In the Faliton State the room was a chamber of shadows and splendour—pillars of pale green quartz framed in obsidian, silken curtains swaying like breath upon breath, and a hearth aglow with sapphire flame. Maps littered a marble table like spilled secrets, their borders inked in crimson thread. Incense coiled upward from a black lotus brazier, its smoke forming languid sigils in the air, like ghost-script.
Queen Liskarm Jee sat beneath a canopy of jade and steel, draped in robes of twilight silk and trimmed with silver threads finer than cobwebs. Her posture was regal yet relaxed, as though sovereignty was not a burden but a birthright. In her hand, a goblet of vermillion wine shimmered like blood in glass. She read from a scroll written in cipher, eyes darting like blades.
Then—a knock.
Firm. Disciplined. Not urgent, but deliberate.
She didn't look up.
"Come in."
The door swung open and in strode Knight Kaelith Voskana—armoured in dark verdigris plate, her cloak embroidered with the sigil of Faliton's falcon clutching a broken crown. She knelt, her long braid falling over one shoulder.
"My Queen. We have received word through the Whisper Channels."
Liskarm raised an eyebrow, finally placing the scroll aside.
"Speak, Kaelith."
"Aleeman Hakiman, his brother Samiyoshi, and his inner circle have ambushed Tekfur Kekaumenos. The Tekfur, his son Lenotes, and the warhound Alphagut were en route to the Eastern Region Borderland."
Liskarm's fingers tightened briefly around the stem of her goblet. She smiled—but it was a thin, sharp thing. Like glass trying not to break.
"So. The wolf sniffs the trail."
She stood slowly, her robes cascading like ink across the floor.
"Aleeman knows… that wolves dwell within the Dragon Clans—and that they howl for us."
Kaelith's eyes flashed.
"Shall we strike them, Your Majesty? Should we silence this pup before he bares teeth at the gates?"
Liskarm turned, her heels clicking softly over polished stone.
"No, Kaelith. We do not stain our hands with the blood of wolves—not when we can train hounds to do it for us."
Her gaze turned toward the heavy door behind Kaelith.
"Summon him."
Kaelith rose and, with a single nod, stepped aside.
The door creaked.
A man entered—slow, sure, smiling like a fox with blood in its teeth.
He was tall, wiry, and dressed not in finery but in leathers stained with soot and road-dust. A scar curled down one side of his throat like a second smile. His eyes were pale—too pale—like weathered bone. At his side, a cleaver-like blade, dulled and notched from use.
"Salvador," Liskarm purred.
Salvador Mortayn bowed low, one hand across his chest.
"Your Majesty. The honour is mine."
"You know the names."
"Aleeman Hakiman. And the dragon-girl—Wei Yang Hong, reborn as Shi Zhao Mei."
"Yes," she said, circling him like a hawk appraising a wolf.
"They've drawn too close to the root. I want them brought to me. Alive. Struggling, not broken. I wish to see the fury still in their eyes."
Salvador grinned—a grin that should not belong to a man still breathing.
"It will be my delight. I have hunted princes, burned merchant trains, and carved ransom out of noble marrow. To bring you a wolf and a dragon? A sport worth bleeding for."
Liskarm nodded, her voice as smooth as silk through a blade's edge.
"Go. Let the winds of Faliton carry your shadow. And remember—if they die, you die."
Salvador bowed once more, then turned, his boots silent on stone. As he disappeared through the chamber doors, the temperature seemed to dip.
Kaelith watched him go, jaw set.
"He's a serpent without a cage."
Liskarm raised her goblet once more, watching the blue flames dance.
"Serpents are useful, Kaelith. Until they shed their purpose."
Her lips curled into a smirk—not warm, but wicked. The smirk of a queen who played war like chess, and already knew where the king would fall.
The cafeteria buzzed with the low murmur of morning routine—clinking utensils, whispered gossip, trays sliding across polished tables. Sunlight poured through high arches, catching flecks of steam from freshly steeped jasmine tea and buttered flatbread.
Around one of the marble tables near the eastern windows, a cluster had gathered: Shi Zhao Mei, Hua-Jing, Mei-Xi-Li, Mika Yamana, Elizabeth Feng, Wang Ji-Pang, and Finn Ming Ju-Go, the latter still swathed in faint bandages, though sitting upright with his usual devil-may-care slouch.
"So," Finn said between sips of pear tonic, "in case anyone missed it—yes, I'm still alive."
The group chuckled lightly. Wang clapped his back, eliciting a wince from Finn.
"Alive, but fragile."
Finn grinned. "And surprised. Genuinely surprised. Didn't think Aleeman had the nerve to go full berserker mode and actually get John Wei-Tang suspended."
All heads turned subtly to Hua-Jing, who was quietly cutting into her poached egg.
At the mention of her name, she paused.
"And to think," Finn continued, his tone shifting, "he did it all because of what they did to you. Hua-Jing, you must've—"
"Finn," she cut in, sharply. Her eyes met his, calm but firm. "That's enough."
He blinked. "What?"
She offered him a look—measured, inscrutable—before returning to her tea.
A moment of hush fell.
Across from her, Shi Zhao Mei sat still—uncharacteristically so. Her fingers rested around her ceramic cup, unmoving. Her eyes weren't on the others, nor her plate.
They were distant—drawn somewhere between memory and meaning.
In her mind, his voice echoed:
"Will you be the sultan of my heart? The companion at the end of the road?"
The phrase lingered like a perfume she could neither shake nor name.
Her cheeks bore the faintest flush, her lips parted just so, as if caught mid-thought. She didn't hear them. She didn't see them.
"Zhao Mei?"
No answer.
"Zhao Mei."
Stillness.
"Zhao Mei!" Hua-Jing leaned over and waved a hand in front of her face.
Shi Zhao Mei blinked, as if roused from a reverie. "Hm?"
"You've been staring at your cup for five minutes," Hua-Jing said, voice half-chiding, half-concerned. "What's going on in that tempest of a brain?"
Shi Zhao Mei gave a small shake of the head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"It's nothing."
"It's never 'nothing' with you," muttered Mei-Xi-Li, raising an eyebrow. She leaned in, tone teasing. "Unless you're dreaming of a certain commander proposing to you with metaphors and moonlight."
That did it.
Shi Zhao Mei's face turned a radiant shade of pink—not crimson, not rose, but somewhere between soft cherry and noble embarrassment. She lifted her cup to hide the flush, but her hands betrayed her: they trembled, ever so slightly.
"You're delusional," she said, dismissively. "He said strange things, that's all."
"Strange things like 'be the sultan of my heart'?" Elizabeth quipped, sipping her tea.
"Very romantic. Very dramatic. Very him."
Shi Zhao Mei rolled her eyes and looked away.
"You lot have far too much time on your hands."
"We notice things," Mika said sweetly, "especially when he's not around."
"Speaking of," Elizabeth added, glancing about, "where is the commander?"
Mika chimed in quickly, raising a hand. "I saw him in the hallway this morning—early. Looked like he hadn't slept."
Zhao Mei's brows furrowed. "Where did he go?"
"Where he always goes when he needs to think," Hua-Jing replied, calmly buttering her bread.
"To the wild. Hunting, probably. It's how he finds peace… and purpose."
Just then—
The cafeteria doors opened.
The hum of conversation shifted as heads turned.
Aleeman Hakiman strode in—posture tall, coat flaring slightly behind him, eyes alert and already scanning the hall. His face was unreadable: calm, yes, but sharp-edged. There was dirt on his boots and light bruising on his knuckles.
He moved toward them with purpose.
"Talking about me, are we?"
They all turned. Hua-Jing gave him a half-smile.
"Depends. How much of it do you want to hear?"
Aleeman pushed himself and sat on the bench, and sat beside his sister.
"Everything—especially the parts you tried to keep from me."
He looked across the table, and for a breath longer than usual, his eyes lingered on Shi Zhao Mei.
She didn't meet them.
But her hands gripped her teacup just a little tighter.
The calm murmur of the cafeteria was suddenly interrupted by a crackling hum, followed by the crisp resonance of Dean Magnus Feingold's voice, echoing from the brass-mounted speakers high upon the walls.
"All students are to report to the central training field within the next quarter-hour. Attendance is compulsory. Assemble in formation. That is all."
The message ended with a soft chime. A ripple of confusion passed through the room like wind through reeds.
"The field? At this hour?" Mika whispered, furrowing her brow.
"No announcement prior?" added Elizabeth, adjusting her spectacles.
"Odd. Something's afoot."
Wang Ji-Pang leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Probably another inspection—or a surprise drill."
Aleeman, still seated, slowly pushed back his chair and rose. He looked calm, yet there was a glint in his eye—like a hound catching a familiar scent on the breeze.
"It's likely a hunting simulation," he said, stretching his shoulders. "They've been rotating the formats every full moon. Trial by instinct."
Finn, still bruised but regaining his humour, smirked. "Hunting? As in—target or prey?"
"That," Aleeman replied, "depends entirely on who leads the hounds."
There were a few dry chuckles, but Aleeman's attention had already shifted.
He turned, casting a glance across the table to Shi Zhao Mei, who had yet to speak. Her eyes were downcast, the rim of her cup kissed by her lips though she hadn't sipped in minutes. Her fingers drummed once—twice—against the porcelain.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Zhao Mei?" he asked, voice gentle yet measured.
"Would you join me? If it's a hunt… it would be good to have your eyes beside mine."
She looked up—slowly. Her expression was unreadable at first. A breath passed. Then two.
And then, the smallest flicker—a smirk not born of amusement, but of habit. A mask of arrogance tailored in the Ji-Gong court. Her voice, when it came, was smooth velvet stitched with barbs.
"You mean… you'd have me beside you."
The others paused. The air shifted. Her gaze met Aleeman's directly—sharp, searching.
But her hand trembled slightly on the cup. Not enough for most to notice. But he did.
Behind the villainess façade, something stirred. Something uncertain.
He narrowed his gaze, not in suspicion, but in concern.
"Are you well?" he asked, soft enough that only she could hear.
She blinked once, the mask flickering.
Then came the reply, short, brittle, composed:
"I'm fine."
But it was the kind of fine that carried weight. The kind said through teeth clenched in grace.
Mei-Xi-Li raised a brow from the corner, clearly watching.
Aleeman didn't push her. Not yet. He gave a nod, subtle as a promise.
"Then meet me at the south corridor. Ten minutes."
Shi Zhao Mei nodded once, curt, composed.
But her knuckles remained pale around the cup.
The south corridor was an architectural afterthought, seldom used by students—arched with pale stone, shadowed by climbing ivy that slipped through open windows like eavesdropping spirits. It overlooked the mist-veiled southern gardens, where wind rustled the leaves like parchment whispers.
Aleeman Hakiman stood alone beneath one of the marble arches, arms folded, gazing out toward the horizon where training banners fluttered lazily in the breeze. His coat was unbuttoned at the collar, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—ever-watchful—remained sharp.
Then he heard her steps.
Not heavy. Not rushed. But deliberate.
Shi Zhao Mei approached—graceful, poised, always clad like a secret you weren't meant to read aloud. Her dress was more relaxed than usual: high-slit at the hip, with flowing fabrics that caressed the wind. A silver clasp cinched the waist, revealing just a sliver of her river-polished abdomen—gleaming faintly in the filtered sun.
But it wasn't the silk or skin that caught his eye.
It was what hung by her hip.
The glass rose.
His breath caught—not fully, but enough to pause his next word. The flower, translucent and prismatic, swayed gently with her every step, secured in a small sheath bound by twine and ornament.
She noticed his gaze—of course she did.
And her mouth curved—half amused, half defensive.
"It didn't mean anything, you know."
He didn't reply at first. Only nodded, voice low.
"Of course not. A gift… never has to."
A beat. Then: "But you wore it."
Her smirk faltered—just slightly.
"Perhaps I didn't want it broken. Sentimental things are fragile."
"So are people," he replied. "But you still wear them too."
There was silence then—not cold, but weighted. Charged. The kind of silence one held between heartbeats before a confession, or a retreat.
She turned toward the ivy-framed window, crossing her arms, gaze distant.
"I don't know what you want from me, Aleeman."
His reply was quiet.
"Only what you've already given."
She turned back, brows tightening.
"And what's that?"
He took a step closer—not enough to threaten, not enough to presume. Just enough to be near.
"Doubt. Thought. Reflection. A reason to ask myself what now, instead of only who next."
Zhao Mei exhaled through her nose, her jaw flexing.
"You speak as if I'm your compass."
"No," he said, "not my compass. My reckoning."
She blinked, unreadable for a long moment.
Then her tone shifted—silken, teasing, back to villainess form.
"You're dangerous when you get poetic, Commander Wolf."
He smiled softly, taking note of how she shifted her weight—poised to leave, not quite ready.
"Are you afraid?"
"I don't fear you."
"Good," he said, stepping back. "Then follow me into the hunt."
A pause.
"Just… don't forget the rose."
Her hand instinctively touched it—just for a moment.
A hesitation. A heartbeat. A silent 'yes' without words.
And they turned together—two shadows gliding down the corridor, toward the open fields.
Side by side.
Not yet lovers.
But no longer strangers.
The field, sprawling and sun-drenched, lay in the heart of the academy like a ceremonial arena—encircled by old elms and bordered with stone pillars etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the midday light. The sky above was cobalt-clear, save for drifting banners of cloud that rolled like unfurled scrolls.
The students stood in their formations, murmuring in anticipation, fidgeting with belts and gloves. The scent of polished leather, charmed wood, and morning dew clung to the air.
At the head of the gathering stood Professor Galadriel, her presence exuded a serenity undercut with unmistakable authority—like a blade sheathed in velvet.
She raised a single gloved hand.
"Today, you hunt not alone."
The field fell still.
"You will track illusions, yes—but not merely beasts. You will track weakness. In yourselves. In your trust."
Her eyes scanned them, piercing, perceptive.
"You will partner. You will bind your motion to another's will. For no warrior triumphs who walks without a shadow."
The murmurs grew louder.
"Before sunset, you must find three glyph shards hidden in the eastern glade. You will be scored not only on success but on synergy."
She gestured wide, her fingers trailing white sparks.
"As for your partners—" she paused, her smirk near-imperceptible, "—fate has already chosen."
Then, with a sweeping motion, she traced a rune into the air—Ælthen-Kaé, an ancient spell of linking.
The sky shimmered above them for a moment—then, with a crackle of energy, the rune exploded in a delicate burst of stardust.
From thin air, silver manacles appeared—each cold to the touch, fine as filigree, but binding as iron. The students cried out in alarm as their wrists were abruptly linked—paired, tethered, bound palm to palm with ethereal chains.
Cries of confusion echoed across the field:
"What is this?!"
"I can't move—who am I with?"
"Professor?! Are these real?!"
But Professor Galadriel only clasped her hands behind her back, her chin raised, utterly composed.
"Now, observe your bond."
All around, eyes widened.
Hua-Jing looked to her side—bound to Mei-Xi-Li, her expression one of quiet relief.
But then her gaze swept forward—and froze.
Finn, awkward and blinking furiously, found himself cuffed to Mika Yamana, who looked just as stunned.
Hua-Jing's eyes narrowed—just slightly. Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if she'd bitten into something unsweetened.
"Well," Mei-Xi-Li muttered, glancing between the two, "this should be... enlightening."
Wang Ji-Pang, meanwhile, found his hand locked to Elizabeth Feng, who raised an eyebrow with arched disdain.
"Try not to breathe too loudly," she said.
"Only if you try not to criticise the wildlife," he replied.
And finally—
Aleeman, stoic as ever, looked to his left.
Shi Zhao Mei was already there. Already watching. Already smirking.
Their hands—bound.
Their fates—momentarily knotted.
Her voice was low, the ghost of a tease in her tone.
"You should've made me your sultan after this, not before."
He offered her a side glance, his brow arched.
"Well, I do prefer to bleed after breakfast."
Galadriel raised her hand once more. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, stirring cloaks and hair.
"The forest will not wait for your arguments, nor will your enemies. Now—GO!"
A pulse of magical energy surged beneath their feet—the rune-sigil igniting across the ground in rings—and then they were off.
Pairs darted into the trees, into the labyrinth of mist and shadows. Steel glinted. Voices rose. Laughter, groans, curses, commands.
The hunt had begun.
And for some, it was not the creatures they would find in the forest.
It was themselves.
The forest greeted them with a curtain of fog. Their manacled hands tugged uncomfortably as they ducked beneath tangled vines.
Hua-Jing grumbled.
"This spellbinding is ridiculous. I can't move properly."
Mei-Xi-Li, always brisk and unbothered, pulled her forward.
"You're too delicate. Move like you're wearing boots, not porcelain slippers."
They reached a glade where a shard shimmered high upon a crooked pine.
Hua-Jing squinted.
"That one looks too easy."
"Because it is," Mei-Xi-Li said flatly, drawing her dagger and hurling it.
The shard vanished in smoke. Illusion.
"We trust no light that doesn't cast a shadow," Mei-Xi-Li muttered.
They crashed through a patch of underbrush, arguing the entire way.
"Stop pulling—my leg's still bruised!" Finn complained.
Mika, eyes scanning the branches above, replied, "Stop limping like a wounded duck. You said you were fine."
Finn huffed.
"I lied. For heroism."
Mika spotted a glyph embedded in the crook of a tree.
"There."
As they reached it, the bark around the glyph shifted into the shape of a wood-bound wraith, lashing out.
Finn yelped, stumbling backward and pulling Mika with him.
"It's moving! Nobody said it would move!"
Mika grinned, exhilarated.
"Didn't they? I like this hunt."
Wang trudged through a marshy patch, trying not to roll his eyes.
"Didn't think I'd spend my afternoon ankle-deep in moss and sarcasm."
Elizabeth inspected a hovering shard just ahead, gloved fingers flicking.
"Better than being manacled to a snore like you."
He ignored her and pointed.
"That one has a reflection. The others didn't."
Elizabeth raised a brow.
"Clever, wolf cub."
She stepped forward and snatched it—real. The shard pulsed and disappeared into her pocket glyph-holder.
A grudging look passed between them. No words.
But it meant: not bad.
Their path was quieter. Not because the forest was still, but because they were.
Their hands remained linked, their bodies moving in uncanny rhythm. They navigated the terrain like dual blades—one curved, one straight.
Aleeman scanned ahead.
"There's movement. Two paces left, high branch."
Zhao Mei, without turning:
"Let them move. A predator who reveals itself first is rarely the clever one."
They passed through a grove of pale mushrooms that glowed faintly.
A glyph shard hovered above a stone basin.
Zhao Mei slowed.
"It's not defended."
Aleeman nodded.
"Which means it's worse."
The second his hand touched it, a burst of flame erupted from the basin. Aleeman pulled her back by reflex. They landed hard—entangled.
Zhao Mei blinked—then smirked beneath him.
"You've a habit of catching me."
He rose slowly. "You've a habit of needing it."
Their fingers, still bound, twitched—tightened—held.
And they moved on.
Back on the viewing platform, Galadriel watched through a floating disc of scry-light, her eyes tracking each pair.
She murmured softly, more to herself than the aides around her:
"Some will find glyphs. Others will find grudges. But a few—"
She smiled, just faintly.
"—will find themselves."
And the forest watched, and waited.
The shadows had begun to stretch longer, drawn like fingers across the moss-laden floor of the forest. Shafts of golden light pierced through the canopy, catching the glint of bound hands and steel. Aleeman and Shi Zhao Mei moved in tandem—watchful, breath controlled, steps precise.
Their wrists still bound by Galadriel's spell, they were quiet now, until...
"Aleeman."
Her voice—measured, low—cut through the hush like silk through water.
He turned to her, brow raised.
"What is it?"
Zhao Mei tilted her head, a strange look dancing in her eye—half amused, half appraising.
"The thing I've been meaning to say..."
She paused.
"I'm rather impressed... that you slapped my father's face and made his jaw bleed."
Aleeman blinked, his mouth twitching into a smirk of restrained pride.
"Emperor Weng Jin Shun?"
His tone was sharp, almost incredulous.
"So... you were there. Hiding in the forest at Xinhi, weren't you?"
She straightened. Her eyes narrowed.
"How did you—?"
He tapped the side of his head, smirking again.
"Eagle sense. Comes with the rank."
She chuckled under her breath.
"What... was that slap?"
"It's the Abjannas Slap," he said with a glint in his eye, stepping closer.
"A technique passed only to our Janissaries and Commanders. Unlike a simple blow, it's surgical—a strike engineered to disorient, dismantle, or even kill. Precision through the palm. Grace through devastation."
Zhao Mei's eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in mock awe.
"My... my…" she whispered, teasing.
"You do have a flair for the dramatic."
But the jest dissolved in an instant.
CRACK!
The sound of a gunshot shattered the tranquillity.
Aleeman flinched violently as a bullet tore through his right arm, blood blossoming like a crimson rose across his sleeve. But he stayed upright, his sabre arm still firm, his jaw clenched.
"ALEEMAN!" Zhao Mei shouted, eyes wild.
He staggered, but his grip only tightened. His pupils scanned the treeline, voice low and serrated.
"It's an ambush. Ready yourself."
In a flash, his sabre Wolf Claw was drawn.
Beside him, Zhao Mei's wrist shimmered with silvery-red aura as her blade Asina Wo Do Blood manifested into her grasp—drawn from her very cultivation like fire summoned from spirit.
Then—a voice slithered through the trees.
"It's rude to start a dance without your guest of honour..."
From between two trees stepped a tall figure in layered black leathers and weathered boots, a crooked blade in one hand, a firearm slung at his back. His hair was silvered, not by age but by war. His grin was sharp enough to draw blood.
Salvador Mortayn.
Aleeman's brows pulled tight.
"Salvador."
Zhao Mei glanced at him, whispering quickly.
"You know him?"
Aleeman's jaw flexed.
"He's a mercenary captain—bandit lord. He hunts for coin and chaos. Loyal to no throne, only the weight of gold."
Now, more shadows moved—Salvador's men, surrounding them, forming a crescent of steel and smoke.
Aleeman raised his voice, keeping it even.
"Who sent you? What do you want?"
Salvador raised a brow.
"Want? Oh, Commander Wolf, I don't want. I obey."
He pointed his jagged sword toward Zhao Mei.
"The Angel of Death sends her regards. And a special request: bring back the girl."
Zhao Mei's eyes flared as she took a step forward, blade shimmering.
She clenched her dao.
"You'll try."
Aleeman stepped between them, his sabre raised.
"If you want her, you'll have to shatter the wall before you. And I do not break."
Zhao Mei looked at him from behind, her breath catching.
His words rang in her like a gong—strong, maddening, unwavering.
Inside, her heart stirred.
She said nothing.
But her grip on the blade tightened with wordless gratitude.
"CHARGE!" Salvador bellowed.
"HAYIDA!" Aleeman roared.
And the clearing exploded into chaos.
Swords clashed. Dust rose. Cries of pain, steel meeting steel, magic meeting flesh.
Aleeman ducked and countered, his sabre singing as he carved through two of Salvador's men, his bloodied arm still steady. Zhao Mei moved like a dancer possessed—her blade spiralling, her body coiled in precision. Her strikes were swift, cruel, and elegant—like poetry written in crimson.
But—
A sudden jerk.
From behind, a wire trap snapped—Salvador's design—and Zhao Mei was yanked back, her sword knocked from her hand.
In a blink, Salvador had her—his curved blade pressed against her throat, just below her chin.
"Drop the sabre," he hissed to Aleeman, "or she dies."
Aleeman froze. His eyes burned.
Zhao Mei, defiant even now, shouted:
"Don't! Don't give in! He'll kill us both anyway!"
Aleeman's body trembled—not with fear, but fury. A fury too deep to scream, too old to name.
He raised Wolf Claw—not to surrender—but to the sky.
Then he slammed the blade into the earth—hard.
A shockwave burst out from the sabre's edge, leaves scattering, air crackling, even Salvador staggering slightly.
Aleeman dropped to one knee, voice low, wrath boiling from his pores.
"You dare touch her..." he growled, his tone like thunder under restraint.
Salvador smirked.
"Enough performance. Queen Liskarm Jee awaits. Take them both—alive. Bruised is fine."
Chains were drawn. Binds summoned.
The wolves had been caught.
But the hunt was not over.