They slipped into a quieter lane near the Upper Market, where the cobbles shone like scrubbed pewter and even the shadows smelled politely of citrus.
"Nice upgrade," Fig murmured from his usual perch inside Elara's hood—utterly invisible to anyone else. "Nothing says 'discipline' like sandalwood cologne and delusions of grandeur."
Ahead, two figures sparred in the empty courtyard of a shuttered tea-house.
A tall, whip-lean girl in impeccably tailored leathers—each stitch probably had its own heraldry—moved in crisp, perfect arcs. Her dark braid cracked like a whip each time she spun, sword flashing silver.
Opposite her, a broad-shouldered boy with shaggy brown hair blocked rather than struck, feet planted solidly, patience in every measured counter.
With a deft twist the girl knocked his blade aside and froze her tip at his throat.
"You're still dropping your left," she chided.
"And you're still rehearsing for an opera," he deadpanned.
Elara slowed, drawn in despite herself. That was disciplined footwork, sharp and purposeful. She noted the slight twitch in the girl's jaw as she registered her audience—a stranger's presence always disrupted rhythm. It said volumes that the girl kept her focus.
The girl's gaze swept over Elara. Measured. Dismissive.
A mistake.
"Enjoying the demonstration?" she called, voice smooth as oiled steel.
Elara tilted her head, keeping her posture open. "I've seen drunk crabs with tighter guards."
The boy huffed a laugh, low and unbothered.
The girl arched an elegant brow. "And you are?"
"Elara."
"Elara...?"
"Just Elara."
"How quaint." The girl sheathed her blade with a practiced twirl. "Lyssandra Velhart, fire-born line—daughter of General Velhart. I'll be posting the top of the Academy rankings soon; do check."
Too soon to hex her tea? Fig whispered, his voice a soft tickle in Elara's ear.
"Nice wristwork," Elara said with a polite nod. "You hold tension well. Shame your foot drags half a beat on the pivot."
A muscle twitched in Lyssandra's cheek.
The boy stepped forward, offering a hand. "Ignore her pre-battle theatrics. I'm Teryn—smith's son, quarter-stag, amateur peace-keeper."
Elara took his hand, feeling the firm weight of honesty behind it. She noticed the faint shimmer in his eyes—antler-echoes beneath the surface.
"You brace like a stag. Solid."
"Some call it slow," he said with a sheepish grin. "I call it not getting skewered."
Practical, Fig noted. I approve.
Lyssandra flicked her fingers, conjuring a casual arc of flame between them. "Laugh while you can. Trials don't grade charm, beast blood, or forest strays. They grade results."
Elara offered a mild smile. "Pretty flames. Controlled, even. Do they come in useful colors too?"
Lyssandra's smirk twisted. "House Velhart shapes fire as it breathes. And you?"
"I specialize," Elara murmured, "in not getting burned."
Lyssandra gave a curt nod, spun on her heel, and swept off with smoke-scented arrogance.
"She doesn't like me," Elara said once the girl was out of earshot.
She doesn't like anyone she doesn't already see in a mirror, Fig replied. But I bet she burns beautifully under pressure.
Teryn chuckled, rubbing his neck. "You two are dangerous. I like it. You in for the Trials?"
"Wouldn't miss them."
"Then here's hoping we're allies, not opponents." He dipped his head and faded into the thinning crowd, moving with the quiet purpose of someone trained to vanish.
Elara watched him go. The snow under her boots crunched softly, but warmth lingered in her chest.
"Think he's trustworthy?" she asked softly.
Didn't sneer, didn't swagger, didn't flinch when you critiqued his stance, Fig assessed. Seven out of ten. Room for improvement, but promising.
"She's fire," Elara mused. "He's antlers and anchor. What does that make me?"
Fig settled deeper into her hood, wings tucked like velvet. "You, love, are the storm that rewrites the map—and nobody sees you coming until the sky's already falling."
Elara said nothing, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
Minutes passed before Fig spoke again.
"So. Lyssandra Velhart. Fire-born. Daughter of a general. Ambitious. Beautiful. Deeply unpleasant."
"She's confident. Sharp."
"And rude. You forgot 'rude.'"
"She has reason to be proud," Elara said. "I watched her blade work. She's not just practiced, she's... precise. And quick."
"Sounds like you're developing a crush."
"Hardly," Elara said, smiling faintly. "But I don't mistake snark for malice. She tests people. It's probably how she survived the Academy with a name like Velhart."
"Maybe. Or maybe she just enjoys setting people on fire."
Elara didn't respond. Her thoughts had drifted back to the way Lyssandra had sized her up—not with fear, but the way one predator might size another. There was challenge in that gaze. But not dismissal. Not anymore.
Not after the footwork comment.
And the twist of irritation it had provoked.
She tucked her hands into her cloak as snowflakes drifted through the air like slow-falling stars. The wind changed direction, faint with the scent of ozone.
The storm is coming, she thought.
And I'm already in it.
Fig shifted slightly, his breath warm against her neck. "Think she'll be trouble later?"
"Definitely."
"Good. Would hate for this to get boring."
Elara smiled and kept walking.