'I thought you were gone. But if you're not… isn't that a kind of rcy?'
She reached out absently to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, the movent smooth, unthinking. Her voice, when it ca again, was quieter. Not fragile—just less armoured.
"It would be nice," she murmured, eyes drifting to the garden's far path where the sun broke through the lattice in trembling patches. "To see him again."
She didn't look at anyone when she said it. She didn't have to.
Selphine tilted her head slightly, but said nothing. Her expression unreadable—but her fingers, folded in her lap, had stilled completely.
Aurelian studied her, so echo of old grief flickering in his eyes. He understood longing. The kind that tasted more like rust than sweetness. But he didn't press. He never pressed when it mattered.
And Cedric…
Cedric was still.
His gaze remained fixed on her, but there was no accusation in it. Only the weight of shared history. Of a thousand monts they never nad.
Elara exhaled slowly.
"He was… impossible," she said, more to herself now. "Wild. Arrogant. Sharp as broken glass and twice as likely to cut if you weren't paying attention. But…"
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup again, this ti not out of tension, but mory.
"…he listened. Even when I didn't want him to."
A pause.
A breath.
"I still have a lot to say to him," she finished softly. "Things I never got the chance to."
The wind shifted.
And for a second, the garden didn't feel quite so far from the past.
But then her shoulders straightened. Her spine lifted. The illusion might have changed her face, her voice, even her presence—but this? This was purely Elara.
She turned back to the others with that sa faint, amused edge that always marked the end of vulnerability.
"But he probably still owes a duel," she added dryly.
Cedric blinked.
Aurelian grinned.
Selphine's eyes narrowed with faint, curious delight. "Now that sounds like a story."
Elara didn't deny it.
But she didn't offer the tale either.
So things were best saved for when ghosts turned real.
And if he was here—if Luca truly had co back—
She intended to make sure he didn't vanish before hearing everything she'd kept inside.
One way or another.
******
The room was quiet.
Too quiet, by Valeria's standards.
Not the tense quiet of a war camp after a battle, nor the focused silence of a knight's barracks before a duel—but the kind of curated hush that ca with expensive materials and servants trained to move without sound. Polished stone floors. Mana-laced curtains that shifted their opacity depending on the ti of day. A bed far too soft for soone who'd grown used to tents, cots, or—at tis—the floor.
She stood near the window, one hand resting on the carved fra, eyes scanning the city beyond. Even from here, she could see the Spiral Nexus, rising like a monunt to ambition and arcane power. In its shadow, the plaza shimred with movent—students arriving, supply carts humming along their tracks, and glimring sigils pulsing faintly over archways.
The capital pulsed with magic and design.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that every wall here listened. Every hallway whispered.
A knock ca at the door. Not too loud. asured.
Her attendant entered when she gave the signal.
"Your belongings have been arranged," he began. "Wardrobe as requested. Your armor has been cleaned and placed in the secondary closet. And the bath is already drawn, should you want it."
Valeria gave a short nod. "And my schedule?"
He stepped further into the room, holding a thin folio. "You have been formally invited to three tea gatherings over the next six days. The invitations ca under separate seals, but each carries familiar affiliations."
Valeria arched a brow, voice dry. "Marquis Vendor?"
"Not directly," he replied with a faint smile. "But the hosts are... appreciative of his recent alliances. And naturally curious about you."
She turned away from the window.
"Three," she echoed. "Not high."
"No," he agreed. "But not low either. For soone who's spent the last year on horseback, dragging barons out of their fortresses? It's practically a crowd."
Valeria didn't return the smirk, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
She knew how this worked. She had lived among nobles long enough to recognize the arithtic of status. A year ago, no one would have invited her to anything but a battlefield. And now?
Now she was Vendor's chosen sword. And the daughter of House Olarion—the house that had clawed its way back into relevance by aligning itself with power at just the right ti.
If she had arrived with her old na alone, the invites would be fewer. Maybe none.
"The Candidate Trials?" she asked.
"Begin in seven days," her attendant replied. "You'll be expected to attend the opening ceremony as a formal guest of the Academy, given your status. The tea parties will coincide with preliminary rounds. Private observation lounges—most likely filled with speculation, subtle wagers, and attempted courtship disguised as complints."
Valeria exhaled sharply through her nose. "Lovely."
"Until then, you are free to do as you please," he added. "Explore the city. Or perhaps… rest, for once."
She shot him a glance, the kind that said don't push your luck.
"Noted," she said flatly.
He bowed slightly. "I'll leave the invitations on your desk. You can respond at your discretion."
He paused at the door, then added, "They will expect you to co. Even if you hate the wine."
Then he left her alone with the room again.
Valeria moved to the desk, where the three sealed letters lay in a neat stack. She recognized one sigil imdiately—a stylized sunburst, gold on black. Subtle, but unmistakably Vendor's shadow.
She didn't touch them right away.
Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the window.
Three tea parties. Not much in number, but weighted. Every one a test wrapped in silk and niceties. Every cup of tea another conversation with veiled intentions.
But she would attend.
Because that was her role.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd learn sothing useful.
About the other students.
About the trials.
And about the kind of world she was stepping into—not with a sword, but with her na.
Still, part of her itched for sothing else.
Sothing unexpected.
Sothing with a grin and a reckless streak and—
She cut off the thought with a sharp exhale.
No use lingering.
The room, pristine and perfectly tailored, already felt like it was pressing in around her. Too clean. Too polished. As if it was ant to fra her into sothing delicate. Decorative. Contained.
Valeria turned away from the window and reached for her coat—dark, travel-worn, its collar still bearing the faint fray of wind-beaten roads. Not the silk shawl her family had packed. Not the fitted, embroidered cloak the attendant had draped across the chair.
She fastened the coat herself.
Then slid the sword belt over her shoulder.
Not her full gear—not the ceremonial blade.
Just the one she always kept hidden, strapped discreetly along her back beneath the folds of her coat. Shorter than a knight's standard weapon. But faster. aner. It never left her side, not even during diplomatic visits.
Because the world did not always knock before it bared its teeth.
She stepped toward the door and paused just long enough to scribble a note beside the stack of invitations: Out. Will return before dusk. Don't wait.
Then she slipped out, letting the quiet seal itself behind her.
****
The city unfolded slowly.
Arcania was not a place one could see in a glance. It had layers—like a spell spun over centuries. So parts were as ancient as the Empire itself: stone bridges arched over crystal rivers, and statues of long-dead archmages lood beneath ivy-covered towers. But others were new, gleaming with ambition—translucent roadways that pulsed with leyline energy, floating stairways that adjusted their height based on rank and passcodes.
And then there were the people.
So many.
Scholars and street perforrs. Foreign emissaries with shimring robes that sparkled in the afternoon light. A baker enchanting loaves with preservation glyphs while a child tried to swipe one unseen. A pair of spell-engineers arguing heatedly over the color of a summoned fla. Tower guards whose helts humd faintly with detection runes.
Valeria didn't walk like a tourist.
She walked like a knight without an escort.
Which, in truth, she was.
And yet, no one stopped her.
So glanced her way—drawn by the bearing, maybe the gait. Or maybe the hint of a sword hilt beneath her coat. But they moved on.
It wasn't until she passed through one of the older rchant corridors—cobblestone paths flanked by rune-etched glass—that she let herself slow.
This, she thought, brushing a gloved hand along the edge of a stone railing, feels real.
The upper circles of Arcania were beautiful. Elegant. And false.
Here, though—among the murmurs of trade, the sharp tang of iron dust from the smithy two stalls over, and the scent of roasted roots wafting from a side alley—was a different pulse.
Sothing more grounded.
She stopped at a street vendor's stall. Not because she needed anything, but because the scent caught her attention.
Her eyes flicked to the fire-roasted skewers being turned slowly over an aether-fla. The vendor, a thick-shouldered woman with tattoos across her arms, offered her a nod.
"City's best, traveler," she said. "Charred mana-fish. Cheap."
Valeria quirked a brow. "How cheap?"
"Two crescents."
Valeria handed her three.
The woman blinked, then grinned. "Noble?"
Valeria took the skewer, expression neutral. "Traveler."
A pause. Then a small, amused grunt from the vendor. "Well. Welco to the real Arcania."
Indeed, it was a welco.
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