He wasn’t watching Isolde like a man watches sothing he wants to possess.
He was watching her like soone studying an equation with an answer he already feared.
And just like that—the knot unraveled.
Valeria blinked.
The weight in her chest lightened.
Not vanished, no. But softened. Receded into sothing calr.
Still—
She lifted her chin, expression cautious.
"You’re always hiding sothing," she murmured, eyes never leaving his. "But if you say you don’t lie..."
She trailed off.
Lucavion tilted his head, curious. "Then what?"
"...Then I suppose I’ll believe you."
He smiled at that. Not wide. Not smug.
Just... softly.
"Progress," he said.
Valeria rolled her eyes. But a faint breath of sothing—not quite amusent, not quite relief—passed between them.
He looked away then. Only briefly.
Back toward the far end of the ballroom.
Toward where Jesse had vanished.
And where Isolde still remained.
"Still," he murmured, "your read on them... was more accurate than most."
Valeria’s gaze drifted lazily back toward him, sharp despite the nonchalance she wore like a second skin.
"I would ask how you know that," she said, tone dry, "but knowing you, you wouldn’t answer even if I wanted."
She raised one brow, voice tilting with just the right amount of disdain.
"Isn’t that the case?"
Lucavion’s lips curved.
Not the sly, cutting smirk he wore when playing with nobles’ nerves, but sothing gentler. Warm, almost.
"You’re starting to know well."
"Starting?" she echoed, her tone incredulous.
He gave a small shrug, playful. "This is just the beginning."
And then, too fast—too carelessly—he added, "There’s soone ahead of you."
Valeria froze.
"...What?"
Lucavion blinked. A fraction too slowly.
Then ca the backpedal. Smooth. Rehearsed. Almost convincing.
"Forget what I just said," he said, waving a hand with exaggerated ease. "Slip of the tongue. Nothing important."
’Nothing important, he says.’
Valeria didn’t move.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t breathe.
Because sothing about the way he said it—the soone ahead of you—it struck too clearly to be a joke.
No teasing cadence. No wink.
Just a quiet truth that had slipped through the cracks of his control.
And now he wanted to seal it back up again.
’Soone ahead of ...?’
She didn’t know why that phrase clung so bitterly to her ribs.
Didn’t know why it felt like salt spilled on sothing not yet wounded.
It wasn’t like she cared—not like that—but still.
Still.
Her brow furrowed, lips thinning.
"Lucavion."
Her voice was quieter now. Too calm.
He t her gaze, and for the first ti, looked slightly unsure.
"...Yes?"
"Who is it?"
"Aha..." He chuckled—nervous, light. "Just a slip. You know . I say things."
"Yes," she said slowly. "You do. And most of them an sothing."
She took a step forward.
The sound of the ballroom faded behind the steel of her stare.
"Who is that soone?"
Lucavion hesitated.
Just long enough.
Just deep enough.
To confirm what her instincts already scread.
’He knows. He knows exactly what he said. And he doesn’t want to know who it is.’
Why?
Why did that make her chest tighten?
Why did the thought of soone else being ahead of her—in knowing him, understanding him—grate so harshly against her composure?
It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t.
But it did.
And that angered her more than anything.
’This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.’
Still, her voice softened—dangerously.
"Lucavion. Look at ."
Lucavion did look at her.
But not with the easy charm he usually wore like armor.
No. This was the look of a man teetering between evasion and confession—hovering on the precipice of sothing he didn’t want touched.
And Valeria saw it. Felt it.
Which is why, when he shifted ever so slightly—like he might turn, like he might vanish again—she stepped into his path.
Subtle.
Decisive.
Her arm brushed against his just barely, but her eyes stayed locked to his, the weight of her stare anchoring him in place.
"You’re not getting away that easily," she said, voice low and firm.
’Not this ti, Lucavion.’
But he smiled again—too quickly. That familiar flicker of mischief thrown like dust into the air.
"Oh, I wasn’t leaving," he said, backing a half-step like it was part of so playful dance. "Just... repositioning."
Valeria’s eyes narrowed. "Coward."
"Strategist," he corrected, lips curving. "There’s a difference."
"You said there’s soone ahead of ," she said, not letting go of the thread. "So tell who—"
But before she could finish—
A sharp sound rang out across the ballroom.
Clang!
Not quite tal. Not quite glass.
Just enough to freeze motion. To draw eyes.
To silence the edges of every conversation at once.
And then, monts later—rising clear and ceremonious above the hush—
A steward’s voice echoed through the chamber:
"Attention please."
*****
A steward’s voice echoed through the chamber:
"Attention, please."
The sound didn’t need to shout.
It carried the weight of coordination, not command—threaded with the kind of mana that tugged at instinct, not ears.
Lucavion turned toward the voice without urgency. But Valeria’s gaze lingered on him a mont longer, watching for any trace of that earlier slip.
None ca.
Only that maddening smile. Still soft. Still distant.
’He let that thread drop on purpose.’
She’d chase it later.
The steward stood near the eastern dais now, flanked by twin columns of silverfla torches and flanked by two junior spellbinders from the logistics cadre—each bearing ceremonial staves etched with the Academy’s crest.
His voice lifted again, calm and practiced.
"As per Headmaster’s directive, the banquet concludes within the next ten minutes. All students and honored guests are asked to remain in position for the Headmaster’s closing remarks."
A low wave of motion rippled across the ballroom—nobles straightening in their seats, scholars adjusting their robes, and the occasional Lorian envoy stiffening ever so slightly, posture returning to parade form.
Lucavion watched them all with the kind of dispassionate curiosity one might offer a board resetting itself after a ga.
Valeria exhaled through her nose, the tension in her jaw easing—but only slightly.
This wasn’t over.
"Later," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
Lucavion tilted his head. "Can’t wait."
Then, silence resud.
Not awkward.
Ceremonial.
And through that hush, the air shifted. Bent.
Not with spectacle—but reverence.
The Headmaster entered the platform.
Verius Itharion did not glide. He arrived.
His steps were unhurried. No cloak billowed, no mana surged theatrically. But even so, the space around him seed to bend in acknowledgnt. The chandeliers above didn’t flicker—but the shadows beneath them softened. Magic didn’t flare—it breathed.
He stood alone.
No heralds. No attendants. Just a single presence at the center of a gathering ant to worship legacy.
He raised one hand—only slightly.
And the room settled.
Not silenced. Settled.
"Tonight," Verius said, his voice low and steady, "was not simply a feast. It was an introduction."
Not a single ripple of dissent.
No clink of glass.
Not even the fidget of cutlery.
"You have seen your peers. Your rivals. Your allies. And your challenges."
His eyes moved—not dramatically, but deliberately.
From Lucien’s table...
To the Lorian delegation...
To Lucavion’s group.
And finally—to the staff balconies overhead, where the professors stood in quiet watchfulness.
"You will forget parts of tonight. The nu. The music. The pacing of each toast."
His tone didn’t shift. But there was sothing almost dry beneath it.
"But I promise you—"
A pause.
"You will rember who you watched. And who watched you."
Soft. Unthreatening.
But several nobles shifted uncomfortably anyway.
Verius continued.
"This Academy does not exist to flatter bloodlines. Nor to preserve them."
"It exists to burn the weakness out of genius, and forge those who go past it into sothing greater."
The firelight on his robes seed to deepen.
Or maybe it was just the weight of his words.
"Let it start now."
Silence.
Then—only then—he inclined his head.
"Welco, once more, to the Arcanis Imperial Academy. May your year be... enlightening."
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