"Cedric," she said, "I followed Luca. Not Lucavion. Don’t twist them together just because—"
"They’re the sa man," Cedric snapped—not loudly, but with a rawness that carved into the space between them. "And they always were. You just didn’t see it."
The words sunk through her like icewater.
He wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.
But he wasn’t right, either.
Her throat tightened, frustration and hurt and anger all intertwining at once. Cedric wasn’t accusing her of betrayal—she knew that—but the shadow of that implication felt close enough to sting.
Elara felt the heat in her chest spike—sharp, imdiate, impossible to smother this ti.
"So you think I’m blind?" she asked, her voice low but no longer steady. "That I followed him because I suddenly stopped rembering what he did to ?"
Cedric’s posture tightened. "That’s not what I said."
"But it’s what you ant."
"I ant," Cedric said, the words clipped, "that you’re acting like nothing matters. Like your identity here—your mission here—is invincible. As if one mistake won’t bring the whole house of cards down on us."
"I made no mistake," Elara shot back.
Cedric’s eyes flashed, frustration carving itself plainly across his face. "You slipped today."
Her breath caught—not because she didn’t know it was true, but because hearing it so bluntly made her stomach twist.
"If Selphine hadn’t stepped in," Cedric continued, "you would’ve exposed yourself. Everything we worked for—everything you ca here to do—could have been jeopardized."
Elara’s fingers dug into her palms. "I didn’t ask to be cornered, Cedric. I didn’t ask for Marian to pick apart what I said. I’m doing the best I can."
"And so am I," he fired back.
Silence fell—sharp, tense, brittle.
Then Cedric pressed on, voice lower but no gentler. "If you want revenge—and we both know you do—then you can’t treat this place like it’s safe. Your cover isn’t perfect. Your na isn’t forgotten. One slip—just one—and the Valorias will know you’re alive. The Empire will know you’re alive."
Elara swallowed hard, anger twisting with sothing else—sha, maybe, or defensiveness rising like a shield she didn’t realize she’d raised.
"You think I don’t know that?" she said. "You think I’m not aware of every breath I take here?"
"Then why are you losing control?" Cedric demanded.
"I’m not—!"
"You are," he said, cutting her off, his voice cracking with the force he held back. "And you can’t afford to. Not now."
Her breath trembled, more from hurt than rage. "I said I’m trying."
"And I know you are," Cedric said, softer—almost too soft for the anger in his eyes. "But trying isn’t always enough."
There it was.
The sentence that broke sothing in her.
The anger snapped—not loudly, but with a quiet violence that hollowed her chest.
"I didn’t ask to be dragged into that corridor," she said, voice trembling despite her effort. "I didn’t go looking for him. I followed a disturbance because I was trying to protect myself, protect all of us. And instead of asking if I’m alright, you’re interrogating as if I ran into his arms."
Cedric’s face went still—the kind of stillness that said her words had hit sowhere tender, sowhere old.
"That’s not fair," he murmured.
"No," she said, "it isn’t. And neither is what you’re implying."
Cedric inhaled sharply, a breath ant to steady himself, but it only seed to make the tension between them more palpable. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling long through his nose.
"Elara..." He shook his head, voice fraying. "I’m not trying to accuse you. I’m trying to understand why you didn’t co to us. Why you disappeared after everything. And I—" His voice cracked. "I panicked."
The words stilled her.
Panic wasn’t sothing Cedric admitted to lightly—not in front of her, not in front of anyone. His composure was armor, shaped by years of discipline and a father who tolerated nothing else.
He took a breath, then stepped closer—but this ti not with sharpness, but sothing gentler, more fragile.
"I know you’re trying," he repeated, quieter now. "I know you’re doing everything you can. But I asked because I wanted to know. Because I needed to know." His voice wavered, barely noticeable. "My only reason for being here is you. Doesn’t that an anything?"
Elara’s anger flickered. Not gone—but softened at the edges.
He wasn’t angry at her.
He was afraid.
Afraid she’d fall apart again.
Afraid Lucavion would shatter her twice.
Afraid she’d slip through his hands the way she almost had years ago.
For a mont, neither of them spoke.
Cedric lowered his head slightly, his voice barely above a breath. "I’m here for you. That’s all I wanted to say."
Elara’s shoulders loosened—not in surrender, but in the quiet acknowledgnt that, beneath his anger, he ant exactly what he said. And Cedric—who had always anchored himself next to her when things got too heavy—stepped into that familiar closeness now, his presence warm and steady despite the storm they’d just weathered.
She didn’t lean on him.
But she didn’t move away either.
Elara breathed out slowly, the anger cooling into sothing steadier—still sharp, but manageable. Cedric’s presence beside her wasn’t suffocating anymore; it was familiar, grounding in the way it always had been. And maybe that was why she found herself speaking before she could talk herself out of it.
"There was... sothing," she said quietly.
Cedric’s head lifted, eyes sharpening. "Sothing?"
She nodded once. "I didn’t et him, but I did see him." A beat passed—asured, bracing. "I was in the northern corridor."
Cedric straightened fully this ti, posture locking into that disciplined readiness she had seen on battlefields and training floors. "What happened?"
Elara hesitated. Not because she wanted to lie—but because her thoughts were still tangled, fragile in ways she didn’t want to expose. Whatever she’d felt watching Lucavion with Priscilla—confusion, unease, an echo she didn’t have the language for—Cedric didn’t need to hear that part. It would only make things worse.
So she told him the shape of the truth, without the edges that cut her.
"There were girls," Elara said softly. "And there was the princess...."
Cedric’s brows shot up, a sharp lift of surprise.
"Princess?" he echoed. "Which—"
Then the confusion cleared.
"Priscilla... Lysandra?"
Elara nodded once.
Cedric exhaled—a sound between disbelief and dawning clarity. He leaned back an inch, the tension in his shoulders shifting from personal to political.
"That princess," he murmured. "The one from the entrance banquet."
Elara felt the faintest flicker of recognition in his tone. He rembered the scene well—the Crown Prince sweeping into the banquet like a living decree, Priscilla trailing half a step behind, ignored, dismissed, erased.
He rembered how Lucavion had baited the nobles, how Priscilla had stepped in despite Lucien’s silent command not to.
How she had confird Lucavion’s entire accusation in front of the banquet hall. And how Lucien had all but crushed her afterward with political precision and a chilling smile.
Cedric wasn’t imperial. But even he understood the implications.
"No wonder she was targeted," he said quietly. "She challenged the Crown Prince’s faction during the banquet. In public."
His jaw set. "Of course they’d retaliate."
Elara shifted slightly, the mory still vivid—the circle of girls, the hidden artifacts, the tightening ring of cruelty. Cedric’s eyes sharpened further, his understanding now threaded with anger. Not at her. Not yet. But at the Empire’s machinery grinding another student into its teeth.
"And Lucavion stepped in," Cedric added.
"It was the case, wasn’t it?"
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