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The grand feast was finally winding down.
What had begun as a celebration of Caelan's return had ended in a thunderous duel that would be etched in the minds of everyone who witnessed it. Now, the guests were filtering out—nobles, warriors, and mages alike drifting toward waiting carriages or teleportation circles, voices buzzing with stories of the day's spectacle.
The King, along with the other clan heads, had quietly slipped away into Theron Virelith's private study for a closed-door meeting, leaving the heirs to mingle with the noble youth in the outer gardens of the estate.
Caelan stood beneath a marble archway, sipping lightly from a crystal goblet filled with a fruit brew that tasted far too noble for his liking. He grimaced. "Tastes like someone soaked a mana herb in perfume and called it juice."
"Agreed," Silas said, standing beside him. "I'd rather drink mud and sleep peacefully."
"Please," Seryn cut in as she walked up with a light step and a raised brow, "you two drink like wild dogs. That's heir-quality juice."
"Then maybe heirs need their tongues checked," Caelan muttered, swirling the goblet with suspicion.
Seryn chuckled, then glanced around the garden before dropping her voice. "So… since all the political drama's over, I've got something more exciting to talk about."
Silas and Caelan exchanged glances.
"Oh no," Caelan deadpanned. "She's smiling. This can't be good."
Seryn ignored him. "The Lionheart Entrance Exam is in two months."
Caelan blinked. "Lionheart… the school?"
Seryn gave him a slow nod. "The greatest academy in the continent of Aurora—maybe even the entire world of Elarion Swordmasters, Archmages, Royal Alchemists—they all train there. Entrance exams are notoriously brutal."
Silas nodded in agreement. "Only one in fifty applicants make it through. They only accept geniuses, monsters, and lucky bastards."
Caelan leaned back slightly. "And which category are you in?"
"Obviously all three," Silas replied with a rare smirk.
Seryn laughed. "You both planning to go?"
"I am," Silas said plainly. "My father insists. And I need stronger sparring partners anyway."
Caelan scratched his head. "I'm going too. But I need to train hard if I'm going to meet the acceptance requirements. Isn't it, like… Initial Gold Stage or Senior Mage minimum?"
Seryn raised an eyebrow. "Correct. And don't forget—you also need to be at least eighteen years old. Which you're not."
Caelan grinned, setting the goblet aside. "Yeah, I'm still sixteen."
"Which means you won't even be considered. Unless you plan to fake a beard and hope no one asks questions."
"Actually," Caelan said, voice turning mysteriously smug, "I'm not worried about the age thing."
Seryn narrowed her eyes. "Why not?"
He just gave her a secretive smile.
"Caelan…" she warned.
"I'll tell you later."
"You're impossible," she muttered, folding her arms. "Always with the cryptic answers."
"You pout so cutely when you're annoyed," Caelan teased.
Her cheeks flushed the slightest shade of pink before she turned away. "You're two years too young for me."
"Ouch," Caelan said with a hand over his heart. "That one actually stung."
Silas cleared his throat softly. "As much as I'm enjoying watching this slow-motion trainwreck of flirting…"
They both turned toward him.
Silas nodded subtly toward the distant entrance of the estate. "The clan heads just stepped out of the study. Which means the adults are back, and it's probably time we make ourselves scarce."
True enough, the regal figures of the clan leaders emerged one by one, their faces unreadable and discussions still hushed. The Queen had already departed, but King Ardan and Theron walked together in quiet exchange.
Seryn brushed a lock of silver hair behind her ear. "Well… it's been fun."
She glanced at Caelan. "Don't die before the entrance exam, okay?"
"I'll try," Caelan said with a grin. "No promises, though. I tend to attract trouble."
"You are trouble," she shot back before turning to walk toward her family's carriage.
Silas lingered a moment longer.
He extended his hand to Caelan once again—calm, steady, respectful.
"Thank you for the fight," he said softly. "It reminded me I still have a long way to go."
Caelan took the hand firmly. "I'll be waiting for the rematch."
"You better be stronger next time," Silas said as he turned. "I don't plan to hold back."
"Next time, I'll need you at full strength," Caelan replied. "Because I won't be pulling my punches either."
Silas gave a rare nod of approval before walking off, dark cloak fluttering behind him like the shadow of a storm.
Caelan stood in silence for a moment.
> "Lionheart, huh…"
> "Gold Stage or Senior Mage in two months. And I'm still early Silver. That's a mountain to climb."
He looked down at his hand, the Voidbrand Ring glinting faintly under the moonlight. Somewhere in its pocket space, Stormfangs rested—waiting.
He took a slow breath and looked toward the sky, where the stars stretched out like a canvas of distant dreams.
> "Two months. That's all I need."
And as the last guests disappeared into the night, Caelan Virelith stood quietly in the emptying garden—one eye on the future, the other still burning from the fire he refused to let die.
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