The wind howled like a feral beast, its icy claws raking the air with merciless fury. This was no mere cold that pricked at exposed skin; it was a voracious, unrelenting chill that burrowed beneath every layer of clothing, sinking into the bones and gnawing at the marrow.
Magic or not, there was no escape from its bite.
“C-Celestials be damned,” Laurel muttered, his teeth chattering so violently it nearly drowned out his words. His snow-white hair, usually tied back with meticulous care, now whipped about in wild disarray. He tugged futilely at his high-collared coat, flexing his gloved fingers, stiff with cold, before exhaling in defeat. “This place is actually the worst.”
Unable to withstand the freezing assault any longer, Laurel sidled closer to Valeryon, looping his arm through hers, leaning into her with a heavy, drawn-out sigh.
Valeryon turned her head slightly to face him, brows furrowed. “Cold?”
“Freezing,” Laurel replied with a lopsided grin, dimples momentarily appearing as he rested his head against her shoulder. “Protect me?”
Valeryon blinked at the weight against her shoulder but didn’t protest, her gaze returning to the sprawling city below.
Asua stretched beneath them, its once somber streets now alive with unexpected vibrancy. Traders called out their wares from vividly coloured stalls, their voices competing with the brisk melodies of street musicians and the chatter of bundled-up visitors. Strings of enchanted lanterns, their frosted glass panes glowing softly, cast a warm golden light over the bustling thoroughfares.
“It’s... livelier than last time,” Valeryon murmured.
Laurel let out a soft laugh. “The start of the school year will do that. It’s the only time this frozen pit sees anything resembling excitement, after all.”
Before Valeryon could respond, her attention was drawn by the approaching sound of boots crunching through the snow. She turned, her gaze landing on one of Laurel’s knights, making his way toward them. His heavy cloak billowed behind him, and though his face betrayed no emotion, his measured steps and rigid posture spoke volumes. His movements were stiff, as though preparing for a battle not with the elements, but with something much more formidable.
“Young master,” the knight said, bowing his head briefly. His eyes flicked toward the growing crowd by the Nexus Gate, then pointedly to the closeness between Laurel and Valeryon. “Perhaps it would be prudent to maintain decorum. Your proximity to Her Highness—”
“—is none of your concern,” Laurel interjected smoothly, not even sparing the knight a glance. “However, if you ask me,” he continued, his tone light but edged with an unmistakable bite, “it would be more prudent to recognise when your opinion is neither needed nor wanted.”
The knight’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, his eyes flicking between Laurel and Valeryon. A muscle in his neck twitched, but after a beat of silence, he inclined his head with stiff deference. “As you say, young master,” he muttered, before turning on his heel and retreating.
Laurel let out a sharp exhale, his breath curling like smoke in the frigid air. “Grandparents’ orders or not, I should start charging them for every unnecessary comment,” he muttered, his grip tightening on Valeryon’s arm. “Let’s move. Standing here won’t make it any warmer.”
Valeryon nodded curtly, allowing him to guide her down the stone steps. As they descended toward the base of the Nexus Gate platform, the gusts that had plagued them began to lose their edge, though the air remained sharp and crisp.
At the base of the Nexus Gate platform, a sleek black carriage stood waiting, its lacquered surface gleaming faintly beneath a dusting of fresh snow. The horses hitched to it were no ordinary breed. These were northern stock, bred specifically to withstand the brutal winters of Asua. Their thick fur-coated bodies were compact and robust, bracing against the frigid air. Occasionally, their hooves stamped against the frost-covered ground, their breath rising in heavy clouds before being swept away by the stray gust of wind.
The driver, swaddled in layers of fur and wool, tipped his hat in greeting as they approached, snapping the reins lightly to steady the restless horses.
Laurel, ever the gentleman when it suited him, opened the carriage door with a flourish, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. “My princess,” he said, his playful lilt only slightly undermined by the persistent chatter of his teeth.
Valeryon huffed softly and stepped inside without a word. Laurel followed closely, flopping onto the opposite bench with a theatrical groan.
“Who in their right mind thought building a school in the middle of a frozen wasteland was a good idea?” he grumbled, tugging off his gloves to rub his hands together in a futile attempt to warm them. “Honestly, were they hoping save on costs by freezing us all to death?”
“We will adapt,” Valeryon replied simply.
Laurel shot her a half-hearted glare before wrapping himself tightly in one of the thick blankets provided. "Easy for you to say, Val. You’re practically a walking furnace."
Ignoring his remark, Valeryon retrieved her pocket watch from her dress pocket. The soft click of the latch broke the quiet as she flipped it open, her eyes narrowing as she noted the time. There were still several hours to go before the magical bridge to the Isle of Forester would appear.
Laurel, unable to contain his restlessness, shifted in his seat and peered out the frost-edged window. His breath fogged the glass as he sighed. “I don’t know what’s worse—the cold or the waiting.”
Valeryon closed the watch with a decisive snap. "Both are inevitable. Complaining about them won’t change anything."
For a moment, Laurel just stared at her, then shook his head with a wry smile. "Comforting as ever, Val.”
The cold bit sharply at their heels as Dame Fray and one of Laurel’s knights stepped briskly into the carriage, quickly shutting the door behind them with a decisive thud. Warmth immediately began to reclaim the space, chasing away the frosty air that had seeped in.
"Your Highness, Heir Vesalius, Sir Lowell and Sir Severin chose to remain outside to allow more space inside," Dame Fray explained, her tone steady and matter-of-fact. "They believe the cold will be more bearable once we get moving.”
Valeryon’s sharp eyes caught the glimmer of a coin being tucked into Dame Fray’s gauntlet, and a faint curve tugged at the edges of Valeryon’s lips as she realised that the ‘choice’ had come down to a coin toss.
Laurel leaned back, draping an arm over the back of his seat. “Better them than me,” he quipped, his snow-white hair shimmering like silver in the warm lantern light of the carriage interior. “I’ve endured enough of this cold to last several lifetimes.”
The carriage lurched forward, its wheels crunching over the frozen streets. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves echoed in the quieting streets of central Asua, their lively sounds gradually fading as they neared the outskirts of the city, heading for one final stop before reaching their ultimate destination: the Isle of Forester.
Nestled off the northwestern coast of Norden, the Isle of Forester was home to Forester Academy, one of the most revered institutions of magical education in the world. Founded over a millennium ago by legendary sorcerers Eridan Forester and Taurian Davos, the academy stood as a beacon of arcane learning and power.
Reaching it, however, was no simple feat.
The island’s defences were unparalleled—concealed by powerful wards and enchantments that cloaked it from sight. Its jagged shores, battered by ceaselessly roiling waves, formed a natural barrier as the sea crashed violently against the rocky coast. Few ships dared venture into these treacherous waters, and even fewer returned unscathed.
The only reliable means of access was a magical bridge that appeared only at certain times of the year: at the start of term, major holidays, and the end of the academic year. Miss it, and it would be months before the bridge manifested again.
Asua, as the nearest magical settlement, served as the gateway to the academy.
In the weeks leading up to the bridge’s appearance, the city’s cobbled streets swelled with travellers, their numbers rivalling the resident population. Accommodations were booked months in advance, and those unable to secure lodging were left to set up temporary camps on the city’s outskirts. Fires dotted the streets and alleys, their smoke thick in the air as clusters of people huddled together, some determined to secure prime spots near the bridge, others simply eager to catch a glimpse of the fabled island. Opportunistic merchants roamed these encampments, peddling enchanted garments, warming rune crystals, and other necessities to desperate buyers.
For Valeryon and Laurel, however, such struggles were a distant concern. Their identities and status in this world afforded them comfort far removed from the chaos.
The carriage’s wheels creaked softly as it rolled to a halt. Ahead, their destination loomed—a stately inn nestled among snow-covered pines, their branches bowing beneath the weight of a fresh snowfall. Its stone façade was weathered by time, softened by ivy that clung to the cracks and crevices. A lantern hung above the door, casting a welcoming amber glow.
Dame Fray and the Vesalius knight were the first to disembark. Dame Fray stretched her limbs with languid grace, her armour catching the faint light as she flashed a smirk at the knight. The Vesalius knight, less enthused, glanced down at his snow-covered boots, his expression souring.
Laurel followed, his boots meeting the cobblestones with a muffled thud. He turned back, offering a hand. “Careful, Val, it’s a bit slippery here,” Laurel cautioned.
Valeryon accepted his assistance, stepping lightly onto the ground.
Sir Lowell and Sir Severin, were the last to join them, their expressions suggesting that they were none too pleased about their less fortunate travel arrangement.
Dame Fray remained unapologetic, briefly pulling the coin from her gauntlet to press a kiss to its surface before tucking it away with a faint smirk playing on her lips.
As they gathered by the stone steps, preparing to enter, a sudden motion caught Valeryon’s eye. The coachman—quiet and unobtrusive until now—approached Laurel with a swift, purposeful stride, handing him a folded slip of parchment.
Laurel's expression remained neutral as he read it quickly, then tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. Without a word, he flipped a gold coin to the coachman, who caught it deftly. The man examined the coin carefully, narrowing his eyes before biting down on its edge. Satisfied, he nodded, pocketed the coin, and climbed back onto his seat. The carriage rattled away, its departure marked only by the fading sound of hooves.
“He’s mute,” Laurel explained briefly to Valeryon before gently taking her elbow and steering her toward the inn.
The steps leading to the heavy oak door were uneven, their surfaces worn smooth by the passage of countless traveler's. Laurel pushed the door open, and it groaned in protest before yielding. Warmth and light spilled out in a golden cascade, wrapping around them like an embrace.
Inside, the inn blended rustic charm with understated luxury. Polished wooden floors gleamed beneath the soft, flickering light of crystal chandeliers. Their facets scattered rainbows across richly woven rugs in hues of burgundy and cream. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of roasted meats, spiced stews, and freshly baked bread. In one corner, a harpist plucked her strings, weaving a delicate melody that harmonised with the low murmur of conversation.
Patrons huddled around sturdy wooden tables, faces flushed from the warmth and the generous amounts of drink they had indulged in. Laughter echoed between the walls, and the crackling of several large fireplaces added to the cozy, vibrant atmosphere. However, as Valeryon, Laurel, and the knights stepped inside, a brief, almost imperceptible hush fell over the crowd. Eyes flicked toward them, then quickly darted away as the room resumed its previous cadence.
This wasn’t the kind of place frequented by just anyone. The patrons were largely from the upper echelons of magical society or at least had connections to those who were. The inn’s location—near the bridge's manifestation point—was convenient, but it was the establishment’s reputation for catering to high-profile clientele that made it the natural choice for Valeryon.
Laurel sighed deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Now this,” he said with a wry grin, “is more like it.” He cast Valeryon a sidelong glance. “Still think we’ll be adapting just fine, Val?”
Valeryon’s lips quirked upward as she muttered, almost to herself, “Comfort is temporary. Discipline endures.” It was an old saying she had long forgotten the origin of—one that had carried her through the years of relentless agony in the Trial Grounds.
Laurel chuckled, shaking his head. “Comfort is fleeting. Discipline endures. Got it. We’ll have to have that carved into your statue someday, won’t we?”
Valeryon refrained from responding, simply gesturing for Laurel to proceed. The unfamiliar surroundings—comfortable though they were—made her uneasy. She longed to escape the noise, the watchful eyes, and the unfamiliar faces. Laurel thankfully took the hint.
They approached the reception desk, where a burly man with a jovial smile greeted them. He had a thick dark beard flecked with grey, and sharp blue eyes took in the party with professional, but friendly, interest. His gaze lingered for a moment on Valeryon’s iridescent veil before his expression broadened into a grin. “Welcome to the Roaring Hearth, Princess Valeryon, and Young Master Laurel,” the innkeeper said with a deep bow. “Your suites have been prepared for your arrival.”
Laurel offered a nod, his tone easy as he replied, “Thank you, Orwin. It’s been a while.”
The innkeeper chuckled. “Indeed it has, young master. Welcome back.”
Valeryon’s eyes narrowed. Welcome back? She knew Laurel occasionally came to Asua to visit his aunts, but from what he had previously mentioned, if he ever did decide to stay in Asua—which he rarely did, given his disdain for the city—he always stayed at their residence. So, what business did Laurel have staying at an inn on the outskirts of Asua?
Her thoughts were interrupted as Orwin handed Laurel two sets of keys, a folded parchment tucked discreetly beneath them. Laurel’s fingers brushed over it in a fluid motion, palming the note as he slid a gold coin into the innkeeper’s hand. The exchange was so seamless, so practiced, that Valeryon almost questioned whether she had imagined it when she caught the motion.
The temptation to ask burned at her tongue, but she stifled it.
Now was not the time.
Orwin offered to escort them to their rooms, but Laurel waved him off with a dismissive gesture. “No need. I remember the way.”
I remember the way?
As they turned to leave, Valeryon could no longer ignore the question that had been nagging at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could form, a figure stepped into their path.
The young man before them was impeccably groomed, his dark brown hair neatly combed and his olive-toned skin glowing beneath the firelight. He wore the pristine white uniform of the Forester Academy, the fabric pressed to perfection and impeccably tailored. A white sash tied at his waist indicated his magical discipline—or lack thereof—marking him as unspecialised. A silver badge on his lapel, its golden engraving gleaming in the firelight, identified him as a special student of some kind.
He dropped into a deep bow, his posture immaculate. “Heir Lawrence of House Sachar greets Her Highness, Princess Valeryon the Second.”
Sachar?
Valeryon inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Well met, Heir Lawrence Sachar. May I inquire as to your relation to Lady Gracelynn Sachar?”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“She is my great-aunt, Your Highness,” he replied, folding his hands neatly behind his back.
“I see. What can I do for you today, Heir Sachar?”
“I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Your Highness, but as you might already know, we Valerites are advised to extend our greetings upon arrival in Asua, to avoid disturbing your studies later during the semester.” He hesitated briefly, then added, “If it pleases Your Highness, I would be honoured to introduce the other students who wish to pay their respects as well.”
Valeryon’s gaze swept the room, noting the curious stares they were already attracting. She had been aware of the custom, but hadn’t fully considered its implications. It had been her oversight. With everything else demanding her attention, it hadn’t seemed pressing to address. But the idea of receiving a procession of introductions in such a public setting was far from appealing.
“Your assistance would be appreciated, Heir Sachar,” she said at last. “However, let us find a way to do this without disturbing the inn’s other guests.”
Laurel interjected with a grin. “Leave it to me, Val.” Without another word, he strode back toward the reception desk, leaning over to whisper something to the innkeeper. A few coins exchanged hands, and moments later, Laurel returned with a triumphant expression.
“Meeting room secured,” he declared with a flourish. “This way.”
The private room stood in stark contrast to the bustling common hall. Modest in size but rich in atmosphere, it exuded quiet elegance. The walls, made of polished mahogany, bore faint carvings of ocean waves—a subtle homage to Norden’s maritime heritage. At the centre of the room stood a round table, its surface gleaming under the soft light of a brass chandelier. A simple yet tasteful floral arrangement of Eternal Rosette Blooms—Fiore’s national flower—adorned the table, their pale pink petals glowing faintly. Velvet-upholstered chairs surrounded the table, their deep emerald hues complementing the room’s warm, earthy tones. Against one wall, a fireplace crackled, casting gentle shadows that added to the room’s cozy, intimate ambiance.
The knights divided into two groups: Sir Lowell and Sir Severin took guard outside, while Dame Fray and the other Vesalius knight positioned themselves unobtrusively within the room.
Disregarding all formalities, and earning a disapproving glance from the nearby Vesalius knight, Laurel claimed a plush couch near the hearth. Reclining languidly, he closed his eyes, his snow-white hair catching the firelight like spun silver. Within moments, his breathing slowed, and his expression softened as sleep overtook him. Valeryon, accustomed to his behaviour, allowed him to do as he pleased.
Lawrence Sachar stood by the door, his posture impeccable. A roster, neatly folded and annotated with his precise handwriting, rested in one hand, while his other gestured subtly toward the attendant the innkeeper had provided to assist them.
The attendant, a wiry man with a perpetually anxious expression, nodded vigorously to each murmured instruction. “Ensure the students are guided in promptly,” Lawrence concluded. The steward nodded again and hurried off to fulfil the order.
Moments later, the first student arrived—a young girl clutching a fraying satchel. Her wide, uncertain eyes scanned the room before she hesitated at the threshold. Taking a shallow breath, she stepped forward and offered a faltering bow.
“Clara Renswick, Senior Sachar,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lawrence offered a small, reassuring smile. “Miss Renswick, this way.” He gestured toward the table at the centre of the room, where Valeryon was seated.
Clara approached hesitantly, clutching her satchel like a lifeline. Her wide eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on Valeryon. She curtsied unsteadily, her voice trembling as she spoke. “C-Clara Renswick greets H-Her Highness, Princess Valeryon the Second.”
“Well met, Miss Renswick,” Valeryon replied, her tone even but not unkind, trying her best to return the sincerity she was offered.
And so it went.
And so it went. One by one, the students arrived. Some bore the marks of humble beginnings—calloused hands, patched robes, and eyes alight with raw determination that spoke of hardship. Others were clearly scions of privilege, their polished manners and refined speech betraying an upbringing of ease and affluence.
Lawrence skilfully navigated each introduction, ensuring that every interaction with Valeryon was brief yet respectful, maintaining a pace that kept the atmosphere from becoming tedious. At the end of each exchange, he offered subtle gestures of approval, instilling a sense of accomplishment in even the most timid before they departed.
Valeryon offered the expected courtesies but said little else, choosing instead to observe the proceedings closely. To her, these were not merely students; they were future subjects, potential allies, or hidden adversaries—and this was an opportunity she could not afford to squander. Every nervous tic, every overconfident smirk, every faltering bow and curtsy was a glimpse into their character. In this moment, before the world shaped and hardened them further, Valeryon could see the truths they might later learn to conceal.
The final student entered, clearly aware of his awkwardness. His hair was a chaotic mess, as though the comb had given up halfway through its task. His uniform hung loosely, ill-fitted and worn, likely borrowed or second-hand. He mumbled his introduction so quietly it barely registered before retreating in a flurry of shuffled steps, leaving the door to click shut behind him.
Looking a little helpless, Lawrence turned to Valeryon and offered a bow. “Your Highness, that was everyone. I trust the process met your expectations?”
Valeryon inclined her head slightly. “You have handled this admirably, Heir Sachar. I hope it was not too great a burden.”
“Not at all, Your Highness,” Lawrence replied, with a faint smile. “It is an honour to be of service.”
Valeryon leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming lightly on the polished table. “If you are not otherwise engaged, Heir Sachar, please stay for a moment. I have a few questions.”
Lawrence straightened, his expression attentive. “Of course, Your Highness. What would you like to know?”
“Tell me,” Valeryon began, her fingers still tapping against the wood, “How many students from the Archipelago currently attend Forester Academy?”
“Approximately three hundred, Your Highness,” Lawrence replied promptly. “We send about fifty each year.”
“And yet,” she continued, “only thirty saw fit to present themselves before me today?”
Lawrence’s composure faltered for a moment. He shifted slightly, his shoulders tightening. “Well... that’s...” He cleared his throat. “I apologise, Your Highness, that does seem to be the case,” he admitted. “Many see the royal family as distant—providers of stability, yes, but removed from their daily lives. Approaching you directly, for some, would feel... intimidating.”
“Intimidating?” Valeryon echoed, her lips twitching slightly. Her fingers stilled their tapping. “Perhaps. Yet of those who came, only one bore the name of a Vassal House: you. The rest were minor nobles or commoners, some of whom still elected to greet me. Tell me, Heir Sachar, are you the only Vassal House descendant currently enrolled?”
Lawrence’s expression stiffened slightly. “No, Your Highness. There are others.”
“Yet none saw fit to greet me.”
Lawrence’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze dropping. “That is correct, Your Highness.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the hearth. Then Valeryon’s voice broke the silence, softer now. “How do our students perform academically?”
“Exceptionally, Your Highness,” Lawrence said, relief seeping into his tone. “King Vilram’s educational reforms in 1683 established a rigorous system. Though magical training begins later than in other regions, the foundational theory ensures our students excel when practical application begins.”
“And socially?” Valeryon pressed, her head tilting. “Is there cohesion among the students?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Lawrence replied. “The Society of Valerites, which every Valerite is encouraged to join at the beginning of the year, fosters unity, prioritising our shared heritage over individual magical disciplines. Weekly gatherings promote collaboration, duelling, and idea exchange. Leadership is merit-based, determined by duel victories.”
Valeryon’s gaze sharpened. “Who leads this Society?”
Lawrence hesitated for a moment, his confident demeanour slipping. “Estelle Lunarys,” he admitted, his voice subdued.
Valeryon’s eyes narrowed. “She was not among those who greeted me.”
“No, Your Highness. She is… otherwise occupied.”
“With?”
“A Council of Valour meeting—a gathering with the previous year’s leaders of the Valour Society.”
“What about the members of this Council of Valour? Were any present today?”
Lawrence lowered his gaze. “Other than myself? No, Your Highness.”
Valeryon’s gaze rested on him, sharp and appraising. A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric as Lawrence shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, she spoke, her tone measured. “That will be all, Heir Sachar. Thank you for your efforts. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Relief flickered across Lawrence’s face as he bowed deeply. “No need for thanks, Your Highness. I am merely fulfilling my duty. Please, do not hesitate to call on me should you require further assistance.”
With that, he straightened, his steps deliberate but swift as he made his way out.
As the door closed behind him, Valeryon exhaled softly, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. The conversation had been insightful, though it had only raised more questions than it answered.
Pushing herself to her feet, Valeryon’s gaze swept across the room, landing on the figure sprawled inelegantly on the couch at the far end. Laurel lay draped like an overgrown cat, one arm slung over his face, his snow-white hair in chaotic disarray.
Sensing her intentions, the Vesalius knight stirred, glancing toward their charge. He hesitated, clearly debating whether to wake him.
Valeryon raised a hand, fingers barely lifting from her side, but the command was unmistakable. The knight froze, bowing in acquiescence.
Her footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet as she crossed the room. She paused beside Laurel, studying his relaxed form, then gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.
“Laurel. Get up.”
He stirred, mumbling something incoherent before pulling his arm away from his face. Squinting against the light, he blinked blearily, confusion clouding his features for a moment. Then recognition dawned, and his lips curved into a dopey smile.
“Val,” he greeted, voice thick with drowsiness. He sighed, sitting up with a grunt, stretching languidly as his joints popped audibly. “Is it over?”
“Yes.”
Laurel rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly. “If I’d known that meeting was going to drag on this long, I would’ve brought a pillow.”
Valeryon’s lips twitched. “If all three hundred students had actually shown up, I might have offered you one myself.”
He arched a brow, sitting up straighter. “Three hundred? That didn’t feel like anything close to that many people. How many actually bothered to show up?”
“Thirty.”
The humour drained from his face. “Well, aren’t they bold?” he muttered, his upper lip curling.
Valeryon gave no response, instead turning toward the door. Laurel rose to his feet with a sigh, moving slowly as he fell into step beside her, his hands slipping into his pockets.
They headed toward a narrow staircase tucked discreetly to the side behind a wooden partition in the corner of the inn.
They made their way toward a narrow staircase tucked discreetly behind a wooden partition in the corner of the inn. The scent of aged wood hung heavily in the air as they ascended the stairs, the creaks beneath their feet blending with the muffled sounds of conversation drifting from the bustling lower floors. The building, old but charming, was adorned with tapestries depicting beasts and ancient battles. One tapestry, in particular, caught Valeryon’s eye: a vibrant phoenix embroidered in gold thread, its outstretched wings and fiery plumage bearing an uncanny resemblance to her clan’s sigil. She might have appreciated it more if the image hadn't depicted the phoenix being pierced in the chest by an archer's arrow.
As they neared the top floor, low murmurs of conversation laced with tension filtered through the narrow space. At this point, Dame Fray spoke up.
“Your Highness, I believe it is best if we walk ahead,” she said, her tone respectful but firm.
Valeryon considered it for a moment before nodding, stepping aside to let Dame Fray and Sir Lowell take the lead. The narrowness of the stairs made manoeuvring awkward, but after a brief shuffle, the group fell into line, the Vesalius knights bringing up the rear, with Valeryon and Laurel sandwiched in the middle.
However, as they turned the corner to the top floor, they found themselves face-to-face with the last people Valeryon expected to encounter: Jurien and Jorah Lunarys.
Jurien, ever the picture of grace, straightened upon seeing them. Her smile softened the tension as she dipped into a perfect curtsy.
“Crown Princess Valeryon,” she greeted, her voice smooth as silk. “I—We weren’t expecting to run into Your Highness and Heir Vesalius here. I trust your journey here was comfortable?”
Jorah, in stark contrast, leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed defiantly. His expression was openly hostile—his lips curled into a sneer as his glowing amber eyes flicked between Valeryon and Laurel with disdain.
Laurel’s lavender eyes narrowed in response. A rarely seen scowl appeared on his face as he returned Jorah’s glare with equal venom. His hands flexed at his sides briefly before he caught sight of Valeryon. The tension left his body with a harsh exhale, and he tucked his hands back into his pockets.
Valeryon frowned as she observed Laurel’s reaction. The last time they had crossed paths with the Lunarys siblings in Asua, Jorah’s animosity had been directed solely toward her. However, now, seeing Laurel’s response, she began to wonder if something had transpired between them since then to provoke such a reaction.
Regardless, Valeryon had no patience left to spare.
“Heiress Jurien,” Valeryon’s voice rang clear and polite, though there was an unmistakable edge. "If you don’t mind, we’re quite tired. Perhaps we can converse at another time."
Jurien’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments, the corners twitching as her gaze flicked toward her brother, her hand betraying a subtle twitch at her side. "Of course, Your Highness," she replied, her words strained but still cordial.
Jorah, however, did not offer the same civility. His sneer deepened, eyes narrowing with barely concealed contempt. He opened his mouth, likely to speak some biting retort, but Jurien’s hand shot out to grip his arm, stopping whatever venom he had been about to release. Rather than resist, Jorah leaned further into the wall, his gaze never leaving Valeryon and Laurel as they passed by.
The encounter left a sour taste in Valeryon’s mouth. Diplomacy demanded cordiality with the Lunarys heirs, but Valeryon just could not bring herself to ignore the latent threat they posed.
She was now almost certain—though she lacked concrete proof—that the Lunarys siblings, like Laurel and herself, were Trainees from the Origin. While that should not inherently be an issue, her mixed bloodline made such an association dangerous. The thought of the Lunarys twins possibly discovering her secret and carrying that information back to the Origin made her blood run cold.
There would be no mercy for someone like her—an anomaly in a galaxy that abhorred threats to the existing precarious balance of power.
Wars had been waged over less, and if it ever came to that, the Valeryon clan’s prospects were grim. With their dwindling numbers and non-combatant stance, they were vulnerable to subjugation or annihilation by more militaristic clans. Their reputation for impartiality and unparalleled healing skills had kept them neutral in past conflicts, but that had been because they weren't the source of the conflict. If they were ever at the centre of one...
She pursed her lips, refusing to allow such a possibility to become reality—not if she could help it.
Two rooms had been arranged for them, but Laurel paid the arrangement no heed. He entered Valeryon’s room with the assuredness of someone who belonged there. The Vesalius knights looked as though they’d swallowed something bitter, their discomfort evident. Yet none dared challenge Laurel.
Once inside, the knights methodically inspected the room. They sealed the windows, secured the doors, and placed crystal-carved ward stones around the perimeter. Valeryon watched, intrigued, as a shimmering translucent barrier briefly flared to life before fading from view upon activation. With their tasks complete, the knights stationed themselves discreetly around the room, doing their best to minimise their presence and grant Valeryon and Laurel a semblance of privacy.
The room, as befitted her status, was the inn’s finest. Darkwood furniture with intricate carvings gleamed under the soft glow of an ornate chandelier. A plush crimson rug softened their steps, its deep hues complementing the room’s warm ambiance. A large bay window dominated one wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city below.
Similar to central Asua, the cobblestone streets bustled with activity, street performers drawing small crowds with music and illusions.The clusters of students, guardians, and visitors camping around the area could also be seen, their numbers swelling as the time for the bridge’s appearance drew nearer. Beyond the city, the frozen river glittered like a ribbon of glass, winding through the snow-dusted landscape.
The entire scene seemed to belong to another world, so far removed from Valeryon’s memories of Asua’s darker corners—its crumbling facades, its despairing inhabitants, its…
She took a steadying breath, closing her eyes against the memories that threatened to overtake her.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Feeling her strength waning, Valeryon settled into the corner seat of a velvety couch near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap as her gaze drifted to the lively cityscape. Here, Asua felt unrecognisable. Though the buildings still bore signs of age, they were cared for, the streets alive with cheer and purpose. Likely, the influx of visitors and students lent the city its current vitality.
The couch dipped beside her, and she stiffened instinctively as Laurel reclined beside her. He moved with unhurried familiarity, resting his head in her lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Valeryon frowned, her fingers moving involuntarily to trace the dark crescents beneath his eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmured, her voice tinged with concern.
Laurel pulled the hand into his grip. A faint smile played at his lips as he tugged her glove free, tucking it into the inner pocket of his tailored coat. His hands, rough from all the hours he spent at the Crafting Hall yet surprisingly gentle, intertwined with hers.
“I’ve slept enough,” he replied lightly. “Just growing pains. Nothing to fret over.”
Valeryon’s frown deepened, but before she could press further, Laurel deftly shifted the conversation.
“Speaking of things to fret over,” he began, his thumb brushing the back of her hand, “should we extend this little courtship of ours, or skip straight to the betrothal? Personally, I wouldn’t mind either way, but betrothal does have a certain… permanence to it, don’t you think?”
Valeryon blinked, caught entirely off guard by his abruptness. She took a moment to process the question, her mind scrambling for an appropriate response. “Progressing to a betrothal,” she began carefully, “would require proper arrangements. Informing your grandparents, as well as Elora, would be the first steps. The Yule holidays are probably the most ideal for such discussions.”
Laurel sighed dramatically, cradling her hand against his chest as though her response had wounded him. “Val, my ever-practical Val. You’re far too level-headed for someone like me.” His playful tone softened into something more sincere. “If it were up to me, I’d marry you today.”
The casual declaration sent a ripple of something unfamiliar through her. Her hand twitched in his grasp, caught between the instinct to pull away and the grounding comfort his touch brought. Laurel noticed, of course. His grip tightened, just slightly, anchoring her while his lips curved into a knowing smirk.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he teased, his voice low and velvety.
“I…” Words failed her as his steady gaze left her unmoored. “That would not be proper,” she finally managed.
Laurel arched an eyebrow. “And why not?”
“It would be akin to an elopement,” she explained, her tone growing firmer. “The scandal—”
Laurel’s laughter interrupted her, warm and carefree. “You’re right,” he admitted, his eyes twinkling. “It would cause a stir, wouldn’t it? Besides, for our first wedding, my princess deserves a spectacle. The grandest wedding this world has ever seen.”
Valeryon nodded solemnly. “That is what would be expected of me.”
Still chuckling, Laurel relaxed further into her lap, his eyelids growing heavier. The sharp wit in his expression gave way to weariness as a yawn escaped him. Noticing his fatigue, Valeryon raised her free hand to gently cover his eyes, her gloved fingers brushing against his cool skin.
“You should rest,” she urged softly.
Laurel blinked slowly beneath her hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Only because you asked so nicely,” he murmured. Within moments, his breathing evened out, his frame relaxing as sleep claimed him.
Valeryon glanced at her knights stationed by the door, and with a simple nod, they moved to draw the heavy curtains, leaving only the dim light of the chandelier above.
Checking the time, she noted there were still nearly two hours before they were due to depart.
Reaching into her storage rune, she retrieved a thick tome—the Compendium of Forester Academy, a dense volume detailing the institution’s history. Though the book promised valuable insights, its dry prose made it a challenging read. She had been working her way through for a while now, a few chapters at a time, but she had yet to reach the halfway mark.
As she skimmed the dense text, the rhythmic cadence of Laurel’s snores filled the room. Her resolve to stay awake faltered under the combined weight of her own fatigue and the book’s monotony. Slowly, her grip slackened, and the book slipped shut in her lap.