The murmurs began as soon as Marisse’s group was far enough down the path that her voice could no longer carry back to them.
It wasn’t loud—just the low, unfiltered kind of noise people made when they thought they were safe behind the cover of a crowd.
Elara caught the first threads from the other side—the cluster of well-dressed students who’d followed Marisse. Their accents carried the clipped edges of court schooling, their tones pitched just enough to be overheard without ever looking directly at Selenne’s group.
"...always was strange, the Tower naming her an Archmage early."
"Strange? More like shaless. Seven-star and they bend the rules for her? Please."
"She’s not even proper lineage. So fishing-village nobody with a lucky elent."
"That’s not ’lucky,’ that’s politics. You think the Royal Family forgot she refused their commission? And in public?"
A quiet chuckle. "Of course not. That’s why she’ll never see a banner in her na. No House wants soone who snubs the crown."
Another voice—female, sharp—cut in. "She crossed the Draycotts too, don’t forget. Took their mont in the Southern Lands and made them look like they couldn’t defend their own territory. No wonder half the dukedom wants her gone."
The boy beside her lowered his voice, though not enough. "Well... the other half probably just wants her dead."
A few of them laughed—soft, the kind ant to sting more than to amuse.
Elara shifted her focus to her own side, where the group that had been trailing behind Selenne had fallen into their own hushed exchanges.
"...she doesn’t even deny it. No disciples, no House. Just those courses she hides behind."
"You say that like the courses are worthless."
"I’m saying they don’t matter if no one of her elent exists to inherit what she’s building. It dies with her."
Another leaned in, voice dropping into the kind of false secrecy designed to bait an audience. "My cousin says the Head Council keeps her around because she’s useful as a piece on the board—unique enough to show off when foreign delegations visit, but easy to cut loose if it cos to it."
One boy—a sharp-jawed type in immaculate black—snorted. "And because she makes the Draycotts furious. The crown likes to remind the dukes they don’t control every mage worth naming."
Elara didn’t miss the way a few eyes flicked toward the five students in the group whose uniforms bore no noble crest. The commoners. The unaligned.
It wasn’t outright hostility, but the weight of implication was there—quiet, heavy, and old as the walls around them.
She’d heard the sa tone in other places. In other courts.
It was the sound of people rehearsing the fall of soone they thought was too far above her station.
And Selenne—walking a few paces ahead, shoulders straight, cloak falling in perfect lines—gave no sign she’d heard a word.
Elara’s gaze drifted over the line of sneering mouths and averted eyes, settling into a cold, steady glare.
It wasn’t a heated look—it was the kind she’d learned in her old life, the one ant to remind the target that she’d seen straight through them.
’Yes... this is how most nobles are.’
The cadence of their voices, the half-smiles that hid knives—it was all too familiar.
’The sa tone they used when they thought I couldn’t hear... right before they voted to cast out.’
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t want to rember the rest—the chamber doors closing, the seals pressed in wax, the cold signatures written over her fate. She forced the image away, clamping it behind the wall where she kept all things that could unbalance her.
"Vultures," Selphine muttered at her side, her eyes scanning the group that had been talking loud enough to be overheard. "They’ll swarm the mont they think the prey’s bleeding."
Aurelian gave a short nod, his expression unreadable but his tone edged. "They’ve probably been waiting for a scene like that for years."
One of the twins—Riven—clicked his tongue. "Not years. Every week, I’d bet. It’s just the first ti we’ve seen it in person."
The other, Lysa, added, "This place isn’t just about cultivation or titles. It’s a chessboard. And half these people think the pieces are more important than the ga itself."
Elara let the words pass without answering, her eyes still tracking the path Marisse’s group had taken. The Tactical Formations guide was almost gone from sight, her stride brisk, robes swaying in deliberate precision.
And then—
"Pffft..."
The sound was quiet, not much more than a stifled snort, but it carried just enough over the muted footfalls to draw several heads.
"Puhaahahah..."
The sa voice again, uncoiling into a low, drawn-out laugh.
Marisse slowed slightly ahead, the set of her shoulders betraying irritation, but the laugh didn’t stop.
It wasn’t a laugh of mirth—it was the slow, deliberate kind that slid between amusent and mockery, the sound of soone enjoying the discomfort of everyone else.
And then, as though the lack of imdiate reaction offended him, the owner of the voice let it break fully.
"Pu—HAHAHAHAHAH!"
The sound bounced off the stone walls and arched walkways, loud enough now that even the most polite in the crowd couldn’t pretend not to hear. Students turned, Selenne paused mid-step, and Marisse herself cast a glance over her shoulder.
The laughter finally ebbed, tapering into a few amused breaths before the voice rang out—smooth, resonant, and carrying the sort of self-assured amusent that didn’t ask for permission to be heard.
"That," he said, letting the words stretch just a fraction too long, "was pretty funny."
Dozens of eyes shifted toward him. He didn’t flinch under the weight of the attention—in fact, he seed to welco it.
"People in this Academy," he continued, his gaze sweeping the gathered students like an appraiser in a market, "really love putting on shows, don’t they?"
The faintest smirk curved his mouth as he lifted a gloved hand and lazily gestured toward Marisse’s retreating form. "First our dear Lucien... and now this. Seems the life here will be quite fun indeed."
That na—Lucien—hung in the air for a beat, an unspoken reminder of so earlier spectacle that only a fraction of the students seed to understand.
Selenne’s expression didn’t change, but Elara caught the faint flicker of calculation in her eyes. Marisse’s back stiffened before she picked up her pace again, not deigning to respond.
And then—
"Lucavion..."
The na slipped from Elara’s lips before she could stop it.
*****
Lucavion let the silence hang just long enough for the weight of Marisse’s narrowed gaze to press in before speaking, his tone leisurely, as though the entire exchange were nothing more than casual table conversation.
"Well," he began, "since we were inford that today would be orientation, I suppose I should thank the good Miss for giving us such an unfiltered demonstration of how the Academy actually works. asurent of authority sticks, was it? Very enlightening."
He gave a small, slow clap—three deliberate beats that weren’t loud, but carried all the condescension of soone asuring a wine’s bouquet and finding it lacking. His eyes glead with that familiar blend of amusent and provocation.
Marisse’s gaze sharpened, her voice cooling into precision. "What is your na?"
Lucavion tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Man... the very first thing you ask after hearing all that is my na? I would have never expected it."
"A student of our Academy speaking so rudely to professors," she replied evenly, "of course it is important for to identify you first."
Lucavion’s smirk deepened, but his tone lost none of its languid composure. "I see... then..."
He paused—long enough for the crowd’s attention to lean in—and his black eyes caught hers in a steady, unblinking lock. "Make sure you rember it."
He straightened, his voice carrying with crisp clarity. "Lucavion."
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