Cla— Clang!
Inside the roofed training grounds, nothing could be heard but the constant clashes from a wooden sword and a damascus dagger.
Lythian Ace, and;
Seven Hart.
A full hour passed, yet none of them have given up.
They moved at once like mirrors of each other, spinning, stabbing, clashing with a precision that only fueled by pure adrenaline— or other lives— could give.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
Each exchange was a conversation, and each movement an answer to the other's question.
Their weapons had long since lost their pristine edge where wood splintered at the blade's tip, and the dagger had begun to darken where zaen scorched the steel.
Seven was improving.
His footwork was tighter. His guard became more economical. Every time his left eye flickered— catching the ghost of the next second— he was quicker to adjust.
It was a product of his daily training back then in his room which was swinging an imaginary sword repeatedly, along with what he learned from Eden during their 'little spar'.
He could now occasionally see more than a second into the future too, like about two.
Lythian, on the other hand, was changing too.
Each of his movements stripped away hesitation. His strikes now flowed smoother. His grip adjusted between grips without conscious thought, as if… the dagger became a part of him.
Again.
He was remembering.
Not just the form, but the intent of an assassin's body. The instinct to kill. The body he now owned knew how to finish fights, not drag them out. Slowly, inch by inch, that knowledge seeped back into his spine.
Clang! Cla—
It was a battle between two transmigrated souls in bodies, only halted by—
RrrrrmBLE—!!
—a deafening, earth-splitting roar, as if two gods tearing the sky in half.
***
In the Academy's Council Hall
The chamber was circular and vast, domed with high ceilings that arched like the ribs of a beast. Pale columns ringed the walls, each carved with faded inscriptions of doctrines long forgotten by all but the ones who sat here.
At the center stood Cylinth dei Silverio.
'Little runt…'
She muttered under her breath.
Encircling her were five towering chairs, carved from darkstone and raised slightly above the floor. Each one was occupied by an elder whose ages were visible in every line on their faces and every breath they took to remain composed.
Cylinth's posture was rigid under the collective gaze of the five elders.
In her hand, there was a folded parchment sealed with her sigil, still warm from the zaen she used to press it closed.
"I submit a formal recommendation for a candidate who—"
She paused.
It was not because she could not pronounce the name nor she was hesitant if Seven was actually worth the recommendation.
But.
Because she knew the name would sour the air.
"—Seven Hart."
An almost imperceptible shift stirred among the elders. All of them lifted a brow from the mention of Seven's name, and the one seated in the center leaned slightly forward, as if mishearing.
Cylinth extended the parchment upward.
"This document outlines the grounds for bypassing traditional entry through the standard exam, on account of the subject's... unique aptitude and unquantifiable potential despite his—"
RrRMmmBLeeEeE—!!
The chamber shook.
The walls groaned and dust trickled from the vaulted ceiling as a deep, concussive roar rippled through the Council Hall as though the Gods from above had spoken.
Cylinth's words died on her lips.
The parchment fluttered in her grip, and zaen instinctively bloomed around her forearms as her body shifted into a guarded stance.
***
In the Havin Household
Gold-accented chairs lined its sides, each occupied by a member of the bloodline that were seated in perfect posture.
Servants moved silently through the candlelit hall as if trying their best not to make a sound.
Charles von de Havin sat at the first seat beside the empty master head chair, which disappeared— more like wandered— as it had been that way for one hundred and thirty-one days.
They called it a pilgrimage or abandonment, but Charles did not speak of it in either tone.
He sipped once, placed the spoon down without a sound, and dabbed the corner of his lips with the hem of a linen napkin before speaking.
He reached for his goblet.
"The Enclave mages have begun ignoring the seal"
He took a sip and lowered the goblet right after.
"The Circle of Nine is fraying. Eastmarch speaks of its own Charter. They require someone in the seat before they listen."
No one interrupted. Even the younger siblings stayed quiet and tried to chew the food very carefully, except for Aeloria seated at the farthest end.
Crunch! Munch! Cru—
Charles gave her a glance, but did not dwell on her as he continued his words.
"The Sarns are nowhere in sight. They, a hundred percent right, followed Father."
Slowly, Charles stood up with a practiced ease and looked to the vacant seat— not as a son, but as a statesman.
"Until Father returns, I will sit."
Step.
He took a single step towards the empty seat before he looked to his younger siblings with zaen released in a controlled rampage ( in a Havin way) and a gaze that says: 'Silence.'
Thus none of the siblings responded, except, again, for Aeloria.
"Oh no."
She muttered too loudly as she stabbed a perfectly roasted potato with her fork.
Every head of her siblings turned towards her.
But Aeloria only stood from her seat slowly with the gravitas of someone about to declare war or faint from a terrible poem. Her chair scraped back with an overdramatic squeal as she clutched her stomach.
She looked around the table with wide eyes and a frown of extravagant betrayal.
"I simply cannot eat this!"
Murmurs nearly rose before she flung one arm skyward, hand resting dramatically on her forehead like she was starring in a tragic opera.
"Too perfect!! The poultry is… succulent! The sauce is… devious! The presentation is—"
She shook her head once.
"No! I won't be seduced by seasoning."
The servants froze mid-step, and a few of her older siblings coughed.
But Charles did not move.
Aeloria turned and caught the ends of her dress with both hands as she swept toward the hall like a stage queen quitting a play she had already stolen.
"I'm leaving."
She declared, pausing only to give her half-finished wine glass a forlorn nod.
"Farewell, my cabernet. We were not meant to be."
"...?!"
Charles stared at her blankly. For some reason, the gloomy Aeloria she once knew changed after he sent him to the Academy registration as if she was now entirely replaced by a completely new person with a new personality.
But then he shook his head as, even among them, the renowned magic family of the seventh continent, has failed to achieve success.
Charles sighed.
Step.
He took another step towards the empty chair. But… before he could sit on it—
RRMMMMMBLE—!!
A sudden deafening thunder like-strike hit like a pulse beneath the table, shaking the cutlery in delicate rattles.