Chapter 848: Three swordsman, one topic
Rowen didn't speak again.
His breath was calm, his expression unreadable—but behind his eyes, thought clashed against thought, like steel against steel in a hall with no end.
Lucavion.
The man who had humiliated Lucien before the court without drawing a blade. The man who had mocked tradition, who had walked into the royal inheritance struggle not as a prince or knight or pawn—but as something else entirely. An anomaly.
A threat.
Rowen had despised him.
At first.
And not just because of politics.
Lucien was the one Rowen had sworn to support. Not out of blind loyalty, but because Lucien, for all his cold cruelty, had a vision. A shape to the world. And Rowen—Rowen was a blade that served shape.
Lucavion was chaos incarnate.
A mongrel of no name, no house, no crest. A creature who should have flailed and burned in the structured beauty of the Tower's dueling grounds.
But hadn't.
He'd stood there with that damn estoc and that casual smirk and danced with resonance like it was some tavern song he barely remembered the steps to.
And matched him.
Rowen.
The one who had trained under the Seven-Fold Temple. The one who could recite footwork stanzas backwards in his sleep. The one who didn't make mistakes.
And still—
Lucavion had held him.
Not through deception. Not through trickery.
Through swordsmanship.
Rowen had called it a draw, back then.
Outwardly.
But something deeper had shifted. Something he hadn't voiced. Not even to Lucien. Especially not to Lucien.
Because as much as he hated Lucavion's politics—his irreverence, his disregard for rank—Rowen couldn't deny it.
He was extraordinary.
And that movement—
That impossibility.
That thing that defied logic, calculation, and every clean edge Rowen had spent his life sharpening—
He remembered it.
The moment it happened during their duel, his mind had rejected it. Dismissed it as a fluke. A breath of madness caught in a clean form.
But then just now—
He saw it again.
In the ballroom.
In the slightest twitch of Lucavion's hand as he responded to Varen's question. A movement so small it wouldn't have meant anything to a lesser warrior.
But to Rowen…
To Rowen, it was thunder in the shape of a whisper.
'That's it,' he thought. 'That was it.'
No mana.
No stance.
Just… will.
How?
He couldn't understand it.
Not because it was beyond him.
But because it didn't fit.
The mind couldn't grasp what the soul hadn't yet learned to see.
Rowen's gaze lingered now—not in disdain. Not in wariness.
But in study.
Lucavion noticed, of course. He always noticed.
And he turned toward him—just slightly.
Eyes catching the light again, flickering that same silver-ember hue that had haunted Rowen since their match.
"You're staring," Lucavion said, light as air.
Rowen's voice was quieter now. Not cold. Just… level.
"I'm trying to understand."
Lucavion's brow quirked. "What, me?"
"That movement," Rowen said.
No flinch.
No buildup.
Just the truth.
Varen glanced toward him then. Curious.
But Rowen didn't look away from Lucavion.
"That moment. During the duel."
Lucavion's expression didn't change. Not really. But there was a stillness to him now. A silence that was less absence, and more readiness.
Rowen's jaw tensed—not with anger. With thought.
"You blocked the Spiral. With form that shouldn't work. And now… I just saw it again."
He raised his hand, slowly, and mimicked the twitch—fingers curling just so. Not dramatic. Not pointed.
But enough.
Lucavion watched.
Rowen exhaled.
"It wasn't a stance," he said. "It wasn't rhythm. It wasn't luck."
He hesitated.
Then:
"It was something else."
Lucavion didn't respond right away.
But his eyes flicked—between Rowen, and Varen, and then back.
And for the first time, something softened at the edge of his grin.
Not a smirk.
Not arrogance.
Just… acknowledgment.
Rowen didn't know what he expected in return.
Maybe a quip. Maybe a riddle.
But instead, Lucavion just said:
"…And you saw it too."
A pause.
Rowen nodded once.
A slow, honest motion.
"…Yeah."
Lucavion's gaze held his.
For a beat, two enemies weren't enemies.
Just swordsmen.
Bound not by loyalty.
But by understanding.
Because Rowen didn't respect easy power. He didn't admire accidents.
But Lucavion—
He did earn the respect of a swordsman at least.
It felt strange, standing here like this. The ballroom murmured around them, velvet gowns brushing past, laughter clinking off wine glasses, whispers spiraling up into gold chandeliers.
But in this little corner of air between three swordsmen, everything else felt distant.
Detached.
Like the world was watching itself from behind glass.
And Rowen—gods help him—was... content?
Not driven by obligation. Not braced against politics. Just here.
Sharing breath with two men who understood what it meant to see the invisible lines inside a strike.
He could take a step back from pride, just for now.
Because for once—
It didn't feel like weakness.
Lucavion, of course, ruined the quiet in his own way.
He laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly.
Just that easy, unbothered kind of laugh that somehow poked fun without ever turning cruel.
"Man…" he said, shaking his head slightly. "It's quite strange how us guys can somehow be like this, isn't it?"
Varen raised a brow, half-curious, half-wary.
Rowen just stared at him.
Lucavion grinned wider. "Swords pointed at each other one week, wine glasses in the same orbit the next."
He looked between them. "I don't know. Kinda poetic. Stupid. But poetic."
Then—he turned to Rowen.
And this time, there was no grin.
Only interest.
Not the casual kind.
The sharp kind.
"Your Sword Resonance," Lucavion said. "How did you awaken it?"
The question dropped like a coin in a well—direct, unfiltered.
Not cloaked in etiquette. Not even dressed up in curiosity.
Just asked.
To anyone else, it would've been insulting. Rude.
Varen tensed a little. Instinctive.
But Lucavion didn't blink. He was looking into Rowen's eyes like the question wasn't a breach—but a bridge.
Such a weird man.
Rowen should've scoffed.
Should've reminded him that such knowledge wasn't shared between enemies, let alone outsiders.
But…
He exhaled.
Because truthfully?
He'd been listening in just now. He had felt that moment. That weight.
Lucavion had offered something—intangible, but real.
So now…
He owed him something in return.
Rowen spoke, low and precise.
"The first time," he said, "was on the eleventh floor of the Drayke Trial Vault."
Lucavion blinked.
Then rolled his eyes.
"Oh come on, man," he said, dragging the words out with theatrical exasperation. "Do you really think we know what that is?"
Varen's brow rose, almost amused.
Rowen's mouth twitched. The corner of it jerked, just barely—annoyance tempered by restraint. Then:
"…Didn't expect you to."
Lucavion tilted his head, waiting.
Rowen gave a long breath. Then continued.
"I was sent in alone. No mana. No exit key. Just my blade and a trial designed to break lineage warriors."
He didn't look at them while he spoke—eyes slightly downcast, voice calm, clipped.
"There's something sealed in the heart of the vault. Something old. It's not a person. Not a creature."
He paused.
"A fragment of a sword."
Lucavion squinted. "A… fragment?"
Rowen nodded once. "That's all I'll say."
There was a finality to it. Not guarded. Just done.
Lucavion opened his mouth to prod again—but then caught the shift in Rowen's expression. Not pain. Not trauma.
Just silence.
The kind born from something still echoing in the marrow.
Rowen could say more. Could explain the pulsing weight of a blade that didn't swing, but still bled intention into the air. The way the sword spirit didn't teach or challenge—it stripped. Carved down pride, assumptions, identity. Left only breath and blade and fear.
But he didn't want to remember those days.
The darkness.
The cold, rusted steel beneath his nails.
The whispers that weren't words, but pressure.
He remembered waking up on the stone floor, covered in sweat and his own blood, fingers curled around a handle that wasn't there anymore. The voice in his head whispering rhythm without language.
Sword Resonance.
It hadn't been bestowed.
It had been earned.
Cut into him.
And some part of him still wasn't sure it had left.
Rowen looked up.
Lucavion was watching. Quiet now.
Even Varen had gone still.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Lucavion leaned back slightly, expression unreadable.
"…You know," he muttered, "for all your precision and starch, that's one hell of a metal origin story."
Rowen arched an eyebrow.
Lucavion smiled again, soft this time. "Not bad, Drayke."
Rowen didn't return the smile.
But he didn't look away either.
And that—between swordsmen—was enough.
Chapter 849: Why not act?
The banquet resumed—though "resumed" was the wrong word.
It shifted.
As if some unseen chord had been released from tension.
The presence of Rowen Drayke and Varen Drakov—two of the most formidable names in the Empire—had not only neutralized the weight around Lucavion... it had reversed it.
No one said it aloud, of course.
But eyes wandered more freely now. The whispers carried less poison. And those who had been avoiding Lucavion earlier suddenly remembered they had things to discuss near him. As if proximity to him wasn't social risk anymore—but social currency.
Thalor noticed it first.
A subtle pivot, he noted. The knives retract. The masks return.
One minute, Lucavion was the anomaly. The interloper who'd upset every faction with nothing but wit and a bastard's will.
The next, he was—
Still the same.
But acknowledged.
Cassiar raised his glass in a half-toast toward Thalor, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "You feel that?"
Thalor didn't look at him. "Feel what?"
"The change," Cassiar said, swirling wine lazily. "Lucavion's gravity. It's different now."
Thalor turned his head, slow and precise, the full weight of his stare settling like a blade slipping into a sheath.
"Don't speak like you're some sort of poet," he said flatly. "Gravity, my ass."
Cassiar chuckled.
But Thalor didn't. Not even a twitch of humor.
Because it wasn't gravity. It wasn't some arcane shift in the weave of fate or charisma or whatever Cassiar liked to coat his metaphors in. It was calculation. Action. Timing.
His orchestration.
His intervention that turned Lucavion from an outcast into a symbol. His arrangement that gave Rowen no choice but to acknowledge him, however grudgingly. His framing that allowed Varen's shadow to cover Lucavion instead of threaten him.
And now?
He looked across the room.
At the three of them—Rowen, Lucavion, and Varen—speaking in low tones beside the far table. Not openly friendly. Not united. But… standing in alignment. A triangle of blades, each pointing in a different direction, but each recognizing the other's edge.
It should have pleased him.
It had worked, after all.
But a sliver of regret threaded behind his ribs. Just faintly.
"These swordsman types…" he muttered under his breath.
Cassiar raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"
"They're so dumb," Thalor said, more to himself. "So similar. Like they're carved from the same idiotic ironwood and painted in different war paint."
Cassiar arched a brow, swirling the wine in his glass with exaggerated elegance.
"Well, well," he murmured, lips twitching into a smug half-smile. "And I'm the poet?"
Thalor gave him a look that could've flattened a minor noble's career.
Cassiar took a casual sip, entirely unfazed. "I was merely quoting what my master always said. About men who carry blades like they're carrying truth. 'A sword's edge is sharp,' he'd say, 'but it's the weight behind it that makes it cut.' Very profound. Very philosophical."
Thalor's eyes narrowed.
"Your 'master' was probably drunk."
Cassiar smirked. "Frequently. Which, I've been told, is the true state of enlightenment."
Thalor turned away, clearly done, gaze already scanning the far corners of the hall again, recalculating as though social alignment could be drafted and redrawn like arcane circuitry.
Cassiar watched him for a beat longer, then took another indulgent sip and muttered to no one in particular—
"Sure."
And just like that—
The moment passed.
The music rose again.
*****
On the other hand, on the table, looking at him now—Varen, standing not far, posture easy but presence like a sheathed storm—Lucavion could feel it.
He'd changed.
Not the loud kind of change. Not the kind people draped themselves in like new clothes, eager to prove something. No. This was quieter. Rooted.
Refined.
When they first crossed blades in Andelheim, Varen had carried heat like a man too proud to admit he was burning. Rage not worn on his face, but carved into his grip. Every swing from him back then hadn't just aimed to win—it aimed to exorcise. To punish. Not Lucavion, specifically. No—he had simply been the body in the way.
But now?
Now the fire was still there—but tempered. Not dulled. Disciplined. The kind of heat that chose when to burn.
'So,' Lucavion thought, letting his gaze linger just a little longer, 'you made it through the tunnel.'
It wasn't just in Varen's technique anymore. It was in the silence around him. In how people noticed his silence instead of his name. In how the weight of betrayal no longer dragged behind him like a chain—but stood beside him like a shadow that had learned to listen.
He let it forge him.
That wasn't easy.
Lucavion knew the type. He'd read Varen's story long before they met. The archetype was familiar: golden heir, fierce discipline, legacy dripping from every syllable of his surname—and the inevitable fall.
Lira Vaelan had seen to that. Another name, another knife. But she hadn't broken him. Not completely.
Lucavion could still see the scar behind Varen's composure, though.
That was the thing about warriors who grew through pain. The strength always came with a cost. And if you watched long enough, you could see the echo of the payment.
Lucavion leaned back against the table, arms loose, posture almost lazy. But his eyes didn't leave Varen.
He watched as the Silver Flame heir spoke to Rowen—sharp nods, eyes narrowed just a hair too long, like he was dissecting every word even while pretending not to care.
They hadn't forgiven each other. Not really.
But they respected each other.
And Lucavion?
He stood between them.
Hilarious, really, he mused, glancing at the faint ring of nobles now pretending not to hover near their table. A bastard with no crest, no house, and no leash. Somehow sitting at the center of the Empire's sharpest men. A wild blade among weapons that were forged, not found.
His eyes drifted back to Varen again.
And for just a moment—just a flicker—Lucavion thought he saw it. That brief look. The one Varen gave him during their last duel.
nd for just a moment—just a flicker—Lucavion thought he saw it.
That fire.
Still seated in Varen's eyes.
Not wild. Not feral.
But sharp. Refined. Like a flame folded into steel.
It wasn't hatred. Wasn't rivalry in the traditional sense. It was want.
The desire to improve. To catch up. To best him.
To understand how Lucavion had done it—how he'd moved the way he did. How he'd deflected the Spiral with no formal stance. No crest-born technique. Just will.
Lucavion didn't need to guess. He knew that look. He'd seen it in mirrors. Felt it before his hands ever touched an estoc. It was that breathless frustration of knowing someone had moved ahead of you—and wanting, needing, to close the gap.
And it was—
'Pretty damn nice, actually.'
That sharpness. That hunger.
There was something rewarding about being the standard someone else was chasing.
And then—
[Stop being gay.]
Lucavion's mouth twitched. '....?'
He didn't move, didn't shift, just blinked once—slowly—like a man whose internal gears had just misfired.
"…What are you saying?" he muttered under his breath.
Vitaliara's voice was far too pleased with herself.
[Isn't that what you say? When two men stare at each other like that? With all that… fire? Longing? You told me that word once. I thought it was appropriate.]
He stared at nothing in particular. Just the tablecloth. The edge of a glass. The fine stitching on Rowen's sleeve. Anything.
And he felt it.
Ah. So this is what karma feels like.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to react.
That was when Rowen's voice cut through, soft but precise.
"What's so funny?"
Lucavion straightened, blinking once—expression deadpan.
"Nothing."
Rowen didn't buy it.
His stare lingered.
Not sharp. Not invasive. Just that slow, dissecting weight that felt like he was cataloging the twitch of your breath and the twitch behind it.
But he didn't press.
He just let the silence settle, filing "Nothing" somewhere in his mental vault—under Unexplained Variables.
Instead, he took a small sip of his drink, gaze drifting elsewhere. Calculated disinterest. Not disengagement.
And that's when Varen spoke.
"...At that time," he said, his voice low, deliberate. "Why didn't you act?"
Lucavion turned his head slightly, curious. He could already feel the shift in Rowen's spine—so subtle most wouldn't notice. But he did.
Rowen's reply was measured. "Which time?"
"When Lucien gave you the order."
That was it.
A simple phrase. No theatrics. No emphasis.
But it landed like a blade set gently, exactly, on the faultline of a mountain.
Rowen's hand stilled. His eyes, once scanning the room in polite calculation, sharpened in an instant. He turned to Lucavion—not slowly, not with drama, but like a weapon being unsheathed by reflex.
Lucavion met his gaze.
And smirked.
Not tauntingly. Not even triumphantly.
Just a flicker of that damned knowing. That quiet curve of the mouth that said:
'I already know why.'
Chapter 850: Let me greet you
Rowen didn't answer immediately.
He just stared at Lucavion—unmoving, unreadable. That same noble stillness, the kind that masks storms behind steel-gray eyes and centuries of ritual. The kind that says: I won't be the first to blink.
But the question hung there, caught between the three of them like a wire strung taut.
Why didn't you act?
Varen hadn't asked with judgment. That was the part that made it sting. There was no accusation in his tone, only clarity. The kind of question that came from someone who had seen it, logged it, and couldn't leave it alone.
Lucavion waited.
He watched Rowen, the way a gambler watches the next card drawn—not impatient, not eager. Just ready.
And Rowen?
He breathed in slowly, then exhaled as though weighing the cost of truth against its necessity.
His voice, when it came, was low. Stripped of pageantry.
"…Because she was there."
Lucavion's fingers drummed once against the rim of his glass.
Just once.
Then stilled.
He let Rowen's words settle in the space between them like dust over a buried blade.
Because she was there.
His eyes narrowed—not in scorn, not in surprise. Just in that quiet, precise way Lucavion did when something fell exactly where he expected it to.
"Ah."
He tilted his head, gaze never leaving Rowen's.
"So that's what we're calling it."
Rowen didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
But Lucavion saw the shift in his jaw. That fraction of tension behind the stillness.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table's edge, voice smooth—too smooth.
"You know," he murmured, "at that time, I was ready."
Rowen didn't respond.
Lucavion's eyes glinted.
"I felt it. The moment your stance changed. Just a twitch. A flicker of your grip. You made the decision. It was clean. Efficient. A noble's execution."
A pause.
"But you didn't move."
He straightened again, his smirk flickering into something unreadable.
"Because the little princess intervened."
There it was.
The phrase cut sharper than any accusation. No edge. Just fact. Laid bare like steel on velvet.
Rowen's lips parted—then closed.
Lucavion caught it.
He always caught it.
"You would've done it," he said quietly, "if it had been just you and me."
No drama in his tone. No bravado.
Only certainty.
"But Priscilla spoke up. And suddenly... there was a court watching. A narrative to preserve. And maybe—just maybe—you weren't sure if killing me in front of her was worth what came after."
Rowen's gaze darkened—not with anger. With something closer to realization.
Lucavion didn't press further.
He didn't need to.
Because that was the truth of it.
He remembered that moment vividly—the breath between words, the shift in the air, the crown prince's command still ringing in the hall.
Rowen had moved.
Just slightly.
But Lucavion had felt it.
And he had braced himself. Fully. Unflinchingly.
Because if Rowen Drayke had come for him that day…
Lucavion would've met him head-on.
And maybe died.
Maybe not.
But would it have been clean?
No.
Of course not.
Lucavion knew that, too.
And so did Rowen.
It would've been a mess.
Not because Lucavion lacked the skill to match him—but because the clash would've shattered more than just steel. Protocol. Appearances. Maybe even the Tower's illusion of control.
It would've drawn blood from the very threads holding the court together.
And that—more than Priscilla, more than doubt—was why Rowen hadn't acted.
Because the moment his blade moved, the lines between loyalty and politics would've blurred. And Rowen Drayke didn't make messy kills.
Not unless someone else signed the aftermath.
Across the table, Varen's gaze had been locked in silence—watching, calculating—but now it sharpened. His fingers flexed against the rim of his glass before he looked at Rowen, eyes narrowing.
Then—
Click.
His tongue met his teeth in a slow, deliberate sound.
"Just like a lapdog."
The words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be.
They landed hard—flat and cold. Without venom. Without emphasis.
Just truth, dressed in contempt.
Rowen turned, the movement sharp. Controlled.
But the glare he leveled at Varen—
That wasn't restrained.
Not entirely.
The room hadn't noticed, not yet. The banquet buzzed on, nobles sipping wine and whispering schemes. But at this table, something taut was unraveling.
And then—
Rowen spoke.
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
But his words?
Sharper than any blade on his hip.
"Drakov," he said, the name cutting with just the right weight, "do you want to lose your wings again?"
Silence.
For a beat, neither moved.
This was normal.
Tense. Sharp. Threaded with old blood and colder truths.
But normal.
No one at this table was under any illusion of alliance. They hadn't come here as comrades.
They came because the air demanded it.
Because the Empire was shifting, and the ones who shaped it had started circling each other like wolves that hadn't yet decided if they would share the kill—or rip each other apart.
Lucavion, still leaning back in his chair, let his gaze flick between them. Varen. Rowen.
No weapons drawn.
Not physically, anyway.
Varen's jaw was set now, his eyes gleaming with something hotter than pride—something rooted deep in memory.
His voice, when it came, was iron.
"Then come take them," he said, low and dangerous. "If you have the capability."
He didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
"But maybe wait until your master arrives. Wouldn't want you acting without permission again."
And that—
That landed.
Not like a blade this time.
Like a slap across a name.
Lucavion felt it. So did Rowen.
And just as the last syllable hung in the air, crisp and crackling—
The shift came.
A silence swept across the hall. Not loud. Not sudden.
Just felt.
Like a string being pulled through the weave of every noble conversation.
Lucavion didn't need to turn.
He already knew.
The rhythm was too familiar.
That slow, deliberate gait.
Measured, elegant. Like he wasn't walking, but arriving.
And then—
Golden hair.
Crimson eyes.
Lucien.
****
The great doors opened not with thunder—but with elegance.
The music didn't pause, but it softened, as if the notes themselves bent in deference to the presence stepping through.
Lucien.
Golden-haired, crimson-eyed, sculpted from the same unforgiving perfection that defined the Crown—but now, strangely, not rigid.
He was smiling.
And not the brittle, glassy smile of politics. No—it was smooth. Controlled. Just wide enough to imply warmth, just subtle enough to leave doubt. A smile practiced in the mirror of a thousand formal gatherings, but rarely used with intent.
Tonight, it was different.
The room turned to him almost instinctively. Like planets caught in orbit. Whispers stilled. Spines straightened. Those who had been pretending to forget the last confrontation now remembered it with renewed clarity.
Lucien greeted a nearby noble with a wordless nod—then another with a soft murmur of acknowledgment. He didn't stop for conversation. Not this time. Not now.
Because his eyes—smiling though they were—were locked ahead.
On one person.
Lucavion.
The bastard didn't rise.
Didn't shift.
Just sat there at the table, one elbow resting lazily near a half-finished glass, as if the very prince of the Empire wasn't walking toward him across a floor paved in breathless silence.
And yet—
There was no defiance in Lucavion's stillness.
No mockery.
Only clarity.
He knew.
He had been expecting this.
Lucien stopped before the table.
Rowen and Varen watched with the stillness of men who knew the weight of certain moments. But they didn't speak. Not yet.
Lucien looked down at Lucavion.
And smiled deeper.
Then—he bowed.
Just slightly.
A motion that was not ceremonial. Not court-mandated. Just… real.
A nod of greeting.
A gesture of intent.
Lucavion's brows lifted, if only faintly.
"My apologies," Lucien said, voice smooth, clear. Not cold. Not warm. Just… deliberate. "I left earlier without offering proper courtesy."
Lucavion didn't move.
Lucien's smile held.
"I find," he continued, "that it's best to clear one's head before making permanent impressions. Especially when dealing with… unexpected variables."
There was no venom in the words.
No condescension.
But there was weight.
"And now?" Lucavion asked, voice low.
Lucien's eyes didn't waver.
"Now," he said, "I would like to greet you properly."
Chapter 851: Unchained
Lucien didn't extend his hand.
Neither did Lucavion.
They simply regarded one another across the table—two still points in a room wound taut with ceremony, pride, and unspoken threats. The silence between them was not awkward. It was deliberate. Calculated.
They both knew the gesture was expected. The rules of court dictated that someone offer—even if it was only for show. But Lucien didn't move. And Lucavion?
He was already miles past gestures.
So Lucien let the breach remain.
Instead, he took a single step to the side, placing himself just slightly closer—not encroaching, but making the space intimate. Measured.
"I'll be brief," he said, tone steady, "for once."
Lucavion's lip twitched—only slightly.
Lucien ignored it. Or perhaps registered it and chose not to react. His eyes, crimson and perfectly unreadable, flicked toward Rowen for the briefest moment—acknowledging his presence without giving him weight—then returned to Lucavion.
"There were... miscalculations," Lucien said.
Not apologies. Not admissions.
Miscalculations.
"Reynard Crane will face correction. I've already seen to it. A formal censure has been submitted to the Imperial Review. His assets are to be temporarily frozen. His personal guard disbanded. And he is to step down from Academy. The Crane Family will also face repercussions."
A pause.
Then, as if brushing dust from silk:
"It will be done quietly. But thoroughly."
Lucavion swirled the wine in his glass with a slow, unbothered flick of his wrist. He didn't look surprised.
Not even impressed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was casual. Polished. The kind of tone that masqueraded as conversation but left marks when it passed.
"Ah… How noble."
Lucien arched a brow. "Is that sarcasm or gratitude?"
Lucavion smirked.
"It's just an observation."
He let the glass rest back on the table. His fingers tapped once.
Then—
"After all," he said lightly, "when a subordinate missteps, the blame rarely rests solely on their shoulders."
Lucien's smile didn't waver.
"And in this case," Lucavion continued, "well… 'When the horse stumbles, the reins lie in the rider's hands.'"
His tone was almost amused, the idiom slipping through his teeth like an old proverb wrapped in silk and blade.
Lucien tilted his head just a fraction more, that composed smile never quite reaching his eyes.
"A fair saying," he murmured. Then, after the briefest pause—he added, "Though there are certain riders… fated to be winners."
The weight of that word—fated—landed like silk-wrapped steel between them.
Lucien continued, calm and confident. "And in such cases, where the outcome is written before the race begins, it becomes nearly impossible for such riders to cause the horse to stumble. After all, they do not steer through desperation, but destiny."
A faint breath. Measured. Controlled.
"With a logical mind," Lucien said, "wouldn't you also conclude that the blame could only lie with the horse?"
That silence returned—sharp, deliberate.
Then—
Lucavion laughed.
Not a scoff. Not derision. A genuine laugh—low, sharp, and amused. He raised two fingers as if in toast or interruption, eyes glittering with something keener than defiance.
"That is quite 'fair,'" he echoed, voice light with mock approval. "Mentioning fate during a discussion of horsemanship."
His smirk widened into something nearly dazzling.
"In the sight of a hind," he said smoothly, "if one is fated to win… why bother with the horse at all?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table now, fingers steepled in idle thought.
"Wouldn't it be more prestigious to simply outrun everyone by oneself?"
His voice dropped a shade lower—not threatening, just quieter. More dangerous in its calm.
"But then again," he added, eyes never leaving Lucien's, "I suppose such riders would never let go of the comfort of leaving the actual work to the ones they so dearly love to blame."
A beat.
"Wouldn't you agree?"
Lucien's smile thinned—graceful, practiced—but for the first time, it held tension.
Not rage. Not fear.
Just… awareness.
That he'd walked into one of Lucavion's barbs, dressed in philosophy and civility, but sharpened for blood.
Still, Lucien didn't retreat. His chin lifted slightly. His posture did not break.
Lucien's eyes narrowed—but only slightly. His tone remained steady, unbothered on the surface. But there was something glacial beneath it. Ancient. Imperial.
"I suppose," he said quietly, "those who insist on viewing the world from the lens of a horse would never understand the grace of one fated to ride."
The words were velvet. The implications, iron.
"With that lack of elegance… crawling through mud and calling it forward motion—well, it's no surprise the world itself begins to reject them. Filth always finds its own level."
It was a dismissal cloaked in poetry. A judgment passed without a rise in volume, only in altitude.
Lucavion tilted his head, then gave a soft breath—amused. Almost indulgent.
"Oh… now that is a perspective," he said, fingers lifting again in mock consideration, "fit for someone high on empire-scented narcotics."
He grinned, barbed and brilliant.
"If it came from anyone else, I'd have assumed they'd gotten into the wrong vial of alchemy powder."
A pause. He let the moment settle.
"But I presume," he added, voice smooth as oil over a fire, "these riders of fate do come with… a certain immunity to such drugs."
His smile widened, slow and deliberate.
"Side effects include inflated divinity, selective memory, and, occasionally… the inability to detect when they're the ones dragging the horse through the mud."
Lucien's gaze darkened—but his expression didn't shift. Not openly.
Not at first.
He simply stood there, gaze steady, the silence stretching like taut string between them. And then—
He smiled.
Not the brittle smile of a noble holding composure. No. This one was quieter. Older. The kind of smile that knew things it wouldn't say aloud. The kind of smile carved from marble and inherited, not learned.
He bowed his head—not in deference, but in finality.
"Well," he murmured, "I believe that satisfies the expected courtesies."
His tone remained gracious. Cordial, even. But hollowed.
"Since I have fulfilled them," Lucien said, "I shall take my leave."
He paused, his eyes drifting once more across Lucavion—watchful, but no longer invested. Already stepping away in mind, if not body.
"But before I do…" he added, turning just slightly, "…congratulations."
Lucavion's brows lifted—fractional, curious.
Lucien's smile didn't waver.
"On your duel with Rowen. I imagine a draw against him is no small feat."
The words weren't mocking. But they weren't quite sincere, either. They walked that knife-edge where court praise became politics.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Lucien turned slightly more, offering a brief—very brief—nod to the man beside Lucavion.
"Varen."
The name alone sufficed. Not warmth. Not recognition. Just an imperial acknowledgment wrapped in syllables.
Varen inclined his head in return, jaw set.
Lucien didn't linger.
He turned to Rowen, who had watched the entire exchange like a blade in its sheath—tense, coiled, unblinking.
"Come."
That single word carried no command in volume. But it bore authority like a seal.
Rowen moved without hesitation. Smooth, silent, and sharp-edged as ever.
And together, they walked away.
Lucien did not look back.
As Lucien's figure disappeared into the ornate blur of nobles and sycophants, the tension at the table didn't vanish—it condensed. Refined into something quieter. Thinner. But still sharp enough to bleed.
Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply watched the ripple Lucien left behind. The space people instinctively gave him. The silence he carried like a second cloak.
And then—
Varen exhaled. Not loud. Just… tired.
He looked at Lucavion.
"You really know no bounds," he said flatly.
Lucavion's head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk flickering back to life, touched with something just a little too amused.
"If you only just learned that," he said, "you need to work on your skills."
Varen gave him a look.
The kind of look men give right before tossing someone off a cliff—or offering a handshake. Even he probably didn't know which it was.
Then he sighed.
Low. From somewhere deep behind his ribs. The kind of sigh that spoke of patience wearing out and tempers cooling just enough to avoid war.
Without another word, Varen stood.
He adjusted the leather strap of his sword, his movements precise as ever, then turned without ceremony.
And walked away.
Lucavion didn't stop him.
He just watched his back retreat into the crowd, steady and unbending.
There went the heir of the Silver Flame.
And with Lucien gone, Rowen pulled beside him, and Varen leaving by his own will—
Lucavion remained.
The last one seated at the table.
Still.
Smiling faintly.
And very much unchained.
Chapter 852: Hello
The sound of boots against polished stone echoed as Jesse stepped back into the heart of the Lorian envoy—head held high, shoulders squared, every motion composed. The duel hadn't ended with blood, nor with victory. But in the court's eyes?
She had won something far greater.
Recognition.
A wave of nods, murmurs, glances—some surprised, others quietly respectful—rippled through her peers as she returned. Whispers stirred among the younger soldiers in their crisp uniforms, their eyes wide with something close to awe.
"Did you see her footwork?"
"She held her ground against him."
"No hesitation. Not even for a second…"
Jesse said nothing. She kept walking, the burn still low in her lungs, the sting of his gaze still clinging to her skin like an aftershock. But there was no shaking in her steps. No falter.
Only when she came to stand near Adrian did the voices fall to respectful silence.
He didn't smile wide. That wasn't Adrian.
But the small tilt of his chin, the slight softening of his expression—that meant something.
"You represented us well," he said simply, his voice low but certain. "Beyond expectation."
Jesse's breath caught briefly—not out of surprise, but relief. From Adrian, words like that were rare currency. Weighty. Measured.
She inclined her head.
"Thank you, your highness."
But then—
The chill.
It wasn't sudden. It crept in, like frost through a crack in the wall.
Isolde.
She stood just behind Adrian, one hand loosely resting on her arm, the other wrapped around a delicate glass she hadn't sipped from. Her eyes—sharp, surgical—rested on Jesse like they were measuring something.
Not admiration. Not disdain.
Something worse.
Calculation.
And Jesse felt it, unmistakable—like insects crawling beneath her collar. As if every layer of polish and pride she wore was being peeled back. As if Isolde were tracing the line between what Jesse had done… and why.
Then the girl smiled.
Smooth. Elegant. Razor-thin.
"Well done, Jesse," Isolde said, voice light and pleasant. "I must say… you were quite the surprise."
The words sounded kind.
But Jesse's stomach twisted.
Because nothing about Isolde's gaze said compliment.
And Jesse had learned enough in the war, in the shadows behind thrones and titles, to know when someone was seeing too much.
She held her ground. Returned the nod. But inside, her thoughts were tightening.
She saw something she wasn't supposed to.
Not in the duel. Not in Jesse's movements.
In the way Lucavion looked at her.
And worse?
In the way she looked back.
Isolde took a small sip from her untouched glass, eyes never leaving Jesse's face.
"Let's speak later," she said gently. "You've earned it."
And then she turned.
Jesse watched Isolde turn away, the train of her violet-silver gown trailing like spilled ink on marble.
That gaze.
Lavender eyes. Cold. Clever. Beautiful, if you didn't know better.
But Jesse did know better.
There was something behind them—something that didn't reflect light, only collected it. It wasn't cruelty. Not even rivalry. It was more dangerous than both.
Intent.
I don't like her, Jesse thought flatly, fingers brushing the inside of her palm, grounding herself. There's something behind those eyes that wants too much.
But there was nothing she could do. Isolde was protected. Connected. The kind of girl born into velvet and war councils, not because she fought for it—but because the world made space for her.
And Jesse?
She made her own.
A few steps later, voices began swarming her. Not hostile. Not even unpleasant. Just… a lot.
"Jesse! That was brilliant—truly."
"You made Lorian look strong tonight."
"Did you really serve in the 17th? I heard they rotated out commanders like cards…"
The sudden warmth caught her off guard. These were the same peers who used to pass her in hallways with little more than glances, some with disdain, some with indifference. Now their words were sweetened with curiosity, admiration—even a bit of envy.
She smiled where it was required, nodded where expected. Her mask slipped on too easily. She was too used to that by now.
But when the Arcanis students began trickling in, that's when the air truly shifted.
It was subtle. A loosening of posture. Laughter from corners of the banquet that had once stood stiff with ceremonial pretense. Thalor's orchestration had done something strange—human. By turning blades into performance, he'd carved out space for conversation. For curiosity.
A pair of twin spellcrafters from Arcanis approached—nervous, young, clearly trying.
"You were really fast out there," one of them offered, clutching her wineglass like a shield. "Your style… is it Lorian?"
Jesse blinked, then managed a polite nod.
"Adapted," she replied. "Parts of it."
Just like that her time passed.
*****
The hours blurred into golden light and low laughter.
Jesse hadn't expected to last this long in the room—this gaudy garden of chandeliers, velvet diplomacy, and ceremonial masks. But now, three glasses of wine in (none of them finished) and somewhere between a half-dozen conversations, she found herself… easing in.
It hadn't happened all at once.
At first, her shoulders had stayed tense. Her eyes flicked automatically to exits, to shadows, to potential threats. Years in the dirt didn't unlearn themselves in a banquet. But slowly—quietly—the mood had shifted.
Someone made a bad pun about spell theory. A boy from the Arcanis side exaggerated a duel story so badly his own companion burst out laughing. Someone tried to mimic Thalor's precise accent and failed miserably.
And Jesse… smiled.
Not out of obligation.
But because for the first time in years, the air didn't feel like it was trying to crush her lungs.
The nobles here—yes, they had titles and expensive cuffs and spoke with too many polished words. But under all that? They were still students. Still kids, in some ways. They laughed. They teased. They poked fun at instructors, gossiped about who was likely to collapse first in the next sparring rotation.
One of the boys, a bow specialist from Arcanis with sharp cheekbones and a disarmingly awkward grin, handed her a plate of honey cakes with a whisper:
"Trust me. These go extinct within minutes."
She took one without thinking. It was sweet. Soft. Almost too good.
And that was when she realized—
This isn't as bad as I thought.
She'd always lumped the nobles into one category. Arrogant. Cold. Distant. Like the ones who stood over her childhood with disdain. Like the generals who sent them into death-trenches without flinching. Like the father who turned her into a political liability.
But now?
She saw pieces that didn't fit the mold.
Laughter. Camaraderie. Even warmth.
Maybe not all of them. But enough.
Maybe it wasn't the titles. Maybe it was just the people I happened to know.
Jesse blinked, the sugar from the honey cake still dissolving on her tongue when Cali leaned in a bit too close and asked, "Jesse, what are you thinking?"
The voice cut through the noise—too familiar, too sharp with childhood history to ignore.
Jesse turned her head slightly, keeping her expression even. "I'm thinking you're too sober for someone who's already embarrassed herself twice tonight."
Cali grinned, completely unfazed. "Please, that spell bottle incident doesn't count. That was sabotage."
Jesse snorted under her breath—just once. She forgot how easy it was to fall back into rhythm with Cali. Even after all these years. Even after what had happened between their families.
Because, truthfully… the reason she knew Cali was complicated.
But the other girls around the group—Arcanis and Lorian alike—now had their eyes on Jesse. Soft laughter quieted a little. Expressions turned expectant.
And Jesse?
She tensed.
Not visibly, not enough to be noticed by anyone but herself. But it was there. The sudden stiffness in her spine. The prickling sensation of unfamiliar attention. Of expectation.
Because now they wanted her to speak.
To banter. To charm. To fit in.
But Jesse had lived too long behind gunpowder and steel. She didn't know how to coat her truths in sugar. Didn't know how to trade compliments like cards or talk about academy fashion or mock instructors with elegant disdain.
What am I supposed to say?
That duel was fine, actually, because I used to scrape blood from my boots with a fork and this was just Tuesday compared to—
"Gods, Jesse, don't go full storm-cloud on us," Cali said with a grin, misreading her silence. "We're not trying to interrogate you."
Before Jesse could reply—awkward, bristling, unsure—
A new presence slid into the circle.
Like silk cutting between stone.
"Hello."
Chapter 853: Orange and Violet
"Hello."
The voice was smooth. Balanced. Polished.
Everyone turned.
Jesse looked up—then froze, just for a heartbeat.
Pink hair.
Purple eyes.
Valeria Olarion.
Daughter of a famed Arcanis bloodline. A student noted not just for power, but for restraint. A name that came with weight… and a gaze that cut too clean to be dismissed.
Valeria's smile was soft. Not mocking. Not sharp. But there was something beneath it Jesse couldn't quite read. Something… watchful.
The circle stilled.
As if a thread had snapped loose in the weave of idle conversation, tension crept in quietly—soft but precise.
Valeria Olarion's presence wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
She moved like a falling petal through a still pond—no sound, but all eyes followed.
Jesse straightened instinctively, her fingers tightening just slightly at her side.
'She's here.'
She hadn't expected it. Not truly. Not after that stare from across the courtyard. Not after the duel. Not after the way Lucavion had stood close to her—spoken to her—before the ceremony. Jesse had assumed the girl would remain in the Arcanis cluster of polished heirs and scholarly favorites.
But now, Valeria stood here.
In their circle.
Wearing a lilac-stitched gown cut just above the ankle, light enough to dance in, elegant enough to bow kingdoms with a blink. Her hair—pale pink, almost silver in the ambient glow—was tucked behind one ear, revealing a delicate chain of imperial silver resting just beneath her jaw.
And her eyes—
They were locked on Jesse.
Not rudely. Not challengingly.
Just… directly.
As if she had seen through every word unspoken during the duel.
As if she already knew too much.
"Valeria Olarion," she said smoothly, dipping her head with court-trained grace. "Of the Olarion House. It's a pleasure."
The Arcanis nobles—those nearest to the circle—straightened immediately. A few offered formal bows, others murmured acknowledgment.
"The Lady Olarion—how rare," someone whispered again, breath caught between admiration and disbelief.
Another voice—a boy from the House of Verdine—murmured, "Didn't think she'd attend something like this…"
"Not her scene," someone else added, almost to themselves.
Valeria tilted her head slightly, catching the words without looking at the speakers. Her smile didn't shift, but there was a faint pause—enough to signal that she had heard.
"Why?" she asked softly.
A simple question.
And yet, it landed like a stone dropped into still water.
The Arcanis nobles—bright, polished, trained for wit and maneuver—fell silent.
Not one of them answered.
Not because they didn't have thoughts, but because none dared voice them.
Because what do you say to a girl like her?
Because you don't usually grace us with your presence.
Because you tend to walk alone at events like these.
Because everyone knows Lucavion wouldn't have fought without you in the audience.
Because your House once protected the Crown—and now, you barely show up at all.
But no one said that.
Instead, they bowed their heads slightly. Courteous. Quiet.
Respectful.
Too respectful.
Jesse caught it all.
She watched the way Valeria's question sucked the air from the group—how not even the most talkative dared offer a jest in reply.
It wasn't just reverence. It was weight.
In hindsight, this was something that her family indeed lacked.
Maybe it was the way she carried herself.
The kind that surrounded a name steeped in something older.
'Strange woman.'
This woman was strange.
And when the silence lingered, the Lorian students—slightly less shaken, if only because they were less familiar with Arcanis hierarchy—moved.
A few of them stepped forward.
Not in challenge. Not in boldness.
But with the kind of caution reserved for old names and long shadows.
Just then someone greeted.
"It's an honor, Lady Olarion. Your house name still carries across the sea."
Another followed. "Even if the Dukedom's no longer held formally… the Olarions once stood at the side of the Crown, didn't they? Protectors of the old line."
Valeria's smile did not waver.
But the warmth behind it cooled by a fraction.
Not to ice.
To something older.
Sterner.
The moment the Lorian girl mentioned the title—no longer held formally—something in Valeria's expression turned. Just slightly. Just enough.
Jesse saw it first.
It was subtle, too subtle for most: the shift in the angle of Valeria's jaw, the quiet stillness in her eyes that wasn't there before. Not anger. Not offense. But a withdrawal. Like shutters closing behind stained glass.
The air grew taut again.
The Lorian noble who had spoken blinked, realizing too late the line she'd crossed.
And then—
Cali stepped in.
Light-footed as always. Sharp when it mattered.
"Oh, Lady Olarion," Cali said quickly, flashing an apologetic smile as she looped her arm halfway through Jesse's like it had always belonged there. "Don't mind her. We've been drinking in too many footnotes and too few facts. No disrespect was meant—only awe."
She offered a slight bow—graceful enough to be diplomatic, casual enough to pass for charm.
Valeria turned to her.
And after a breath… nodded once.
"No lies were spoken," she said quietly. "The title was stripped. We do not pretend otherwise."
But her voice—
It was clear.
Sharp as a knight's blade.
She took the statement head-on, like armor catching a strike. She did not flinch, nor deflect. She wore the truth as if it were steel over her spine. And somehow… it made her feel even larger in the room.
There was no wounded pride.
Only the kind of poise that came from surviving history itself.
Jesse narrowed her eyes, watching the lines around Valeria's mouth, the precision of her breath. This wasn't a girl humiliated by a political fall. This was a girl forged in the aftermath. Someone who didn't need the title to command respect—because she had already earned it somewhere else.
And then—
Valeria looked at her.
Straight on.
Their eyes locked.
"I watched your performance," she said, no rise, no dip in tone. Just clarity.
Valeria's words didn't come with the syruped cadence of flattery.
They didn't need it.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, voice even. "Your sword was swung not to impress—but to reach. It wasn't clean. Not perfect. But it was honest."
That earned a flicker in Jesse's eyes. Not a reaction—just a spark of acknowledgment. A language warriors understood: She saw it.
Valeria went on, her tone untouched by sarcasm. "Prince Adrian mentioned earlier—quietly, of course—that according to Lorian customs, the one representing them isn't composed of the Empire's strongest."
She let the weight of that settle.
Then—
"But if what I saw today wasn't your strongest… then we might be in more trouble than we thought."
The Arcanis nobles nearby went still. Half stunned. Half amused. A few of them exhaled as if holding back laughter—but not mocking. Not this time.
And the Lorian nobles—
They shifted. Just slightly.
Because she was right.
Jesse's performance had exceeded every quiet expectation they'd nursed behind folded hands and formal etiquette. She had been good. Far better than they could've anticipated from a girl once whispered about only in the context of "Burns" and "war."
A beat of silence followed—until one of the students, cleared his throat.
"Well," he said with a tight smile, "I wouldn't say we're holding back all our strongest. That would be... rude."
A ripple of low laughter passed through the group. Carefully measured. Politely amused. No one dared look proud—Lorian arrogance had been punished too many times on too many stages.
But still.
There was pride.
Even Adrian's mouth twitched at the corner, a half-smile threatening.
Cali grinned wider and nudged Jesse with her elbow. "Congratulations. You've become our terrifying secret weapon."
Jesse didn't reply at first. Her gaze remained on Valeria—measured, cautious.
Because she didn't quite trust this woman.
But praise from someone like her?
It carried weight.
"I wasn't trying to scare anyone," Jesse said quietly.
"I just wanted to remind someone."
Chapter 854: Orange and Violet (2)
"I just wanted to remind someone."
Valeria's gaze didn't waver.
If anything, it deepened.
"Reminding someone?" she asked, softly.
Jesse's jaw flexed. "Something like that."
A breath passed. A thread pulled taut between them. Neither bowed. Neither blinked.
And then—
Valeria tilted her head. Just slightly. "Standing with your sword against someone like Lucavion… that alone carries talent. He's not one to go easy on people."
The words were neutral. Courteous, even.
But the tone—
It shifted.
It wasn't cold. It wasn't even sharp.
But it was sloped—as though spoken from above, not beside. A high vantage dressed in civility. The voice of someone used to speaking down, no matter how softly she wrapped her syllables.
And her eyes…
They were on Jesse.
Steady. Measured.
But beneath that lavender calm was something unmistakable: possession.
A quiet, gloved hand closing around a shape neither of them wanted to name.
I know him.
That's what her gaze said.
You may have dueled him. But I… understand him.
Not declared. Not flaunted.
But laid out, cool and clean like silk folded in a blade box.
Jesse didn't rise to it—not with her voice.
But her posture shifted.
Her fingers coiled a fraction tighter behind her back. Her heel pressed firmer to the floor. She didn't smile.
Then—like a tide shifting—
the balance changed.
Valeria hadn't said another word. She didn't have to.
Because the nobles noticed.
They had seen her earlier, long before the duel.
Standing beside Lucavion.
Speaking to him in hushed tones, too long for courtesy and too calmly for formality.
Not an exchange of greetings.
An exchange of familiarity.
And in court, that was louder than steel.
So they moved.
The Arcanis nobles first—
sliding subtly toward Valeria, not crowding, but aligning. Like branches bending toward the sun. The implication was clear: she wasn't just admired. She was anchored.
One of them—a tall boy in navy with the crest of House Vire—offered her a glass she hadn't requested.
Another girl, younger, with gold-threaded sleeves, spoke gently:
"We didn't know you'd be here…. it's an honor, Lady Olarion."
The group had settled into a fragile balance—one that hovered between curiosity and restraint, as though everyone felt they were watching something just beneath the surface, something not yet named.
And then—inevitably—it came.
"How do you know Lucavion?"
The voice belonged to one of the Arcanis spellcrafters, polite, cautious, but unmistakably intrigued. She glanced between Valeria and Jesse with the hesitation of someone approaching a sacred tome without permission.
A ripple moved through the group.
Because everyone had wondered.
Lucavion had stood silent and distant since the duel, unmoved by praise or posturing. No one had dared approach him. No one—except her.
Valeria.
The only one to speak to him without hesitation.
The only one he'd turned toward, without the mask of indifference.
Valeria's eyes, calm and distant, flicked over the group.
Then they settled—on Jesse.
And stayed there.
"Yes," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I know him."
She didn't embellish. Didn't soften. Her words fell into the quiet with the weight of polished stone.
Jesse's brow twitched.
That word.
Know.
Not met. Not trained under. Not fought beside. Know.
Valeria tilted her head, as if already expecting the next question. It came—cautiously.
"From where?"
She held the pause, deliberate, letting silence sharpen the curiosity around her. And then:
"Andelheim."
Jesse's spine straightened instantly.
Andelheim?
It was a part of the story that she didn't know, and her mind instantly activated.
*****
The court had shifted.
Not drastically. Not all at once.
But like wine stains spreading across silk—quiet, steady, irreversible.
The Lorian students, once a cluster of disciplined posture and careful pride, had begun to blend into the garden of Arcanis. Not entirely—never entirely—but enough. Enough to stop being watched. Enough to start being listened to.
And that mattered.
Valeria noticed it between the edges of polite conversation. Between the dips of practiced bows and the murmured half-praises of sword forms and ancestral technique. She listened to nobles describe their enchanted lineage with the same breathless pride children used when naming stars. She responded when necessary, gracefully, coolly—always with the weight of Olarion on her shoulders. The room knew how to receive her. It always had.
But she—
Her attention had wandered.
To brown hair.
To strange, fire-touched eyes.
To Jesse Burns.
She stood in the midst of a conversation now, no longer rigid at its edge. She wasn't just present—she was in. Responding. Parrying remarks as if they were feints. Surrounded by Lorian and Arcanis alike, including a few of the lesser nobles Valeria typically paid little mind to.
And yet—
Valeria's gaze lingered.
She didn't move at first. She didn't break the rhythm of her circle. But her thoughts had already drifted from the conversation. Some thread had been pulled loose in her mind, tugging quietly.
That girl—born of a land Valeria was trained to oppose, forged in silence and rough training—had slipped into this gilded room like water in cracks. Subtle. Steady. Uninvited, but not unnoticed.
And Valeria?
She had questions.
They were quiet questions. The kind that wore no armor but held their blade at the ready.
What kind of girl looks at Lucavion like that?
What kind of girl earns that gaze in return?
She didn't know the answer.
Not entirely.
But when Jesse had spoken those words—I just wanted to remind someone—
Valeria hadn't needed to guess who she meant.
Lucavion.
It had been in the tone.
In the stillness.
In the way Jesse hadn't flinched when she said it, hadn't couched it in diplomacy or hidden behind a smile.
She had looked directly into Valeria's eyes.
Not as a challenger.
Not even as a rival.
As someone remembering.
And that—
That unsettled her.
Because Lucavion was a mystery by design. A man who revealed only what he wished, when he wished. Even she—who had walked beside him, fought beside him, argued with him—still didn't know everything. He held his past like a blade tucked behind his back—never absent, never seen.
But Jesse?
Jesse had reached into that unseen place and pulled out something familiar.
And Valeria had felt it.
So now—quietly, with no announcement, no pomp—she stepped from her group.
Her gown brushed lightly along the polished floor. Every footstep was a decision. Not to intimidate. Not to challenge.
To see.
Because she still wasn't sure.
Still didn't know if Jesse Burns had truly known him, or if it was just illusion. Just war-born bravado. Just coincidence painted to look like memory.
But even doubt couldn't smother that knot in her chest. That strange tightness she hadn't named.
So she crossed the room.
One conversation ended. Another paused. She walked through the gathering like a drifting veil, soft and direct, until she reached the edge of Jesse's circle.
"Hello."
When she greeted first….
The orange eyes met hers again.
There was no fear there.
Only readiness.
And then she commented on her sword, after exchanging pleasantries.
Though, it did kind of irritated her that her family was still known after all that time, she was way past that point anyway.
Valeria inclined her head—not too low, not enough to signal submission, but just enough to mark civility. "Your form," she said softly, "was efficient. Intentional. The kind of swordplay that doesn't need flourish because the point has already been made."
Jesse didn't respond at first.
She just looked at her. Measured. Still. Those fire-cast eyes didn't search for subtext or try to decode the compliment—they simply held it. Accepted it. Like someone who had learned long ago not to question truth when it finally arrived, however rarely it did.
Valeria waited.
Then—
"I wasn't trying to scare anyone," Jesse said. Her voice wasn't cold, wasn't distant. But it carried no decoration, either. Just fact. Just quiet iron. "I just wanted to remind someone."
There it was.
Valeria studied her more closely this time—not just the stance or tone or polish stripped clean by field grit. But the thread beneath it. The one woven too tightly into those words.
She hadn't said him. Hadn't said Lucavion.
But the syllables clung to the air all the same. Unspoken, but not unseen.
Valeria's breath was still. Her fingers curled lightly at her side, hidden by the fall of lilac silk. She didn't blink.
Since this has confirmed everything after all.
Because she was certain now.
They knew each other.
Chapter 855: Orange and Violet (3)
They knew each other.
No—had known each other.
Not in passing. Not in training. Not in theory.
In memory.
It was the only way Jesse could speak like that. It was the only reason that strange stillness had formed between them during the duel—the kind Valeria had felt just by watching.
She thought she had known Lucavion. Understood him. Traced the edges of his silence well enough to read what he didn't say. But now...
Now she wasn't sure what part of him Jesse had touched.
And that unsettled her more than anything.
Valeria's gaze lowered, just slightly—only to Jesse's hands. One of them still hovered just behind her back, still tense. Not defensive. Just prepared.
They knew each other.
No—had known each other.
Not through court. Not through training sessions or crossed blades under sanctioned light.
It was deeper. Older. Folded in something lived, something left unsaid.
Memory.
Valeria didn't have proof. But she didn't need it.
The way Jesse looked at him…
It wasn't admiration.
It wasn't even longing.
It was remembrance. The quiet kind. The type that didn't try to claim, but couldn't help existing.
And for reasons she couldn't immediately name—
It irked her.
Not because it was loud.
But because it wasn't.
Because Jesse didn't reach for him. Didn't touch him. Didn't even speak his name.
And yet every time she looked at Lucavion, something shifted behind her eyes. Something that didn't ask for permission.
Valeria inhaled slowly.
Her posture remained flawless. Controlled. Unyielding. But there was a flicker of movement in her hand, a soft tightening near the seams of her glove. Barely there.
It wasn't jealousy.
She told herself that, anyway.
It was something colder. Something rooted.
She had walked beside Lucavion through more than court. She had bled next to him, broken decorum beside him, stood in shadows with him when the nobles had turned their backs.
And yet Jesse could look at him like that?
Like something had been shared that Valeria couldn't name?
Her lips parted before she even decided they would.
"Standing with your sword against someone like Lucavion…" she said, tone even, smooth, intentionally calm, "that alone carries talent."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"He's not one to go easy on people."
She hadn't meant to say it. Not aloud. Not in front of others.
But the words had come anyway.
Not as flattery.
As a reminder.
A way to reassert ground—even if only for herself.
The air changed.
Not around them—around her.
Because Valeria knew what that meant. What it had to mean.
Lucavion. That "someone" was him.
And the way Jesse said it—no hesitation, no context, no apology—it settled like smoke in the back of Valeria's throat.
They had history.
And she hadn't known.
That alone was enough to tilt the balance inside her.
Valeria said nothing. But her silence was purposeful. A sheath.
She didn't give Jesse the satisfaction of a reaction. But her eyes lingered, long enough to register the shape of her stance, the tension in her heel, the quiet confidence that didn't need affirmation.
Then came the voice.
Polite. Curious.
Almost too casual to be accidental.
"How do you know Lucavion?"
It came from one of the younger Arcanis spellcrafters, wide-eyed and silk-collared, with hands that had never known war but knew how to navigate curiosity in court-shaped tones.
A hush fell.
Of course they'd ask.
Of course they'd notice.
Lucavion, aloof as ever, hadn't spoken to anyone since the duel. He'd nodded, maybe once, toward his peers. But it had been Valeria—only Valeria—who he had acknowledged. Fully. Without hesitation.
They'd seen it.
And now they wanted answers.
Valeria didn't look at the girl who asked.
Her gaze, already settled on Jesse, didn't move.
"Yes," she said. Her voice carried no armor, but it didn't need it. "I know him."
Not met.
Not trained with.
Know.
She felt Jesse react.
Not overtly. Not defensively.
But there was a shift. A flicker in the edge of her mouth. A narrowing in her eyes.
Valeria saw it.
And she let it sit.
A pause followed. Heavy. Expectant.
Then—another voice.
A second question.
"From where?"
Valeria could feel the curiosity tighten. Could feel the air cinch around her like silk pulled taut.
She let it stretch.
Long enough for every Arcanis and Lorian noble within earshot to lean in without stepping closer.
Then:
"Andelheim."
The name fell. And with it—weight.
There was no ripple of gasps, no sharp exclamations, but Valeria could feel the shift. As if the mention of that place had drawn a map across the floor that only a few knew how to read.
Across from her, Jesse stiffened—just slightly. Enough to confirm what Valeria had already guessed.
She hadn't known.
She hadn't expected that name.
And Valeria?
She let the silence hold for another beat before drawing a soft breath through her nose. Not out of weariness. But out of the strange lightness that had begun to form in her chest. Unexpected. Clean.
She had said it.
She had let them know—openly, unflinchingly—that she knew Lucavion. Not by title. Not by proxy. Not through whispered politics.
By place. By time.
That had once been dangerous.
Still might be.
He was, after all, the man who had publicly antagonized Lucien. The Crown Prince. The one even Valeria's allies avoided speaking of too fondly. And yet here she was. Not just near him.
Tethered to him.
And the weight of that admission didn't feel like armor.
It felt like truth.
She hadn't always felt that.
At first, when she stepped across the room—when she approached Jesse, when she spoke first—there had been conflict behind her ribs. Not just the political risk of aligning herself with someone like Lucavion. But the deeper, older hesitation.
The kind that whispered: If you say this aloud, you make it real.
But now that it was out there…
It felt clean.
A voice spoke again, lighter now. Still careful.
"I remember," said one of the older Arcanis nobles. "Marquis Vendor was hosting a tournament in Andelheim that year, right?"
Valeria nodded. "Yes."
"So you met him there?"
"Indeed."
She kept her tone calm. Even. Deliberate.
Not cold.
But she didn't elaborate.
Because that wasn't the first time she met him.
Not really.
The tournament had been public. Decorative. A political balm dressed in ceremony. But before that...
That was something else.
Something… harder to name.
And not something she'd share with strangers.
A younger Lorian voice cut in—sharp with curiosity, if a little too eager:
"How? As a nob—?"
Valeria turned slightly toward the speaker. Her voice didn't rise, didn't harden. But her answer came before the question could take shape.
"At that time," she said coolly, "I didn't bring any knights from my household."
The speaker blinked. "Really?"
"Yes," Valeria replied, tilting her head slightly. "I went alone. To prove myself."
A pause.
And then—softly, reverently, a little too quickly:
"Oh… as expected of Lady Olarion."
There it was.
The pivot.
She didn't acknowledge the praise. Not directly. But something in her spine settled. Straightened.
A little bit of pride.