The academy’s public training field was still waking up.
Mana lanterns flickered softly under the early sky, and the ground was slick with morning frost—so natural, most not. A few first-years were running drills at the far end, but the main platform remained quiet.
Two figures moved across it with deliberate rhythm.
Noel, hair damp with sweat, exhaled sharply as another spike of ice burst from his palm—thin, controlled, and embedded itself into a wooden dummy twenty feet away. His left arm ached faintly from repetition, but he liked the burn. It ant he was improving.
"Glacialis."
Another shard. More sharper and straighter.
Still... not quite right.
’The timing’s still not right. Good focus, but it’s not translating into real efficiency yet.’
He took a step back and rotated his shoulder, rolling out the tension.
A few ters away, Selene von Iskandar was a blur of movent and precision. Her long braid bounced lightly behind her as she shifted from stance to stance, wand tracing sigils mid-air that froze solid before erupting into fractal spears of perfect symtry.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t miss.
Every strike was clean.
Perfect.
If Noel’s technique was shaped by instinct and adaptation, hers was art made discipline.
He watched her conjure a ring of frost mid-air and launch it through a series of floating runes—each shattering in sequence with precise cracks like breaking glass
’Goddamn, she truly is a genius. Even though I consider myself a genius too.’
The thought made him smirk.
He finished his set, stepped back, and grabbed a chilled water bottle from his bag.
Then, as naturally as breathing, walked toward her.
She had just finished a final combination and was lowering her wand, breathing controlled but visibly labored—sweat at her temples, her chest rising and falling under the modified training uniform suited for northern climates.
Noel held out the bottle of water.
"You missed a spot."
Selene blinked once, eyes flicking from the bottle to him, then back.
She accepted it without a word and took a long sip.
He waited.
When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Noel gave her a half-shrug.
"Got a minute?"
Selene’s voice was cool."You’re talking to already."
"I just figured..." he gestured to the trail of frost left behind her last attack, "...if anyone knows how to stop wasting mana on ice spells, it’s the northern prodigy."
A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. It wasn’t a smile.
But it wasn’t nothing.
"You’re not bad," she said simply. "Just too tense."
Noel took another step closer, matching her calm.
"I’m always tense."
"Then you’ll never master ice."
He raised an eyebrow.
Selene handed the bottle back.
Noel took the water back and tilted his head.
"What do you an?"
"I need to be relaxed when I use ice?"
Selene crossed her arms, wand still in one hand.
"Basically."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if asuring whether he was actually interested or just baiting her.
Noel said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Selene glanced out toward the training dummies, their surfaces now covered in pockmarks and jagged icicles from her earlier spells.
"Let make it simple for you. What do you think when you see snow?"
Noel blinked.
"...That it’s cold?"
Selene sighed—like a teacher correcting a slow student.
"That’s surface-level. People always associate ice with being numb. Frozen. Still. But that’s just the outside."
She tapped her wand against the inside of her wrist, where a thin stream of frost glimred briefly before vanishing.
"True cold is about control. It moves when it needs to. It holds everything else still. Ice doesn’t hesitate—it decides."
Noel raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed.
"You always talk like that?"
"Only when people ask questions worth answering."
He gave a short laugh and shook his head.
Then shifted his stance slightly.
"You train like it’s life or death."
"Where I’m from, it is."
’Damn, the north mountains are no joke then if soone like you says so.’
That silenced him for a mont.
Then he said:
"I guess that makes us similar."
Selene didn’t respond, but her posture eased just a little.
Then Noel let the mont breathe—
And decided it was ti to pivot.
The silence stretched for a second too long.
Just enough for Noel to step forward, casually wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.
Then he said, like tossing a stone into still water:
"Hey... have you heard about that new place in the lower quarter?"
Selene tilted her head slightly.
Noel didn’t stop.
"The one that opened last week—specializes in northern-style fire-grilled cuts. Auroch ribs, bone-seared dire stag, frost elk stew... All prepared on enchanted stone slabs like the old traditions."
Selene’s eyes sharpened.
She didn’t blink, but sothing behind her expression cracked just a little.
Noel caught it.
’Got you.’
He continued, tone offhand, like he barely cared.
"Apparently, they import the cuts from the mountains themselves. Real glacial beasts. Marinated in frostberry reduction."
Selene’s gaze fixed on him now.
Completely.
"...They do frost elk stew?"
Noel suppressed a smile.
"With roasted ice-root and fernted spice glaze. According to the guy running the place, it’s the closest thing to authentic northern campfire cuisine."
There was silence.
Selene stared at him, and for the first ti since he t her—
She looked conflicted.
Her cheeks were slightly flushed, whether from training or sothing else.
She licked her lips, subtly.
Then cleared her throat.
"I might’ve heard sothing... vaguely."
Noel stepped closer, casually tossing the empty water bottle into a bin with a flick of his wrist.
"I was thinking of going. But it’s the kind of place you don’t visit alone, right?"
Selene hesitated.
Then muttered:
"...Maybe."
’Almost there.’
Noel crossed his arms.
"I could use soone who knows the difference between actual northern seasoning and just throwing salt and calling it tradition."
Selene looked down.
Then said, deadpan:
"If it’s bad, I’ll never forgive you."
Noel grinned.
"Deal."
Selene finished tying her braid back, gaze neutral again—the warmth from before gone, replaced by the sa cool precision she carried into every duel.
"So. What do you want from ?"
Noel didn’t flinch.
’Back to normal, it seems.’
’I know exactly how you like your at, Selene. Just like your spells—clean, sharp, and straight from the mountains.’
"I need a favor," he said. "During the debate, it will be nothing reckless."
Selene crossed her arms.
"Be specific."
"You’ll be allowed to ask a question. I want you to use it to shake Dior a little—nothing aggressive. Just sothing that tugs at the seams of the image he’s built, and take off that mask he wears."
She tilted her head.
"...Mask?"
Noel t her eyes.
"You’re smart. So you know what I an, I’m sure you know by now that you suspect how he truly is."
Selene didn’t reply imdiately. She just looked at him for a long second—analyzing.
Then:
"And if I refuse?"
Noel gave her a slight grin.
"Then I guess you’ll miss out on that fire-grilled auroch. I know how your finances are... soone’s gotta invite you, right?"
Selene’s eyes sharpened. Just a flash of surprise.
That kind of detail wasn’t public.
"...How do you know that?"
Noel turned halfway, already walking toward the water fountain nearby.
"I have a reliable source, very trustworthy you see."
Selene narrowed her eyes but didn’t press.
Instead, she uncrossed her arms and said:
"Send the phrasing. If it’s clumsy, I’ll rewrite it."
’Hook. Line. And sinker.’
And with that, the first piece of Dior’s unraveling was officially in motion.
The eting room was dim, as usual.
The old council space had beco their unofficial headquarters—a place where the politics of the academy were quietly carved into motion.
Noel entered just after midday.
Elyra was already seated at the long table, flipping through a parchnt notebook with her signature calm, her coat folded neatly over the back of her chair.
"So?"
Noel dropped into the chair across from her.
"She said yes."
Now she looked up.
"Selene?"
He nodded.
"Conditionally. She wants final review of the question phrasing."
Elyra smirked faintly.
"Alright, makes sense."
She reached into the inner pocket of her coat and slid a folded piece of parchnt across the table.
"I already had three options prepared. Choose whichever suits her tone best."
Noel unfolded it, scanning the content.
The first option was too soft.
The second had a subtle trap: a callback to Dior’s failed initiative last year, phrased as a genuine inquiry.
The third...
He smiled.
"This one. It’s the cleanest."
"It’s the sharpest," Elyra corrected.
Noel leaned back in his chair.
"Do you think he’ll snap?"
"Knowing him?, Yeah, no doubt."
Noel nodded once, quiet.
’Count your days, I hope the system rewards again when Act II is done. Hehehehe, let’s hope for a good reward this ti too.’
Noel stepped out of the old council room, letting the door close behind him with a soft click.
The hallway was still. A shaft of late morning light filtered through one of the narrow windows, casting long lines across the stone floor.
His boots echoed softly as he walked.
Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose.
His mind, not so much.
’Well... guess I kept my word.’
’Said I’d stay in the shadows. Just observe. Move pieces without being seen.’
He snorted quietly to himself.
’Yeah. That didn’t last long.’
’Well, its true that I’m still keeping my word because I’m not in the shadows anymore.’
He turned a corner, heading toward the east wing—where students were already starting to gather for midday lectures.
’Now I’m part of the story. Hell, maybe even important to it.’
’Even Dior’s got in his sights now.’
His jaw tightened slightly at that thought.
’It is what it is.’
Reviews
All reviews (0)