Blazar scoffed, the sound harsher than she'd intended. The bitter taste of humiliation sat heavy on her tongue as she pushed herself to her feet with more force than necessary, her palms stinging from where they'd scraped against the rough stone.
The courtyard felt smaller suddenly, the ancient walls pressing in like judgment itself.
"You're jealous," she accused, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, raw and desperate.
She glanced at him—just for a flicker, quick as a hummingbird's wing—and caught something raw in his expression.
Jealousy? Resentment? Pain? It carved lines around his eyes she'd never noticed before, made his jaw clench in a way that spoke of swallowed words and buried truths.
It was gone before she could decipher it, replaced by his usual smirk, but the ghost of it lingered in the air between them like smoke from a snuffed candle.
Like the phantom ache of a wound that never quite healed.
"Those five are bad news, no matter how good they seem," Vyne muttered finally, jerking his chin toward Xeari's retreating figure.
His voice carried the weight of experience, the kind of bitter knowledge that came from getting burned by pretty faces and noble intentions.
"He's different," Blazar argued, standing and dusting off her clothes with sharp, angry movements that betrayed the tremor in her fingers.
Dirt and debris fell like accusations around her boots.
The words came out more defensive than she'd meant them to, betraying feelings she wasn't ready to examine—feelings that made her chest tight and her breath shallow. "He doesn't seem like the rest."
Even as she said it, she could feel the lie burning her throat. Could remember the weight of Xeari's gaze, calculating and distant, like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. Or maybe didn't bother to.
Vyne's grin turned wicked, all sharp edges and knowing looks that made her want to punch something.
Preferably his face. "Oho~ Looks like someone has a crush," he sing-songed, the words dripping with the kind of gleeful malice that only came from hitting too close to home. From finding the exact nerve that made someone flinch.
"I'm not here for that," she snapped, but her ears burned with embarrassment that she couldn't quite hide.
The heat crept up her neck like a slow fire, spreading across her cheekbones in a flush that felt like betrayal.
She was grateful for the wrapglasses that hid at least part of her reaction, though she suspected Vyne could read her.
"Sure, sure." Vyne gave an exaggerated bow, all theatrical flourish and mock chivalry that made her teeth itch.
His navy hair fell across his forehead in a way that was probably supposed to be charming but just looked infuriating. "Then allow me to escort you to the trials, m'lady."
Blazar rolled her eyes and shoved past him, her shoulder connecting with his chest harder than strictly necessary.
She felt the solid warmth of him, the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact, but refused to acknowledge either.
But as she walked, one thought lingered in her mind like a song she couldn't shake:
What the hell was that feeling?
The sensation of Xeari's presence lingered on her skin like invisible fingerprints—warm and entirely too distracting.
It made her wonder what it would feel like to have those grey eyes focused on her completely, without the careful distance he seemed to maintain with everyone.
And more importantly—why did she want to feel it again?
The thought scared her more than she cared to admit.
---
Blazar followed Vyne through the winding corridors of Prestigia High, her boots scuffing against the polished floors with each reluctant step.
The walls, lined with gilded portraits of past monarchs, seemed to leer at her as they passed—judging, always judging.
Their painted eyes glared at her with an awareness that made her skin crawl, as if the long-dead royalty could smell her commoner blood from their golden frames.
The air was thick with the expensive cologne of the nobles walking around—bergamot and sandalwood and something that probably cost more than she made as Kaelric assassin in a month.
Then, the corridor opened into a vast, sunlit stadium that stole the breath from her lungs.
At its center stood a colossal glass dome, its surface shimmering like a soap bubble about to burst.
The structure seemed to pulse with its own inner light, casting rainbow fractals across the emerald grass that looked too perfect to be real.
Around it, dozens of students clustered like exotic birds, their clothes a riot of colors against the perfectly manicured landscape.
Silks and satins in jewel tones caught the light like scattered gems.
Some whispered behind jeweled hands that caught the sun like small suns themselves; others sparred with magic that crackled in the air like static, leaving the taste of ozone on her tongue.
The energy was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
"That's where I'm supposed to go, I guess," Blazar sighed, rolling her stiff shoulders. The weight of expectation pressed down on her like a physical thing, making each breath feel earned. She took a step forward—
"Do you need a companion?" Vyne drawled, popping a bubble of gum with deliberate casualness. It burst with a sound like a tiny gunshot.
Blazar turned mid-stride, her glare sharp enough to flay skin. Heat prickled behind her eyes—anger or embarrassment, she couldn't tell which. "Why the hell would I need a babysitter? I work better alone."
It was true. She'd always been better with her own company, her own thoughts, her own failures.
Other people just complicated things, made her second-guess herself when she needed to be sure. People can't be trusted, they lie, they penetrate, they kill. This wasn't an exception of herself.
"Okay then," Vyne said with a shrug that was too casual to be genuine, "because newsflash, Orion—you'll be the only one standing alone. And trust me, no one's gonna risk cozying up to Dante's prey. You messed up big time."
The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with surgical precision on her already bruised pride.
Dante's prey.
Is that what she was now? Just another victim waiting to be devoured?
Blazar's scowl could've curdled milk. "You absolute cockroach," she hissed, stepping into his space close enough to smell the mint on his breath, to see the flecks of gold in his yellow robotic eye. "Don't play dumb—you dragged me into this mess. You begged for my help!"
The accusation hung between them like a blade waiting to fall.
Vyne's smile widened, but the playful twinkle in his eyes had vanished completely, replaced by something far more calculating. "That's where you trap yourself, Orion," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey yet just as intoxicatingly dangerous.
"I asked for your help. I never forced you to. Meaning you had the ability to ignore. But you chose to help."
His face wasn't the charming, playful Vyne she was used to—the one who brought her food and made stupid jokes and pretended to care about her wellbeing.
His expression transformed into that of a man striking a deal and evading his responsibilities, like a cold-eyed dealer watching his mark realize they'd been played.
The kind of smile that belonged in back alleys and broken promises.
And Blazar's face mirrored that of someone who had fallen into a conman's trap—astonished, confused, and utterly furious.
She raised her middle finger at him with enough venom to poison a small country and walked away, her spine rigid.
Leaning against the stadium's curved wall—close enough to watch the show, far enough to bolt if things went south—Blazar peeled open the grease-stained wrapper Vyne had tossed her earlier.
The paper was warm against her fingers, slightly damp from the food inside. Inside sat a golden-brown "Piroshki," its flaky dough still steaming and releasing an aroma that made her mouth water despite everything.
The pastry was stuffed with spiced venison and caramelized onions that smelled like comfort and home and everything she'd never had.
The rich scent made her stomach growl audibly, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since dawn. At least the bastard had decent taste in food, even if his taste in friends left something to be desired.
She bit into it savagely, as if the innocent pastry had personally wronged her.
Then—silence.
A hush rolled through the crowd like a wave, sudden and absolute. Conversations died mid-sentence, laughter cut off as if someone had thrown a switch. The change was so abrupt it made her ears ring, and she looked up from her food to see what had caused the collective terror.
Five figures emerged from the Onyx Archway—a towering gateway of blackened steel shaped like interlocking fangs, its edges glowing with molten copper veins that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The kings of Prestigia had arrived.
Dante led the pack, his movements all street-bred swagger wrapped in aristocratic privilege.
His white trench coat—the same uniform as the others—had been defiantly customized: sleeves ripped off to reveal corded arms inked with fiery orange tribal marks that seemed to move in the shifting light.
The hem strategically torn to show glimpses of his combat harness beneath.
The remaining fabric billowed behind him like the mane of an untamed lion, the color bleeding from white to sunset-orange at the frayed edges as if it had been dipped in flame.
He moved like violence barely contained, like a wildfire given human form.