Chapter 81

Chapter 81: Chapter 81

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the towers and the academy settled into its nightly quiet, two figures stood in the shadows of the abandoned east wing. One was broad-shouldered and scarred, his eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. The other was leaner, darker, his expression unreadable.

"One week," Killian murmured, staring at the distant lights of the main hall. "One week, and it will all be over."

"And if something goes wrong?" Draven asked.

"Nothing will go wrong. I’ve accounted for every variable. Every possibility. Every weakness." Killian’s lips curved into a cold smile. "Thorne Astrlyn won’t survive the showcase. And when he’s gone, Corvin will finally see me."

"And Soren?"

"Soren will be too broken to care. Let him grieve. Let him rage. It won’t matter. By the time anyone figures out what happened, I’ll be long gone."

Draven nodded slowly. "I’m with you. Whatever you need."

"I know you are." Killian turned and pressed a kiss to Draven’s lips—cold and quick, a reward for loyalty. "Now go. Rest. We have a long week ahead of us."

Draven slipped away into the darkness, and Killian stood alone in the abandoned wing, staring at the moon.

"Soon," he whispered. "Soon."

The final week before the showcase dawned bright and clear, the summer sun burning off the morning mist and painting the academy towers in shades of gold and amber. The tension that had gripped the school for weeks had not disappeared, but it had shifted—from frantic preparation to quiet, focused determination. Every student knew what was coming. Every student was ready.

Or at least, they were trying to be.

The joint training sessions had become a daily ritual, Shadowmoon and Silvermoon students drilling side by side in the main training hall. The initial hostility between the two academies had softened into something approaching mutual respect, though there were still moments of friction—a sharp word here, a lingering glare there. But for the most part, the students had learned to work together. They had no choice. The King was coming. The showcase would not wait.

Nyra stood in the eastern sparring circle, her practice sword raised, her breath coming in controlled, measured exhales. Across from her, Soren circled with the predatory grace of a wolf assessing its prey. His dark eyes were fixed on her, but there was warmth in them now—a warmth that had been absent for too long.

"Your footwork is improving," he said. "But you’re still dropping your left shoulder when you lunge. It telegraphs your attack."

"Maybe I want to telegraph my attack. Maybe it’s a feint."

"Is it a feint?"

"No. But it could be."

He almost smiled. "Try again. And this time, keep your shoulder up."

She lunged. He blocked. She spun and struck again, faster this time, her blade a silver blur in the morning light. He parried and countered, and she barely managed to deflect his strike before it would have landed.

"Better," he said. "Much better."

"I had a good teacher."

"A great teacher."

"Adequate. I had an adequate teacher."

His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You’ve been spending too much time with Finn."

"Finn is a delight."

"Finn is a menace."

"Both things can be true."

They circled each other again, and Nyra felt the familiar thrill of combat singing through her veins. But it was different now. Before, training with Soren had been a battle—a test of wills, a clash of pride and frustration and unspoken longing. Now it was a dance. A partnership. Two people who had found their rhythm and learned to move together.

She lunged. He sidestepped. She anticipated his counter and ducked under it, her practice sword tapping his ribs.

"Point," she said, breathless and grinning.

Soren looked down at the wooden blade pressed against his side. Then he looked up at her, and the smile that curved his lips was not the cold smirk of the Sword Sovereign. It was the smile of a man who was utterly, helplessly in love.

"Well done, little moon."

"Thank you, my wolf."

Across the training hall, Finn was not having nearly as much success.

"You’re distracted," Ragnar said, blocking Finn’s strike with embarrassing ease. "You’ve been distracted all morning. What’s going on?"

"I’m not distracted. I’m focused."

"You’re staring at Thorne and Soren."

"I’m observing their technique."

"You’re grinning like an idiot."

"Grinning is part of my technique."

Ragnar lowered his axe and fixed Finn with a look. "Finn."

"Fine! I’m happy for them, okay? They went through all that drama with the betrothal and the cafeteria fight and the crying in the garden, and now they’re back together and making heart-eyes at each other across the training hall. It’s cute. I’m allowed to think it’s cute."

"You’re allowed to think it’s cute. You’re not allowed to get stabbed because you’re too busy thinking it’s cute." Ragnar reached out and adjusted Finn’s grip on his practice sword. "Now focus. I want to see that combination we worked on yesterday."

"Which combination?"

"The one where you don’t fall over."

"That narrows it down to approximately two."

Ragnar laughed—a low, warm sound—and pulled Finn into a quick kiss before anyone could notice. "You’re impossible."

"You love it."

"I love you. There’s a difference."

"Not from where I’m standing."

They resumed their sparring, and Finn managed to complete the combination without falling over. Barely.

In the potions laboratory, Corvin was putting the finishing touches on his work.

The room was a chaos of bubbling vials and scattered notes and the faint, acrid smell of experimental brews. He had been working for weeks on protective potions—antidotes for common poisons, salves for wolfsbane burns, elixirs that could slow bleeding or reduce fever. The Mistwood had taught him that preparation was the difference between life and death, and he was determined that no one he cared about would ever be caught unprepared again.

Lucian sat on a stool near the door, flipping through one of Corvin’s research journals with the expression of someone who understood about half of what he was reading.

"So," Lucian said, not looking up. "The showcase is in six days. Are you ready?"

"I’m always ready."

"For the showcase, yes. For everything else?" Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Thorne and Soren are back together. Everyone’s seen them training. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore."

"I know."

"Does it bother you?"

Corvin paused, his hand hovering over a vial of moonflower extract. "It bothers me less than I expected. They’re mates. The bond chose them. I can’t fault them for following what fate designed."

"That’s very mature of you."

"I’m a very mature person."

"You sulked for three days after the Mistwood."

"I was recovering from my injuries. There’s a difference."

Lucian snorted but didn’t argue. "So what’s your plan? For the showcase? For after?"

"My plan is to keep the people I care about alive. Nyra. Soren. You. Orion. Everyone." Corvin resumed his work, his movements precise and methodical. "The King is coming. Selene is scheming. There are assassins in this academy who want Nyra dead. The political implications of the showcase are staggering, and one wrong move could trigger a war." He set the vial down and turned to face Lucian. "So no. I don’t have time to be bothered about Soren and Nyra. I have time to make sure they survive."

Lucian was quiet for a moment. Then he stood and clapped Corvin on the shoulder. "You’re a good man, Corvin Eldritch. Even when you pretend not to be."

"I never pretend to be good. I pretend to be cold. It’s easier."

"Is it?"

"No. But it’s familiar."

Lucian squeezed his shoulder once and let go. "Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. And I think Nyra is lucky to have you in her corner. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet."

Corvin didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth curved into something that was almost a smile.

The cafeteria that evening was bustling with students from both academies, the long wooden tables packed with tired but cheerful faces. The Silvermoon girls had integrated more fully into the daily life of Shadowmoon over the past week—they ate with the Shadowmoon students, trained with them, even laughed at their terrible jokes. There were still divisions, still tensions, but they were fading. Slowly. Bit by bit.

Nyra sat with Finn, Marek, and Jasper at their usual table near the windows. Corvin had joined them tonight, along with Lucian and Orion. Even Ragnar had pulled up a chair, his scarred face relaxed in a way it rarely was.

"This is nice," Finn said, gesturing at the crowded table with a piece of bread. "All of us together. No one’s fighting. No one’s crying. No one’s slapping anyone."

"Don’t jinx it," Marek said.

"I’m not jinxing it. I’m appreciating it. There’s a difference."

"With you, there’s never a difference."

Jasper looked up from his book—he was always reading, even at dinner—and fixed Finn with his sharp eyes. "Statistically speaking, the probability of another cafeteria brawl decreases significantly when Selene is not present."

"Is Selene not present?" Finn craned his neck to scan the room. "I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy enjoying the lack of slapping."

"She’s sitting with her Silvermoon friends near the back," Lucian observed. "She’s been watching Thorne all evening." ℴ

Nyra didn’t look up from her stew. "Let her watch. I have nothing to hide."

"Don’t you?" Jasper asked quietly.

She met his eyes. "Nothing she can prove."

Jasper nodded slowly, a flicker of understanding passing between them. He knew. He had always known, or at least suspected. But he had never asked, and she had never told him, and that silent trust was one of the things she valued most about him.

"Whatever happens," Corvin said, his voice low enough that only those at the table could hear, "we’ll be ready. The protective potions are finished. I’ve distributed them to everyone who might need them. If Selene tries anything at the showcase, she’ll find us prepared."

"And if she doesn’t try anything?" Finn asked.

"Then we enjoy the showcase and celebrate our victories." Corvin almost smiled. "But I don’t think Selene is the type to sit quietly and accept defeat."

"She’s definitely not," Ragnar agreed. "I’ve known her since we were children. She’s never lost anything in her life. She’s not about to start now."

Nyra looked across the cafeteria, toward the table where Selene sat with her Silvermoon friends. The dark-haired woman was laughing at something one of them had said, her amber eyes bright, her posture perfect. But even from this distance, Nyra could feel the weight of her attention. The cold calculation behind every smile.

Let her watch, Luna said quietly. Let her scheme. We’ve faced worse than a jealous betrothed.

I know. But she’s dangerous, Luna. Not because she’s strong—because she’s smart. And smart enemies are the hardest to predict.

Then we’ll be smarter.

Nyra smiled faintly. When did you become so wise?

I’ve always been wise. You just couldn’t hear me before.

Across the cafeteria, Selene’s amber eyes met Nyra’s silver ones. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other—two women on opposite sides of a war that neither of them had started but only one of them could win.

Selene smiled. It was not a kind smile.

Nyra smiled back. It was not a defeated one.

The sun set over the academy towers, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose and the deep purple of approaching night. The students retreated to their dormitories. The instructors made their final preparations. The servants hung the last of the banners and polished the last of the silver.

In six days, the King would arrive.

In six days, the showcase would begin.

And everything would change.