The streets of Velmoria pulsed with energy, a blend of noble presence and common folk drawn together by the looming Academy trials. The city's usual rhythm had shifted—everywhere, there were whispers of who would be entering, who would be leaving, and who might never return. Razalea weaved through the crowd with ease, her cloak drawn close around her. The chatter of merchants and travelers barely registered as she caught fragmented conversations around her.
"The kingdom's peace is thin as glass—""Have you heard? They say this year's duels will be ruthless—""That family has no place in the Academy—"Then, the unmistakable sound of steel being unsheathed.
A ripple went through the gathered crowd. People turned, shifting toward an open space near the heart of the market district. Razalea glanced up just as a gust of wind sent fruit carts tumbling. Two young men stood in the clearing, their stances rigid, their tempers raw.
Callen Duvaye and Kieran Rosmont.
Razalea recognized the names immediately—both were from noble houses with long-standing grievances. Their families had been rivals in politics, trade, and blood. But even that history wasn't enough to explain why they had drawn their weapons in broad daylight. Kieran's blade flickered with magic, veins of molten orange tracing its steel. Callen's dagger sang with wind, the air around him thrumming with unseen force.
"Still eager to show off, are you?" Kieran sneered. "Pathetic."
Callen laughed, a sound full of arrogance and reckless confidence. "Worried you won't make it past the trials, Rosmont? Or just worried I'll beat you there?" People whispered, watched, and waited. This was entertainment to them, a glimpse of what the Academy would soon see. Razalea, however, felt a sharp unease. This wasn't just a test of skill. It was personal.
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The moment Callen lunged, the crowd gasped. The clash of enchanted steel rang through the street, both nobles darting and striking, testing and countering. Their movements were quick, brutal, fueled by a grudge deeper than their years. And then—A figure stepped between them. A sharp clink. A blur of motion. A heartbeat later, both Callen and Kieran were flat on the ground, staring up at the sky. Razalea blinked. What?
The one who had stopped them hadn't even drawn a weapon.
A tall, lanky figure stood over them, tilting a deep blue gourd to his lips. Pale green eyes—lazy, amused.
He sighed. "You two really can't wait until the trials to try and die, huh?" Kieran coughed.
"Who the hell—"
"You'll know soon enough," Dyker cut in, flashing a grin that looked both careless and calculated. He nudged Callen's sword away with the tip of his boot.
"You should be thanking me. Saved you both from embarrassing yourselves in front of all these people." There was laughter in the crowd, hushed but unmistakable.
Razalea watched as the green eyed man adjusted his grip on the gourd and turned. For a fleeting moment, his gaze landed directly on her. And then—a wink.
"Didn't think I'd see you here, Phantom."Razalea's breath caught. She disappeared before she could react.
The streets had quieted, but Razalea couldn't shake the unease. Dyker. That single glance. Had he recognized her? How? She let herself fade into the less-traveled streets, moving like a whisper of silk, a breath in the wind. She had learned how to vanish a long time ago—and yet, tonight, she felt watched. Then, something caught her eye.
A figure slipping into a side alley. Unusual. Suspicious. Razalea followed, keeping to the darkness. She reached a half-collapsed tailor's shop, its entrance shadowed by abandoned crates. The figure had already gone, but something remained.
A letter. She crouched down, careful, fingers ghosting over the seal. Her pulse quickened as she read the words inside. This wasn't about noble duels. This was about sabotage. About Academy students being eliminated before they ever set foot inside. And it wasn't just about passing the trials. Somebody planned to kill. And now, Razalea knew. She needed to leave, and fast. the last thing she needs is getting involved in something that would draw attention. She did not know why but for the past year her gut had been telling her to lay low.