The castle by the sea did not sleep.
Waves battered the cliffs, echoing through the foundation stones like a heartbeat too loud to forget. Even here, high in the western tower, Leoleta could still hear the water's fury—relentless, accusing.
He hadn't been permitted near Cassandra since the attack.
The Lords had moved her to an undisclosed location—for recovery, they said—once she woke from her coma. He had received no word since.
Days bled into one another, each carrying the same dull ache of waiting. The silence between them stretched wider than the sea itself.
Leoleta walked the estate as if it had been hollowed out. His rounds never changed, yet without Cassandra, the halls felt stripped of air. Servants turned aside when he passed, their bows stiff with unease. To half the estate, he was the man who had failed—the knight who could not keep Lady Cassandra safe, who could not keep them safe.
To the other half—the guards and knights—he remained a comrade, the one who had fought not only for House Delmar, but for Vaelastra itself. They clasped his arm with the trust born of battle.
The divide cut deeper than the wound across his ribs.
He bore both in silence.
One evening, restlessness drove him to the steel mirror nailed to his wall.
A ragged man stared back—hair overgrown, beard shadowing a jaw gone too thin, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness. He was no knight of House Delmar—only a ghost haunting its halls.
He drew his blade. Steel rasped on steel as he shaved, each stroke scraping away the weeks of neglect. When he finished, his jaw was clean, the scar along his cheek bright in the lamplight. His hair, trimmed close, framed the weary symmetry of duty.
At last, the reflection resembled the part he was forced to play—not merely a soldier, but a knight.
He only had to wear the part a little longer. Endure the mask. Keep the discipline. See the duty through. So long as he held fast, the role would be enough.
He poured his unease into the investigation—wards retraced, perimeters tested, guards questioned. Each night ended the same: with ink-stained hands, empty reports, and the growing certainty that he was chasing ghosts.
He found ash too fine to be natural, glyphs etched where no summoner should have reached.
The beast had not come blindly. It had been guided. Invited.
The thought settled like iron, but the proof dissolved between his fingers—nothing solid enough to place before the young lords without sounding like negligence.
When restlessness overcame him again, Leoleta left the tower. His boots tracked salt across the corridor, the scent of rain clinging to his uniform. The burn along his hand throbbed faintly beneath the bandages, the light catching on a dull glow. Sometimes it pulsed in rhythm with the sea below—an echo he refused to acknowledge.
The estate lay silent. At the stairwell's end, a familiar voice broke the stillness.
"Sir Leoleta."
Henrick bowed. "The young lords request your presence. The vassals have convened to discuss the incident."
After two weeks.
He followed Henrick to the council chamber. The air within hung heavy, the walls of glass throwing fractured sunlight across maps and ledgers.
At the far end sat the young lords—Alfonse and Alistar—flanked by Lunick and Headmaster Verran.
"Thank you, Henrick," Alfonse said. He turned to Leoleta. "Forgive the delay in summoning you. We've reviewed your reports, but there are matters still unclear."
Alistar leaned forward. "Let's begin with the attack. Not on the house—on Cassandra. Does this have something to do with her magic? How have we never seen this before?" His eyes cut toward Lunick.
"It's possible," Lunick replied, fingers steepled. "Though why it manifested now is the question." His gaze slid to Leoleta. "Unless you know something we don't."
Leoleta stood still, every eye on him.
"What I know," he said, voice low, "is that the attacks have escalated—and grown more precise. They are not after anyone else in House Delmar. Only Lady Cassandra. I don't yet know why."
Alfonse turned to Verran. "You said her magical affinity is… unknown. And unknown magic is considered divine, isn't it?"
Lunick's head snapped toward him. "Divine?"
"That is correct," Verran said quietly, glancing toward Leoleta.
Alistar muttered under his breath, "Father never prayed to any god I know of."
"It isn't always religious, my lord," Lunick interjected. "We are still in the age of discovery."
Alfonse exhaled, shoulders heavy. "Thanks to Headmaster Verran's quick thinking, chaos was contained. But questions remain. And they'll only grow once the court hears of this." He met his brother's eyes. "How are we going to help her?"
Henrick cleared his throat. "The Headmaster suggested the Academy, my lord—the same one you both attended. It would remove her from danger."
Lunick added smoothly, "There she could learn to control herself—build discipline, protection, strength. The opportunity to become her own person, as you always intended."
Silence settled, broken only by the pulse of the sea beyond the glass.
He knew what was coming. The judgment had been written in their silence.
"Leoleta, you are dismissed," Alistar said at last. "You are still not permitted to see Cassandra. Your failure remains under review. For now—recover. You'll need your strength."
The following weeks bled together. Time lost all direction. The young lords kept their distance, their couriers carrying orders in place of words. He and his men retraced every path, questioned every guard, but the trail had gone cold.
The runes they found eluded translation, their meanings buried in half-forgotten sigils and myths. He would need more—records, archives, context. Perhaps the Academy would hold what House Delmar could not.
The morning of the departure came heavy with mist.
The estate swarmed with motion: trunks carried, orders barked, knights marshaled into formation. Leoleta armored himself in silence—buckles cinched, sword belted, helm tucked beneath his arm. A shadow given shape.
At the port, House Delmar's banners snapped bright against a pale horizon. Nobles, retainers, even kitchen servants gathered. Loyalty swelled like a tide. The salt wind clawed at silk and metal, gulls wheeling high above.
And then—she appeared.
Cassandra descended between her brothers—fragile from healing, pale from weeks in bed, yet radiant still. The tilt of her chin, the way the crowd leaned toward her, as if she carried the sun itself.
To them, she was the beloved daughter of Siuol.
To him, she was a light that had never been meant to fall into his shadow.
She smiled and greeted each hand extended, every word and laugh cutting him with proof she belonged to their world of light—while he lingered at its edge.
But Leoleta did not only watch her. He watched the crowd.
His gaze swept over every unfamiliar face, every hand that lingered too close, every guard who shifted his weight as though concealing something. Habit. Discipline. Instinct. Danger hid best in moments of celebration.
While the people saw only their lady's grace, he searched the margins for threat—the twitch of a cloak, the gleam of a blade, the subtle movement of a glyph being traced.
And still, his eyes found her again.
When she stumbled, favoring her injured side, he caught it—the flicker of weakness she showed no one else. For that instant, she was not an untouchable sun, but Cassandra: mortal, hurting, fighting an unseen force.
His chest tightened. Inside, he burned.
Distance is necessary, he told himself. He could not afford to fail again.
He only had to last a little longer—long enough to reach the Academy, long enough to keep her safe, even from himself.