Obinai stumbles forward as Bram shoves him through the doors with a rough laugh, nearly sending him tripping into the dazzling glow beyond. The sudden warmth of the hall hits him like a blanket, rich with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meats, and something sweeter—honey-glazed pastries, maybe.
That's nice...
Above them, the ceiling swims with hundreds of tiny, self-contained lanterns—no, not lanterns. Orbs. Glass spheres encasing flickering flames that shift colors as they drift lazily through the air. Blues melt into purples, golds bleeding into soft pinks, their light reflecting off polished brass fixtures and the occasional floating gear that turns idly in the air, steam hissing from tiny valves.
Gods, Obinai thinks, this place looks like a dream.
The usual mess hall tables are gone, replaced by long, dark oak tables draped in ivory cloth. The edges are embroidered with constellations—thread-of-silver stitching that glows faintly. The chairs are high-backed, cushioned in deep emerald velvet, their armrests carved into twisting vines that seem to shift when he blinks.
Bram whistles low beside him. "Damn. They really went all out, huh?"
Obinai doesn't answer. His gaze snags on the crowd—elves. So many damn elves.
Tall, willowy figures that glide through the room. The women wear gowns with layers of translucent silk that ripple with every step. Some wear deep emerald or sapphire, their skirts flaring out behind them in cascades of fabric that whisper against the floor. The men aren't any less extravagant, their fitted coats lined with intricate clockwork patterns, cuffs and collars gleaming with tiny, enchanted cogs that turn on their own.
The dark elves stand out like shadows in the light—their gowns and suits black as ink, but shot through with threads of silver and cobalt that catch the light. Their dark skin seems to drink in the glow of the orbs, making the metallic embroidery along their sleeves and hems burn even brighter.
Where the hell are the beastkin? The orcs?
He spots a few gnomes—tiny, sharp-eyed figures in tailored waistcoats, their fingers glittering with too many rings—but they're tucked into corners, talking amongst themselves. No one else.
Bram nudges him. "Yo. You gonna stand there gawkin' all night?"
Obinai shakes himself, forcing his feet to move. "Just... didn't expect it to be so..."
"Fancy?" Bram snorts. "Yeah, well. Elves love showin' off." He grins, elbowing Obinai toward a table. "C'mon. I smell meat."
Tieflings stand nearby, some in tailored black suits with high collars, their horns polished to a gleam. Their suits are sharp, modern, with splashes of vibrant red or blue accents, matching their skin tones—some of deep crimson, others of cool blues and purples. The tails of the tieflings sway behind them as they walk, adding a sense of fluidity to their movements. Other races, like dwarves in finely embroidered waistcoats mingle in the crowd, all wearing their finest attire, creating a kaleidoscope of color.
Obinai and Bram slow their pace as they take it all in. Bram leans over, whispering, "Kinda freaking out right now…"
Obinai chuckles under his breath. "All we have to do is find dessert," he says with a smirk.
Bram nods, his nerves easing a bit, and the two split up, each moving through the crowd on their own. As Obinai walks, scanning the room for the dessert table, he suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Linea. She's standing with a group of other girls, their laughter filling the air. Her blue skin practically glows against the pale gray fabric of her gown, a sleek dress that wraps around her frame. Her tail sways lazily behind her, brushing against the floor, and her black hair cascades in loose waves over her shoulders.
Linea turns, noticing Obinai. She arches an eyebrow. "Oh, it's you."
Obinai's face flushes crimson as he offers an awkward smile, nearly fumbling the drink in his hands that he picks up. "Hey."
Linea sighs. "Did you deign to witness my exhibition against that uncouth brawler?" Her voice takes on an affected lilt.
Obinai blinks. "Huh? Why're you talking like—"
A sharp pinch at his elbow cuts him off. Linea leans in, her rosewater perfume momentarily overwhelming. "This is a banquet, you dolt," she hisses through a smile. "Where alliances are forged over canapés and carefully measured words. Now answer properly—did you observe the match?"
The intensity of her gaze pins him like a butterfly to corkboard. Obinai's throat works as he scrambles for diplomacy. "I mean... initially you were totally holding your own! But when Bram..." He mimes an explosion with his hands, wine sloshing dangerously. "Y'know. Went all Bram on you..."
Linea's smile remains flawless, but her grip on his arm turns vice-like. "How illuminating," she purrs, loud enough for nearby ears. Then, sotto voce: "Meet me by the west balcony in five minutes if you value your limbs."
As she sweeps away in a rustle of silk, Obinai becomes acutely aware of three things: the stares of nearby nobles, the cold sweat trickling down his back, and the distinct impression he's just failed something...
He stumbles back, his shoulder clipping the edge of a passing servant's tray. Crystal glasses chime dangerously, and he barely catches one before it topples, his fingers slick against the chilled surface. "Shit—sorry," he mutters, righting himself with an awkward half-step—
—only to freeze.
The air leaves his lungs in a rush.
Lyra stands before him, a vision of midnight and silver. Her gown clings to her like it's made of liquid, the high collar framing a face so sharp it could cut glass. Up close, her violet eyes burn with an intensity that makes his pulse stutter. The scent of winter roses and something darker—iron, maybe, or steel—wreathes around her.
Obinai's mouth goes dry.
Behind her, the cluster of dark elves goes silent. He recognizes them—the same ones from the caves...
Someone new, a male with a scar bisecting his brow, leans in to murmur something. Lyra doesn't react, but her knuckles whiten around her untouched wineglass.
Obinai forces a grin, dusting imaginary lint off his sleeves. "My bad," he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strangled. "Didn't see you there."
Lyra's smirk is a knife's edge. "Clearly." Her gaze flicks over him—the rumpled suit, the too-loose tie—and her nose wrinkles faintly. "Why are you here?"
The question lands like a slap.
"I tho—"
"You thought," she cuts in. "That's the problem." A pause. The hall's chandeliers cast jagged shadows across her cheekbones. "This celebration was reserved for the winner."
Obinai's jaw tightens. He opens his mouth—
"Which you barely were."
Lyth materializes from the crowd, his grin all teeth. He claps a hand on Obinai's shoulder. "Hence why all participants were invited." His gaze locks onto Lyra's. "Even the runner-up."
A muscle jumps in Lyra's jaw. The dark elves behind her stiffen, but she lifts a hand—a tiny gesture—and they still.
The silence stretches...
Then Lyra exhales through her nose, her shoulders squaring. "How... generous."
Lyth's smile doesn't waver. "Isn't it just?"
Obinai watches the exchange like a mouse caught between two circling hawks.
And Lyra—
Lyra's staring at him again. Really looking, this time. As if she's peeling back his skin to examine the marrow beneath.
Then, without another word, she turns on her heel. Her gown swirls like stormclouds as she strides back to her kin, leaving Obinai standing there, heart hammering, the ghost of her scent clinging to his clothes.
Lyth sighs, shaking his head. "Well," he murmurs, plucking the rescued glass from Obinai's limp fingers. "That could've gone worse."
Obinai swallows. "How?"
Lyth places the glass on a passing tray. "She could've hit you."
Somewhere across the hall, Lyra's laughter rings out—cold, sharp, and utterly humorless.
Yeah...
...
...
Obinai's stomach growls like a starved beast as he finally spots the serving tables at the far end of the hall. His feet move before his brain catches up, weaving through clusters of chatting students and nobles with single-minded determination.
When he reaches the tables...
"Holy shit..."
The spread before him is alive with color and scent.
Meats, glazed in shimmering sauces that shift between gold and deep crimson, steam gently on silver platters. Their rich, smoky aroma wraps around him, pulling him closer. Fruits, plump and translucent, pulse with inner light—some a soft violet, others a vibrant emerald—their skins so thin they might burst at the slightest touch. Towering pastries, flaky and delicate, ooze fillings that ripple between shades of cream and honey-gold as the light hits them. And the bread—spiraled, braided, twisted into impossible shapes—emits a warm, spiced scent that makes his mouth flood with saliva.
Obinai snatches a plate.
He's halfway through piling on a slab of roasted meat—its juices dripping onto his fingers—when a voice cuts through the noise behind him.
"I must express my gratitude."
The voice is smooth and familiar.
Obinai turns, still clutching his overloaded plate, and nearly drops it.
Killian Ashmount stands there, dressed in layers of black-on-black—a tailored coat of deepest obsidian velvet over a high-collared shirt so dark it drinks the light. Silver embroidery traces the edges, subtle but unmistakably regal. His boots are polished to a mirror shine, the buckles gleaming like stars against the night.
Clean fit for real, Obinai thinks, then immediately curses himself.
"Uh—thanks, man," he stammers, gripping his plate tighter. A few nobles nearby turn, their conversations stuttering to a halt as their eyes flick between them.
Killian's lips quirk, but his voice drops lower, just for Obinai's ears. "Don't abuse what I've just given you."
Obinai blinks. "Wha—?"
But Killian is already turning away, tossing one last remark over his shoulder. "Wherever you go, the show follows. I wish to have a seat to watch." A pause. "So I offer you my support."
Then, with the effortless grace, he's gone—melting into the sea of bodies.
The nobles stare. The whispers start.
Obinai stands frozen, his plate still steaming in his hands, mind racing.
What the hell was that?
Shaking himself, he shoves a forkful of meat into his mouth—and nearly moans. The flavor explodes—rich, smoky, with a hint of something like spiced wine. He barely chews before grabbing another bite, then another, piling his plate higher without care for decorum.
One of the glowing fruits catches his eye. He plucks it, and the moment his teeth break the skin, a burst of tart-sweet juice floods his tongue, followed by a cooling sensation that tingles down his throat.
"Damn," he mutters, mouth full. "Magic food's no joke."
Obinai shoves another golden-brown pastry into his mouth, the flaky crust practically dissolving on his tongue. The burst of spiced apple and honey hits him like a punch—rich, sweet, and somehow alive with magic. His eyes widen as warmth spreads through his chest, the fatigue from the trials ebbing away with each bite.
Around them, the banquet hall thrums with hushed conversations. Nobles cluster in tight circles, their jewel-toned silks whispering against each other as they lean in to exchange gossip.
Obinai doesn't care. Right now, his world consists of the plate in his hands and the next bite.
Then—THUD.
He collides hard with something solid, nearly sending his food flying. Bram staggers back, his own plate piled high with enough meat and bread to feed a small village. His cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's, his eyes wide with surprise as he chews furiously.
They stare at each other for a beat...
Bram swallows with an audible gulp, then raises a grease-smeared hand, pointing across the room. "Mmff—there!" he mumbles, jerking his chin toward an empty table tucked in the corner.
Obinai nods, his own mouth too full to speak. They weave through the crowd like thieves, dodging servants carrying silver platters and nobles who shoot them disdainful looks. A passing elven lord sniffs as Obinai brushes past, his nose wrinkling.
They crash into their seats with twin thuds, plates clattering onto the polished oak. For a moment, there's no sound but the furious scraping of forks and the occasional muffled groan of appreciation.
Bram, halfway through a roast pheasant leg, tries to talk around a mouthful. "Y'hear—mmph—any'a the talk goin' 'round?"
Obinai blinks, chewing slowly. "The hell was that?"
Bram rolls his eyes, swallows hard, and tries again. "There's gonna be some big announcement," he says, already reaching for a butter-slathered roll. "Soon."
Obinai pauses mid-bite, his curiosity piqued. "What kind of announcement?"
Bram shrugs, tearing into the roll with his teeth. "Dunno," he admits, flakes of pastry sticking to his stubble. "But with the way these fancy bastards are whispering?" He jerks his head toward a nearby cluster of nobles, their eyes darting toward the high table where the faculty and royalty sits. "Gotta be somethin' good."
A few moments pass as the clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation fill the dining hall as Obinai and Bram dig into their meals
Obinai chews slowly, lost in thought—until his eyes suddenly widen. "Shit."
Bram looks up, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. "Uh... you good?"
Obinai doesn't answer, already pushing back his chair with a screech of wood on stone. "Yeah, gimme a sec."
Bram watches him go, then shrugs and takes another bite. "Hurry back before the announcement, dumbass," he calls after him, mouth full.
No sooner has Obinai vanished into the crowd than a trio of nobles approach Bram's table. Their fine silks and polished jewelry stand out starkly against the academy's aesthetic.
"Mind if we join you?" asks a tall elf with an overly polished smile.
Bram leans back, crossing his arms. "I dunno... do I?" He gestures lazily at the empty seats. "But sure, why not?"
...
...
Obinai weaves through the crowd, shoulders bumping against students and nobles alike, earning him a few irritated glares. By the time he reaches the balcony, his breath comes in short gasps. The evening air is cool against his flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of blooming nightflowers from the courtyard below.
Linea stands at the railing, her back to him, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the stone.
Obinai exhales sharply, leaning against the archway. "I'm sorry—"
Linea doesn't turn. "If I become a Viantant in my noble house," she cuts in, "I'll have claim on the Node of Sol." Her fingers flex, and for a heartbeat, the air around them shimmers with heat. "Do you know what that means?"
Obinai swallows. "Uh… no?"
She finally turns, lips curled in a smirk. "It means I could sear the limbs off a man just by touching him." Her gaze drops meaningfully to his arms. "So...you wanted food?"
Obinai takes a reflexive step back, hands raised. "My bad, my bad! I just—I was hungry, I didn't mean to—"
She steps forward, and he steps back again, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Okay, okay!" he blurts. "You had something you wanted to talk about, right?"
Linea stops. For a moment, she just stares at him, then exhales sharply through her nose and turns back to the balcony. Obinai hesitates, then cautiously follows, keeping a respectful distance.
Gods, no wonder Bram avoids her.
She leans against the railing. "I've known Bram my whole life," she says, quieter now. "I know when he's mad. When he's sad. When he's faking a smile." A pause. "And I know when he's hiding something."
Obinai glances at her. The way her jaw clenches, the faint flush creeping up her neck—oh. He smirks inwardly. This is too easy.
Linea interrupts his thoughts with a sharp, "So. I know he's hiding something now."
Obinai blinks. "What do you mean?"
She hesitates, fingers twisting the fabric of her sleeve. "I've heard… rumors."
"Rumors?"
"About Bram." Her voice drops. "That he's… vulgar."
Obinai raises an eyebrow. "That could mean a lot of things."
Linea's blush deepens. "I mean his urges."
"Oh." Obinai's smirk returns. "Ohhh."
She scowls. "On his off days, he leaves campus. Students have seen him going into the Bordy District."
Obinai chokes. "The what district?"
"The one where nobles go for pleasure," she snaps.
"Oh." Obinai rubs the back of his neck. "That's… uh…"
"So," she continues, "I want you to find out if it's true."
"What?"
Linea exhales sharply, shaking her head. "Never mind. Useless." She waves a hand dismissively. "Just—if you see anything, bring it to me."
Obinai nods slowly. "Okay…?" The word hangs awkwardly in the air as he turns to leave.
A sudden grip on his shoulder stops him cold. Linea's nails dig in just enough to make him wince.
"You're failing," she hisses, spinning him around to face her. The torchlight catches the sharp angles of her face, making her amber eyes glow like banked embers.
"Huh?"
Linea exhales through her nose, the sound somewhere between frustration and exhaustion. "Gods below, you really don't get it." She studies his blank expression and throws up her hands. "Look - that little display with Killian? That wasn't just some random favor."
She steps closer, lowering her voice.
"You've got an Ashmount heir's backing now," she says. "Do you have any idea what that means?"
Obinai shifts his weight. "So...less people will try to kill me?"
Linea's laugh is sharp as broken glass. "Oh you sweet summer child." She pokes him hard in the chest. "It means you're a political piece now. And right now? You're playing that game like a drunkard."
Around them, the party's din swells - the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk, the occasional too-loud laugh. Linea glances over her shoulder before continuing.
"That temper of yours? That mouth? They're liabilities now." Her fingers twitch like she wants to shake him. "You should be working the room, making connections, not skulking in corners like some..."
"Like some forsaken?" Obinai finishes.
Linea's expression softens just for a moment. "Like someone who wants to stay alive." She leans in, her breath warm against his ear. "Assassination attempts rarely fail when the target's too stubborn to play the game."
A sudden commotion near the banquet tables draws their attention. Linea steps back, smoothing her dress. "Go. And for once in your life, try not to make enemies."
As Obinai walks away, Linea watches him disappear into the crowd. Her fingers worry at the pendant around her neck - a twin to the one Bram has tucked under his pillow.
"What aren't you telling me?" she whispers to the night air, her fingers tightening around the pendant at her throat. The swelling music swallows her words...
Why can't I reach you? The unspoken question burns hot in her stomach. After all this time, why do you still keep walls between us?
...
...
Obinai weaves through the crowded banquet hall. As he dodges a servant balancing a tray of crystal goblets, his thoughts churn.
Why the hell would I want them to like me anyway?
He emerges near one of the long dining tables and spots Bram—laughing, loud and unrefined, with a pair of nobles who look about as comfortable as cats in a rainstorm. One of them, a thin man with a meticulously groomed beard, makes a face like he's just bitten into something sour. The other—a woman in silver-threaded robes—whispers sharply into his ear. The man's expression smooths into a painfully fake smile.
Bram grins as Obinai approaches. "Hey! Get what you needed?"
Obinai drops into the seat across from him with a sigh. "Yeah."
A pause. The nobles shift awkwardly.
Obinai leans forward, elbows on the table. "So. Good fight, huh? Real mess was made."
The nobles blink. The woman's smile tightens. "Ah. Yes. Quite... something." She clears her throat. "If you'll excuse us..."
They stand in unison, practically fleeing back into the crowd.
Bram waits exactly two seconds before he explodes, laughter roaring out of him like a busted dam. He slaps the table, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "Oh—oh gods—their faces—"
Obinai sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. I know."
Bram wipes his eyes, still wheezing. "Were you—hah—were you actually trying to get on their good side?"
Obinai makes a face. "...Kinda?"
Bram shakes his head, still grinning. "Man, even I know how to play that game, and I'm forsaken." He takes a swig of cider straight from the bottle. "You gotta give 'em what they want."
That sounds familiar...
Obinai frowns. "And what do they want?"
Bram throws his hands up. "Hell if I know! Depends on the day!" He barks another laugh. "Sometimes it's flattery, sometimes it's pretending you don't exist. Sometimes they just wanna feel superior while you kiss their boots."
Obinai snorts despite himself. "Sounds exhausting."
"Oh, it is," Bram agrees, still chuckling.
Obinai's gaze drifts across the hall. Near the center, Tarin stands with a group of tieflings, his sharp laughter cutting through the murmur of conversation. Further off, Elrik leans against a pillar, speaking quietly with Seraphina. For a fraction of a second, their eyes meet—Elrik's lips twitch, something almost like amusement flashing in his gaze before he turns back.
Obinai looks away, stabbing a piece of roasted meat with more force than necessary.
Bram notices, raising a brow. "Problem?"
"No."
"Liar."
Obinai exhales through his nose but doesn't argue.
They eat in comfortable silence for a while, the clatter of silverware and hum of conversation filling the space between them. Bram demolishes his plate, while Obinai now picks at his food, thoughts still tangled.
Finally, Bram leans back, stretching with a satisfied groan. "Whatever's coming next," he says, nodding toward the raised platform at the center of the hall where faculty and high-ranking guests are gathering, "we'll find out soon enough."
Obinai follows his gaze. "Yeah."
He shoves the last bite of spiced meat into his mouth, chewing absently—until movement at the hall's center snaps his attention forward. His fingers freeze mid-reach for his ale.
"There they are," Bram mutters around a mouthful of bread, nudging Obinai's ribs with his elbow. "Royal Council's inner circle. Rest must've skipped the party."
The first to step forward is a figure who moves like shadow given form. Taller than any dark elf has a right to be, his silver hair spills down his back in locs like a tough waterfall. His skin is the deep, weathered slate of storm-carved cliffs, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—one glacial blue, the other a violet so dark it pulses like a dying star.
Obinai's throat goes dry.
The king's attire is a masterpiece of intimidation—a floor-length cloak of amethyst velvet, its silver embroidery catching the light in whispers rather than shouts. Beneath it, a tailored jacket of black spider-silk clings to his frame, fastened by chains of white gold that chime softly with each step. His boots? Black wyvern leather, polished to a mirror sheen, the heels tipped with what look suspiciously like dragonbone.
"That's Lyra's old man," Bram whispers, as if reading Obinai's mind. "Try not to piss that guy off."
Obinai barely has time to process that before the dwarf strides forward.
He's built like a siege engine—barrel-chested, arms thick as tree trunks, his face a roadmap of old wars written in scars and a nose that's been broken at least thrice. His beard, a masterpiece of copper-and-iron braids, sways with every step, the metallic clasps clinking softly.
His outfit is deceptively simple—a tunic of deep umber, stitched with gold thread in patterns that mimic mountain ranges. But the belt? Solid mithril, its buckle forged into the shape of a hammer striking an anvil. The ceremonial warhammer at his hip looks less like a symbol and more like something he's used to crack skulls open for fun.
"Nawndamn," Bram says, grinning. "Only king who drinks his generals under the table before battle. Also, allegedly, punched a dragon knight in the jaw once."
Obinai chokes on his ale.
Then—light.
She glides into position, her presence hitting the room like a winter breeze. Moon-pale hair cascades down her back, so silver it hurts to look at directly. Her eyes are the green of deep forest pools—the kind that drown men who stare too long.
Her gown—layers of iridescent silk that shift from pearl to midnight blue with every movement. The bracelets at her wrists aren't jewelry; they're spell-cages, thin silver bands humming with power. The necklace at her throat? A single teardrop sapphire that pulses faintly, like a heartbeat.
Bram shudders. "Seraphina's mom. Also, fun fact? That dress? It's alive."
Ok...
Obinai decides then and there to never make eye contact.
Last comes the tiefling king—and the air itself seems to ripple around him. Crimson skin glows like embers beneath a black coat lined with blood-red stitching, the high collar framing a face carved from arrogance and sharp angles. His horns curl back like twin scimitars, their points filed to a lethal shine.
But it's the tail that holds Obinai's gaze—sleek, muscular, the spaded tip flicking lazily behind him like a predator's tease.
"Cinderflare's main benefactor," Bram murmurs. "Also, allegedly, once burned a man to ash for coughing during his speech."
Obinai swallows hard. "Why do all these people sound like walking death sentences?"
Bram grins, raising his tankard. "Because they are, dude."
The clinking of silverware slows. The murmur of conversation dims to a hush.
At the center of the hall, four figures stand. The flickering glow of floating lanterns casts long shadows across their faces, highlighting the sharp angles of their features. The air hums—
—Lyth steps forward.
His polished boots click against the marble floor, the sound crisp in the sudden silence. A slow, knowing smile curls at the edges of his lips as he surveys the crowd.
"Good evening," he says. "Tell me... did today's matches feel different to you?"
A ripple of murmurs. Nods. A few scattered whispers of agreement.
Lyth tilts his head. "The rush. The unpredictability. The sheer spectacle of it." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "I felt it too."
Across the room, Obinai's fork hovers halfway to his mouth, a piece of meat forgotten. Next to him, Bram freezes mid-chew, his jaw working slowly as he processes Lyth's words. Their eyes meet—a silent exchange of oh shit, what now?
Lyth spreads his hands, the gesture expansive. "So I propose a change." A beat. "No more repetition. No more predictable brackets." His smile sharpens. "Every for the students from this moment onward will be unique."
The hall erupts.
Gasps. Excited chatter. A few outraged protests from traditionalists.
Obinai's pulse kicks up.
_Unique?
What does that even mean?_
Bram swallows hard, leaning in. "You think that means—"
"No more rules?" Obinai finishes.
Bram grins, wild and reckless. "Hope so."
Lyth raises a hand, and silence falls once more. "These changes," he continues, "have been approved by the royal court."
He gives a small, deliberate clap, and it's quickly followed by a polite but scattered round of applause from the audience. The four members of the royal court nod gracefully, acknowledging the audience without saying a word. The applause fades as quickly as it began, and the room falls quiet once more.
"We'll keep the first-year tournament as is," Lyth announces, waving a dismissive hand. "But..." He pauses, turning slowly on his heel to face the crowd fully. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries to every corner of the hall. "What if, in the second year... it wasn't just duels?"
A beat. The air thrums.
"What if they fought—all at once?"
Gasps. Whispers. A few scattered whoops from the bolder students.
Lyth grins. He raises a hand again, but this time it's not to silence them—it's to stoke them. "Oh, but wait!" He chuckles, pacing now with exaggerated thoughtfulness, one hand rubbing his chin. "Third years! What do we do with them, hm? A simple tournament?" He scoffs dramatically. "Boring! Predictable!"
He stops dead, spinning to face them with a flourish. "Teams of seven. Battle formations. Strategy against strategy."
The murmurs grow louder, more excited. Nearby, a group of third-years immediately start elbowing each other, already forming hypothetical alliances.
Obinai and Bram lock eyes.
"Damn," they say in unison.
Lyth, meanwhile, has moved on. His expression sobers slightly as he folds his arms. "Now. Fourth years." A weighted pause. "That's... a complicated year, isn't it?"
The room quiets, sensing the shift.
"So I thought—why have them fight each other?" He shrugs, then flashes a dangerous smile. "When they can fight the beasts of the Everglades instead on a point system."
"The Everglades?!" someone shrieks.
Obinai's head whips toward Bram. "Beasts? What—?"
Bram's earlier excitement dims. He leans in, voice low. "Animals that feed on raw essence. Some get strong enough to rip through fourth-star martial artists like parchment."
Obinai pales. "Oh."
Lyth, utterly pleased with the pandemonium, raises his hands. "Questions later!" he calls over the noise, though his eyes sparkle with amusement. "Trust me—it'll be worth it."
Then he steps forward, and the room stills once more.
"And now," he murmurs, "the fifth years."
A hush. Even the royal delegates lean in slightly.
"A challenge."
Confused murmurs ripple out.
"Thanks to this institution's standing," he continues, "its students may issue open challenges—to anyone in the kingdom, of equal or greater strength." A pause. "Publicly. In the royal arena."
The gasps this time are louder. More frantic.
"Royalty excluded, of course," Lyth adds breezily. "Unless you fancy begging the crown for permission."
Students leap to their feet. Someone drops a textbook with a loud thud. Obinai turns to Bram, expecting his usual wild enthusiasm—
But Bram is silent. Unnervingly so. His fingers tap a restless rhythm against his thigh, his gaze distant.
"Bram?" Obinai frowns.
Bram doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on some far-off point.
Obinai nudges Bram slightly with his elbow. "Did you hear what he said?" he whispers, looking at Bram curiously.
Bram jolts a little, snapping back. "Yeah, I heard him…" he says hurriedly, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for something. "I just… I think I know who I'd challenge."
Obinai raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Who?"
Bram chuckles quietly, glancing toward the royal court standing nearby. "I can't say yet… they'll hear me. That's how powerful they are."
Obinai scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Since when do you get all cryptic? You been sneaking into shadow mage lectures or something?"
Bram barks a laugh, loud enough that a few nearby students glance over. "Nah," he says, slapping Obinai's shoulder with enough force to make him sway. "Just figured I'd keep you guessing. Makes life more fun."
Before Obinai can retort, a sharp clink of crystal interrupts the chatter.
Lyth stands at the head of the hall, his wine glass raised. The ambient light catches the liquid inside, casting a blood-red glow across his fingers. "Now," he begins, "for our final announcements before we conclude tonight's… eventful banquet."
A chorus of groans rises from the students. Someone in the back mutters, "Just let us leave already."
Lyth's smile doesn't waver. "This tournament was unique—not merely for its outcome,"—his gaze flicks, ever so briefly, toward Lyra—"but for the… discourse it inspired."
A ripple of tension passes through the room. Eyes dart toward Lyra, who stands rigid near the edge of the crowd. Her spine is steel-straight, her chin lifted in defiance, but Obinai doesn't miss the way her fingers tighten around her own glass...
"As the victor," Lyth continues, "Lyra has earned the right to claim any handcrafted relic from the academy vaults… and an open invitation to any guild of her choosing."
Polite applause follows, scattered and half-hearted. The nobles clap with gloved hands, their expressions carefully neutral. The common-born students cheer louder, but even their enthusiasm feels forced.
Lyra doesn't move. Doesn't react. If she hears the whispers slithering through the crowd—"Did she really deserve it?" "That match in the beginning wasn't regulation—"—she gives no sign.
Bram stretches, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Welp," he says, grabbing his plate and piling the last few pastries onto a napkin. "That's our cue. Let's—"
"Lastly," Lyth interjects. "Bram."
Silence.
Bram freezes, a pastry halfway to his mouth. "...Me?"
Lyth's smile deepens. "Yes, you. Step forward, if you would..."