The corridor emptied behind her, the last echoes of her voice dissolving into the quiet. The air still slled faintly of ozone and dust, but outside—beyond the carved archway—the day had already softened. The lamps along the terrace were starting to burn low, their light trembling against the mist that hung over the gardens.
Priscilla stepped into it slowly, drawing her first full breath since the confrontation. The air was cool, crisp with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. It filled her lungs, clearing the tallic taste that had lingered there.
Her body ached. Her sleeve was torn. Her ribs protested with every inhale. But she walked anyway. Each step across the stone terrace felt lighter than the last, even as her thoughts grew heavier.
That fire was still there—burning low now, coiled deep beneath her ribs. It refused to fade, pulsing quietly with every heartbeat.
What was it?
It wasn’t anger; she knew anger. It wasn’t fear either; she’d lived with that all her life. This was sothing else—raw and sharp, but not cruel. It almost felt like proof. That she had done sothing, chosen sothing, instead of simply surviving it.
Her boots made a soft rhythm against the stone, a heartbeat mirrored in sound. The gardens stretched ahead, pale flowers bending in the breeze, their scent faint under the hum of the mana lamps. For a mont, it was just her.
Then—
"To think that you would do sothing like that..."
Lucavion’s voice ca from her left, low and unhurried. The kind of tone that wasn’t quite mockery, but never harmless either.
Priscilla’s steps faltered. She turned her head, slowly.
He leaned against the railing that overlooked the lower terraces, one hand tucked loosely into his coat pocket. The moonlight caught the edges of his hair, turning it silver in parts, shadow in others. He didn’t look at her at first—his gaze was fixed on the city lights beyond the Academy walls—but there was a curve at the corner of his mouth, faint and knowing.
"Following orders," she said quietly. "You left the decision to ."
His eyes slid toward her then, dark and unreadable. "Ah, so I did."
There was a beat of silence between them. The wind lifted, brushing against the hem of her cloak.
"Still," he went on, almost idly, "I didn’t think you’d actually make them kneel. You have a cruel streak, Princess. You hide it well."
She frowned. "I only told them to leave."
"After making sure they’d rember who told them," he said, finally turning to face her fully. His voice wasn’t accusatory—just observant, as if noting a detail in passing. "Not bad, really. You didn’t hesitate."
Priscilla t his gaze. "Was that another test?"
Lucavion’s expression didn’t change. The shadows from the railing cut across his face, dividing light from dark. "Do you think I test everyone I help?"
"I think you enjoy it," she replied.
That made him laugh, softly. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cold. Just quiet amusent. "Maybe," he said. "You make it entertaining."
Her jaw tightened. "Is that what this was, then? Entertainnt?"
He tilted his head, studying her. "Would it make you feel better if it was?"
Priscilla didn’t answer. The air between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of the terrace wards and the wind moving through the open space.
wash away what had happened inside.
What she’d done—telling those girls to get up, commanding them like that—it hadn’t been planned. She hadn’t even thought she was capable of sounding that way. But in that mont, it had felt right. Not out of cruelty, not even pride. Just... necessary. Like taking back sothing she hadn’t realized she’d lost.
Now, thinking back on it, she didn’t regret it.
Not exactly.
The ache in her ribs still reminded her how far they’d pushed her. The bruises would fade. But that mont—that one instant where her words had made them flinch—it stayed with her, warm and unfamiliar.
Her voice ca out quieter than she expected. "I didn’t plan to do that."
Lucavion didn’t move. His eyes lingered on her for a fraction too long, then returned to the horizon. "No one ever does, the first ti."
She frowned slightly. "The first ti for what?"
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that ant everything and nothing. "Deciding that rcy isn’t the only form of control."
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The phrasing unsettled her—neither approval nor condemnation, just observation.
The wind shifted again, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the city’s chimneys below. She watched him in silence for a mont. The way he stood—still, deliberate—made it impossible to tell whether he was at ease or calculating his next move.
And then, slowly, another thought ford—quiet, creeping, inevitable.
’How did he know?’
The question grew roots before she could dismiss it. How had he appeared at just that mont? How had he known where to find her—down that secluded corridor, under that silencing spell?
She turned slightly, her voice softer now but edged with sothing searching. "Lucavion... how did you know they were there?"
He didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t even flicker. For a mont, she wondered if he’d pretend not to understand.
When he finally spoke, his tone was mild, almost amused. "That’s an interesting question."
"I didn’t send for help," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And the corridor was warded. You shouldn’t have heard anything from outside."
Lucavion exhaled softly through his nose, a half-laugh. "Shouldn’t have," he repeated. "But you seem to forget—I have a habit of being where I shouldn’t."
Priscilla’s brow furrowed. "So you were following ?"
He turned his head toward her, and there was a flicker of sothing like surprise in his eyes—amusent, perhaps, at her bluntness. "Following is such a heavy word," he said. "Let’s call it... curiosity."
She blinked. "Curiosity?"
He shrugged. "You have a talent for walking into interesting situations, Princess. I just happened to arrive before the interesting part began."
She studied him quietly, the wind tugging at the strands of her white hair. "So you saw everything."
His gaze t hers then—steady, deliberate, unashad. "What do you think?"
The question wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t rhetorical either. He said it like he truly wanted to know her answer.
Priscilla felt her pulse skip, though she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or sothing else entirely.
’What do I think?’ she echoed inwardly.
She thought of his timing, too perfect to be coincidence. Of the way he’d walked in without surprise, as if he’d known every detail before it unfolded. The black fla, the calmness, the way his words had wrapped around those girls like invisible strings.
A quiet chill crept down Priscilla’s spine. The longer she held his gaze, the clearer the shape of her suspicion beca.
’He was there,’ she realized. ’He saw everything.’
The thought hit harder than she expected. Her chest tightened—not just with disbelief, but sothing sharper. "You were watching," she said slowly, the words heavier with each syllable. "You saw what they were doing to . And you didn’t stop it."
Lucavion’s expression didn’t shift. There was no denial waiting in his eyes, no feigned confusion. Only the faintest acknowledgnt—one small tilt of the head, deliberate and unapologetic.
"Yes," he said simply. "I did."
The wind stirred between them, cool against her face. For a mont, she forgot to breathe. "You let them—" Her voice caught on the words, breaking on the quiet. "You let them do that?"
His tone was calm, asured, the way soone might explain a concept rather than defend themselves. "If I had stopped it the mont I arrived," he said, "what would you have learned?"
Her breath hitched, anger flaring in her chest. "Learned?"
He took a step closer, not threateningly, just enough that his voice fell softer, steadier. "Tell , Princess. If there was a ship—one that leaked every ti it touched water—what would you do?"
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