The thought landed like a rock in Caeden’s gut. Not because it surprised him. But because it shouldn’t have been possible. He’d always been proud of his physique. It was his edge. His anchor. Where most Awakened spent their early years hyper-focused on mana—on perfecting the flow, refining their cores, expanding their spiritual lattice—Caeden had taken a different path. Every strike, every drill, every repetition baked into his bones before he’d even lit his first star. Because for most northern cultivators, that was the standard. In the north, physicality was part of survival. You grew up learning to brace against cold, hunger, terrain. The cultivators there didn’t just dream of grandeur—they trained because weakness could kill. And more than that, the common doctrine said: Don’t waste time on the body. Not yet. Because body reconstruction came later. That was the gateway—when mana stopped being just energy and became transformation. When the body could be reforged in its entirety using one’s cultivation method. Muscles, bones, nerves—enhanced beyond human. So most waited. Why build a house just to tear it down later? Caeden hadn’t waited. He built a fortress early. Carved each muscle into stone. Because he knew—when that reconstruction came, he’d already have a foundation worth reforging. And in the Arcanis Empire? They didn’t train that way. Their environment was gentler. Their techniques more refined. Their instructors focused on efficiency, on control, on elegance. He’d watched them train. And thought, more than once, At least I’ve got this much over them. At least here, I’m stronger. Lucavion was running beside him like gravity hadn’t applied yet. Not a single flex out of place. Not a single strained breath. No sweat, no tremble, no edge. Caeden’s lungs burned. His calves flared with heat. And this guy—this arrogant, black-fire bastard—was barely moving by comparison. ’He’s not from the south,’ Caeden thought, trying to keep the disbelief from climbing too far into his expression. ’He trained like he’s from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere worse.’ He just trained through whatever softness the Empire handed him. Caeden clenched his jaw. ’So much for the edge I thought I had.’ He shot a sideways look at Lucavion again. Their strides thundered across the damp trail, the rhythm of three now edged by something unspoken. Breath. Muscle. Silence. Lucavion turned his head. Met Caeden’s glance mid-stride. Like he’d already known Caeden was looking. "I am rather unique." Lucavion’s voice didn’t carry arrogance this time. Not the drawl of a provocateur. It was... quiet. Measured. Unflinching. "I’d advise you not to think thoughts like those." "...What thoughts?" Caeden muttered, forcing the words out between staggered breath. Lucavion didn’t look away. "This isn’t about pride," he said. "Or ego." "It’s just the truth." Caeden frowned, jaw still tight. It came sharper than he meant. Not from hate. From frustration. From the heat building behind his ribs, not just from running, but from trying to understand Lucavion gave a small shrug. If the comment stung, it didn’t show. "You two done posturing?" Elayne’s voice sliced clean between them, dry as flint. They both glanced her way. She didn’t look back. She was already pushing forward again. Not faster. Not slower. "I agreed to a run. Not to carry your unresolved self-worth issues across the eastern trail." Caeden coughed once, half-choked on a laugh. Lucavion’s grin returned—but softer this time. Not mocking. "Understood," he said simply. And then, without warning— He passed them both. Quietly. Effortlessly. His footfalls barely whispering against the dirt. Caeden stared after him for a second. Then swore under his breath. Elayne exhaled through her nose, dry and unimpressed. The sun had climbed higher by the time the five of them gathered in front of the dorms. Lucavion, Caeden, Elayne. Cleaned up from the morning run—or in Lucavion’s case, still annoyingly fresh—they stood near the stone archway leading toward the academy’s main thoroughfare. All around them, other students had begun trickling out of the dormitories. Most in standard-issue academy blacks, a few already flaunting personal flair—sashes, custom embroidery, trailing bits of enchanted cloth. First-years mostly. All of them hovering with varying degrees of nervous energy. "Feels like we’re waiting for inspection," Caeden muttered, arms crossed. "Or sentencing," Toven added dryly. Lucavion gave a lazy shrug. "Same thing, depending on who shows up." Mirella frowned. "You’re not helping." A few dozen more students had gathered now. Whispering. Fidgeting. Some clearly trying not to stare at Lucavion. A few stealing glances at Elayne, who stood like a statue with her hands folded behind her back, gaze already scanning the open courtyard ahead. Not harsh. Not sharp. It prickled against the skin like the first breath before a winter spell—measured, refined, calculated. And from the northern arch, a figure emerged. Tall. Composed. Dressed in robes far more subtle than most of the faculty they’d glimpsed so far. A deep indigo cloak, trimmed in silver, with no house sigil or division badge visible. Just a thin strip of starlight thread weaving a pattern across the hem. The woman stopped at the edge of the courtyard. She looked over them all with the kind of gaze that saw too much—and judged too little. "I am Professor Selenne. From the Department of Magic." The murmur of students quieted. Her voice was soft. But it carried. Clean, sharp, and undeniably firm. "I will be your guide today. Consider this orientation. Not just to the grounds—but to the expectations placed upon you. And the weight of what it means to train within Arcanis." Then let a faint smile tug at her lips—more like a memory than amusement. "There will be no fireworks. No tests. No demonstrations." Lucavion blinked once. Caeden frowned. "Only context," Selenne continued. "And trust me—if you understand what you’re being trained for, the rest will be fireworks enough." She turned slowly, gesturing toward the wide stairs beyond the path. From where she stood near the back of the gathered students, Elara—Elowyn—watched in silence as Professor Selenne turned toward the path ahead, indigo cloak shifting like dusk-shadow behind her. Around Elara, the whispers had already begun to stir. "Wait—isn’t that...?" "She’s one of them, right? From the Circle—" "No way. She wouldn’t waste time on first-years if she was—" "She’s the Archmage—the Archmage—from—" "Elowyn," someone whispered beside her, barely audible over the noise, "do you know who that is?" But Elara didn’t answer. The moment she felt the magic—not cold, not truly, but distant in a way that felt like it had seen too many winters—she knew. The kind of mana that moved without announcing itself. Old, but not worn. Refined like a blade passed down through generations, still sharp enough to bleed. ’Selenne...’ The name slid through her mind, and with it, a memory stirred. Half-whispered between her and her master under cover of starlight, when Elara had still been cloaked in her old name. When she had still dared to ask about the wider world, the real one. The one beyond the bloodied halls of court and the quiet violence of power. They had been sitting beneath the great twisted eira trees, the scent of rain lingering in the roots. Eveline had been sharpening a blade—not for war, but for ceremony, the kind only old mages still observed. And she’d said it, casually. Offhand. "There are few left worth fearing in the capital’s inner circles. But if you ever meet a woman named Selenne... bow with your mind, not your knees. She sees further than most. And forgets less." Elara hadn’t thought much of it, then. Names had flooded her world back then—generals, councilors, rogue guilds, diplomats. All of them shifting pieces in a game she’d been trained to play and trained to betray. The Archmage of Starlight.