"Who is old!?" Mireilla snapped, voice cracking through the serene sparring ring like a bolt of justified wrath. Her foot stomped once—harder than she meant to—and a thin crack ran up the nearest paving stone.
Lucavion blinked, blinking innocently, but there was a gleam in his eye.
"Older sister, I said," he offered, hands lifted in mock surrender. "There's a dignity to it. A respectable air. The wisdom of—"
Lucavion blinked again, then gave a low whistle. "Huh. You carry it well."
"You want to carry a vine through the teeth next?"
"Oh," he said, clearly delighted now, "is this you expressing affection? I'm honored."
Mireilla inhaled slowly—very slowly—and folded her arms again with the forced composure of a woman who had once diffused a guild brawl with a rusted spoon and pure authority.
Elayne, to the side, made no comment.
But if one looked closely, the corners of her lips might have shifted.
Lucavion, ever the chaos incarnate in fine trim, leaned back slightly and let the silence settle again, before offering one last, infuriatingly earnest-sounding line:
"Well… I suppose that makes me the little brother you didn't ask for."
Mireilla closed her eyes.
And very calmly, very precisely, began planning at least seven different ways to wrap a strangling vine around the man's ankles before lunch.
Mireilla stared at him.
Stared like someone who had just found a cockroach on a velvet cushion—uninvited, smug, and very, very alive.
Twenty-one is not old.
She was still in her prime. She could still run ten miles in half armor, scale a wall with two knives and a bleeding shoulder, and make healing paste from crushed moss while yelling at grown men to stop bleeding so loudly.
Apparently, to Lucavion, that made her someone's older sister.
Lucavion, for his part, looked utterly pleased with himself. The wind caught his coat just enough to give him that roguish, windswept aura that should've belonged to a romantic tragedy and not… this smug menace in human skin.
"Come on now," he said lightly, spreading his arms like a peacekeeper who had personally set the fire. "Why the face?"
Mireilla's jaw clenched.
"That's your annoyed face, isn't it?" he added with a little nod of faux-discovery. "The sharp line between the brows, the twitch at the left eye—classic."
Her foot slid forward a fraction.
Lucavion noticed. He grinned wider.
"I didn't mean you look old," he said, tone lilting like a song played just off key. "Not even a bit. You've got a very youthful glow. Healthy. Sharp. Like someone who could kill me with a shoelace."
"Correct," Mireilla said flatly. "And I've done it before."
He paused. Blinked. "...Seriously?"
She tilted her head slowly. "You want to find out?"
He took a half step back, both hands up—grinning the entire time. "Okay, okay, point taken. Just—listen. It's not the age. It's the air around you."
"Yeah." Lucavion's tone softened a bit—not entirely playful now. "That weight. That steadiness. Like you've carried too much for too long and figured out how to make it look effortless."
Mireilla didn't reply. Not immediately.
Because the words landed differently.
They weren't teasing.
Which made them worse.
Lucavion continued, quieter now. Still casual, but with a tinge of something else beneath it—acknowledgment.
"I've met a lot of people who scream about how much they've seen. You don't. But it's there. In how you move. How you look at things like you're already measuring the distance to the nearest exit or planning how to keep someone else alive if it all goes wrong."
"I call that older sister energy," he said, then added after a beat, "in the most flattering way possible."
Long. Through her nose.
The tension in her shoulders didn't vanish. But it shifted—like a string that had been stretched to its limit finding a new place to settle.
"Still sounds like you're calling me old," she muttered.
Lucavion grinned. "Only emotionally."
Elayne made a faint sound then. Almost like a cough. But if you listened closely—too closely—it might've sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Mireilla glanced at her.
Then back at the cracked paving stone.
She crouched slightly—pressed one palm to the ground.
Lucavion raised a brow. "Uh… what're you—"
Thin, twisting, eager little things erupted from the gap in the stone—shooting toward his ankles like snakes with a grudge.
"Gotcha," Mireilla said, smile cool as morning frost.
Lucavion jumped back, nearly tripping on his own coat.
"You planted a trap mid-argument?!"
"I'm twenty-one," she replied sweetly. "Not senile."
Lucavion stumbled into a defensive stance, hands up, estoc half-drawn, laughing despite himself.
"I take it back. You're terrifying."
And the vines reached for him with the soft, hungry sound of a woman's patience finally, finally running out.
The dining room of the Imperial Sanctum was a strange hybrid of elegance and intimacy—too refined to be casual, but too quiet to be formal. Polished obsidian-glass windows let in the soft morning glow, while a chandelier of suspended mana-crystals floated overhead, glowing with a soft, responsive warmth that shifted tone with the mood in the room.
Each of the five had their place at the long crescent-shaped table, though none of them sat rigidly. The tension of the exam had faded into the peculiar awkwardness of victory: too much to celebrate, too many watching.
Elayne stirred her drink in silence.
Toven was already on his second plate, because of course he was.
Mireilla sat with the poise of someone who had reclaimed her center after nearly strangling a man with a vine.
Lucavion leaned back in his chair like he owned the architecture behind it, swirling his cup with idle grace, one brow slightly raised as he surveyed the spread. His eyes flicked to each of the others now and then, but not as an observer.
He was reading the room.
The soft click of boots announced Kaleran's entrance.
Clad in slate-gray again—always slate-gray—he moved to the head of the table without flourish, his posture so still it made even the furniture seem more formal.
"Good morning," he said, voice carrying just enough to cut through murmurs without needing volume. "I trust you've rested adequately."
Lucavion gave a small, two-finger salute. Mireilla inclined her head. Caeden gave a simple nod. Toven muttered something around a mouthful of roasted meat. Elayne said nothing.
Kaleran didn't wait for fanfare.
"You five," he began, "are no longer just candidates. Your names are already etched into public record. Citizens are speaking of you. Merchants are scrambling to offer their brands. Nobles, predictably, are falling over themselves to attach their names to yours."
Lucavion hummed softly, barely containing his amusement.
"If you so wish," Kaleran continued, "you may be contacted by interested sponsors. You are not obligated to accept. But do not take it lightly—these affiliations can shape your trajectory in ways more complex than you might expect."
He let that settle, then moved on.
"Today, your personal measurements will be taken. The garments you wear at the Entrance Banquet are not only your introduction to the inner echelons of the Empire—they are statements. The Academy will fully fund your attire. Design whatever you wish."
Toven perked up. "Wait—anything? Like, full black with, I dunno, red lightning motifs and a cloak that goes whoosh when I turn?"
Kaleran stared at him. "Yes. That. If you desire."
Mireilla sighed into her cup.
"There is more," Kaleran said, ignoring the exchange. "As official Academy entrants, you will be granted one personal privilege: you may request a weapon, armor set, or artifact of your choosing. The Academy will provide it—within reasonable bounds."
----------A/N---------
Sometimes, I just hate my life. All three of the chapters that I have written were bugged on OneDrive, and I apparently needed to write them again.
And I have an exam tomorrow on top of that, zzz.....