’He’s holding back.’
The thought landed like a rock in Caeden’s gut.
Not because it surprised him.
But because it shouldn’t have been possible.
He’d always been proud of his physique. It was his edge. His anchor. Where most Awakened spent their early years hyper-focused on mana—on perfecting the flow, refining their cores, expanding their spiritual lattice—Caeden had taken a different path.
He trained his body.
Hard.
Every strike, every drill, every repetition baked into his bones before he’d even lit his first star.
Because for most northern cultivators, that was the standard.
In the north, physicality was part of survival. You grew up learning to brace against cold, hunger, terrain. The cultivators there didn’t just dream of grandeur—they trained because weakness could kill. And more than that, the common doctrine said:
Don’t waste ti on the body. Not yet.
Why?
Because body reconstruction ca later.
After five stars.
That was the gateway—when mana stopped being just energy and beca transformation. When the body could be reforged in its entirety using one’s cultivation thod. Muscles, bones, nerves—enhanced beyond human.
So most waited. Why build a house just to tear it down later?
Caeden hadn’t waited.
He pushed.
He built a fortress early. Carved each muscle into stone. Because he knew—when that reconstruction ca, he’d already have a foundation worth reforging.
And in the Arcanis Empire?
They didn’t train that way.
They didn’t have to.
Their environnt was gentler. Their techniques more refined. Their instructors focused on efficiency, on control, on elegance.
He’d watched them train.
And thought, more than once, At least I’ve got this much over them. At least here, I’m stronger.
But Lucavion—
Lucavion was running beside him like gravity hadn’t applied yet.
Unreinforced.
Unbothered.
Not a single flex out of place. Not a single strained breath. No sweat, no tremble, no edge.
Just... grace.
Caeden’s lungs burned.
His calves flared with heat.
And this guy—this arrogant, black-fire bastard—was barely moving by comparison.
’He’s not from the south,’ Caeden thought, trying to keep the disbelief from climbing too far into his expression. ’He trained like he’s from sowhere else entirely. Sowhere worse.’
Or maybe—
He just trained through whatever softness the Empire handed him.
Caeden clenched his jaw.
’So much for the edge I thought I had.’
He shot a sideways look at Lucavion again.
Their strides thundered across the damp trail, the rhythm of three now edged by sothing unspoken. Breath. Muscle. Silence.
Then—
Lucavion turned his head.
t Caeden’s glance mid-stride.
Not slow.
Not sudden.
Just... exact.
Like he’d already known Caeden was looking.
And he spoke.
"I am rather unique."
Caeden blinked.
Lucavion’s voice didn’t carry arrogance this ti. Not the drawl of a provocateur. It was... quiet. asured. Unflinching.
"I’d advise you not to think thoughts like those."
"...What thoughts?" Caeden muttered, forcing the words out between staggered breath.
Lucavion didn’t look away.
"This isn’t about pride," he said. "Or ego."
A beat.
"It’s just the truth."
Caeden frowned, jaw still tight.
And then—
"...Whatever."
It ca sharper than he ant. Not from hate. From frustration. From the heat building behind his ribs, not just from running, but from trying to understand a man who felt like walking contradiction.
Lucavion gave a small shrug. If the comnt stung, it didn’t show.
"You two done posturing?" Elayne’s voice sliced clean between them, dry as flint.
They both glanced her way.
She didn’t look back.
She was already pushing forward again.
Not faster. Not slower.
Just... cleaner.
"I agreed to a run. Not to carry your unresolved self-worth issues across the eastern trail."
Caeden coughed once, half-choked on a laugh.
Lucavion’s grin returned—but softer this ti. Not mocking.
Almost appreciative.
"Understood," he said simply.
And then, without warning—
He passed them both. Quietly. Effortlessly. His footfalls barely whispering against the dirt.
Caeden stared after him for a second.
Then swore under his breath.
"...Damn him."
Elayne exhaled through her nose, dry and unimpressed.
"Then run faster."
*****
The sun had climbed higher by the ti the five of them gathered in front of the dorms.
Lucavion, Caeden, Elayne.
Mirella.
Toven.
Cleaned up from the morning run—or in Lucavion’s case, still annoyingly fresh—they stood near the stone archway leading toward the academy’s main thoroughfare.
All around them, other students had begun trickling out of the dormitories. Most in standard-issue academy blacks, a few already flaunting personal flair—sashes, custom embroidery, trailing bits of enchanted cloth. First-years mostly. All of them hovering with varying degrees of nervous energy.
"Feels like we’re waiting for inspection," Caeden muttered, arms crossed.
"Or sentencing," Toven added dryly.
Lucavion gave a lazy shrug. "Sa thing, depending on who shows up."
Mirella frowned. "You’re not helping."
A few dozen more students had gathered now. Whispering. Fidgeting. So clearly trying not to stare at Lucavion. A few stealing glances at Elayne, who stood like a statue with her hands folded behind her back, gaze already scanning the open courtyard ahead.
Then—
A faint ripple.
Mana.
Not harsh. Not sharp.
Just... cold.
It prickled against the skin like the first breath before a winter spell—asured, refined, calculated.
Footsteps followed.
And from the northern arch, a figure erged.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in robes far more subtle than most of the faculty they’d glimpsed so far. A deep indigo cloak, trimd in silver, with no house sigil or division badge visible. Just a thin strip of starlight thread weaving a pattern across the hem.
The woman stopped at the edge of the courtyard.
She looked over them all with the kind of gaze that saw too much—and judged too little.
Then she spoke.
"I am Professor Selenne. From the Departnt of Magic."
The murmur of students quieted.
Her voice was soft. But it carried. Clean, sharp, and undeniably firm.
"I will be your guide today. Consider this orientation. Not just to the grounds—but to the expectations placed upon you. And the weight of what it ans to train within Arcanis."
She paused.
Then let a faint smile tug at her lips—more like a mory than amusent.
"There will be no fireworks. No tests. No demonstrations."
Lucavion blinked once. Caeden frowned.
"Only context," Selenne continued. "And trust —if you understand what you’re being trained for, the rest will be fireworks enough."
She turned slowly, gesturing toward the wide stairs beyond the path.
"Follow ."
*****
From where she stood near the back of the gathered students, Elara—Elowyn—watched in silence as Professor Selenne turned toward the path ahead, indigo cloak shifting like dusk-shadow behind her. Around Elara, the whispers had already begun to stir.
"Wait—isn’t that...?"
"She’s one of them, right? From the Circle—"
"No way. She wouldn’t waste ti on first-years if she was—"
"She’s the Archmage—the Archmage—from—"
"Elowyn," soone whispered beside her, barely audible over the noise, "do you know who that is?"
But Elara didn’t answer.
She already knew.
The mont she felt the magic—not cold, not truly, but distant in a way that felt like it had seen too many winters—she knew. The kind of mana that moved without announcing itself. Old, but not worn. Refined like a blade passed down through generations, still sharp enough to bleed.
’Selenne...’ The na slid through her mind, and with it, a mory stirred.
A conversation.
Half-whispered between her and her master under cover of starlight, when Elara had still been cloaked in her old na. When she had still dared to ask about the wider world, the real one. The one beyond the bloodied halls of court and the quiet violence of power.
They had been sitting beneath the great twisted eira trees, the scent of rain lingering in the roots. Eveline had been sharpening a blade—not for war, but for ceremony, the kind only old mages still observed.
And she’d said it, casually. Offhand.
"There are few left worth fearing in the capital’s inner circles. But if you ever et a woman nad Selenne... bow with your mind, not your knees. She sees further than most. And forgets less."
Elara hadn’t thought much of it, then. Nas had flooded her world back then—generals, councilors, rogue guilds, diplomats. All of them shifting pieces in a ga she’d been trained to play and trained to betray.
But this na?
This was her.
Professor Selenne.
So it was her.
The Archmage of Starlight.
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