The final words of politeness had barely settled between them when the air shifted again—not with tension, but with something quieter.
Aldric, Seraphina, Marius, and the final noble—now seated and settling with the casual sharpness of minor aristocracy—waited.
In the Arcanis Empire, the custom was clear: when noble houses interacted with those of uncertain or lower birth, it was the latter who extended their hand. A show of acknowledgment. A gesture of entry into the conversation.
The nobles did not reach first.
So when Elayne extended her hand to Seraphina with the perfect, composed grace of someone who had studied every angle of etiquette, Seraphina accepted with a nod of affirmation.
Caeden followed, his handshake firm, direct—an unspoken declaration that borders meant little to him.
Toven added a grin to his, ever the charm, and even Mireilla, after a brief and measured pause, reached across the table to Aldric, her movement fluid, unhurried, but precise.
He didn’t lean forward.
Didn’t break eye contact.
Aldric’s expression didn’t flicker.
But the moment stretched.
Long enough to be noticeable. Too short to be called rude. Balanced on the knife’s edge between breach and challenge.
Aldric watched the moment stretch with the patience of someone trained in the art of politeness. His tone, when it finally came, was soft—measured to the syllable.
"It appears," he said mildly, "that Mister Lucavion is not yet familiar with our customs."
Mireilla’s eyes snapped shut for a breath, one hand rising to press lightly against her forehead. A full, quiet facepalm.
Lucavion, however, didn’t flinch.
Slow. Calm. Unbothered.
"Oh, I’m aware," he said, his voice the kind of smooth that walked the edge between charm and insolence. "Of the customs, that is."
The nobles said nothing—but their postures leaned forward, subtly. Listening.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if considering something beneath their words.
"But if I may," he continued, tone still pleasant, still perfectly civil, "we’re not here as barons or dukes. Or even commoners. We’re here as students. Under the banner of the Academy."
He let the weight of that pause hang, just enough to recall the echo of the Headmaster’s voice.
"Did he not say we are all equal here?"
Lucavion rested one arm along the back of his chair, entirely relaxed.
"So I hope you won’t take it personally." His smile curved, glinting with something close to mirth. "But I’m not the sort to bow. To anyone."
The silence that followed wasn’t stunned.
Aldric’s smile didn’t fade, but it cooled. Just a breath.
Seraphina arched one brow, not in offense—but in sharp reevaluation.
Marius exhaled through his nose. A sound dangerously close to a smothered laugh.
And Mireilla groaned quietly. "Lords save us," she muttered.
Aldric’s eyes lingered on Lucavion a moment longer, not with reproach—but with analysis. Then, without so much as a blink, he offered a short nod.
"Then I suppose," he said lightly, "it is admirable. For Mister Lucavion to hold to his principles."
Seraphina inclined her head as well. "No offense taken. As long as the respect stands, the gesture can bend."
Marius cracked a grin, broader this time. "Honestly, I respect it. Half the halls are filled with people who’d trip over themselves trying to bow the deepest."
The final noble girl—quiet until now—added her voice, serene and diplomatic. "We come from custom, not chains. The difference matters."
Mireilla blinked. Even she hadn’t expected them to take it that well.
But the nobles simply moved on, accepting the break in tradition as... eccentricity, perhaps. Or confidence. Either way, not worth a quarrel.
And just like that—the tone shifted.
Conversation resumed. Wine poured. Laughter emerged—polite, tempered, but genuine in moments.
Elayne spoke with Seraphina about Academy departments and class structures. Toven compared his limited experience with runework to Marius’s tale of a combustion mishap involving a goat and a misplaced ward-stone. Caeden engaged Aldric in a quiet but surprisingly engaged discussion about sword forms from the southern provinces versus imperial doctrine.
Not excluded. Not ignored.
Whenever he spoke—briefly, dryly—attention snapped toward him. The others paused. Adjusted. Responded with care. Respect, yes. But not warmth.
He wasn’t being shunned.
Not as threat. Not yet.
But as something outside the rhythm. A note off-tempo. A presence they had yet to classify.
Even among his own table, the lines were shifting subtly. The other four had integrated into conversation—bridging the gap. Lucavion remained just to the side of that bridge, watching the construction.
Lucavion sensed it before it was spoken—the way the air shifted, not with tension, but calculation. They were playing safe, watching, measuring. And he smirked inwardly.
’Indeed. Playing safe.’
It wasn’t surprising. Not really. Change never came easily, not when wrapped in centuries of etiquette and power dynamics carved deep into bloodlines. The idea of equality was spoken often enough—by tutors, by banners, by the Academy’s own charter—but to live it? To face someone who didn’t ask for inclusion but simply was? That unsettled the rhythm.
But does that matter?
His eyes tracked the flow of conversation, the subtle realignments in posture, tone, and attentiveness. They were adjusting, yes. But not to accommodate. To assess. And he welcomed it. Let them study him. Let them wonder.
[Humans and strange customs, again,] Vitaliara murmured into his mind, her voice curling with dry amusement. [Such rituals to hide the fact that they’re all just animals pretending not to bite.]
Lucavion’s mouth quirked faintly.
’Pretending, yes... but the teeth are always there. Even when they’re smiling.’
He reached for his goblet, lifting it with the same careless grace that had so thoroughly disrupted the pecking order of the room. The wine shimmered against the light, a liquid mirror of the bloodlines seated around him—deep, old, and stirred too easily.
The Academy had done its part well.
The food was perfect, the decor artfully elegant without slipping into ostentation, and the pacing of the banquet—to the untrained—would seem seamless. But Lucavion saw it for what it was: a display. One layered in tastefully orchestrated civility, beneath which ran the quiet hum of unspoken agendas.
They want to make this feel like a beginning. A foundation. A level playing field.
But they’ve stacked the deck already. Nobles from Houses old enough to forget their own roots, prodigies hand-picked for image as much as talent...
Still, it was a good effort.
Lucavion leaned back in his chair, gaze half-lidded, letting the conversation ebb and swell around him. Toven was recounting some exaggerated tale about a duel with a sentient laundry enchantment, and even Mireilla allowed herself a faint smile.
He watched the reflections in the wineglass.
The way Aldric’s eyes flicked toward the door a fraction too often.
The soft buzz of mana that wasn’t ambient but deliberately veiled.
The slight delay in how the servers entered—half a beat off, like they were listening for a cue not yet given.
Just let the smile linger on his lips—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
’There’s no way this banquet continues without a ripple.’
And just as the thought crystallized, the shift came.
From the far side of the hall, a pair of figures detached from the wall.
Not servants. Not faculty.
Too well-dressed for one. Too poised for the other.
They moved like knives wrapped in etiquette—smooth, silent, and aimed.
Their path curved—not toward the center, not toward the high seats of prestige.
Lucavion didn’t so much as blink.