitterly. 'To exchange a look? To confirm something I don't want to know?'
The voices fell away.
For a long breath, nothing came.
Just silence. Stillness. The vague whisper of wind threading through high arches, catching on the edges of her sleeve. Maybe he'd left. Followed the others after all. Maybe she'd imagined that stillness lingering, that sense of presence like the air holding its breath.
Elara let her mana thread lapse slightly.
And then—
"…Tch. Hells. Thought I'd locked that part tighter."
The voice was low. Not spoken to anyone. Not even meant to be heard. But her mana thread caught it just enough.
Lucavion.
His tone was different this time. Not careless. Not detached.
Pensive. Slightly raw.
And that phrasing—locked that part tighter. What part? What had slipped?
Elara's brow furrowed faintly.
What does that even mean? Emotion? Memory? Control?
She barely had time to chase the thought before the rhythm of boots started—slow and steady, drawing closer. Soft soles on stone, yet deliberate enough that each step grew louder in her awareness. Her breath hitched, then evened.
He's coming this way.
She considered moving. Just quietly slipping back through the corridor arch, letting the shadows take her before he turned the corner.
But then she stilled.
Why should I leave?
She hadn't done anything. She hadn't broken her illusion. No one had called her out, not even Lucavion himself during the duels, despite how carefully his gaze had scanned the crowd. She was still Elowyn here. An unknown, inconsequential girl with quiet eyes and minor ties.
Besides, wasn't this part of it? The testing?
To walk among them unseen and see if her presence still pulled the strings it once had.
So she didn't move.
Didn't even straighten her posture. Just stayed leaning, half-shadowed beneath the carved balcony arch, watching the fog pool low across the floor like river smoke.
And then—
He appeared.
Not with fanfare. Not with the heat and violence he had displayed in the arena. He just… walked into view.
Lucavion wore fitted travelwear—nothing ostentatious. A sleeveless ash-grey tunic, simple and functional, enchanted in ways that didn't draw attention. Black soft-lined pants, tied at the waist with a loose sash, his movements silent save for the gentle tap of his boots. No crest. No embroidery.
His hair was tousled from the breeze. His expression unreadable.
And on his shoulder, the soft white shape of that familiar cat—its fur bright against the dark fabric, tail flicking lazily like it owned the world and had given him permission to walk in it.
He didn't glance at her. Not yet.
But he was walking directly toward her. Alone.
And Elara, for all her preparation, felt something catch low in her chest. Not fear.
Not recognition.
Something else. Warmer. Sharper.
Anticipation she still refused to name.
Chapter 885: Are you okay ?
Lucavion didn't stop walking. Not until the fog coiled around his boots and the wisteria-framed alcove pulled him into its hush.
Then—he lifted his gaze.
And their eyes met.
His were black. Not like coal, not like ink. Not even like shadow. They were obsidian in stormlight—depthless, unblinking, and polished so dark they caught reflections like mirrors.
She saw herself there.
Just a flicker. A ghost of a girl in grey, outlined in silver mist and softened by distance. But unmistakably—her.
'Will he recognize me?'
The thought wasn't panicked. It wasn't even fearful.
It was… suspended. Like a breath held too long.
Because what would that mean?
If Lucavion looked at her—not Elowyn Caerlin, baron's daughter from Caedrim Reach—but her, truly her… Elara of House Lorian.
How can you look at me like that?
The thought unfurled without grace. Jagged. Bitter. She met his gaze and held it, her own breath steady while her pulse thundered beneath her skin like war drums muffled by velvet.
Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His expression remained a smooth mask, impassive as always. That same unreadable confidence. That same calm.
But Elara—
Elara was burning.
Because behind her steady eyes, her thoughts clawed and surged.
You.
You were one of them.
One of the reasons.
One of the cold hands that had reached into the sanctity of her home, her future, and twisted it into ash.
He hadn't cast the vote. He hadn't delivered the exile himself. But he had played a part. He had delivered her—bound in frost and blood—to the woman who wore betrayal like perfume.
He had watched her fall and done nothing.
And worse—when they'd met again in that corridor, he hadn't even acknowledged what he'd done. No flicker of remorse. No recognition of consequence. Just that damnable calm, as if her ruin had simply been a side effect of some larger, abstract strategy.
Elara's fingers curled slowly against the stone rail. Her mana shifted—subtle, involuntary—responding to the anger that curled tight in her belly.
She wanted to speak.
To demand why.
To ask if he remembered—her eyes wild with desperation, her body weak from poison, her entire life collapsing while he stood by Isolde's side, so terribly quiet.
'How could you?'
'Do you even care what you destroyed?'
'Was it worth it?'
The questions clawed at her throat. Her illusion flared under strain, Eveline's enchantment holding—but barely.
She wanted to confront him, right here in the garden, where the mist still clung to her boots and the moon cast only suggestion instead of truth. She wanted to break the silence between them and throw it at his feet like shattered glass.
But she didn't.
Because she couldn't.
'Not yet.'
Not if she wanted her revenge to mean something. Not if she wanted to keep her blade hidden until it was aimed with precision. Not if she wanted to win.
If Lucavion knew her—truly knew her—he wouldn't just become a threat. He would inform Isolde.
And then—
Everything would shift.
Her place at the Academy. Her protection. The slow work Eveline had so carefully laid.
All of it would burn before she could strike back.
And yet—
Despite the burn behind her ribs, despite the ache in her throat from all the words unsaid, something inside her stirred.
Something quieter than rage.
Stormhaven.
The thought crept in like a crack beneath a door, trailing wind and memory.
That fleeting pocket of stillness between exiles and alliances. The place where her limbs had trembled from exertion and her chest had still been hollow with grief, but for one frozen heartbeat, someone had caught her.
Luca.
No, Lucavion.
She didn't want to rely on other people too much…. But that hadn't stopped him from lunging through chaos and risk to shove her from the edge of that collapsing vortex. His voice—lighthearted as usual, as if everything was in his control.
And then he had.
Moved. Pushed.
Taken the blast himself.
His body had struck the ward line with brutal force. She'd watched his form crumple, watched How did he disappear.
And before her vision blurred with blood and pressure and the cold pain of overdrawn mana, she'd seen his face.
Those eyes.
Pitch-black. Storm-dark. Reflective, like twin blades kissed by obsidian rain.
And now—now—they were the same.
The same as they had been in that moment. Looking at her again with that terrible stillness. Not indifferent. Not cruel. Just… watching.
But—
When she woke up.
Not in the corridor. Not on the training fields. But after.
After it all. After the moment everything turned.
At the banquet.
In the shattered ruin of her inheritance, when the crowd stared and her family's shame was recited like scripture. When her father turned his face away. When the court whispered her name as if it were a slur.
In that breath between ruin and exile—
In the start of that moment of her disgrace…
It started with her opening her eyes in that bedroom…
And the first thing she had seen—
Wasn't black.
Her brow furrowed. A tension bloomed in her chest, sharp and involuntary.
'What?'
She gripped the edge of the balustrade, a tremor slipping through her fingers.
'What color… were they?'
Not ink. Not shadow. Not void.
No.
The memory came not as a vision, but as a feeling. A brightness.
The memory flickered.
Not like fire.
Not like light.
But like something caught beneath ice—trapped, distorted, pulsing just beneath the surface.
The moment she opened her eyes in that gilded bedroom…
The sheets had smelled of perfume and dust. Her wrists ached. Her vision swam.
But there had been eyes.
And they hadn't been black.
They had been—bright. Startling. Like twin shards of something cold and dark-laced, staring down at her with a gaze that split the world into before and after.
A breath hitched in her throat.
'Then it wasn't him.'
The thought didn't soothe. It didn't clarify. It twisted harder.
'But it was him. He was there. He—'
Was above her.
That memory slammed through the veil like a poisoned blade.
That version of him. That angle—him over her. His weight. His stillness. That unbearable closeness, reeking not of desire but of control, of condescension. His voice—barely raised. His hands—uncaring. Her body, heavy and useless, her scream locked inside her lungs like frost-bitten air.
The world spun.
Elara gripped the stone tighter, her nails digging into the moss-laced balustrade as if it could anchor her to now. Her illusion rippled, just slightly, before shuddering back into place.
'No…'
She bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood. The pain was grounding. Real.
But the memory wouldn't fade.
That bedroom. That shame. That feeling of being looked at like a mistake, a failure, a conquest.
And yet—
The face at the center of it all had never solidified in her mind. It had always been a smear, a weight, an accusation cloaked in shadows.
Was it him?
Or had her mind made it him—because it had been easier to attach a name to the horror than let it float without one?
Elara's breath grew rough. Shallow. Unsteady.
Not now. Not again.
Not here in the mist. Not with him standing only feet away, watching her like he was waiting for something to fall from her lips.
She turned her head slightly—just enough to shift the angle, to break the line of sight. Her profile cast in moonlight. Her chest rising too fast.
She counted her breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
And then—
A touch.
Light. Careful. Not invasive, but present.
Fingers just brushing the curve of her shoulder, like someone asking permission without words.
"Are you okay?"
Chapter 886: Do not touch me
The tap was gentle. Almost hesitant.
But it came again—twice, light as rainfall—on the slope of her shoulder. Not insistent, but anchoring.
And this time, the voice was unmistakable.
"…Are you okay?"
Elara didn't move. Not at first. Her breath was still too loud in her own ears, her heart a ragged, defiant drum against the corseted frame of her illusion. The mask Eveline crafted was holding, but barely. Cracks spread in the places she couldn't see—along the spine of her silence, behind the hollows of her throat.
But the voice was still there.
His voice.
Low, smooth, even playful in its undertones. That same cadence he always used when slipping beneath people's guards—half curiosity, half mockery, like the world was some game he understood better than anyone else.
Lucavion.
When did he come this close?
She didn't know.
The fog had thickened. The garden's hush had swallowed everything but memory. And now, his presence was at her back—impossibly near. His fingers no longer on her, but she could still feel the shape of them, outlined in phantom heat.
Elara opened her eyes.
And his were there to meet them.
Obsidian. Cut deep and polished flat. The kind of gaze that didn't blink unless it wanted to.
He was watching her.
Not in suspicion. Not even in recognition.
But with that same calm arrogance he wore like silk—tilted smirk, tilted head, an eyebrow raised as if to say "Am I interrupting something delightful?"
And something inside her snapped.
'How dare you.'
'How dare you touch me.'
Her hand shot up before her mind caught up with the motion.
She slapped his hand from her shoulder, fingers sharp against flesh, the sound soft but precise. A motion practiced—not violent, but final.
"Don't touch me," she said.
Her voice was low. Controlled. Not shaken—but coiled with something too intimate to be merely distaste.
Lucavion blinked. Just once.
His arm withdrew, slow, almost absentmindedly, as if studying the place where her skin had met his. His expression didn't flare in offense. But his eyes widened slightly, not in pain or wounded pride—just surprise. Genuine, measured surprise.
"…Hmm?" he hummed softly. A murmur more than a word. Like he'd stepped onto unfamiliar terrain and heard a crack beneath his boot.
But Elara—
Elowyn, she reminded herself. Elowyn Caerlin.
—Elowyn would not do that.
A noble daughter from a minor barony. Unremarkable. Quiet. Unassuming. She would not flinch like that. She would not snap. She would not slap Lucavion Elarion's hand away like a woman burned.
Elowyn didn't know him.
Not like that.
Not well enough to hate him like that.
'Fool.'
The thought scalded her. Shame following rage like a second skin.
She forced her breath to slow. Lowered her hand slowly. Controlled. Regathered.
Lucavion hadn't moved. He didn't press. His eyes scanned her face with a curiosity far too quiet to be casual—but he didn't reach again. Didn't speak.
Did he suspect something?
Elara acted before the silence could curdle.
She inhaled—slow and precise—and let her posture shift. Her expression melted into something softer, more neutral, the mask slipping on like silk pulled over scars.
Then, a delicate tilt of her head. A half-breath smile.
"Ah… sorry," she said. Voice light now, breathy with practiced restraint. "I didn't mean to react like that."
Lucavion didn't speak. His gaze hadn't moved from hers. Still searching. Still watching.
She forced a small, almost sheepish laugh. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought. The banquet… everything. I suppose the pressure's catching up." She lifted her hand, brushed back a nonexistent strand of hair. "It's silly. I overreacted."
He didn't blink. Just tilted his head to the opposite side now, as if that would grant him a better angle. And his eyes—void-dark and endless—drilled into hers like they could see past the words, the practiced calm, the perfectly measured explanation.
Elara felt it—the shiver that tried to move through her spine. The pulse that jumped, traitorous, beneath her jaw.
'Did he buy it?'
She wasn't sure.
And then—
Lucavion smiled.
No, smirked.
That languid, effortless thing that didn't touch his eyes, but still made everything around it seem just a bit more unreal. Like he'd stepped off-script into his own play and decided the scene was a comedy after all.
"Ah… is that so?" he murmured, low and amused.
Elara said nothing.
He let the silence breathe before adding, casually—"It makes sense, knowing that you just saw my handsome face from this close. No wonder you were flabbergasted."
Her mouth twitched.
Just once. A betrayal of impulse. But she swallowed it fast.
Still, inwardly—
'You narcissistic bastard.'
The insult curled up in her mind like a cat in the sun. Warm, vicious, and too familiar.
But on the surface, she said nothing. Not yet. She simply looked at him, carefully neutral again, her eyes politely wide in a way that gave away nothing. Not the truth. Not the heat in her blood. Not the past.
Elowyn Caerlin did not flinch.
Elowyn Caerlin did not rage.
Elowyn Caerlin only smiled when she meant it.
And she certainly didn't burn for revenge.
She met his gaze now, unflinching.
"Perhaps," she said mildly, "that's giving your face too much credit."
The words were soft, almost playful.
But in her mind, the knife edge remained honed.
And he—he was still smiling.
Lucavion didn't step back.
Didn't give her distance.
He lingered in that measured way of his—like he was always a breath closer than he should be, testing limits with silk-gloved hands and words sharper than steel. The smirk deepened, subtle and slow, like he was tasting the moment.
"Is that the case?" he drawled, voice velvet-thin and unhurried. "Because your face… said otherwise."
She didn't answer. Not yet.
"You looked surprised," he continued, tilting his head just a fraction. "When you saw me. A bit breathless. A little stunned." His eyes narrowed—not cruel, not accusing. Just keen. Curious. "Almost like someone who'd seen a ghost."
Elara's lips parted—but she didn't let the lie slip just yet. She schooled her voice to something clipped and dry.
"I looked surprised," she said, "because someone appeared beside me out of nowhere and touched me without warning."
He raised an eyebrow at that. Not in apology. Never in apology.
"Well," he said lightly, "you've been glaring daggers at that certain someone for quite a while now…"
His smirk turned, just a touch, into something laced with mock offense.
"I wouldn't call it 'out of nowhere,' right?"
Elara blinked once. Deliberately.
Then leaned a fraction back against the balustrade as if settling into the role he thought she played.
"You noticed that?" she asked, tone just slightly cool.
He didn't miss a beat. "Hard not to. You look like you're calculating trajectories and imagining exactly where to plunge the knife."
Elara didn't let the silence stretch.
Not this time.
"If the first thing that comes to your mind when someone looks at you," she said, her voice steady, laced with an edge just beneath its smoothness, "is that they're calculating where to stab…"
Her eyes lifted, locking into his with quiet intensity.
"Then you must not be a very good person."
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They landed between them like a dropped blade—sharp, reflective, undeniable.
Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't recoil.
He held her gaze.
His eyes didn't darken—they didn't need to. They were dark. But something in their depth shifted, like a flicker behind glass. And his lashes—long and unashamedly delicate for someone who wielded words like knives—fluttered, once.
His mouth twitched.
Not into another smirk.
Not yet.
It faltered instead, as if his lips had briefly forgotten the choreography of amusement.
And then—
It curbed.
Not into something sly or charming, but something quieter. Smaller. Like a fold in silk after too much wear.
He looked away.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… slow.
His gaze drifted to the sky, to where the stars blurred into the wardlight haze, and his voice, when it came, wasn't polished. It wasn't poised.
It was soft. Quiet.
"You're probably right about that."
Chapter 887: Elowyn and him
"You're probably right about that."
The sentence landed with no preamble, no flourish. It didn't ask for forgiveness. Didn't ask for contradiction. It just sat there, a single shard of truth lying naked between them.
And for a beat, Elara stilled.
Because it hadn't sounded like self-pity.
It hadn't sounded like guilt either.
Just… a fact. As simple as the mist curling around their ankles or the weight of silence in old halls.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
Because that—that—wasn't the Lucavion Thorne she remembered.
That pause.
That flicker behind his lashes, the slow falter of his lips—that was the closest she'd seen him to slipping. To stepping beyond the careful mask of arrogance and calculation. Not shedding it, no, never that. But… thinning the veil.
And the way he looked upward—toward nothing, not even the stars—felt too quiet to be an act.
'That's Luca,' she thought, unbidden. Not the creature of court games and cold betrayals, not the polished heir or the dueling prodigy. That's the one who pushed me from the vortex like his own life was an afterthought. The one who watched, not because he wanted to dominate, but because he needed to understand.
And for a heartbeat, the tension in her shoulders loosened. Just slightly.
But then—
Lucavion blinked, slow.
And the moment cracked.
His head jerked subtly, the motion almost imperceptible, like a string tugged in his spine. His eyes snapped back to hers—not wide with revelation, but with calculation. Something turning behind them. Resetting.
And then the smirk slid back into place like a dagger returned to its sheath.
"Well," he said, the word drawn out like it had been waiting in the wings for its cue. "That's not the first thing that comes to mind when someone looks at me…"
His voice regained its rhythm. That easy, deliberate rhythm that always danced just shy of sincerity. But it came a little too fast, as if covering something that had stumbled out before it could be filtered.
"Normally," he added, smile sharpening like a glint of moonlight on glass. "But—it is the first thing that comes to mind when someone's eyes look at me like they're trying to stab me straight through the heart."
Elara's expression didn't shift.
Not outwardly.
But she felt it, that recoil in the center of her chest, that flutter of alarm beneath the stillness. Because he wasn't wrong.
That's exactly how she'd been looking at him.
She hadn't masked it well enough.
'Damn it.'
He was watching her now—not with flirtation, not with mockery, but with interest. Keen and edged, like he was solving a puzzle he hadn't expected to be given. And worse… he seemed to be enjoying it.
"But," he continued lightly, eyes narrowing with something far too intent to be called amusement, "if you were planning to stab me, I'd prefer you gave me a little more warning. I didn't bring a second shirt."
Elara tilted her head slightly, lips pursed in what might have been a smirk—or a warning.
"I'm not the kind who warns first," she said.
He chuckled.
Low. Soft. And far too knowing.
"I figured." His gaze dipped slightly, almost lazily. "But just for the record… if you ever do stab me—make sure it's not in the heart. It's a bit overdone."
There it was.
The full return.
The mask. The banter. The Lucavion who danced circles around sincerity so that no one noticed what he wasn't saying.
But Elara noticed.
Because just beneath that returned smirk, just beneath the play of wit, was the echo of that first tone. The one not meant to be heard.
"You're probably right about that."
A confession that had slipped out like it didn't belong to him. Or like it had, once—and he'd buried it so deep he forgot what it sounded like.
And now?
Now he was retreating behind charm again. But something in her had already heard it.
Elara drew in a breath, slow and quiet, steadying herself against the urge—the need—to react.
Not to his smirk. Not to the twist of sarcasm in his voice. Not to the memory of his voice softened into honesty for just a breath.
'Don't be stupid,' she told herself, almost scolding. 'This is still Lucavion Thorne.'
Not Luca. Not the boy who had once yanked her from death's edge like it was second nature. This was the heir of House Elarion. The Academy's cleverest mouth and sharpest smile. The boy who watched people bleed metaphorically—and sometimes literally—and turned it into a lesson or a joke. Depending on the day.
She couldn't afford to forget that. Couldn't afford to see the fracture beneath the polished mirror and imagine it meant anything.
So she forced the thought down. Pressed it flat beneath the weight of who she was now—Elowyn Caerlin. Quiet. Mannered. Just slightly dull.
And Lucavion—right on cue—tilted his head with a theatrical flourish, like a nobleman's son playing court jester for his own amusement. His grin broadened.
"Well now," he said, drawing the words out like a silk ribbon. "Since you've spent such a fine portion of your evening glaring holes through my soul—if I have one—"
She arched a brow, cool and unimpressed.
"—I can't help but wonder…" He took a half-step closer, his hand now lazily resting against the carved stone balustrade between them. "Do we know each other?"
Elara didn't blink.
Lucavion lifted a hand to his chest, as if struck by a thought—or simply trying to sell the performance harder.
"You seem so familiar, Lady Daggers-for-Eyes. Surely we must've crossed paths before?" He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "A past life, perhaps? A drunken banquet mistake? A shared enemy?" A beat. "Do you remember what name you cursed me by under your breath?"
She stared.
Deadpan. Unmoved.
He grinned wider.
"Would you, then," he added, with the airy bravado of a man halfway through his third wineglass, "grace me with your name? Or shall I continue calling you Lady Stare-First-Stab-Later?"
Elara exhaled—half sigh, half controlled laugh.
It was so him. That too-easy turn to absurdity, like tension didn't cling to him the way it did others. As if he was made of something lighter than consequence.
'He's trying to disarm you. Don't let him.'
But instead of deflecting, she shifted her weight slightly, letting a trace of amusement ghost across her lips. Barely there. The kind of smile that made people lean closer to see if it had been real.
"Elowyn," she said finally. "Elowyn Caerlin."
Lucavion repeated it under his breath, trying it out like a wine he wasn't quite sure he liked yet.
"Hmm." He tilted his head the other way, slower this time. "Elowyn…"
Lucavion's eyes gleamed with something far sharper than amusement now—though he still wore the shape of it like a tailored coat.
"Elowyn Caerlin," he repeated again, tasting each syllable like it might confess its own lie. "Curious. I don't recall ever meeting someone with that name."
His gaze slid over her—slow, calculated, but never crude. He wasn't ogling her. He was assessing. As if she were a puzzle piece that had appeared in a box she was never part of to begin with.
"Strange, isn't it?" he continued, voice still light but dipped in something colder. "You look at me like we've met before. Like I've done something… memorable."
Her breath stilled.
He leaned in slightly—not crowding, not threatening, just close enough to be unmistakably deliberate. The cat on his shoulder had settled into a sphinx-like stillness, its mismatched eyes half-lidded in silent observation.
"Or," he added, eyes narrowing just faintly, "perhaps you go by other names. Or wear other faces."
Elara's heartbeat thudded once. Then again. Not loud, but hard—like a fist against a locked door.
'Careful.'
She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. But she could feel the mana beneath her illusion shift—tense like coiled wire. If he pressed harder, if he reached with intent instead of insinuation, she wasn't sure the enchantment would hold.
Lucavion tilted his head. "Tell me, Elowyn Caerlin—are you always this intense with strangers? Or just the ones who remind you of someone you hate?"
Chapter 888: Elowyn and him (2)
The word landed sharper than the rest.
Hate.
It shouldn't have struck so deep—not after everything, not after all the careful walls and illusions and distance she'd crafted like armor around a ghost. But it did. Not because it was accurate. Not because it was wrong.
But because it was so close.
Her expression didn't change. Not visibly. Not in the way he'd be able to read—unless he was far, far more dangerous than she already suspected. The only giveaway was the stillness. That breath too long in her chest. That blink that didn't come when it should have.
'Is it really that easy to see?'
'Does he already know?'
She looked at him, studied the lines of his face. Not the performative ones—the smirk, the tilt, the cultivated arrogance—but what sat beneath. The way his shoulders hung, too relaxed. The faint crease near his temple where calculation replaced instinct. The way his lips held a smile but his brow hadn't joined the joke.
No.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
Maybe he was circling it. Maybe he'd sensed something was off—too sharp, too reactive, too intent—but he didn't know what he was circling. He hadn't pierced the mask.
Not yet.
That was why… Elara's head tilted slightly, lips parting just enough to let the words spill out with careful quiet.
"Why do you think it's hate?" she asked.
Soft. Not mocking. But not passive either.
A question born of balance—measured and intentional, like a trap made of silk thread and misdirection.
Lucavion's gaze flicked. Not away, not exactly—but inward. Recalibrating.
And that gave her the opening.
Her smile curved, just faintly, and she added, voice light but laced with blade-thin edge:
"Is it so unthinkable that someone might look at you like that for other reasons?"
That did something.
Not much. Not obvious. But enough. His mouth twitched again, only this time not in smug delight. It was hesitation. A falter. One that lasted just long enough for her to see it.
He studied her then—not just with amusement now, but suspicion laced with… intrigue. The kind that chased the edges of something he couldn't explain, and couldn't stop poking.
But he didn't reply immediately.
Instead, Lucavion straightened—only slightly, only enough to reclaim the ease he'd let slip. His cat shifted on his shoulder, tail flicking once, twice, like it could feel the current change.
Lucavion's gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. Then—
"It comes from experience," he said, voice quieter now, but still laced with that maddening lilt of amusement. "Your eyes… they remind me of someone, let's say."
And he smiled.
Smirked.
Elara didn't move. Didn't twitch. But inside, her thoughts turned sharp and jagged—cutting at the walls she'd just rebuilt.
He's talking about me.
He didn't know it. Not truly. But the words fell with too much precision to be accidental. The glint in his eye, the ease in his stance, the way he said "someone" like it was a secret only he was in on. Like he enjoyed the idea of touching an old wound he didn't even recognize.
And all the while—he smiled.
That smile. That damn half-smirk, like the world was some clever trick he'd already solved. Like the memory of her—the real her—was a passing curiosity, not the inferno that had scorched them both.
Elara's stomach turned.
Not visibly.
No.
She locked it down, shoved the heat behind her ribs, clenched her hands where he couldn't see. She repeated the same phrase in her mind like a litany, a warding spell cast in sheer will:
Don't show it. Don't show it. Don't show it.
"Coming from experience?" she echoed, and to her credit, her voice barely wavered. Just a trace of dry curiosity, as if the notion amused her. As if he hadn't just scraped his fingers across a wound that hadn't healed.
Lucavion hummed, as if considering it. His hand moved absently to stroke the cat on his shoulder, and it arched into his fingers with imperious approval. He looked entirely at ease. Too at ease.
Lucavion's gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, away from her face. Upward again, toward the mist-choked sky or perhaps toward something else entirely. Something internal. Detached.
"Yeah," he murmured, too casually. "Coming from experience."
The smile had thinned. Not gone, not truly, but its weight had shifted—no longer teasing, but reflective. Like the edge of a blade pressed flat instead of sharp.
Elara didn't let the moment pass.
"What kind of experience is it?" she asked, voice even, threading just enough curiosity to keep it from sounding like a challenge. "To recognize hate so easily."
His jaw flexed once. Brief. Controlled. But he didn't look at her.
And so she pressed—softer now, but with precision.
"You said my eyes looked like hate." A pause. "Does that mean you did something to deserve it?"
That landed.
He didn't flinch. Didn't jerk his head or give her the kind of dramatic reaction she might've expected from any other boy his age. But Lucavion wasn't other boys. He was too practiced, too schooled. His silence was a performance, and still—this silence felt… unscripted.
He turned.
Slowly. The dark pools of his eyes found hers again—not sharp, not mocking. Just still.
"…"
He said nothing.
Not at first.
And then, before she could brace for it, his hand lifted.
A flick of motion.
His fingers reached out and tapped her on the forehead—lightly, just once. Casual. Familiar.
Too familiar.
She froze.
And then the realization struck.
Her arm moved without thought.
Crack.
She slapped his hand aside, the sound clean and bright in the garden's hush.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice cutting low, tight with disbelief. Not quite loud—but dangerous in its restraint.
Lucavion blinked.
Not in shock. Not in apology.
He blinked as if mildly puzzled by her question, as though he were trying to understand what part of the interaction had invited outrage.
"Why is that a problem?" he asked, his voice maddeningly calm.
"You touched me," she said, sharp.
"So?" he shrugged.
"You're a stranger. Do you touch strangers?"
A beat.
He looked at her. That cool black gaze again. No pretense this time. No grin. Just Lucavion as he was: unreadable. Calm. Calculating.
And then—his mouth curved.
Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile.
"You ask a lot of questions for a stranger," he said, soft, deliberate. "Are you not?"
Because he didn't say 'aren't you?' like a normal person. He said it like he already knew—or wanted her to believe he did. That mocking tone, light on the surface, wrapped tightly around something darker.
A threat?
No. Lucavion didn't threaten.
He invited chaos, and let others step into it themselves.
Elara stepped back half a pace—not retreat, just room to think. To breathe.
Her hand was still tingling from the slap. Her forehead still burned where his touch had landed.
She wasn't sure which was worse.
But she didn't lower her gaze. Didn't look away.
"I was just curious."
Lucavion's smirk returned like it had never left. Easy. Unbothered. A practiced thing he wore like silk gloves—measured, tailored, and just insolent enough to provoke without being punishable.
"And I was just being friendly," he said, voice lilting with faux innocence.
Elara didn't respond.
She could have. There were half a dozen barbed replies perched on her tongue, sharp and ready. But she didn't trust her voice just then. Not with the memory of his fingers ghosting across her forehead still lingering, not with the burn of that single word—hate—still throbbing in her bones like a forgotten bruise.
So she stood still.
Silent.
That was answer enough.
Lucavion chuckled softly, shaking his head like she'd amused him far more than she had any right to.
"Well," he said, spreading his arms in a grand, sweeping gesture that was far too theatrical for the garden's hush. "Now that it's come to this, let me introduce myself. Though you must already know me."