Lyth floats above the crowd, his usually composed face tinged with discomfort. The air thrums with discontent—whispers turning to grumbles, grumbles to shouts.
And at the center of it all, Lyra.
She stands rigid in the arena's heart, her fists clenched so tightly. The weight of a thousand eyes presses down on her—some curious, some furious. The adoration she had basked in previously ago curdles into something uglier.
Lyth exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck before amplifying his voice with a flick of magic.
"Indeed, ladies and gentlemen," Lyth announces. He rubs his temple briefly before continuing. "As you've no doubt realized, Bram is... unavailable for further competition."
A dry chuckle escapes him as he gestures toward Lyra. "Which means, by default, the title of Tournament Champion goes to Lyra Valthoris."
The reaction is instant.
The crowd erupts—not in cheers, but in a chorus of boos and jeers that crash over the arena.
"Bullshit!" A burly beastkin roars, slamming his tankard down so hard ale sloshes over the rim. "She didn't even fight!"
"Typical royal treatment!" A merchant's daughter sneers, tossing a half-eaten apple core onto the sand in disgust. "Everything handed to her on a silver platter!"
"RIGGED!" A chorus of voices take up the cry, the word bouncing off the stone walls.
Lyra doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. But her breathing comes faster...
The muscles in her jaw flex as she grinds her teeth, her lips pressed into a bloodless line.
You were all chanting my name not an hour ago.
The hypocrisy burns worse than any spell.
A noble in the high boxes leans over the railing. "Must be nice, Princess, never having to prove yourself like the rest of us!"
That strikes a nerve.
Her control snaps—just for a second. A flicker of raw fury flashes across her face before she schools it back into icy neutrality. But the damage is done. The crowd sees it.
"Oho! Did that hit a little too close to home?" A rogue in the lower stands cackles, nudging his companion.
Lyra's hands tremble. Not from fear. From the sheer effort of not lashing out.
Lyth observes from his elevated vantage point. The fading sunlight casts long shadows across the blood-stained sand, painting the arena in hues of burnt orange. His sharp eyes track Lyra's rigid posture below - the way she picks at her fingers, the barely perceptible tremble in her shoulders despite her victory.
Trouble brewing, he thinks, noting how the crowd's demeanor.
With a sigh that stirs the fabric of his robes, Lyth raises both hands in a grand, sweeping gesture. His fingers snap with a crack like splitting timber.
BOOM.
The night sky erupts in cascading colors - emerald starbursts and crimson spirals that momentarily drown out the grumbling crowd. The fireworks' reflection dances across thousands of upturned faces.
"Tonight's spectacle deserves proper celebration!" Lyth says. "The banquet halls await - tables groan with roast pheasant, barrels of Dwarven fire-ale stand tapped, and..." He pauses dramatically as another firework bursts into a shimmering griffin shape. "I'm told the pastry chefs have outdone themselves yet again."
The crowd's mood shifts palpably. Lyth doesn't miss how their eyes flick between the dazzling display and Lyra's isolated figure. A young nobleman in the front rows sneers, opening his mouth -
CRACK-POP!
A particularly enormous firework detonates directly overhead, showering silver sparks that form a perfect replica of the academy's crest. The noble startles, his complaint forgotten as his companions laugh at his reaction.
Lyra hasn't moved. Lyth descends gracefully, his boots disturbing the sand with a soft crunch. Up close, he sees what the crowd missed - the dampness at her lashes she'll blame on sweat.
"Why the hell do they hate me?" she mutters. "I won." The last word cracks, just slightly, and she jerks her chin up, as if physically pulling the weakness back into herself.
Lyth exhales through his nose. "They don't hate you," he says, softer than she expects. "They just wanted a spectacle. Blood. Struggle. Someone to root for." His gaze flicks to the dispersing crowd. "You gave them perfection. And perfection, my dear, is boring."
Then—movement in the royal box.
Lyra heartbeat quickens as her father rises from his seat.
King Valthoris cuts an imposing figure, his tailored coat of midnight blue embroidered with silver circuitry that hums faintly. The high collar, stiff with gold filigree, frames a face carved from marble—cold, unreadable. But it's his eyes that seize her. One iris burns a glacial blue, the other a deep, pulsating violet, both glowing just enough to be unsettling in the dim light.
For one suspended moment, he looks at her.
Then—nothing.
A dismissive turn. A sweep of his coat as he strides away, the mechanical clasps along his shoulders clicking softly with each step.
Lyra's throat tightens.
No.
She won't—won't—let the heat behind her eyes spill over. Her arm jerks up, the back of her hand scrubbing viciously across her face before a single traitorous tear can fall.
"This was supposed to be my design," she whispers, so low even Lyth barely catches it.
The headmaster shifts, hand lifting—whether to console or restrain, even he isn't sure.
But Lyra is already moving.
Her pivot is sharp, boots striking the stone with deliberate, echoing thuds. She doesn't run. Doesn't falter. Every step is measured, controlled—regal, even in retreat.
Yet Lyth sees it.
The slight tremor in her shoulders. The way her fists clench so tight...
And then she's gone—swallowed by the arena's shadows.
Lyth's outstretched hand slowly lowers.
"Ah," he murmurs to the empty space she left behind. "There's the struggle they wanted."
Lyth watches her go, his shoulders sagging slightly as he lets out another weary sigh. He stands there for a moment longer, listening as the last of the crowd filters out of the arena, the noise dwindling until only the quiet hum of the wind remains.
For a brief moment, he glances around the vast, empty arena, the remnants of fireworks smoke still lingering in the air. He runs a hand through his hair, his face drawn with exhaustion.
"Great," he mutters to himself. "Now I have to get ready for the party."
With a resigned sigh, Lyth's form shimmers, then dissipates into the night air, leaving the arena quiet and still once more.
…
Obinai lies motionless on the stiff infirmary cot...
Then—
A voice.
"Farnis dei tor enen vieth…"
The words slither into his skull like ice water. His fingers twitch against the sheets. What the hell was that?
He jerks upright—too fast. White-hot pain lances through his side, but he barely registers it. His gaze snaps toward the doorway, where Lyth stands in murmured conversation with the nurse. Their lips move, but the sounds that leave them are wrong—layered, syllables folding over themselves in ways that make his skin crawl.
Fuck. Fuck. His pulse kicks into a gallop. Why can't I understand them?
Then it hits him—his [Translation] spell. He'd let it lapse.
Without thinking, he presses two fingers to his temple, hissing the incantation through gritted teeth. "[Transl—]"
AGONY.
His chest explodes. Every muscle in his body locks as blue fire erupts beneath his skin—veins igniting like live wires, glowing a sickly, electric cyan through the thin hospital gown. His back arches off the bed, tendons standing in sharp relief as his mouth opens in a soundless scream.
Somewhere distant, glass shatters. The nurse drops her tray with a clatter. Lyth's head whips toward him—
—and Obinai collapses, gasping, his vision swimming with black spots. The glow beneath his skin flickers, fades, but the pain lingers, radiating outward from his heart in nauseating waves.
Lyth is at his side in an instant, one hand gripping Obinai's wrist, the other pressing firmly against his sternum. The headmaster's fingers are cold, unnaturally so, and where they touch, the burning recedes like tide pulling back from shore.
Obinai's body jerks as consciousness slams back into him. His chest burns—a deep, throbbing agony that makes every breath feel like swallowing broken glass. His veins still flicker with fading embers of the spell that nearly tore him apart, the residual magic humming beneath his skin.
The world sharpens in fractured pieces.
First—the scent. Antiseptic and crushed herbs, sharp enough to make his nose twitch.
Second—the sound. A steady drip-drip-drip of water from somewhere unseen, mingling with the too-loud rasp of his own breathing.
Third—the pain. Gods, the pain.
His fingers claw at the sheets beneath him, the fabric damp with sweat. His teeth grind together hard enough to send sparks across his vision.
"Jek—ur—guh—Obinai!"
Lyth's voice cuts through the fog. Obinai's head lolls to the side, his vision swimming. The headmaster stands over him, his robes slightly rumpled, his white and black hair characteristically disheveled.
...
...
"For now," Lyth says, "you cannot use magic."
The words hit physically. Obinai's stomach drops. His pulse spikes, thundering in his ears so loudly he can barely hear anything else.
No no no...
No magic.
His lips part, but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. His throat feels scorched, like he's been screaming for hours.
I didn't mean to...why me?
Will I be just like every other human now?
Lyth's hand lands on his shoulder—warm. "Did you hear me?"
Obinai flinches. His muscles lock up, his body still wired from the pain.
Will they kick me out?
Expel me?
...kill me?
His voice is barely a whisper. "Huh?"
Lyth exhales through his nose, his grip tightening just slightly. "This isn't permanent," he says, softer now. "You cracked your mana circle—not shattered it. There's a way to fix it."
Ok ok...
"But," Lyth continues, "it will hurt. Worse than anything you've felt before."
A beat.
The silence stretches, suffocating.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Lyth adds: "I know someone who can help. If he's willing."
"Who?"
Lyth's lips quirk—just slightly. "A dear friend. And the only person alive mad enough to try."
Obinai swallows hard.
Worse pain.
No magic.
And a "dear friend" who might be worse than both.
"Fuck," he breathes.
Lyth chuckles. "Exactly."
...
...
Obinai blinks slowly, his vision swimming as the last dregs of healing potion leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He watches the nurse's movements - the way her fingers snap vials shut with efficiency, the sharp clink of glass against steel as she reorganizes her tray.
I never asked her name—
His attention snaps back to Lyth when the headmaster shifts.
"Couple days. No more," Lyth says. "No magic until then. Not even a spark."
"And the Committee?" Obinai asks.
Lyth's mouth twists into something that isn't quite a smile. "Oh, they're livid."
"Practically foaming at the mouth to dissect that little stunt of yours." He turns toward the door, his long coat whispering against polished boots. "Consider our next meeting... educational."
Just before crossing the threshold, Lyth pauses. Doesn't look back. Just offers the barest nod - more acknowledgment than reassurance - before disappearing into the hallway's gloom.
The silence stretches.
Then—
BAM!
Before he can sit up, Bram bursts into the room, dressed in a pressed suit. He's sporting a small bandage on his lip, the only visible reminder of his fight. Despite that, he's beaming with a wide grin, exuding his usual energy.
"What's up, man?" Bram greets, his voice full of enthusiasm as he jogs over to Obinai's bedside.
Obinai smiles weakly, his body still sore but warming up at the sight of his friend. "Not much… recovering, you know."
Bram's grin widens as he claps his hand on the side of Obinai's bed. "Well, come on! We've got a banquet to attend."
Obinai frowns. "But I lost."
"So?" Bram rolls his eyes. "You made it to finals. That's like... free food for life, or somethin'." He leans in, lowering his voice like he's sharing a secret. "Also, pretty sure there's cake."
They have cake here?
Obinai glances down at himself—hospital gown, bandages...
"I don't got a suit, Bram."
Bram's grin turns wicked. "Yeah ya do. Lyth had one sent to the dorm. Fancy bastard thinks of everything." He grabs Obinai's wrist and yanks him upright before he can protest. "Up. Now. Before I drag you there in your underwear."
A few minutes later, they're walking back toward their dorm, the crisp evening air clearing some of the lingering tension from Obinai's mind. When they reach their room, Obinai steps in and looks down at his unkempt bed, where a perfectly folded black suit sits, freshly pressed. His one, wrinkled sheet is still messily crumpled at the foot of the bed, making the suit stand out even more.
Bram steps out of the room, flashing a thumbs up and another wide grin before closing the door. "Take your time dude."
Same old Bram, Obinai thinks with quiet relief as the door clicks shut. Even after everything, he's still just... Bram. He chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck. "Bet," he murmurs to himself, shaking off the last bit of weariness as he pulls on the suit. The fabric is smooth, perfectly tailored, and it fits him like a glove.
Idiot's probably waiting out there counting ceiling tiles or something, he imagines with amusement as he adjusts the cuffs. The thought makes him smile - that after all the chaos of the tournament, after whatever the hell that transformation was, Bram could still be so... simple.
But as he fastens the collar, a darker thought slithers in. What happens when he finds out what I really am? His fingers pause mid-adjustment. That cheerful bastard would probably still smile at me... right?
Shaking his head, he forces the worry away and steps out. "Damn, this thing fits perfectly."
Bram, who had been leaning against the wall - probably actually counting those tiles - snaps to attention and smiles as he takes in Obinai's transformation. "Told you," he says with a wink, opening the door for them. "But we're so late right now. I think the desserts are already getting served."
Obinai's eyes widen in mock horror. Typical Bram priorities - always thinking with his stomach. "Damn!" Without missing a beat, he sprints past Bram, laughing. "I'm not missing dessert!"
Bram stumbles for a second, caught off guard - still so easy to rattle - before chasing after him. "Aye! What the— Obinai, wait up!"
The two of them race down the hallway, their laughter echoing through the corridors. As Bram's heavy footfalls catch up, Obinai feels that familiar competitive spark - but beneath it, something warmer. This... this is good. As long as things stay like this...
They barrel down the stairwell toward the dining hall, grinning like schoolboys, the momentary worries forgotten in the thrill of their race. But somewhere in the back of Obinai's mind, the thought lingers - How long can this last...?