Whispers followed her now.
Not the mocking kind — not yet — but the careful, uncertain ones. The sort that came from students whose gazes lingered a second too long, whose conversations stopped the moment she walked past.
They had seen her defeat Rylas Grey.
They had seen the dark mist coil around him like a sentient storm.
And more importantly, they had seen the fear in his eyes.
Exactly as she wanted.
Seraphina Valea walked the halls of Arcanum with her shoulders squared, her eyes calm but unreadable. Her robes — still the plain apprentice black — swayed around her like a cloak of authority. Each step she took echoed with quiet certainty.
Let them wonder.
Let them fear.
And let them worship.
The Academy had always been a nest of politics wrapped in the illusion of merit. Professors played favorites. Noble-born students bullied their way to advancement. Ambitious families positioned their children like chess pieces, all vying for influence when they left the Academy and entered court.
She had learned that lesson too late the first time.
Now she would master the game.
---
Professor Martin Harvor — the stooped, hawk-eyed instructor of Elemental Theory — raised an eyebrow as Seraphina entered his morning lecture.
"Miss Valea," he said smoothly, "I trust the recent... spectacle hasn't inflated your ego?"
She smiled, seating herself. "Only my reputation, professor."
A few students laughed, some nervously. Others glared — notably Rylas, whose pride was still visibly bruised. He hadn't spoken to anyone since the duel.
Seraphina didn't spare him a glance.
She focused instead on the back row, where Cassian sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling furiously. And next to him, for the first time this term, was Jenin Hart.
Now that was interesting.
Jenin, the silver-eyed scholar with a voice like frost, was usually seen alone. Distant. Brilliant, but aloof. Her family — House Hart— controlled the western border and boasted an ancestral tie to the ancient order of Flame Wardens. Her name carried weight, even here.
So why was she sitting beside Cassian?
Seraphina watched discreetly. Jenin said something. Cassian laughed — not nervously, but easily.
Curious.
---
Later that afternoon, Seraphina found Cassian in the observatory garden, poring over a collection of sigil stones.
"Jenin Hart?" she asked, settling beside him on the low marble bench.
He looked up, startled. "She… she just wanted help finding an old text. On mirror-link enchantments."
Seraphina arched an eyebrow. "And you're the Academy's librarian now?"
Cassian rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess… I made an impression."
She leaned forward. "Be careful, Cassian. The Harts don't talk to people without purpose. Especially not second-year nobodies."
He frowned. "And what does that make me to you?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked out at the twilight sky, at the soft pink glow brushing the high tower domes.
"To me," she said, "you're the only person here who speaks truth."
Cassian's expression softened. But still, there was doubt behind his eyes.
She changed the subject. "Would you like to see a spell I've been practicing?"
---
That night, they met in one of the abandoned chambers below the Hall of the Archives — a crumbling dome half-swallowed by roots and time. Seraphina drew sigils in the dust, each one pulsing with faint silver light.
"This is ancient magic," she said, "used by battle-mages in the Forgotten Wars. It binds sight and sound to memory. If cast correctly, it can capture truth."
Cassian watched, wide-eyed, as the glyphs floated into the air and hummed.
"Why teach me?" he asked.
She looked directly at him. "Because one day, someone will try to rewrite the truth. I want someone else to remember what really happened."
He didn't respond at first.
Then: "You speak like you've lived this before."
She smiled — just a hint of pain in it. "In dreams."
---
The Academy buzzed louder with each passing day.
The duel had set off more than just whispers. Students formed cliques, instructors called secret meetings, and rumors flourished like mold — especially about Seraphina.
"Did you hear she's descended from the old flameborn line?"
"I heard she's bound to a demon."
"She reads forbidden books after hours."
None of them were entirely wrong.
But the most dangerous whispers were the ones that came from within the noble circles.
Lady Nyra Veiss — third-year prodigy, heir to a textile empire, and a vicious gossip — confronted Seraphina outside the alchemy lab.
"You're making a name for yourself," she said sweetly, "but be careful whose toes you step on. The Damaris family still has ears here."
Seraphina's voice was soft but sharp. "Let them listen. Maybe they'll learn something."
Nyra's smile faltered. "Power attracts enemies."
Seraphina stepped closer. "Good. Let them come."
---
Two days later, Professor Martin Harvor called for a private assessment.
He met Seraphina in the Chamber of Warding — a cold room lined with etched copper and shield crystals.
"Your duel," he said, hands clasped behind his back, "displayed abilities beyond your level. Where did you learn that spell?"
She met his gaze. "From study."
"Study alone doesn't summon mist-formed lightning."
She didn't answer.
He sighed. "You're talented, Valea. But this is a place of discipline. Not ambition."
"I disagree," she said. "It's both. Or it's a cage."
Harvor's eyes narrowed. "You remind me of another student. Too clever for her own good. She died in the Siege."
She tilted her head. "I plan to live."
He dismissed her — but not without writing something in a sealed scroll. Likely to the Headmaster.
---
Later, while walking the candlelit corridor back to her dormitory, Seraphina heard hushed voices around the corner.
"She's dangerous," someone whispered.
"She's powerful," another replied. "That's not the same as dangerous."
"Did you see how she looked at Harvor? Like she was testing him."
"She's going to break something. Or someone."
Seraphina paused. Smiled.
Good.
The seeds had taken root.
---
That night, she stood at the central fountain of the Academy — the same one she used to sit beside with Alric. Back when she believed loyalty was enough. Back when she believed love could shield her.
Now, she stared into the water and saw herself clearly.
No longer a girl clinging to hope.
But a flame reborn.
She lifted her palm. A single ember flickered to life above her skin — red, gold, and dark at the edges. A living flame.
"I will not be forgotten," she whispered.
Then she let the fire fade.
Not yet.