The Inter-Transport Vehicle moved with a quiet authority that Lux had come to associate with House Achrion—nothing ostentatious, nothing rushed, yet undeniably superior.
From the outside, the ITV resembled a long, enclosed carriage built from layered metal and polished stone composites, its contours smooth and purposeful. Subtle engravings traced along its sides, not decorative so much as structural—lines that hinted at reinforcement, stability, and function beyond appearance. There were no exposed mechanisms, no visible exhaust, no noise beyond the muted hum beneath the floor as it glided forward.
Inside, however, it felt closer to a refined carriage than a machine.
Lux sat across from Cylia and Vincent on cushioned seats upholstered in deep midnight blue fabric, stitched with thin silver threading that caught the light when the vehicle passed beneath streetlamps. The space was warm without being stuffy, lit softly from recessed panels that mimicked firelight rather than emitting it outright. Tall windows framed the city as it passed—Acrem Futri unfolding in tiers of stone, glass, and snow-dusted architecture.
Vincent sat with one arm resting casually along the side of the seat, a glass of dark red wine held loosely in his hand. He wasn't reading. He wasn't working. His gaze was fixed outward, watching the city with a calm attentiveness that suggested ownership without possessiveness.
Cylia sat opposite Lux, legs crossed neatly, posture relaxed but impeccable. Her dress was cut differently—lighter, flowing more freely, accented with fine silver embroidery along the sleeves and collar. The fabric moved subtly with the ITV's motion, catching the ambient light like brushed silk.
Lux tried not to stare. He failed.
His gaze drifted—not to her face this time, but to her shoulder, where a small sigil was stitched into the fabric.
A silver laurel.
Simple. Clean. Perfectly symmetrical.
At its center sat a single, small dot.
Lux frowned faintly, curiosity pulling him in before he could stop himself.
Cylia noticed.
"Are you wondering about the sigil?" she asked lightly, eyes still on the passing city.
Lux stiffened a little, then nodded. "Yes—sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
She smiled, turning her head to look at him now. "You're a curious one aren't you."
She reached up briefly, brushing her fingers near the embroidered laurel. "Most people expect something… louder. A beast. A weapon. Something dramatic or menacing."
Lux glanced at Vincent, who hummed softly in agreement without turning.
"The laurel represents victory," Cylia continued. "Achievement. Status earned, not taken. It's an old symbol—it actually dates all the way back to the early years of human development."
"And the dot?" Lux asked.
"That," Vincent said, finally turning toward them, "represents origin."
Both of them looked at him now.
"The beginning point," Vincent went on. "The place from which all things begins. Without it, the laurel is meaningless. Victory without origin is borrowed glory."
Lux considered that quietly.
Cylia nodded. "Together, they represent what House Achrion is. The origin of victory. A place where achievement begins, and continues."
Vincent's gaze settled on Lux, steady and deliberate.
"And that," he said, "is where you are going to be aiming for."
Something stirred in Lux's chest.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly.
It felt… heavier than that.
Pride tried to surface—unbidden, unfamiliar—but Lux pushed it down almost immediately. There is no pride in being a tool for these people.
The ITV slowed smoothly.
Through the window, Lux saw the grand hall rising ahead—set into the ridge like a crown pressed into stone. Light spilled from its high windows, warm against the night, illuminating terraces lined with sculpted railings and snow-dusted greenery.
They had arrived.
The moment Lux stepped out, the atmosphere changed.
The air itself felt different—denser, charged with presence. Voices carried with practiced ease, never loud, never hurried. Movement was measured. Intentional.
Lux hesitated just slightly at the threshold.
Cylia came up beside him.
"Relax," she said quietly. "You're bring too tense."
He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"I don't feel like I belong here," he admitted.
She glanced at him, amused. "To be honest, you don't . But you are a ward of Achrion now, nothing has ever stopped us from achieving success even when we didn't belong."
They entered together.
The hall opened around them in layered grandeur—vaulted ceilings, stone pillars etched with geometric motifs, soft lighting that revealed rather than overwhelmed. Nobles moved in small groups, their attire echoing lineage and restraint rather than excess.
Lux stayed close at first, senses overwhelmed.
Then Cylia leaned in slightly.
"You don't have to pay them any mind," she said. "Remember that you're above these people."
"No pressure," Lux muttered.
She smiled. "Exactly."
Her presence eased something in him. He straightened unconsciously, shoulders loosening just a fraction.
"Thank you," he said, voice quiet but sincere.
She blinked. "For?"
"For… that day," Lux said, cheeks warming. "In the garden. If I hadn't met you, I don't think I would've figured it out. The way to advance, I mean."
His gaze wavered, embarrassment creeping in.
She stared at him for a moment—then laughed softly.
"Well," she said, turning away as she began to walk toward another group, "you're welcome, then."
She paused just long enough to glance back over her shoulder.
"Try not to trip over your own feet," she added lightly. "It reflects poorly on us."
And then she was gone—slipping seamlessly into the Gathering, leaving Lux standing like a defenseless sheep waiting for the hungry wolves to attack.
At first, the attention was indirect—glances held a fraction too long, conversations tapering off mid-sentence as he passed. Then came the approaches. Carefully timed. Impeccably measured. A woman with frost-pale hair and rings too heavy to be decorative praised his composure and asked what disciplines he favored. A man with a voice like polished stone spoke warmly of future intersections without specifying what those intersections entailed. Another laughed easily and asked whether Lux preferred the inner promenades or the elevated terraces, as though the question were casual rather than diagnostic.
Lux answered as he had been taught.
Calm. Respectful. Neutral. He bowed when it was expected, inclined his head when it was prudent, never volunteered information that hadn't been requested—and even then, only enough to satisfy. Geltry's lessons unfolded in his mind with mechanical clarity: acknowledge without inviting, deflect without insulting, listen without revealing.
It worked. Mostly. What wore him down wasn't the speaking. It was the listening.
Every word here carried intent. Compliments weren't given freely—they were investments. Questions weren't curiosity; they were probes. Even laughter felt deliberate, calibrated for reaction. Lux felt like he was standing in a room full of sharpened mirrors, every surface reflecting not what he was, but what he might become.
By the time he excused himself—politely, cleanly—his shoulders ached more than they ever had after training. His face felt stiff, muscles held too long in the same careful arrangement. His thoughts buzzed, overloaded with names he would never remember and conversations that seemed designed to leave residue behind.
He needed air.
He found it near the edge of the hall, tucked behind a column carved with old geometric reliefs that softened with age. Beyond it lay a narrow alcove overlooking an inner terrace, glass panes stretching high enough to mute the noise without sealing it away entirely. Snow drifted outside in slow, soundless patterns, distant enough to feel unreal.
Lux stepped into the shadow gratefully and let his head rest back against the cool stone.
He exhaled.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath, barely louder than the hum of the Gathering. "I'd rather take Instructor Caelis' hell than whatever hell this is."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Almost immediately, he grimaced.
"…Actually."
His mind betrayed him, replaying the past week in vivid detail. Muscles burning until movement became thoughtless. Lungs aching from controlled breathing patterns that allowed no deviation. The way Caelis' voice never rose, never rushed—yet somehow pressed harder than shouting ever could.
Lux winced.
"…Maybe not completely," he amended quietly.
He straightened, gaze drifting back toward the hall.
People moved with effortless confidence, their ease born not from strength alone, but from certainty—certainty of place, of backing, of lineage. And yet, so many of them had gravitated toward him the moment he stood alone.
Why?
He wasn't wearing the sigil. His attire was restrained by design. Midnight blue and silver were common enough among the upper houses.
And yet they knew.
It had to be the colors.
House Achrion didn't announce itself. It didn't need to. The palette alone carried weight—recognition earned over centuries, authority that didn't require display.
Lux swallowed.
Just how far did the reach of this house extend?
"You look like someone calculating an escape route."
The voice came from his left.
Lux startled, turning sharply.
The boy standing there looked about his age—maybe a year older. His skin was a warm brown that caught the light easily, his jet-black hair styled with deliberate care, not stiff but intentional. His eyes were gold—bright, sharp, and undeniably amused.
His suit was anything but subtle.
Deep emerald fabric hugged his frame, tailored sharply at the shoulders and waist. The inner lining flashed gold when he shifted, thin black accents tracing the seams with confident precision. A delicate chain draped from his collar to a breast pocket, catching the light with every movement. Elegant, yes—but boldly so, as if daring the room to object.
The boy grinned, wide and unrepentant.
"Hey," he said, far too casually for the setting. "Is it true you're a ward of Achrion?"
The directness hit Lux harder than any veiled inquiry he'd endured all night.
Too blunt. Too loud. Too real.
For half a heartbeat, he froze. But then he swiftly regained composure.
Lux straightened, posture aligning instinctively. His expression smoothed into something composed and deliberate. He kept his head high.
"Yes," he replied evenly. "That is correct."
His voice didn't waver. The shift was immediate.
The boy's grin widened—not mockingly, but with clear interest. His golden eyes sharpened, studying Lux with something between curiosity and approval.
"Oh?" he said. "So you can talk like that."
Lux blinked. "Pardon?"
The boy laughed, an easy sound that turned a few heads nearby. "Nothing. Just expected you to stammer."
Lux was a bit taken aback, but he held his composure. "And I assume you enjoy being wrong."
"Immensely." The boy placed a hand over his chest in exaggerated sincerity. "It's one of my finer traits."
The smile on the boys face only grew wider and wider. He was clearly intrigued and entertained.
"We are the same age, are we not?" The boy asked.
Lux was still confused but answered anyway, "I'd assume so, yes."
There was a pause.
The music swelled slightly. Glass chimed somewhere nearby. The world seemed to lean in.
Then—without warning—the boy straightened fully, squared his shoulders, and raised his voice.
Loud. Clear. Unapologetic.
"THEN I DECLARE YOU MY RIVAL!"
The exclamation rang out across the alcove, proud and abrupt— yet it seemed to do nothing to stop the bustle of the building.
Then one word left Lux's mouth.
"What?"