As if drawn forth by the very weight of that thought, the mist ahead rippled and parted. Two figures emerged, their silhouettes sharpening with each measured step toward the group. The damp air carried the faint crunch of gravel beneath their boots, the sound oddly loud in the quiet.
Vexara's posture straightened at once, chin lifting slightly. "Sir, Mordek is here. Ronan is with him."
Ronan approached with an easy stride, though a subtle stiffness lingered in his shoulders. He bowed, precise and respectful. "Good morning, everyone." His gaze shifted, and he dipped slightly deeper. "Good morning, Sir."
Mr. Arnold acknowledged him with a small, approving nod, his hands still clasped behind his back, posture unyielding as ever.
Ronan barely had time to straighten before Lirith stepped forward. Her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that stilled the air between them. She lifted her hand, finger pointing sharply at the ring on his finger.
"Never… remove… ring."
Each word came slowly, deliberately—like something carved into stone.
Ronan's lips curved into a gentler smile, softer than usual. "I won't," he said quietly. "I'll never remove it. Don't worry."
The moment the words left him, Lirith closed the distance in a single step and threw her arms around him. The force of it drove the breath from his lungs.
"Aaaah—hey—!" Ronan groaned, his voice half-laugh, half-pain. "Not so hard… I'm still sore from yesterday, you know…"
Her grip loosened, but only slightly. She didn't let go. Instead, she rested her forehead against his chest, her breath warm through the fabric. For a moment, she was very still.
Ronan exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as his hand rose almost instinctively. His fingers threaded gently through her hair, smoothing it back in quiet, repetitive strokes. The usual playfulness in his expression faded, replaced by something calmer—steadier.
Nearby, Mordek stepped forward and bowed. "Good morning, Sir."
Mr. Arnold glanced between the two of them, one brow lifting faintly. "Did either of you sleep last night?"
Mordek scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "We meant to… but we started talking, and—well. Lost track of time."
A low sound escaped Mr. Arnold—something between a sigh and a grunt. His gaze shifted toward Ronan, sharp and grounding. "Ronan. Don't you have a mission to attend to?"
The words cut cleanly through the moment.
Lirith's arms loosened at once. She stepped back, though her fingers lingered for the briefest second before slipping away.
Ronan looked at her, holding her gaze. "Take care, Lirith."
Then he turned slightly, addressing the others with a small nod. "Sir. Mordek. Vexara. Gorvath. I'll see you next time. Stay safe."
Lirith said nothing. Her face remained composed, unreadable—but at the edges of her lips, something faint stirred. Not quite a smile. Not quite gone, either.
Gorvath snorted, crossing his arms. "Who wants to see you again?"
Vexara's mouth curled faintly. "Take care, Ronan."
Ronan gave one last bow. "I'll take my leave."
Then he turned—and broke into a sprint. Gravel scattered beneath his feet as he vanished down the path, his figure swallowed quickly by the lingering mist.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Mordek exhaled, then reached into his Storage Ring. With a flicker of light, a sleek flying boat materialised, its surface gleaming faintly in the muted morning light. The group boarded in practised silence. As the vessel lifted into the sky, cutting cleanly through the fog, Lirith remained near the edge.
Her gaze lingered on the direction Ronan had disappeared.
Even as the academy faded into a distant blur.
A few minutes earlier, near the academy entrance, the morning had already begun to gather weight.
Students clustered in loose groups, voices overlapping in low murmurs. The stone beneath their feet still held the night's chill, and the faint scent of dew clung to the air.
Aria stood with her team, composed as ever. Not far from them, Roderick, Kael, and their companions waited in quieter formation—though one absence was noticeable.
Oliver leaned lazily against a pillar, one foot braced against the stone, a smirk playing at his lips as he watched the others. Mr. Felix stood nearby, silent and observant, his presence alone enough to keep the noise from rising too high. Mr. Alden and Mr. Alaric had yet to arrive.
Oliver tilted his head, eyes sliding toward Kael. "Oi. Where's your reliable partner?" His tone carried just enough edge to draw attention. "Didn't you say he'd never be late for something this important?"
Kael's jaw tightened. His fingers curled slightly at his sides—but he said nothing.
Footsteps echoed suddenly from the stairs.
A girl rushed up toward the gate, breath uneven, strands of hair clinging to her face. She slowed just enough to offer a quick greeting. "Good morning… Has Mr. Alden already left for the mission?"
Kael glanced at her. "No. They're still inside."
Relief washed across her features. She exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Good… Do you know where I can find him?"
"We're leaving with Sir Alden as well," Kael replied. "You can wait here."
"Thank you." She nodded, though her attention had already begun to drift—eyes scanning the gathered crowd as if searching for someone in particular.
"Kael!"
The shout cut through the air just as another set of hurried footsteps approached.
Ronan burst into the group—only to slam directly into Darius.
The impact knocked the breath from both of them.
"Am I late?" Ronan asked between breaths, straightening quickly, as if nothing had happened.
Oliver let out a short laugh. "Always the last to arrive."
Kael shook his head, the tension easing slightly as a faint smile surfaced. "No. Right on time."
From the side, the girl froze.
Her gaze locked onto Ronan, recognition blooming instantly. The fatigue in her posture vanished as she stepped forward, her movements smooth, deliberate.
"Young Master, good morning." She bowed gracefully.
Samantha and Sylphie blinked in unison. "Young Master?"
Ronan's expression twisted immediately. He lifted a hand, half in protest. "Good morning, Elira. And please—don't do that in public." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It makes me feel like some creepy old nobleman."
Elira's lips curved faintly. "As you wish, Young Master."
Ronan stared at her for a beat. "…You're doing it on purpose."
"Perhaps," she replied lightly.
He exhaled through his nose, giving up. "So why are you here?"
"To deliver what you ordered." Her tone shifted, more formal now. "Master Garrick said it would take two months, but after hearing you were heading into danger, he adjusted priorities."
Ronan's brows lifted. "He did?"
"Not everything is complete," she continued, "but Master Ferrod finished the flying daggers you requested. The swords are still in progress."
She raised her hand. Light shimmered—and two rings appeared, resting in her palm. Each bore a distinct emblem: one etched with the mark of Iron Ember Forge, the other with Hunter's Boutique.
Ronan took them, fingers brushing briefly against hers before the rings vanished into his Storage Ring. Without pause, he retrieved two similar rings and handed them back.
"Please pass these to Garrick and Master Ferrod. And… my thanks."
Elira accepted them with a small nod. "Of course."
Oliver's voice cut in again, laced with curiosity. "Wait. Aren't you here for Sir Alden?"
Elira turned toward him, composed. "Not really." She gestured lightly toward Ronan. "I'm here for the Young Master."
Ronan dragged a hand down his face. "Please stop saying that out loud."
Her eyes gleamed faintly. "Would 'Little Brother' be better?"
He gave her a flat look. "How about just 'Brother'?"
She considered it for a heartbeat—then smiled. "No. 'Young Master' suits you better."
Ronan groaned under his breath.
Then her expression softened.
The teasing slipped away as she looked at him properly this time. "Take care of yourself out there."
The shift caught him off guard. For a moment, he simply looked back at her—then nodded, something quieter settling in his voice. "I will."
She turned, robes swaying lightly with the motion, and walked away. Even after she disappeared into the crowd, a faint trace of her presence lingered—like the last note of a fading melody.
Ronan stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then—
He suddenly collapsed forward onto Darius's back.
"Ughhh… I'm exhausted," he muttered, draping himself over him like a dead weight. "Carry me."
Darius didn't even flinch. He simply reached up and tapped Ronan's arm twice.
"Mm?" Ronan mumbled, eyes already closed.
Pinch.
"AAAH—!" Ronan shot upright, clutching his side. "What the hell, man?!"
He turned—
—and froze.
Samantha and Sylphie stood directly in front of him.
Too close.
Far too close.
They weren't speaking.
They were just… looking at him.
Ronan inhaled sharply. "AAAAHHH! I swear I didn't do it—whatever it is!"
He stumbled backwards and immediately ducked behind Darius, gripping his shoulders like a shield.
Samantha crossed her arms slowly. "So you have done something."
Sylphie tilted her head, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. "And now you will explain."
Darius glanced between them, then muttered under his breath, "Natural selection must be on vacation."
Both girls shifted their gaze toward him at the same time.
"Move along, Darius."
Their voices overlapped—perfectly synchronised.
To anyone else, it might have sounded like a threat.
To Ronan, it felt uncomfortably familiar—like being cornered by two older sisters who had already decided he was guilty.
Darius straightened instantly, snapping into a mock salute. "Ma'am."
He stepped aside with exaggerated caution, then leaned just slightly as Ronan passed him.
"Try to survive," he murmured, just loud enough.
Ronan swallowed.
Then stepped forward anyway.