Alayah could still taste the faint, electric heat of Lyra's skin on her lips as she straightened, letting the shock ripple through the Celestian assembly like a tossed stone in a still pond.
The look on the councilors' faces outrage barely restrained beneath centuries of etiquette was almost as delicious as the feel of Lyra's slender hand in her own.
The Celestians stared as if she'd defaced a monument. Alayah only grinned wider.
She'd expected the famous "Violet Flame" to be impressive—sure. The wanted posters had made Lyra out to be a prodigy, a prodigy with a body count to make most demons nervous and a reputation for never once losing control.
Still, she hadn't expected her to be this…magnetic. Up close, Lyra was taller than the posters suggested, but not intimidatingly so—her frame lean and athletic, every movement carved in grace and discipline.
That long, moon-silver hair, those sharp cheekbones and the unflinching violet eyes—yes, Lyra was a beauty, but there was something else, something untouchable, a glimmer of self-possession that made Alayah's interest flicker from simple amusement to something much more dangerous.
For one wild heartbeat, Alayah almost wanted to behave. Almost.
But seeing Lyra's eyes narrow at the touch, seeing the Celestians bristle and the demons chuckle, she felt the familiar thrill of mischief and challenge. This would be fun.
The formalities resumed. Councilor Sorell, barely concealing her disapproval, raised her voice above the murmurs. "With the tradition observed, we will now finalize the orientation."
Alayah rolled her shoulders, settling into a relaxed stance as the demon councilor Maerith, resplendent in black and gold, her horns gleaming took over.
"The duel begins when you cross into the human realm. This year's battleground is a place of human learning: a university, modern, dense with young mortals. You will be students there, blending in. Your magic must be concealed, but your mission is unchanged."
She watched Lyra out of the corner of her eye, searching for any flicker of uncertainty. Nothing.
Lyra's face was as composed as a statue, but the way her jaw tensed at "concealed magic" did not go unnoticed.
"The university is called Saint-Emilien," Maerith went on.
"It's in a city of no great significance but with plenty of opportunity. Both of you will be provided with student identification, currency, and a furnished home on the campus's edge. You are forbidden to live together. Each of you will have your own territory."
Maerith's lips twitched with private amusement. "Your homes will each be equipped with a secure vault: the Crystal Archive."
Alayah perked up at that. "And here I thought we'd just be running around with pockets full of souls." Her words drew a snort from one of the demon aides and a shudder of disgust from a Celestian priest.
Maerith gestured and, with a flick of her wrist, conjured an image in the air: a faceted crystalline urn hovering above an obsidian pedestal.
"Every emotional essence you collect must be deposited in this archive before sunrise the following day. The urn will absorb the crystal, transmit its magical signature to the judging body, and then dissolve it. Points are awarded based on the purity, strength, and type of emotion harvested. The urns are warded—attempting to tamper or cheat will be punished severely."
Alayah leaned in, gaze flicking to Lyra, catching the tiniest arch of an elegant brow. "So it's a numbers game, too?"
"Not only numbers," Maerith replied. "The type of crystal matters. Some are worth more. For example…"
She snapped her fingers, and colored gems appeared in the air: a deep, rose-pink crystal, a blazing orange, a smoky violet, a lurid green.
"A crystal of pure, mutual love—rarer than rubies in the mortal world—will earn you seven hundred points. One of intense lust, properly consensual, is worth five hundred. Friendship, admiration, devotion—less, but still valuable. Dark emotions—jealousy, obsession, betrayal—can also be claimed, but yield unpredictable results. Sometimes they're powerful, sometimes unstable. Sometimes, as you know, they break and become monsters."
Alayah's smile was all teeth. "Nothing like a little chaos to keep things interesting."
Maerith's expression soured. "Interesting or not, there are penalties for causing public destruction or unnecessary mortal suffering. You will blend in, manipulate emotions as you see fit, but you may not permanently damage your targets."
Councilor Sorell cleared her throat, sounding as though she tasted ash.
"At the end of the six months, points will be tallied. The champion's realm gains ascendancy in all negotiations for the next half-century. There are to be no direct attacks on one another magical or physical except in the case of monsters released by broken crystals. In those moments, you may use any force necessary to contain the threat. Do you both understand?"
Alayah gave a lazy, mocking salute. "Perfectly, Councilor."
Lyra's answer was a clipped, formal, "Understood."
Maerith pressed on, tone practical and cold.
"The humans of Saint-Emilien University are to remain unaware of your nature. If either of you is unmasked, you will be immediately withdrawn and your side will forfeit the duel. That includes social media, surveillance, and digital records—modern magic of a sort, and just as dangerous."
Alayah made a face, remembering what little she knew of mortal technology: phones, apps, streaming, the ever-watchful eye of a hundred thousand cameras. "Blend in, collect hearts, avoid going viral. Got it."
Now Councilor Sorell produced a small leather folio and offered it to Lyra.
"Inside you'll find your new identification, university details, a human wardrobe account, and a schedule of initial classes. The rest you must handle on your own. The world is different now—much has changed since the last duel."
Alayah accepted her own packet from Maerith, thumbing through it with idle curiosity. The ID photo, snapped by a bureaucratic imp earlier that morning, caught her mid-smirk, black and white hair falling across her eyes, shoulders broad beneath the black shirt she still wore.
Student. University of Saint-Emilien. Age: 26. The address of her new home—number 9, Rue des Peupliers. It even included a phone, thin and glassy, which she turned over in her palm with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.
"We've arranged for transportation," Maerith added, and now there was a note of real humor in her tone.
"A car will collect you from the drop point. Try not to frighten the driver. From there, you are on your own. The game begins at noon."
Boring as these rules were, Alayah listened with more attention than she showed. Every detail was a weapon.
The point system, especially, tickled something predatory in her. Seven hundred points for true love—well, that would be a rare prize. Five hundred for lust, three hundred for devotion, two hundred for infatuation or friendship.
Darker emotions, when stable, might fetch five hundred or more, but could backfire if the crystal broke and turned monstrous. Broken crystals earned nothing but trouble.
She pictured Lyra—regal, upright, that untouchable air of pride—and wondered how well the Celestian would adapt.
Would she know how to flirt, seduce, manipulate, or would she try to win by sheer force of will? Either way, it would be delicious to find out.
With the final rules delivered, the councilors nodded, their expressions a mix of hope and resignation. The moment hung, heavy with anticipation. This was no longer a matter of formality; now, it was a living game.
Maerith's hand fell on Alayah's shoulder, fingers squeezing with a hint of warning.
"Remember what's at stake, Drax. And do try not to make too much of a mess. The Mortal Plane is not as forgiving as home."
Alayah rolled her eyes. "I'm always discreet."
Councilor Sorell, as if unable to resist a final jab, fixed Lyra with a level look. "We expect the highest standards, Miss Elaris. Your conduct will be judged not just by your success, but by your restraint."
Lyra didn't flinch. "You will have no cause for embarrassment, Councilor."
A silence, brief but profound, followed. Alayah felt it—something ancient, coiling between the two of them, older than pride, deeper than rivalry.
She glanced at Lyra, at the flawless posture and the precise way her hands held the folio, and for the first time felt a twist of something almost like respect.
She's not here to play. She's here to win.
The magical portal opened a shimmer in the air, the sound of wind and static and the promise of a new world.
Maerith nodded, stepping back. "It's time. We'll see you at the end of the first month for interim review. May the strongest claim victory."
Alayah watched as Lyra stepped to the portal's edge, cloak swirling. Her hair caught the light, a waterfall of silver that made the pale blue sky behind her look dim.
Alayah couldn't help herself she whistled, low and appreciative, and Lyra glanced back, eyes narrowed but burning.
They crossed through together, a surge of energy, the world bending and blinking and then suddenly concrete underfoot, bright daylight, the hum of cars and the sharp scent of exhaust and grass.
Saint-Emilien street stretched before them: red brick and glass, trees rustling in the breeze, students everywhere, oblivious to the supernatural drama just beginning in their midst.
A black car waited at the curb. Alayah was the first to move, tossing her packet into the backseat and sliding behind the wheel, ignoring the shocked human driver who blinked at her tattoos and the jagged white streak through her hair.
Lyra followed, ever composed, taking her seat with the grace of a queen unbothered by chaos.
The car rolled away, leaving behind the world they'd known for the bright, messy, unpredictable chaos of modern humanity.
Alayah pressed her face to the window, watching people, billboards, laughter, and the endless swirl of mortal life. Her lips curled in anticipation.
She glanced sidelong at Lyra, catching her reflection in the glass—two competitors, two worlds colliding, two flames that could not help but burn each other. She would savor every moment.