Chapter 799: I dare
The silence that followed Verisse's remark clung like fog—thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Then Lord Sylvain, ever the courteous buffer, chuckled lightly. "Now, now, let's not turn a memory into scandal. Old acquaintances resurface often. Nothing so unusual about that."
Lady Fiorenza followed his lead. "Of course. We're all civil here. There's no harm in saying hello to an old friend, is there?"
But even as their tones softened, the eyes did not.
They were pressing again—now smiling, now gentle—but the push was no less calculated.
"Especially now," Lady Ameline added, her voice smooth, "after he's made such a… grand statement. A figure like that, standing alone in a crowd—one might say it's even rude not to greet him."
"And you two were close," Verisse chimed, her words wrapped in silk. "Who better to make the introductions, hm?"
"Unless, of course," Lord Bartolini said, "you're afraid?"
That word settled differently.
Not like an accusation.
Like bait.
Valeria's gaze didn't flicker, but her spine straightened just enough to draw breath from the air around her. She could see it now—clear as polished glass. This wasn't idle curiosity. This was maneuvering.
They were trying to tether her.
To Lucavion.
To his recklessness.
To his defiance.
Because if they could link her to him publicly, they wouldn't need to whisper about Andelheim anymore. They wouldn't have to question her loyalty to the Empire's order—they could simply frame her as compromised.
And what better way to do so than by watching her hesitate?
A quiet part of her wanted to turn away. To shut the door with dignity and make no move at all.
But another part…
Another part twisted.
Why didn't I go to him?
Not just because of the scandal. Not just because of the danger.
But because she didn't want to be seen near him. Not now. Not after he shattered protocol and scorched the foundation of the court in one sweep.
He had become untouchable—not in elevation, but in volatility.
And yet…
Her eyes drifted, almost against her will, toward the far corner of the banquet hall.
There he was.
Lucavion.
Not hidden. Not mingling.
Just there.
Leaning, calm, watching the room from a distance.
He wasn't laughing. He wasn't reveling.
He stood as though none of it mattered. As though he had already seen this game played a hundred times and had lost interest in pretending it was clever.
Alone.
Not by exile.
By choice.
Valeria's chest tightened.
If he were in my place… would he hesitate to stand beside me?
The answer came quickly.
No.
Lucavion would've already walked through fire, made a scene, torn through every polite veneer just to reach her if their positions had been reversed.
He wouldn't have flinched.
Because he didn't calculate risk the way she did.
A few beats of silence followed, until Lord Fendrin—older, sharper, but known for choosing the winning side—stepped in.
"Let us not get carried away," he said smoothly. "Lady Valeria has stated before she only met him during the Vendor Marital Tournament. It's been years since then, hasn't it?"
Lady Fiorenza nodded quickly, catching the thread. "Exactly. And people do change. How could she have possibly known he'd come back and… and do this?"
"And frankly," another voice added from deeper in the cluster, "he's never been known to the world. The man appeared out of thin air."
The attempted defense wove through the conversation like silk through thorns—meant to protect, to redirect, to sever her from Lucavion's shadow. But even those threads frayed quickly.
Because the others weren't ready to let it go.
"Still," Verisse said softly, "if she was close to him, and claims she no longer knows him… doesn't that say something else entirely?"
Lady Ameline tilted her head, voice gentle but fanged. "Yes. Maybe next time she comes for one of our families, she'll pretend not to know us, either."
It wasn't just poison in the words.
It was doubt.
It was fear.
And it cracked something.
Valeria's gaze turned to them—calm, precise, and colder than any winter breath.
"If there is a reason for my sword to come for your family," she said, voice as still as a drawn blade, "then I would never hesitate. Whether you are my friend or not."
The air snapped taut.
No smiles now. No coy tilts or polite laughter.
Just the unblinking stillness of those who'd just realized a line had been crossed.
But before any could speak, Valeria straightened.
And her voice, softer now, carried all the more weight for its clarity.
"However… you are right."
A few brows arched. A few expressions flickered—surprise, calculation, the faintest thread of concern.
Valeria's gaze drifted again to that corner.
To the solitary figure standing beneath the glowless edge of the chandeliers.
Lucavion. Still alone. Still watching.
She exhaled once through her nose—quiet, centered.
"I should greet my friend indeed."
The silence behind her felt like the edge of a blade.
Tense. Watching.
But Valeria didn't look back.
She had made her decision.
And while it was true this choice could harden things—cast shadows deeper, draw lines darker—she refused to be ruled by fear.
She was not a coward.
Not now.
If she couldn't even stand beside the storm, how could she ever hope to weather one?
The murmurs trailed behind her like a dying tide. The hall, once full of velvet pretense and polished artifice, faded to the edge of her awareness. The marble under her heels echoed—soft but resolute—each step a thread tying resolve to action.
And then, she stood before him.
And then, she stood before him.
The distance was gone.
Only a breath remained between them.
Valeria looked up, letting her gaze finally, fully take him in.
He was still him—Lucavion.
But…
From up close, the changes were more than just time.
The scar that had once split above his right eye—gone. Replaced by unbroken skin, smooth and strangely untouched, as if history had been rewritten while she wasn't looking.
But it hadn't.
His presence still held the weight of a blade not drawn, but ready. Still carried that casual defiance, the unbothered stance that dared the world to try harder.
But the light in his eyes had changed.
Sharper now. Cooler. Less like a flame and more like steel catching light.
Her breath caught just slightly.
"Oh…" she murmured.
And that was when he smiled.
That smirk.
The exact curl of mouth that used to infuriate her after a sparring match, after a reckless act, after he did something utterly foolish and made it look like poetry.
"What do we have here?" he said, voice low, unhurried.
His gaze met hers—not just the surface, but beneath it. That same old habit of looking too far in, too quickly.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Didn't need to.
Silence, between them, was never just silence.
And then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing with that unmistakable amusement, voice dipping with mock-ceremony.
"Lady Knight," he said. "Or should I say… Pink Knight?"
The title slid between them like a dare.
Like a memory resurrected without permission.
A challenge.
A greeting.
A question.
And in the subtle pull of his smile, there was no mistaking it.
He remembered everything.
Just as clearly as she did.
"I have been waiting for you."
Chapter 800: Troublemaker and the knight
"I have been waiting for you," Lucavion said, the smirk softening—not losing its edge, but becoming something quieter. Something real.
Valeria opened her mouth, words rising unformed at first. And yet… something shifted inside her.
It was strange.
The moment she had decided to walk to him, a weight she hadn't even realized she was carrying had begun to lift. Heavy things—expectations, restraint, fear of appearances—fell away like a dropped cloak.
Now, standing here, face to face…
It felt light.
Not easy.
But clear.
"You've been waiting for me?" she asked, the smallest edge of incredulity laced in her tone. Not sharp—more like a breath finally exhaled.
Lucavion's eyes glinted with a mix of challenge and familiarity. "Indeed."
"…Why?"
He leaned a little closer—not physically, but in presence. His gaze never left hers, and his voice lowered as if to pull her just a step nearer.
"What do you mean why?" he replied. "To see if my stiff knight has changed, of course."
That earned him a long, unreadable look.
Valeria said nothing at first, the corner of her mouth threatening a twitch—but not quite.
He waited.
And then—
"…And from the looks of it," he continued, gaze flicking ever so slightly over her posture, her expression, the way her hand rested near the hilt she wasn't even aware of, "you did not."
Valeria's jaw tensed—just slightly.
She hadn't expected him to get this close.
Not physically.
But the way his words slid past her armor—familiar, direct, and far too knowing—struck deeper than she liked.
And worse—
Her heart responded.
Not with fluster.
But recognition.
The last time someone had drawn her in this effortlessly—disarmed her without a weapon—it had been him.
Only him.
And now, after everything—after years—he still could.
She stepped back half a pace. Not retreating. Reasserting.
"That's not true," she said firmly, squaring her shoulders. "You're the one who's changed."
Lucavion raised a brow, the ghost of his grin deepening.
"Really?" he asked, dragging the word just enough to make it lazy, dangerous. "How so?"
Valeria opened her mouth—then paused.
There were so many things she wanted to say.
So many questions poised on the edge of her tongue.
Where have you been since Andelheim?
Why did you vanish after that?
Do you even know what I've done these past years?
But none of it came out.
Because even now, with all the weight and power in the room, with everything they had become—he still steered the moment.
Still pulled her into his rhythm, his pace, like nothing had ever changed.
And he saw it.
Oh, he definitely saw it.
Which was why he leaned back just slightly, crossing his arms in that infuriatingly relaxed manner, his grin tilting upward.
"What's the matter, Pink Knight? Run out of sharp retorts already?" he said with a mock sigh. "That's disappointing. I was promised steel."
Lucavion's smirk widened just enough to be maddening.
"Come now," he said, voice coaxing. "Don't tell me the Academy trained it out of you even without starting. Where's the righteous fury? The stiff-backed lectures? The infamous glare?"
Valeria crossed her arms, chin lifting in practiced defiance. "Don't tempt me."
His eyes sparkled. "Oh, I'm counting on it."
She scowled.
He leaned in just a fraction. "There it is."
Valeria opened her mouth to fire back—something scathing, sharp, anything to cut through the unbearable smugness radiating off of him—but then—
His gaze lowered.
Just slightly.
Measured. Intentional.
And then, so casually it shouldn't have landed like it did:
"…I had always seen you in armor. Plate. Leather. Dust and sweat and grit. But this…"
His voice dipped—not teasing this time.
Low. Honest.
"To think you were hiding something like this."
Her breath caught.
"What are you—?"
She blushed. Not wildly. Just a faint glow at the edge of her cheekbones, like heat pressing against steel not yet red.
"You're being lecherous," she snapped. "It's not becoming."
He tilted his head, unfazed. "Oh, no. That would be entirely different. This—"
And then he said it.
Clear. Quiet. Sincere.
"You really look beautiful."
The words landed like a sudden hush.
No playfulness.
No mockery.
Just truth.
Valeria stood still, the echo of his words still warm in her ears.
You really look beautiful.
And the thing was—he wasn't the kind of man to say what he didn't mean.
Lucavion had never been that sort.
Not with her.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because it wasn't flirtation. It wasn't strategy.
It was just… him.
Her blush deepened—not out of modesty, but from sheer unpreparedness.
She had braced for sarcasm. For danger. For judgment.
But not this.
"Come on," he said, with an exaggerated sigh. "Don't make that face."
She blinked, caught off guard again. "What face—?"
He gestured lazily with two fingers. "That one. You look like someone just complimented a blade and it turned into a snake."
She opened her mouth to scold him—again—but then followed his gaze.
And saw them.
The eyes.
Dozens of them.
Scattered nobles. Whispering lords. Wide-eyed ladies.
Watching her.
And him.
Together.
She drew in a slow breath and adjusted her stance, spine aligning like a drawstring pulled taut. Her expression returned to its usual controlled poise—but the heat on her cheeks didn't vanish.
Of course they were watching.
She, Valeria Olarion, had walked across the ballroom and smiled at the man who had just publicly humiliated the Crown Prince.
Friendly. Familiar.
That alone was going to be talked about for days.
Lucavion's voice came again, quieter now, as if he respected her effort to regain her balance—but not enough to let her keep it.
"Though," he murmured, "while waiting for you to come… I didn't think you would."
She turned back toward him, steady again.
"…Hmm."
And then she asked it.
"Why?"
He didn't look away. His gaze remained locked on hers—cool, unreadable, direct.
"Why? Isn't it obvious?"
He leaned in slightly, not close enough to crowd her, but just enough for the words to feel personal.
"Aren't you afraid of Lucien?"
The name dropped from his mouth without reverence.
No title. No pretense.
Just a name.
And it made her mouth twitch.
Only slightly.
But Lucavion saw it.
He always saw the small things.
He let the pause settle, eyes steady on hers. Then his voice came again—lower now. Smoother. Less teasing.
"But I understand," he said. "The Crown Prince could make things… inconvenient."
Valeria didn't answer, but her silence wasn't empty.
He took that as permission to go on.
"For your family, especially," he added. "You've worked hard these past few years, haven't you? Carving a path. Proving the Olarion name can stand taller than just blood and favor. That it deserves the weight it's been given."
That made her blink.
Once.
And though her face remained composed, something behind her ribs shifted.
Because he knew.
He had been watching.
Even while vanished. Even while absent from every circle she had moved in—he knew.
Had kept tabs.
Had followed her work. Her victories. Her battles fought in silence and ink and sweat.
And the knowledge of it—
The fact that he'd bothered at all—
Warmed something inside her she hadn't realized had grown cold.
Not love.
Not nostalgia.
Something quieter. Closer to acknowledgment. To being seen—truly seen.
She looked at him, the corners of her eyes softening just a fraction.
"You were watching me?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
Lucavion gave the faintest shrug, his smirk tempered but not lost.
"Well," he said, "you did call yourself a knight. I had to make sure you meant it."
Chapter 801: Troublemaker and the knight (2)
Lucavion's gaze didn't waver. His tone remained light—but beneath it, there was something steadier. Rooted.
"I was keeping my eyes on the Cloud Heavens Sect," he said. "Making sure they didn't escape or anything."
His arms folded, not defensively, but in that relaxed, almost lazy way that always belied the sharpness beneath.
"And while I was watching them," he added, "your name kept showing up."
Valeria blinked once, not visibly startled—but enough.
"In reports. In rumors. In complaints, actually." He chuckled softly. "Apparently, the Pink Knight doesn't know how to stay quiet. Or still."
She crossed her arms, arching a brow. "I was doing my job."
"I know."
And the way he said it—it wasn't casual.
There was no joke in it.
Only acknowledgment.
"You were chasing nobles across four provinces, breaking networks, dragging shadows into daylight. Even forced the Lesser Counts to close their little auction circles in the south." He tilted his head slightly. "That took real effort."
His smirk returned, softer now. Not the teasing thing she'd grown used to—but something quieter. Gentler.
"As expected from the Pink Knight, isn't it?"
Valeria didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because his voice—his presence—wasn't the same as before.
Still Lucavion. Still impossible.
But the way he said those words…
It wasn't pride in himself.
It was pride in her.
And it curled through her like unexpected warmth.
Strange.
How something so small—just being seen, being recognized—could feel like this.
She met his gaze again.
And Lucavion—damn him—saw everything in that silence. He always did.
Which was precisely why he ruined it with a grin.
"Still," he said, rocking back slightly on his heels. "It's a little unfair, don't you think?"
Her brow rose, cautiously. "What is?"
"That you got better while I wasn't looking." He sighed dramatically. "Last time I saw you, you were still tripping over your own cape trying to scold people."
Valeria narrowed her eyes. "It was you."
"Yes," he nodded with mock solemnity. "The terrifying knight."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her—twitching upward just slightly.
Lucavion wasn't done.
"Now here you are," he gestured lazily, "swinging justice like a warhammer, shattering old houses, collecting noble frowns like medals… Honestly, it's adorable."
"Adorable?" she repeated, incredulous.
"Oh, deeply," he said with a lopsided smile. "Especially when you try to hide that little glow you get when someone says your name with respect."
Her cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer audacity.
"I don't glow," she muttered.
"No, no, of course not." He leaned in slightly, voice lower. "You radiate… righteous fury. Completely different."
Valeria's eyes narrowed. "You're unbearable."
Lucavion smirked. "And yet, still charming. A curse, truly."
She folded her arms. "You always did love talking, didn't you?"
"Only when someone listens."
She exhaled—half-exasperated, half amused—and then took a step forward. The flicker of humor faded from her eyes, replaced by something steadier. More grounded.
And sharper.
"You…"
Lucavion tilted his head, still relaxed. "Me?"
Her gaze didn't waver.
"What were you doing all this time?"
That landed.
His smile didn't vanish—but it shifted.
Softer. Less show.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her.
And she let him.
"I was doing my own part," Lucavion said at last, his tone measured. "Finding my path. Doing… my own things."
Valeria's brow arched.
"That," she said flatly, "tells me absolutely nothing."
His smirk twitched. "You asked. I answered."
She narrowed her eyes. "You deflected."
He didn't argue.
Didn't need to.
Valeria brought her glass to her lips, watching him over the rim. The liquid was cool, but it did nothing to cool the flicker of irritation beneath her calm.
He always did this—gave just enough to keep the door open, but never enough to let her walk through it.
And maybe that had worked years ago.
But not now.
Not after everything.
She lowered the glass slowly, letting silence speak first.
"You say you've been watching," she said, tone cool. "Keeping an eye on names. On rot. On me. And yet, when I ask what you were doing—truly doing—you answer like a man reciting riddles."
Lucavion's gaze held hers for a beat longer than expected.
And then—
That infuriating smile again.
Soft. Amused. And laced with something else—something almost fond.
"Soon," he said, voice lowering, "you'll come to learn."
He leaned back, raising his own drink in a half-toast.
"Till then… let this surprise grow."
Valeria sighed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Because this—this vague, infuriating blend of charm and shadow? This was him. Always had been.
She'd seen it before, in the halls of Andelheim, in training yards, in quiet corners where words meant more than they said.
Lucavion never answered straight. Not unless he wanted to.
And right now? He didn't.
She shook her head slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
"As always," she muttered, "impossible bastard."
Lucavion gave a small, mocking bow. "That's who I am."
His eyes glinted with something smug—but not cruel.
It was the pride of someone who knew exactly what he was and saw no reason to apologize for it.
"Taking pride in that…" she added, exasperated.
"Hehe," he chuckled, soft and low. "Would you like me any other way?"
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Because he already knew.
Valeria's eyes drifted—not to his grin, not to the glass in his hand.
But to his face.
Specifically, the place just above his right eye.
Smooth now.
Untouched.
The scar that once split across his brow, cutting a sharp line through defiance and memory—it was gone.
Her voice was quieter when she spoke next.
"That scar," she said. "You've gotten rid of it."
Lucavion's head tilted just slightly. "Yes."
Simple. Unapologetic.
But her thoughts weren't simple.
They spun back, years back, to a colder night. To a campfire just outside Andelheim's walls. When she'd asked the same thing, fingers brushing near that wound.
"You could have healed it," she'd said back then. "You have coin. Access. Why leave it like that?"
And his answer had been equally simple.
"It's a reminder."
At the time, she hadn't pressed.
She'd let the silence be the answer.
But now?
Now it was gone.
And the question felt louder.
"Why?" she asked softly, gaze never leaving the now-smooth skin. "Why now?"
Lucavion didn't answer immediately.
Didn't smirk. Didn't tease.
He just looked at her.
Then past her.
Then back again.
Lucavion's gaze lingered—calm, unwavering. The ever-present glint of mischief was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something that, in him, passed for solemnity.
"Back then," he said, his voice low, "it was there to remind me of something."
He lifted a hand, fingers grazing the place where the scar used to be—but they didn't linger. They passed like wind over old stone.
"A ghost," he continued. "Of the past, if you want to call it that."
Valeria's breath caught slightly. She didn't interrupt.
"And that ghost…" He paused, eyes finding hers again. "It no longer exists."
The weight of his words didn't need embellishment.
He wasn't speaking just of a scar. Or even the event that caused it.
He was speaking of whatever—or whoever—had haunted him all these years.
Gone now.
Buried, perhaps.
Burned away.
He dropped his hand, and for a moment, he looked older—not in body, but in presence. Like someone who had finally set something down after carrying it far too long.
Valeria's lips parted, but the words didn't come immediately.
"I see…."
Chapter 802: Troublemaker and the Knight (3)
They stood in that silence—an unlikely stillness between two people who had always filled space with sharp edges and challenge.
The ballroom hummed softly around them, distant, muffled. The voices of nobles faded into meaningless static. Here, in this narrow corner, time seemed to stretch.
Valeria watched him—watched not the man who had turned a ballroom inside out, but the one who had once trained beside her under the burning light of Vendor's standards.
And maybe she was about to say something—something real, something honest—
But of course…
Lucavion ruined it.
"Careful, Pink Knight," he drawled, lips curling just slightly. "You keep staring like that and people might think you've finally decided to abandon the sword and fall madly in love with a dangerous man."
Her expression didn't flinch. But her eyes narrowed—a sharp, unamused sliver.
"Don't flatter yourself," Valeria said coolly, not missing a beat.
Lucavion's smirk deepened, as if he'd been waiting for the jab.
"Oh, but why not?" he replied, feigning a pout. "This sharp knight—esteemed, terrifying, impossible to impress—is now standing in front of me, and she hasn't looked away once."
He leaned in slightly, as if to whisper a secret. "With this face of mine, I could have any girl I wanted, you know. I'm quite handsome, after all."
Valeria exhaled through her nose—one part scoff, one part weary resignation.
"Handsome?" she repeated, arching a brow. "You're just symmetrical enough to get away with arrogance, and you think that counts as a blessing."
Lucavion arched a single eyebrow, that damned knowing look spreading across his face like wildfire set to parchment.
"Oh?" he drawled. "So you have decided to develop your skills."
Valeria's eyes narrowed.
"What skills?"
He leaned in again, but this time his voice carried just enough mischief to burn through even her composure.
"Wit. Retort. Verbal fencing. You've gotten sharper. You must have read quite a lot of books."
The moment the words left his mouth, Valeria's lips pressed into a tight line—biting down instinctively.
Because he wasn't wrong.
'Damn it.'
He was never wrong when it came to this sort of thing. How did he see through her that quickly?
She had indeed been working on it.
In quiet corners of the academy's upper libraries. In letters exchanged with instructors of rhetoric. In nights stolen between duty and expectation. She'd forced herself to read more, study tone, absorb structure—not just for politics, but for him.
Because every time Lucavion had teased her in the past, every time he'd tossed a smug grin and spun a sentence that cornered her before she could counter, it had burned.
So she trained.
Not just her sword, but her mind.
'And yet he still sees through me like parchment in the rain…'
He chuckled, reading her silence like a book she hadn't meant to open.
Lucavion leaned back just slightly, the curve of his smirk deepening with boyish satisfaction. He tapped a finger against his chin as if pondering something immense.
"You didn't respond like this before," he said, dragging the words out for dramatic effect. "If it was you back then, your answer would've been something like—"
He straightened suddenly, chest puffed, voice pitching into an exaggerated, stiff impression of her younger self.
'"Lucavion, you are insufferable and entirely lacking in discipline. Honestly, is there a single moment you take seriously?"'
Valeria blinked once.
Then, without hesitation, she punched his shoulder.
Not hard.
But not soft either.
Lucavion let out a low, amused grunt, rubbing the spot with exaggerated injury. "Ouch. See? That's exactly how she would've reacted too."
"I do not speak like that," she said dryly, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "And I haven't sounded like that in years."
"Sure, sure, my dear knight," he said, his tone dripping with mock concession. "You definitely didn't sound like that."
Then he laughed—full and warm, the kind of laugh that didn't just rise from the throat, but from somewhere deeper.
Valeria scoffed, rolling her eyes, but her lips were betraying her again—curving just slightly.
Valeria tilted her head slightly, the faint humor still lingering in her lips cooling into something more serious. Her arms remained crossed—not as a defense, but as a silent cue that the tone had shifted.
"Why did you do it?" she asked.
Lucavion's grin eased—but didn't vanish. He blinked once, as if surprised by the question's simplicity. Or perhaps its inevitability.
"Do what?"
She didn't flinch. "Against the Crown Prince. Why cause a scene? Why this?"
Lucavion's expression stilled for a moment. Not tense. Not evasive. But watchful. And then…
"I didn't cause a scene," he said lightly, with a flick of his hand. "They came to me, remember?"
Valeria's eyes narrowed—but she didn't argue. Because that much was true.
Still.
He knew exactly what she meant.
And he knew she wouldn't settle for half an answer.
Lucavion let the silence stretch for a breath longer, then shrugged—lazy, deliberate.
"But," he continued, voice lowering, "you're not really asking that, are you?"
He looked at her fully now, the smile still there—but thinner. Calmer.
"You're asking why I decided to escalate it to the point where I'm now isolated here. Watching nobles whisper. Watching you walk through fire just to say hello."
A pause.
"And that's a better question."
Lucavion's eyes didn't wander as he spoke next—they remained on her, as steady as the tone that left his mouth.
"Let me ask you something instead."
Valeria blinked. The sudden pivot caught her off guard, but she didn't interrupt. She knew him well enough to know that beneath the grin, beneath the deliberate ease, there was always something pointed.
"What does it mean for you to be a knight?"
The question hit harder than she expected.
Not because it was cruel. Not because it was loaded.
But because she remembered.
That question.
That exact phrasing.
It had been years ago—late at evening, beside the window, during one of their many shared meals under the Vendor banner.
They'd been resting in Iron Matron's inn. She had spoken proudly of knighthood then—of honor, of loyalty, of duty. He had asked that question in response, lounging on a pew, watching her with that half-lidded gaze of his. It hadn't been a challenge, not then—just curiosity.
Back then, her answer had been clear.
"To serve the realm. To uphold order."
Simple. Unshaken. Naïve.
But now?
Now, she'd stood in courts dripping with falsehood. Dragged secrets from beneath silk-draped salons. Watched nobles whose hands never held blades command armies with wine-stained fingers.
What did knighthood mean… now?
She exhaled slowly, gaze turning downward for a moment—unusual, for her. Reflective, not weak.
"I've been thinking about that," she murmured. "More often than I should."
Lucavion said nothing. Just waited.
"Once, I believed being a knight meant protecting nobility," she continued, each word deliberate. "Serving the system that crowned them. Upholding the peace that benefited the realm."
She paused. Her fingers brushed the edge of her cup, almost absentmindedly.
"But that was before I saw how fragile those crowns are. How easily peace bends to greed. How often the system protects itself—and not the people."
Her voice wasn't bitter. Just honest.
"Now….I don't know what it is…"
Chapter 803: Questions to be asked
Lucavion smirked.
It wasn't broad. It wasn't smug. But Valeria saw it—and what she saw behind it made her chest tighten.
Pride.
Faint, veiled behind the usual irreverence. But it was there.
She hadn't seen that look in years—not since the Iron Matron, not since the tournament. And yet, as though no time had passed, her instincts stirred. The skill of reading him—the one she thought buried under years of distance—was slipping back into her hands like a sword she'd never truly set down.
"Not bad," Lucavion said at last, his voice casual, but quieter than before.
Valeria didn't respond, but her gaze remained on him—unmoving, expectant.
"Knighthood, to many," he went on, "is a tool of serving. A banner. A symbol."
He shrugged, turning his gaze toward the chandelier above, where the light refracted across silver and glass like a dance of masks.
"But it's also a tool of cowardice."
That made her eyes narrow. Sharply.
Lucavion caught it immediately, of course. He always did.
He raised one hand, palm out, placating. "Come on. Don't look at me like that. Let me finish."
Valeria didn't relax—but she didn't interrupt either.
Lucavion's voice lowered a notch. Not for secrecy—but for weight.
"Most knights, especially those anointed by noble houses, command a power that ordinary people can't even fathom," he said. "They wield mana. Blade. Aura. Alone, they could level a house. Together, they can raze a city."
His eyes returned to hers. No smile now. Just something steadier. Measured.
"They carry out orders with that power. Burn down entire villages that resist the whims of a baron. Crush uprisings before the first cry can leave a child's throat. Erase a name—an entire bloodline—from a ledger because it's 'treasonous.'"
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"They do it," he said simply, "and then they hide behind the phrase: I was following orders."
Valeria didn't move.
Lucavion's words settled like ash between them. Quiet. Heavy.
"You've seen it," he continued. "Haven't you? The look on their faces. Not just the victims. The knights. The ones who do the deed, then disappear behind a wall of law and protocol."
Valeria's jaw clenched. Just slightly. But he caught it.
"That," Lucavion said, voice dropping again, "is cowardice."
Lucavion didn't press further immediately. He let the silence settle, like dust across an old map. When he spoke again, it was quieter—more resigned than impassioned.
"And that," he said, "isn't just about knights. That's human nature."
Valeria's eyes narrowed—not in disbelief, but in restraint. She was listening now. Fully.
Lucavion's hand gestured vaguely toward the air, the chandelier, the nobility beyond them.
"You see it in the courts," he said. "Clerks who sign away land because a higher noble said so. Priests who bless war because their patrons told them the cause was holy. Merchants who raise prices on grain because it's policy, even when they know a village will starve."
He turned toward her again.
"And it goes lower, too. Guards who look away because it's easier. Scribes who erase a name from the records because it keeps them fed. Even healers who let a man die because a Lord's purse speaks louder than a widow's tears."
Valeria didn't flinch. But her expression was tightening. Sharpening.
"People," Lucavion continued, "are taught that as long as the command is above them, their hands stay clean."
Lucavion's eyes darkened slightly—not with fury, but with something colder. More precise.
"But then," he said, "the question becomes—who holds the responsibility?"
His voice was steady, but each word felt like a stone cast into still water.
"If everyone below answers to someone above… if every command is just another link in a chain… then where does it stop? At what point does someone finally take the weight?"
Valeria remained silent. Listening.
He leaned slightly on the edge of the table beside him, arms folding—not in ease, but in restraint.
"Just because they evade it… just because they dilute it across a thousand names and titles and seals… does that make it right?" he asked. "If no one is to blame, then no one is guilty. And if no one is guilty—what justice could ever mean anything?"
A faint bitterness laced his next breath.
"In a world where the structure itself protects the predator, where power masks itself in language and law, how can life mean anything to the ones born without that shield?" His gaze flicked upward, then back to her. "How does a starving mother justify her death to a clerk's ledgers? Or a dying soldier to a baron's profit?"
His tone hardened—not loud, but with a clarity that struck sharper than steel.
"That," he said, "is what I hate most."
Cowardice, in its purest form.
The kind that smiles while it kills. That shrugs while it exploits. That hides behind polite laughter, then signs off on ruin with ink barely dry.
And Valeria knew he wasn't speaking in abstractions anymore.
He was speaking of the Cloud Heavens Sect. Of what he had done.
"When they begged," Lucavion said, voice low, "they didn't speak of innocence. They spoke of status. Of connections. Of who would miss them."
He didn't sneer. He didn't brag.
He stated it as one might describe the color of the sky before a storm.
"I dealt with them."
Then his gaze lifted—slowly, but unmistakably—toward the thrones beyond, where politics coiled like silk around steel.
"And I will deal with anyone else who stands on corpses and calls it tradition."
Lucavion's gaze was steady now—no trace of smirk or jest, no veil of mockery to hide behind.
He looked at her as one might look at a horizon long decided.
"In the face of injustice," he said quietly, "I don't stand still."
His voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
Because it carried something heavier than volume.
Conviction.
"That's who I am. That's the path I've chosen. No one assigned it to me. No legacy handed it down. I walk it because someone has to."
He took a step closer—not threatening, but real. Unflinching.
"That's it, little Pink Knight. That's your reason."
His hand lifted slightly, not to gesture or grandstand, but to press briefly against his chest.
"I, Lucavion," he said, "don't bow to anyone. Not kings. Not princes. Not even gods, if they trade justice for comfort."
Valeria's breath hitched. He didn't stop.
"I don't care about status. I don't care about lineage. I don't care what title someone's cradle gift them."
His eyes locked with hers—like they always did, burning past armor and silence alike.
"In my eyes, those who hold power are responsible for the power granted to them. And those who don't hold to that responsibility…"
The final words dropped like steel, smooth and absolute.
"I will be their worst nightmare."
Chapter 804: Boring
Valeria didn't speak.
She couldn't—not yet.
Lucavion's words lingered in the air, weighty and absolute, and they didn't leave space for rebuttal or dismissal. Not because he'd silenced her, but because he'd cracked something open.
Not in the room.
In her.
'Is that… the kind of person he is?'
She looked at him—really looked—and the feeling returned. That weightless clarity from earlier. Except now, it wasn't comfort.
It was disquiet.
Not fear. But caution. Unease wrapped in awe.
Because Lucavion didn't say those things for attention. He didn't throw them like knives to cut indiscriminately. Everything he'd just said—every single word—had a purpose behind it. A target. A reason.
And that, more than anything, made her pause.
Because she knew him.
He was reckless, yes. Unfiltered. Brazen in ways that would make even the bolder lords sweat. But he wasn't careless.
Not when it mattered.
And now—after all this time, after vanishing into silence, returning with a sharpened edge and dismantling the Crown Prince in front of the Empire's elite—he had stood before her and shown his hand.
Not all of it. Never all of it.
But enough.
Enough for her to realize: this wasn't whim.
It was war.
And the Crown Prince…
Her thoughts flickered, reluctantly, to Lucien.
Perfect. Magnificent. The boy with endless grace and discipline. The one whispered about in every corridor of the Empire. A future emperor born of ice and marble, carved to lead without flaw.
And yet—
Lucavion had turned that image sideways. Exposed something beneath it.
A crack.
'Is that true?' she wondered. 'Can someone so polished be…'
No. That wasn't the question.
The real question was: What did Lucavion see that she hadn't?
Because he wasn't bluffing. He wasn't playing.
He had already made his judgment. Already aimed his blade.
And for him to move like this—so boldly, so publicly—it meant he had no intention of turning back.
Valeria's eyes lifted again, fixing on him with that same quiet weight, but before she could gather the words sitting at the edge of her throat—
Lucavion moved first.
His smirk returned—not wide, not mocking. Just that familiar curve of lips that always meant trouble.
"See?" he said, voice easing back into that maddening casualness. "That's my reasoning."
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion loose, unconcerned. But his eyes didn't lose their sharpness.
"Don't take it to heart, yeah?"
He said it like a jest. Like this entire conversation hadn't tilted the very ground beneath her feet.
And she—
She missed it.
The moment.
The one where she could've asked the thing that still burned in her chest. Could've pressed, just once, for the truth beneath all the certainty. What exactly he saw in Lucien. What made him so sure.
But the words faltered. Caught between reflection and reaction.
And Lucavion—damn him—saw that too.
Which is why he turned his gaze toward the far end of the ballroom, posture relaxing even more, as if none of this had happened. As if they were just two old friends catching up over wine and ghosts.
She exhaled through her nose, quiet.
And there it was again—that sharp tether to reality tugging at her spine.
As much as she wanted to stay here, suspended in this strange, charged stillness with Lucavion—she couldn't.
Not for long.
She had spent enough time dancing through the politics of the capital now in the recent month, the hollow smiles, the veiled words shared over clinking porcelain and manicured civility. This ballroom was no battlefield, but the game played here was every bit as dangerous. And she knew her place in it.
A knight, yes. But one with a family to elevate. A name to restore. Influence to balance.
This conversation—this… moment—could not last forever.
She had made her point. By walking across the hall. By standing beside him. By not flinching.
That was enough, for now.
And yet…
'Just a little longer…'
Just a little more of this simplicity. This impossible man. This strange warmth wrapped in danger.
Her gaze drifted toward him again.
And, of course, he was already looking at her.
Like he never stopped.
Lucavion opened his mouth, head tilted, voice ready to rise in that familiar cadence. "Is it the time, Pi—"
But something snapped in her. Not hard. Just firm.
It had been gnawing at her for a while now.
That little word. That nickname.
Pink Knight, sometimes Lady Knight, or whatever.
He said it with a curl of his lips and a glint in his eye, the same way he had years ago in the barracks when they were still half-formed warriors with too much pride and not enough rest. Back then, it was always on his tongue. He used names like toys, like paintbrushes, as if every person he met needed to be colored in by his voice alone.
She'd hated it.
She had told him then, sternly, coldly:
"Call me Valeria."
She remembered the moment. Crisp in her memory like pressed parchment. She'd been bandaging her arm after a sparring match, blood mixing with sweat, and he'd come strolling in, calling her Pink Knight like it was some noble joke, saying that it was what the crowd was calling her.
Then she forced to call her by her name again.
And—surprisingly—he had.
From that moment onward, whenever it mattered, he used her name. Not a title, not a nickname, not a jest.
Valeria.
But now?
Now he was doing it again. Tossing around her title with that same amused irreverence, like they hadn't gone through all of that. Like the years hadn't added weight to every syllable.
Maybe he'd forgotten.
Or maybe—knowing him—he hadn't.
Her gaze sharpened. The warmth didn't vanish, but it thinned, cooled into something more exact.
She saw the moment he was about to do it again. The little hitch in his breath, the way his mouth formed that familiar pair of syllables—
"Is it the time, Pi—"
"Valeria," she said, voice low. Precise.
Lucavion blinked.
He turned his head slightly, feigning innocence. "Hmm?"
She didn't blink. "Valeria. Not Pink Knight."
There was a beat of silence. Then—
"…You're no fun, Pi—"
"Valeria," she repeated. Sharper this time. Not harsh. Just… final.
He sighed, theatrical as ever, but the smirk softened just a touch.
"...Yeah, Valeria."
Valeria nodded to herself, almost imperceptibly. As if she were ticking a box no one else could see.
"That is better," she murmured.
Lucavion tilted his head, mock-incredulous. "You're an oddball."
Her brow quirked. "Why?"
"Most people like the nicknames I give them," he said, grinning. "It's practically an honor."
The words hovered between them, full of the usual Lucavion arrogance—but light, teasing. Familiar.
Valeria's lips twitched.
She wanted to say it. Wanted to roll her eyes and answer him like she used to.
'No they don't. You just force your way through their preferences like a storm pretending it's a breeze.'
But the words caught behind her teeth.
Something in her—some quiet, ridiculous part—didn't want to deflate his grin just yet.
Not because it was charming.
Not even because he deserved the grace.
…but because of a reason she didn't know.
And that—that in itself was strange, wasn't it?
Valeria wasn't someone who held her tongue lightly. She chose her words as she chose her sword strokes: intentionally, with weight. Yet now, in this space between laughter and lingering, she let it go. Let him have the last word—let him keep the grin.
Odd.
She looked at him again, catching the glint in his eyes just as he tilted his head lazily, as if he'd been reading her thoughts line by line.
"Come on, just go," Lucavion said with a half-laugh. "You'll be seeing me a lot in the academy anyway."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't argue.
"I'll pester you quite a lot," he added, voice dropping into that maddening drawl. "Can't miss fun, can I?"
Valeria let out a slow, restrained sigh. "...Sigh…"
There was no point responding to that. None that wouldn't feed him more.
She adjusted her posture, composure sliding back into place like armor freshly buckled.
"Yeah," she said, turning just enough for it to be the first real step away. "Have a nice night, then."
Lucavion raised his glass in farewell, wordless, but the look in his eyes was as loud as anything he could've said.
And she left.
*****
Lucavion watched her go—not with longing, not with regret, but with that strange, unreadable calm that always slipped beneath the surface when no one else was watching.
She didn't look back.
Of course she didn't.
She never did when it counted.
His fingers rolled the stem of his glass absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the dwindling trail of her steps until she disappeared into the fold of nobility once more, swallowed by velvet gowns and duty-wrapped smiles. The noise of the ballroom returned in waves—meaningless chatter, laughter with the edges filed down.
And yet…
"She really is quite…" he murmured under his breath, a small, thoughtful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not changed much."
[Boring.]
Chapter 805: Disarray
[Boring,] Vitaliara said flatly, her voice curling into his thoughts like a flick of her tail.
Lucavion didn't flinch. Just shook his head once, slow and bemused, as he set the half-emptied glass onto a nearby table.
"Care to elaborate?" he asked, eyes still fixed on the empty space Valeria had left behind.
[No need. She's just boring.]
He let that linger for a breath. Then—
'How come? I have quite a bit of fun around her.'
[Vitality doesn't equal depth.] Her tone was laced with a feline disdain. [You have fun everywhere. With fools. With fire. With chaos.]
Lucavion chuckled under his breath. "Well, yes. But chaos doesn't stare you down mid-ballroom and correct your nickname like it's a duel invitation."
[And that's the height of excitement, is it? Being scolded by a woman in polished steel?]
"I wouldn't say scolded," he replied, rolling his shoulders in a mock stretch. "More like… precision-checked."
[She has no fangs, Lucavion. Just armor and etiquette.]
"Fangs aren't everything," he murmured. "Some people carve deeper with restraint."
Vitaliara didn't answer immediately, but he felt the flicker of her presence—disapproving, or perhaps just unconvinced.
[You always gravitate toward contradictions.]
He smiled again, more to himself this time. "And she's full of them."
[Which makes her what? Fascinating? Worth your ridiculous attention?]
"No," he said simply, almost too quickly. "It makes her real."
And for a moment, that word settled heavier than the rest.
[Still boring,] Vitaliara repeated, but softer now. Less certain.
Lucavion just shrugged.
"She's mine to be bored by," he said, not smiling now—just watching the empty space where Valeria had disappeared. "And I find that terribly interesting."
******
The conversation between Elara, Reilan, Selphine, and Aurelian had begun to ease—wine finally warming their throats, the tension of Itharion's presence giving way to the low thrum of violins and polished conversation. The banquet had resumed, at least in the Empire's eyes.
But Selphine's gaze didn't linger on her companions. It cut sideways, sharp and deliberate, toward the edge of the ballroom.
She frowned.
"That's… strange."
Elara, still nursing a half-full glass of silverroot wine, followed her line of sight. "What is?"
"Him." Selphine's voice was low, cautious. "Lucavion."
Aurelian, seated beside her with fingers idly drumming against the stem of his goblet, stilled. The music swelled faintly around them—violins sketching their distant, aching arcs through the ballroom air—but the warmth at their table dimmed in comparison.
"He doesn't move like someone who just humiliated the Crown Prince," Selphine said slowly, almost reluctantly. "Or maybe that's the point. He's too… composed."
Elara tilted her head slightly. "You mean confident?"
"I mean terrifying," Aurelian muttered, his voice a half-step too quiet to be overheard.
Selphine's eyes didn't leave Lucavion. "He knew. About the Recorder. About the fallout. About what that would do to Reynard… to Lucien. And he didn't flinch. He planned that entire collapse like he was… setting down a piece on a board."
Elara's gaze narrowed slightly. "You think he rehearsed it?"
"No," Selphine replied, and this time her voice was firm. "I think he expected it. That's worse."
Aurelian exhaled, the sound tired. "He's not from any house that matters. No title. No protection. And yet he walked into that room like he was the one carrying a sigil. Like he belonged."
"Because he did," Elara said, quiet but without hesitation.
Selphine turned to look at her, sharply. "You're not defending him, are you?"
Elara's eyes didn't move from Lucavion's silhouette across the hall,
Elara's eyes didn't move from Lucavion's silhouette across the hall.
He stood alone now, near one of the unlit alcoves flanking the grand window arches, hands clasped loosely behind his back. No cluster of nobility orbiting him, no sycophants scrambling to attach themselves to his name—not that he had one to give. The light from the chandeliers didn't quite reach him there, but his posture remained unbowed, his presence somehow sharper in the half-shadow.
And he was smiling. That same impossible, infuriating smirk. Not gloating. Not mocking.
Knowing.
'He doesn't care,' Elara realized. 'Or he wants them to think he doesn't. That even the Empire's rage is just a ripple beneath his boots.'
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
Why?
Before the Recorder played, the room had been volatile. On edge. But afterward?
Everything—everyone—shifted. Like someone had turned the board upside down and Lucavion had already memorized where every piece would land.
Her thoughts had been chaos before he did this. Now?
Worse.
More jagged. More unsure.
'Why would someone do that?' she thought, the silverroot wine suddenly bitter on her tongue. 'Why would anyone court that kind of destruction— knowing what it would cost? Knowing who it would threaten?'
Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed against it, but the bitterness remained.
'Why would someone… who held me down with such careless calm… act like some unrequested, unearned hero?'
The memory flashed unbidden—Lucavion's weight pinning her, his hand at her throat, his eyes distant and impassive even then. He had barely raised his voice. Had barely looked at her like she mattered. And yet—
Her eyes slipped closed for half a breath.
A calming technique. Something Eveline had taught her. Count the breath. Anchor it in the body. Let the image pass.
But it didn't.
His face lingered. That same smirk. That same cool calculation.
He had used her once. Played her, then left her bleeding in the wake. And now he was doing it again—just with a different audience. One that clapped in silence and watched from behind jewel-cut goblets.
'What are you really after, Lucavion?'
Was it Isolde? That thread was still unresolved. She had seen the way his gaze tightened around her name—just slightly, just enough to feel. Had glimpsed the undercurrents.
Maybe it was for the Lorian Empire.
Maybe it was to wound Lucien, to fracture his grip, to loosen the Empire's carefully calibrated mask just enough for doubt to leak through. That Recorder, that perfect trap—it had the elegance of a state-sanctioned sabotage. A blow struck not for justice, but for influence. For message.
And if it was her—Isolde—if she was behind it…
Then it all made too much sense.
She was a master of veiled blades, of long games played in shadowed alcoves. If anyone could orchestrate the quiet ruination of the Crown Prince during the most visible night of the year, it was her. The viper. The betrayer. The one who smiled as Elara was cast out.
'Are you with her?'
The question coiled in her chest, slow and poisonous.
Because if Lucavion was—if everything was just another stage in Isolde's spiral of control—then this moment of triumph meant nothing. Worse than nothing. It meant the Empire was simply trading one tyrant's illusion for another.
But—
Why doesn't it feel like that?
Why did her instincts, those same instincts forged in exile and betrayal and blood, pull in the opposite direction?
Chapter 806: Dissarray (2)
Why doesn't it feel like that?
Why did her instincts, those same instincts forged in exile and betrayal and blood, pull in the opposite direction?
Lucavion's smirk was still visible from across the hall. Casual. Detached. As if the chaos he'd unleashed was nothing more than another page turning in a story only he had read.
But something in it—something—refused to sit cleanly beside Isolde's venom. There was calculation, yes. But not cruelty. There was power, yes. But not that aching hunger for dominance that defined her.
Elara exhaled, slow, controlled. Her eyes narrowed.
Was it because of the time they shared?
The moment in the snow-drowned corridor. The first confrontation. The flicker of something too vulnerable beneath his composed armor, so fleeting she almost doubted it had existed. The way he looked at her—not as a threat, not as a pawn—but like she was a storm he could respect.
Even then… were they already planning this? Him and Isolde, plotting every step, every glance?
She wanted to believe yes.
It was safer.
Cleaner.
But the thought didn't settle. It itched.
Scratched at her bones.
And in the hollow space it left, another thought bloomed—
'Why not?'
Why wouldn't he be the villain? Why wouldn't he lie again? Use her again? Why wouldn't he be her creature?
But the answer didn't come.
And that silence, that was the most dangerous part.
A voice—soft, startled—cut through Elara's spiraling thoughts like a thread pulled taut through silk.
"Oh…"
Elara blinked.
"What?" she asked, slow, still pulling herself from the undertow of her mind.
Selphine didn't answer right away. Her gaze had locked on something across the ballroom, her lips slightly parted, brows furrowed in something between disbelief and apprehension.
Aurelian leaned forward, already turning. "What is it—?"
And then Elara saw it.
There—at the edge of the ballroom, beneath the subdued flare of crystal sconces and velvet drapery, where Lucavion had stood alone just moments ago—now stood another figure.
Her hair was the first thing Elara noticed. A soft cascade of rose-gold, too precisely colored to be accident, too sharp in contrast against the subdued palette of the hall. It flowed down to her waist in clean, gleaming waves, catching the light like a banner unfurled.
But it wasn't the hair that made Elara's breath catch.
It was the presence.
Measured. Silent. Absolute.
Even from across the ballroom, she radiated something ironclad—an elegance laced with steel, like a blade hidden beneath brocade. Her back was straight, hands folded in front of her like a court-trained noble, yet there was a precision in the way she held herself that made it unmistakable.
Valeria Olarion.
The girl Elara had marked before.
The one who carried her own storm behind careful manners and armor-polished poise.
And now—she was standing before him.
Not flinching. Not retreating. Not even watching her surroundings. Just there, in front of Lucavion, who—true to form—hadn't moved a muscle. His smirk still lingered, faint and unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Valeria like a conversation was already taking place between them, silent and exclusive.
Selphine whispered, "I can't believe it…"
Aurelian's jaw had tightened. "She walked to him?"
"She chose to," Selphine added, still sounding stunned.
Selphine's voice dipped lower, as though saying it too loud might break whatever strange magic was unfolding at the ballroom's edge. "She was called the Pink Knight," she said, "back in the Vendor Martial Tournament. A duelist of impossible grace."
Aurelian nodded grimly. "She made it to the semi-finals. Lost to Varen Drakov by a single strike, if I remember correctly. And even then—she walked away without a scratch. Said to be the cleanest fight of the year."
Elara's eyes didn't move from the pair. "I remember that match," she murmured. "Varen called it 'fighting a mirror that bled light.'"
Selphine exhaled. "But what no one wanted to say out loud—what the courts whispered behind masks and folded fans—was that before that tournament, she was seen often at the training courts. Not alone."
Aurelian's eyes darkened. "Lucavion."
Selphine nodded. "There were rumors. Nothing confirmed. But… looking at them now?"
There, under the dim golden wash of the chandeliers, Valeria stood just inches from him. Not close enough to be improper. But close enough that the space between them felt intentional. Charged.
Lucavion, for all his cold theater, had let his smirk fade slightly—eyes narrowing not with caution, but with recognition. As if something unfinished had just returned to its starting point.
"It was real," Elara said quietly. Not quite a question.
Lucavion tilted his head toward Valeria, speaking low, the edges of his words lost in the ballroom's gentle hum. Whatever he said, it made her mouth twitch—not quite a smile, not yet—but there was a lift in her brows, a flicker of something wry in her gaze. She replied, sharp and crisp, and Lucavion laughed.
Not the smirk. Not the quiet mockery he wore like second skin.
A real laugh.
Subtle, but real.
And that—that—made something twist inside Elara's chest.
It wasn't jealousy. Not precisely. It wasn't even anger.
It was…
Pity.
Not for Lucavion.
For Valeria.
'If you knew what he did… would you still stand by his side?'
Would you still laugh with him in the quiet, like he hadn't once treated someone like a pawn on a losing board? Would you stand there so composed, so unwavering, if you saw what he could do when no one was looking?
And yet—
The thought turned. Curled back on itself.
Because she remembered the way he had stood beside her, just briefly, in Stormhaven. The way he had spoken to her not as a threat, or an opponent, or even a curiosity—but like someone he had seen.
They had spoken for no more than two nights. She had been in pain—bitter, raw, freshly exiled—and he had been… something strange. Not kind. But attentive. And in that attention, something else had slipped through.
'It was short,' she thought. 'Barely two days. And yet…'
And yet here she was, trying to measure another woman's silence against her own memory.
She watched as Valeria said something that made Lucavion grin—sharp, teeth bared just slightly. Valeria rolled her eyes and shook her head, but didn't step away.
'You don't know him,' Elara thought, not bitterly, but with a strange kind of weight. 'And maybe that's better.'
Just then, laughter broke the quiet tension—brash, too loud for the atmosphere—and a trio of students veered toward their table. Familiar sigils gleamed on their cuffs, their eyes bright with wine and ambition.
"Elowyn!" one of them called cheerfully, raising his glass in half-salute. "Baroness Caerlin, we've been hoping to steal a moment!"
The table shifted. Selphine straightened. Aurelian offered a polite smile. And Elara—
Elara smoothed her expression, the motion as practiced as drawing a blade.
Whatever storm had started behind her eyes—she folded it, pressed it down.
Let them think she was listening. Let them believe her still.
But even as her lips moved in polite reply, her gaze wandered again.
To the man who laughed softly with a duelist of mirrors and steel.
To the echo of something that hadn't yet decided what shape it would take.