They chained him to a pillar.
The iron cuffs were loose enough that a twist would have shattered them, but Leoleta didn't move. Blood dried stiff against his coat. The cut along his ribs throbbed, hot and mean. The storm pressed at his bones like a caged thing, veins burning, waiting for a moment to spill out.
He let the guards latch the second shackle and retreat with the careful reverence given to a sleeping blade.
Alfonse and Alistar entered, smoke and panic clinging to them.
Alistar wasted nothing on courtesy. "Where the hell were you, warlock? Why were you not at your station? Where were you when she screamed?"
Leoleta stared at the floor. The chain ticked as he drew a shallow breath.
"She almost died," Alistar snarled, stepping in close, fists knotted. "If you'd been where you were meant to be—"
Heat crawled under his skin. One step and he could tear free, seize Alistar by the collar, and drive the noise out of him. The storm inside begged for release—for some outlet, any outlet. He only wanted quiet—just quiet. He forced his body still, jaw locked, letting their fury crash against him and break, unanswered.
"What have you been doing all this time?" Alfonse's tone was softer but heavier.
Leoleta gave them nothing. All he could hear was Cassandra's ragged breathing, fading again and again in memory.
"Enough."
The word landed quiet and absolute.
Headmaster Verran stepped inside as if the room already belonged to him, robes damp at the hem, hands folded. The guards stiffened. Even Alistar's shoulders twitched, as though a leash had tugged.
"You forget yourselves," Verran said, his calm more dangerous than any shout. "Your father did not take this boy into his house in ignorance. Nor did I raise him blind." His eyes never left Leoleta.
"Duke Delmar knew what he was. Knew what he could do. And he expected it—expected him to stand when Lady Cassandra's life hung by a thread."
Alistar cursed under his breath, pacing.
"Do well to remember, young lord," Verran said, voice sharpening. "Sir Leoleta is not just a soldier your father brought into these halls. Remember who he was before he was assigned to your house."
Alfonse looked away first. Alistar's jaw worked, but he found no words he wished to own before the Headmaster.
"Leave us," Verran said, with a flick of two fingers.
They went—Alfonse with one last worried glance; Alistar like a drawn bow refusing to loose.
The door shut. Quiet fell with weight.
Verran dismissed the guards. For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside—the sea wind still howling against the shutters.
Verran exhaled softly. "What happened in that garden could have undone this duchy," he said. "If the nobles had seen it clearly, panic would've bled through the streets before dawn."
Leoleta's eyes narrowed, waiting for him to continue.
Verran walked over and knelt beside him in the cell. "Illusion magic," he said simply. He raised a hand, and faint motes of light shimmered across his palm—the residue of recent casting. "The fireworks that began the gala were still burning overhead. I extended the illusion. To those in the ballroom, it appeared as though a man—an assassin—had leapt from the hedges to strike Lady Cassandra beneath the pyrotechnics. The light hid everything else."
He glanced toward the shattered window, where streaks of color from broken glass caught the torchlight. "Now the story they tell is of a failed assassination attempt—swiftly handled by her knight. You certainly went all out," Verran said, his voice carrying a tired sort of humor.
"I didn't have time—she was being mauled." Leoleta's voice came rough, scraped raw by lightning and grief.
Approval flickered behind Verran's steady gaze. "Which is why the late Duke brought you here."
Leoleta's hands curled against the chains. "Something began to stir within her, Verran. They weren't watching me. They were watching her. They knew before I did."
The anger clawed up again, heat rising beneath his skin. He breathed until the walls stopped tilting. It was always like this after—a storm too large for a man-shaped vessel.
"I almost had them. I—"
"I know," Verran said quietly. Then, sharper: "She can't stay."
Leoleta's head snapped up. "What?" She was barely conscious. How could he—
"If we are to keep our oath to Auren Delmar, she cannot stay," Verran said, watching him. "The estate's wards can no longer hold back the shadows. The Imperial Academy will."
Leoleta's jaw clenched. "So sending me to Vaelstra was for nothing?"
"If we are to keep Cassandra alive, we have no other choice." Verran's tone left no room for argument.
Cassandra's limp body flashed through Leoleta's mind. He would not lose her again.
Verran flicked his fingers, and the locks released with a metallic sigh. The chains fell.
"Is Cassandra—" Leoleta's voice broke, softer than he meant. "Will she wake?"
Verran's answer cut clean. "She clings to life, but she hasn't woken. The healers don't know when—or if—she will."
Relief and terror struck together, leaving him hollow. His flesh would mend. Hers might not.
"Leoleta," Verran said, drawing his attention. "Show me."
Leoleta hesitated, then peeled off his coat. Black mana seeped through his shirt, mingling with blood. Veins spidered across the wound, dark and pulsing.
Verran placed a hand above it. The skin began to knit, slow and stubborn. "It spreads faster now," he murmured.
"I have it under control," Leoleta said, though even he heard the lie.
Verran's gray eyes softened only a fraction. "You always say that." He straightened. "I helped place you with Duke Delmar because I feared this day might come. It came sooner than I'd hoped. I must steady the young lords before word leaks—and see to Lady Cassandra." He turned at the threshold. "I won't be able to contain the rumors this time. If anyone saw the truth, the Empire will know a Tempest survived."
When the door shut, silence pressed too thick to bear. Leoleta slipped the broken cuffs from his wrists and pushed to his feet, every muscle protesting.
He walked aimlessly through the corridors, one hand pressed against his side, blood slicking between his fingers. The halls blurred past—shattered glass, soot-stained stone, the faint echo of shouts that no longer mattered.
By the time he reached the tower walkway, the wind had turned fierce, tearing at his coat and hair. The salt air stung his wounds.
Below, the garden sprawled like a scar—blackened earth, split stone, the fountain cracked in two. The earth itself seemed to remember what had happened there.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—bloodied, breath shallow, fragile as sea foam in the tide.
He had carried her out of the wreckage.
It still hadn't been enough.
Wind surged, tugging at old scars along his wrists and the fresh ones burning across his ribs. He flexed his blistered palm, pale light ghosting faintly through the reflection in the tower's darkened glass.
There would be consequences come morning—the young lords would see to that. He could already hear the questions, the suspicion, the fear disguised as gratitude.
His thoughts lingered on one truth that refused to fade.
Now the Empire will know a Tempest survived, Verran's voice whispered back to him.
Leoleta's jaw tightened. His reflection met his gaze, lightning still coiled behind his eyes.
Let them know.