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Chapter 5 - The Faewood Gala

The moon had split.

At least that's how it appeared that night—cracked down the center like a shattered pearl, casting twin shadows across the Academy's once-hallowed ground.

Everyone could feel it. Something ancient had awakened. And it was tied to Elle.

---

The Red Gathering

The Council called an emergency Red Assembly—a rare summit where the most dangerous, powerful students and staff were summoned.

Elle stood at the back of the grand spiral chamber, beneath the sigil of the Broken Eye, her heart pounding.

Kaine Thorne flanked her left, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

To her right was Saphira D'Mirielle, wearing a moon-silver shawl, her eyes flickering like crystal orbs. Her presence was quiet but unsettling—like the calm before a mindquake.

And directly ahead of Elle sat Professor Myra Kelthin, the immortal fae. She looked unchanged as always—silver hair cascading down like waterfall silk, gold threads embedded in her gown.

"My dear children," Myra began, voice echoing unnaturally. "Something has stirred the deep wards—something sealed in the Skyless Spire."

Eyes turned toward Elle.

She didn't flinch.

But her voice was steady when she spoke: "It was me."

A murmur rippled.

"She entered the Spire?" someone hissed.

"She's not even marked Highborn—how did she survive it?"

"Because she's not one of us," came a new voice.

Icarion Vale stepped into the light.

Pale, serpent-eyed, with green-black robes that moved like smoke, he walked with a fluid menace.

"I saw her touch the Dreamvault. Saw the shard burn. Her blood carries old magic. And her memories—" he smirked, "—are not her own."

"Enough," snapped Kaine, stepping forward. "We're not here to try her."

"Oh?" Icarion smiled. "Then what is she here for, wolf? Your amusement?"

Elle held up her palm—and her glyph flared, golden and violet.

"I'm here," she said coldly, "to warn you. He's waking."

A pause.

Then Professor Myra's expression shifted.

"So… the King of the Broken Realm stirs once more."

---

Later that night, Elle escaped the chamber and wandered toward the ruins of the South Vault—drawn by something… hot. Heavy.

A shadow passed overhead—followed by a thud that shook the earth.

When the smoke cleared, a figure stood before her.

Seven feet tall. Bare-chested. Bronze-scaled shoulders. Slitted gold eyes.

Lucanox Everfall.

Half-dragon. Guardian of the Forbidden Vaults.

He looked at her like he'd known her for centuries.

"You shouldn't have awakened him," he said, voice rumbling like mountains shifting.

"I didn't mean to."

"You did," he growled. "Your soul called to him. Your blood obeyed. And now the threads of fate unwind."

Elle met his gaze. "Then help me stop it."

Thorne was silent.

Then he walked forward, slowly, and held out his clawed hand. "Take my blood. Bind me. And I'll protect you—even from him."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because in another life, you spared me. When every king and god demanded my death… you chose mercy."

He pulled out a blade.

"Swear the Pact of the Broken Moon."

---

They stood beneath the twisted tree of memory—a relic that bloomed once a year with blossoms that stored moments in time.

Elle sliced her palm. Thorne did the same.

When their blood touched the stone at the base of the tree, the glyph on Elle's shoulder burned bright—gold and flame-red now.

Suddenly she felt it: Thorne's essence intertwining with hers—hot, heavy, ancient. A tether. A vow. If she fell, he'd burn worlds to protect her.

"You're bound now," he said softly. "You'll never be alone again."

---

A Letter from a Forgotten Self

Back in her dorm, Elle found something odd.

Hidden beneath the floorboard—beneath Sora's 's bed, of all places—was an envelope sealed with wax. Her own initials. But the handwriting wasn't hers.

It was hers… from before.

She opened it.

> If you're reading this, then I failed. Again.

You won't remember everything. Not yet. But here's what matters:

You loved him. Truly.

But you also damned him. The seal wasn't just to stop him—it was to stop YOU. Because if you remembered too soon, you'd choose destruction.

This life is your second chance. You can choose differently now.

Don't trust the wolves. Don't follow the fae.

And if you kiss him again—make sure the stars are watching.

Elle blinked back a strange tear. Her own words. From another time.

Suddenly—her mirror cracked.

---

He struck fast—faster than anyone had warned.

Icarion Vale stepped out of her reflection, emerging from the cracked glass like a ghost made real.

"You should've stayed asleep," he hissed.

Elle reached for her magic—but the mirror spell was venomous. Her limbs froze. Her heart raced.

"You're the key to his return," Icarion growled, binding her with black silk threads of shadow. "I won't let that happen. I'll break you myself."

But before he could strike—

The walls howled.

Kaine Throne, crashed through the window in his wolf form, fangs bared, eyes golden. In one leap, he knocked Icarion into the bookshelf, snapping a rib.

"Get away from her."

Riven transformed back, shielding Elle. His shirt shredded, tattoos glowing.

"I told Riven to watch you," he said to Elle, panting. "But looks like I'm the one who came running."

Elle blinked, still gasping.

Icarion fled—but the message was clear.

The council wouldn't protect her. Not truly.

So Elle stood the next morning in the training arena, watched by dozens of elite students. She'd called the challenge herself.

To anyone who dared stand in her way.

To anyone who questioned her bloodline, her power, her right.

Vaeloren watched from the shadows of the upper stands, arms crossed, dark smile playing on his lips.

And for the first time, Elle wasn't afraid.

Because the girl who had once been forgotten…

Was ready to remember everything.

---

The air buzzed with enchantment.

Crimson moons hovered low over the sky as the Faewood Gala approached—an elite, invitation-only event where ancient pacts were tested, souls were bargained, and enemies danced in silk.

Elle stood before the mirror, her hands trembling.

Her gown shimmered with violet glass petals and black velvet—a gift from Thorne, who had forged it using dragonlight and midnight scales. It molded to her figure like shadows to bone.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Sora asked softly, adjusting the braid woven through Elle's hair. Her green eyes flickered strangely, as if something inside her stirred.

"I need to see who's really pulling strings," Elle whispered. "And if the King of the Broken Realm is watching… I want him to see me."

Sora hesitated, then slipped a charm into Elle's hand.

"For protection."

---

The Faewood Gala Begins

The Grand Hall transformed into an ethereal dreamscape.

Twisted trees glittered with fae fire. Mirrors whispered rumors. Strings of glass stars floated midair. Fae nobles, vampire lords, and elemental royalty mingled under a canopy of living moonlight.

Professor Myra Kelthin glided down the spiral staircase—her gown trailing runes that shifted with every breath.

"Ah, Lady Elle," she purred. "Welcome to your first true test."

"I thought this was a dance."

Myra smiled. "Everything here is a duel, dear. Some just wear prettier masks."

From across the room, Vaeloren arrived.

He didn't walk. He descended—surrounded by flames that bent in reverence.

Tonight, he was in a formal ensemble of molten black, his pale skin aglow beneath obsidian embroidery. A crown of thin silver horns arched from his head, like roots of a dead tree.

Elle's breath caught.

The crowd split instinctively as he passed—no one dared meet his gaze.

But he went straight to Elle.

"You wear the dragon's gift well," he murmured, gaze flickering over her. "But that dress was meant for me to remove."

She raised her chin. "Is that all you came to say?"

"No," he said, taking her gloved hand. "I came to dance."

---

Their steps began slowly.

Vaeloren moved like smoke—his hand at her waist, their bodies impossibly close. The entire hall watched, stunned, as fire and prophecy spun in harmony.

"Why do you keep saving me?" Elle asked under her breath.

"Because your blood calls mine."

"And yet I don't know if I'm supposed to love you… or destroy you."

He paused.

"You did both," he whispered. "In every lifetime before this."

She froze.

But before she could demand more, the music shattered.

A pulse of darkness rippled across the ballroom floor.

---

A figure emerged from the far end—tall, cloaked in shadow, wearing a mask carved from charred bone.

The Duelist of the Hollow Flame.

They pointed a blade—silent, glowing with red curse-runes—directly at Elle.

"Blood of the Sealed One," they said. "You carry the curse that broke our realm. Tonight, you pay in flesh."

Gasps echoed.

Elle stepped forward.

"I accept."

---

The Arena Appears

The gala shimmered—and suddenly the floor vanished.

In its place rose a floating obsidian arena, hovering between realities. Magic pulsed from its runes.

Elle was thrown inside. The crowd now became distant shadows above her.

The Duelist landed silently before her.

They bowed once.

And lunged.

---

Elle summoned the magic Lucanox had helped her awaken: flaming sigils spiraled from her spine, forming shields of draconic glyphs.

The Duelist's blade clashed—sending sparks of corrupted magic everywhere.

Every blow chipped at her will, her bones, her past.

"You were supposed to stay dead," they hissed. "You ruined everything. He should've ruled—but you sealed him away!"

"Then why am I alive now?" Elle shouted.

The mask cracked.

And she saw his face.

Aelinor.

Her former betrothed. From her first life. The boy who loved her. The one she condemned.

"You told me you'd choose me," he whispered, eyes glistening.

"And I did," Elle said. "But the world asked more of me."

He wept—but did not stop.

His blade came again.

And she stopped it—with fire and blood.

The arena shattered.

Elle collapsed to her knees—breathing heavily, her gown scorched, her palm still glowing from the last sigil.

The crowd below roared.

Professor Myra looked both impressed and haunted.

Thorne appeared beside her in a blink, pulling her into his arms.

"You shouldn't have fought," he growled.

"I had to," she said. "They needed to see I'm not afraid."

Vaeloren watched from above—expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he vanished into flame.

When Elle returned to her dormitory after the breathtaking chaos of Faewood Gala, the last thing she expected was silence.

The laughter still rang in her ears, but her room was cold. Still.

And on her desk, beneath the soft glow of a hovering starlight orb, was a letter. Sealed in deep crimson wax, bearing the crest of the ancient House of Nightfang.

Arien.

Her breath caught as she opened it.

> "Elle,"

"By the time you read this, I will already be far from Aurelius."

"Duty calls me home. There is unrest in the Northern Courts, and the blood moon rises too soon. I fear rebellion within my own. I cannot ignore it any longer."

"You must walk your path now, as I must walk mine. But know this: if ever you stand beneath a crimson sky and call my name, I will return. For you."

"Until then, stay alive. Stay strong. And trust no shadows—not even those that once loved you."

—Arien

She held the parchment to her heart, eyes wet.

He hadn't said goodbye in person.

Because it would have hurt too much.

But Elle knew better.

He left to protect her.

And his shadow had never truly vanished from the Academy.

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