Chapter 87: Veyron Veylcrest encounter with the seventh prince

Chapter 87: Chapter 87: Veyron Veylcrest encounter with the seventh prince

Sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains of the imperial dormitory, painting golden rectangles across Theon’s sleeping form. He lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, his silver hair a mess against the pillow.

The door flew open with enough force to crack the wall.

"Big brother!"

Theon groaned, pulling a pillow over his head.

"Big brother, wake up! Wake up wake up wake up!"

The mattress bounced violently. Theon’s eyes snapped open as Lyra landed squarely on his back, her small knees digging into his spine with the precision of a trained assassin.

"Lyra—"

"It’s almost time for the spirit contracting! Everyone is going to be addressed soon and you’re still sleeping like a lazy slug!"

Theon groaned into his pillow. "It’s—" he squinted at the window, "—it’s barely dawn."

"Exactly! And we need to be early so we get good spots! What if all the strong spirits are taken by the time we get there? What if we have to walk all the way to the back of the forest? What if—"

"Okay, okay, okay." Theon reached back and grabbed Lyra by the collar of her dress, lifting her off his back and setting her on the floor like a misbehaving kitten. "I’m up. I’m awake. You can stop bouncing now."

Lyra’s eyes sparkled with barely contained energy. "Hurry! I already got dressed and brushed my hair and everything. You’re the only one who’s slow."

"I’m not slow, you’re just—" he paused, yawning, "—you’re just too fast."

Theon swung his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his tangled hair. Lyra stood there, tapping her foot with the impatience of someone who had never experienced a single moment of laziness in her entire existence.

"Are you going to just sit there?"

"Lyra."

"What?"

"Can I have five seconds to wake up?"

"No."

Theon sighed. He’d raised a monster.

He stood, stretching his arms above his head until his joints cracked. Lyra watched him with an intensity that would have been concerning if he hadn’t been so accustomed to it.

"You know," Theon said, walking toward his wardrobe, "when I imagined having a little sister, I didn’t imagine she’d be my personal wake-up call."

Lyra grinned. "You should have imagined better then."

She bounced around the room as he dressed, chattering about everything and nothing—the spirits she hoped to find, the other students she’d seen in the dining hall, the way the instructors had been acting strangely serious all morning.

Theon listened with half an ear, pulling on his academy uniform, his movements automatic. His mind was still sluggish from sleep, but Lyra’s energy was infectious despite his best efforts to resist it.

"Are you done yet?"

"Almost."

"Almost isn’t done!"

Theon grabbed her hand before she could start bouncing again. "I’m done now. Let’s go before you explode from excitement."

Lyra tugged him toward the door. "I’m not going to explode. That’s silly."

"Could have fooled me."

They stepped into the hallway of the imperial dormitory, the marble floors gleaming under the morning light. A few other students were already moving about, their voices echoing in the grand space.

Theon was about to turn toward the main staircase when—

"Theon."

He stopped. That voice. Soft, melodic, achingly familiar.

He looked down at Lyra. She was already looking up at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and mischief.

"Isn’t that—"

"Yeah."

Theon glanced to his left. Seraphina stood at the end of the corridor, her silver-white hair cascading down her back like liquid moonlight. She was speaking with another student, but her eyes kept drifting toward him—brief, fleeting glances that lingered a moment too long.

She looks good today.

The thought came unbidden, and Theon immediately pushed it away.

"Cryvathar," he murmured under his breath. "She’s here."

Silence. Then—

"I... can see that. "

Cryvathar’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a resonance within Theon’s mind that had become as familiar as his own thoughts.

"Would you love to have a moment with her?"

Another pause, longer this time. Theon could feel Cryvathar hesitation like a physical weight in his chest.

"I... cannot. "

"Why not? She’s right there. You’ve been wanting to—"

"I need a real body first. "

Theon blinked. "What?"

"I cannot approach her like this. As a voice in your head, a presence in your soul. I need... substance. Form. "

"Cryvathar—"

"I will not approach her again as an echo, Theon. She deserves better than that. She deserves something real. "

Theon felt something shift in the bond between them. Regret. Longing. Something that felt almost like... shame.

"Okay," Theon said softly. "If you say so."

"I do. "

"Big brother!" Lyra tugged at his sleeve. "What are you just standing there for? We need to go, we need to go, we need to—"

"All right, all right." Theon allowed himself to be pulled away from the corridor, from Seraphina’s lingering gaze, from Cryvathar’s silent longing. "We’re going. Calm down."

"I’m perfectly calm!"

"You’re the opposite of calm. You’re like a tiny hurricane."

"Hurricanes are powerful! That’s a compliment!"

Theon laughed despite himself. "Sure. Let’s go with that."

They descended the staircase together, Lyra practically skipping ahead while Theon followed at a more measured pace. Behind them, he could still feel Seraphina’s eyes on his back.

Another time, he thought. Maybe another time.

The grand lobby of the imperial dormitory was a masterpiece of architecture—soaring ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes, marble columns carved with intricate runes, and a massive chandelier that seemed to float in midair, its crystals catching the light and scattering rainbows across the walls.

Theon walked through it without really seeing it. He’d grown accustomed to the splendor over the past weeks. It was just another hallway now.

But something was different today.

People were looking at him.

Not just glancing, not just the casual acknowledgment that came with being a prince. They were staring. Openly. Some whispered behind their hands. Others watched him with expressions that ranged from curiosity to outright hostility.

Theon frowned. It was a familiar, almost comfortable expression, a shield he polished daily until it gleamed like a blade. This was usual. Typically, he could move through the stone corridors of the academy with a lot of eyes on him as—a prince among princes.

But today, eyes followed him like he was a Mythical beast.

What happened? Did something happen? Did I do something?

He couldn’t remember anything particularly noteworthy. Yesterday had been ordinary. The day before that had been ordinary. Everything had been—

"Theon. "

Cryvathar’s voice was sharp. Alert.

"Someone’s approaching. "

Theon looked up.

A boy was walking toward him. No—not walking. Strutting. Moving through the crowd with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. His hair was a shade of sapphire-blue that seemed almost unnatural, shimmering with a faint luminescence as he moved. His eyes were the color of fresh blood—crimson, intense, and fixed directly on Theon with unblinking focus.

The crowd parted around him like water around a stone.

The boy stopped in front of Theon, close enough that Theon could see the silver embroidery on his collar, the expensive cut of his clothes, the subtle aura of wealth and status that clung to him like expensive perfume.

The boy looked at Theon.

"You."

Theon raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You may be an imperial prince," the boy said, his voice low and controlled, "But you ought to know your place."

Theon blinked. He glanced at Lyra, who was watching the exchange with wide-eyed fascination. Then he looked back at the boy.

"Who are you?"

The boy paused. His crimson eyes narrowed.

"You’re the prince of the empire and you don’t even know who I am?"

Theon tilted his head. He considered the question honestly, running through his mental catalog of nobles and important figures. Nothing matched.

"I’ve never really seen you before."

The words hung in the air. The boy’s expression flickered—surprise, then annoyance, then something that might have been grudging respect.

"My name is Veyron Veylcrest," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. "The son of the supreme Merchant Lord; His lordship Valeron Veylcrest of Frostavia."

Theon waited.

Then—

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Veyron’s eye twitched.

Frostavia.

The name triggered something in Theon’s memory. A lesson. One of the many etiquette and history lessons he’d been forced to sit through at the Imperial palace.

The four powerful realms, his tutor’s voice echoed in his mind. Each one a pillar of the empire’s strength. And among them...

Frostavia.

The realm of merchants. A realm built not on military might or magical power, but on the strength of its economy. Its noble houses controlled trade routes that spanned half the continent. Its merchants were legendary for their ability to turn a profit from nothing. And House Veylcrest—

The Lord of the Merchants.

That was no empty title. The Veylcrest family controlled the Gold Exchange, the largest financial institution in the empire. Their wealth was so vast that even neighboring kingdoms sometimes came to them for loans.

And this boy is...

Theon blinked. The memory faded.

Veyron was still talking.

"—and I expect you to show proper respect, considering the alliance our houses have maintained for—"

"I’m sorry," Theon interrupted. "How may I help you, Veyron of House Veylcrest?"

Veyron stopped mid-sentence. His crimson eyes widened slightly.

Then a small grin appeared on his face.

"Finally," he said. "I was beginning to think you didn’t know how to address someone properly."

"I know how," Theon said evenly. "I just didn’t know who I was addressing."

The grin flickered. "You could have asked."

"You could have started with an introduction."

They stared at each other. The crowd around them had gone completely silent, watching the exchange with bated breath.

Then Veyron laughed.

"You’ve got nerve," he said. "I’ll give you that. Most people cower when they learn who I am."

Theon shrugged. "I’ve never been like most people."

"No." Veyron’s eyes gleamed. "No, I suppose you haven’t."

"I want you to stay away from my Clestia."

Theon blinked.

"What? "

It came out louder than he intended. Several nearby students flinched.

Veyron’s grin widened. "Yes. Clestia is to be my betrothed, and I need you to stay away from her."

Theon stared at him. His mind, still sluggish from sleep, struggled to process the words.

"Your Clestia?"

"My Clestia." Veyron nodded firmly. "We are to be married. Our families have arranged it. She is to be my wife, and I will not have you—"

"But I’m not taking her from you." Theon raised his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender. "Neither am I seeing her. We’ve barely spoken. Twice, maybe? I don’t even—"

"Ever since your performance at the Hall of Resonance," Veyron cut in, "her eyes have always been on you."

Theon blinked again.

Then—

He felt a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The right side of his lips twitched upward, almost against his will.

He looked away, staring at the marble floor.

"I wasn’t chasing her in the first place," he said quietly.

"I don’t care what you were doing," Veyron said. "Just stay away from her."

"All right, all right."

The words came out automatically, dismissive and unconcerned.

Veyron studied him for a moment, his crimson eyes searching Theon’s face for any sign of deception.

Then he nodded.

"Good."

He turned and walked away, his entourage falling into step behind him like a flock of well-trained birds.

The crowd around Theon erupted into whispers.

Theon stood in the middle of it all, running a hand through his hair.

"What just happened?" he muttered.

"I believe you just became the subject of a love rivalry, " Cryvathar said, his voice dry. "Congratulations. "

"That’s not a rivalry. I’m not even interested."

"Veyron Veylcrest doesn’t know that. "

"He does now. I told him."

"Did he believe you? "

Theon opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...No. No, I don’t think he did."

"Then it’s a rivalry. "

"Maybe he’s just... I don’t know. Protective? Jealous? It doesn’t matter."

"It matters to him. And it matters to Clestia. "

Theon groaned. "I really don’t want to deal with this."

"The world rarely gives us what we want, Theon. "

"Thanks for that profound insight, Cryvathar."

"You’re welcome. "

Someone nearby whispered, "Maybe he isn’t as bad as the rumors say after all."

Theon turned. A group of students quickly looked away, pretending they hadn’t been watching.

He sighed.

"Let’s just get to the forest," he said to Lyra. "Before something else happens."

Lyra grinned up at him. "You’re fun when you’re confused."

"I’m not confused. I’m... processing."

"That’s the same thing."

"It’s not the same thing at all."

"It’s exactly the same thing."

Theon gave up. "Let’s go."

They walked through the academy grounds, past training fields and lecture halls, past gardens filled with flowers that bloomed year-round regardless of season.

Theon tried to ignore the stares that followed him.

He mostly succeeded.

"Big brother."

Lyra’s voice was mischievous. He recognized that tone.

"What?"

"That was actually your stalker’s crush, right?"

Theon sighed. "She’s not—"

"That girl who confessed her love to you?"

"Lyra, that was—"

"The one who looked at you like you were a piece of meat—"

"She did not say— "

"—and she’s going to be married to that blue-haired boy?"

Theon rubbed his temples. "She’s not my stalker."

"She was literally stalking you."

"She was having fun."

"While chasing you. Even in the dark. Without telling you."

"...That’s not the point."

"What is the point then?" Lyra bounced alongside him, her eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. "Because it sounds like you have a stalker who’s about to get married to someone else, and that someone else came to yell at you about it. That’s really funny."

"It’s not funny."

"It’s a little funny."

"It’s not funny at all."

"It’s a little funny. "

"Cryvathar, not you too."

"I’m just observing. "

"Observe quietly."

"I’m always quiet. "

"You’re literally talking to me right now."

"That’s different. I’m helping. "

"By agreeing with Lyra?"

"Someone has to be on her side. "

"I’m on my side!" Lyra protested. "I’m the one who’s always on her side!"

"Yes, but I’m also on her side. There are two of us now. "

"You’re just ganging up on me," Theon muttered.

"We’re supporting you," Lyra corrected. "There’s a difference."

"There’s literally no difference."

"There’s a big difference. Ganging up is mean. Supporting is nice."

"She has a point. "

"Of course she has a point. She’s a genius." Lyra grinned. "Anyway, I think it’s sweet that you have a stalker. It means you’re popular."

"I’m not popular. I’m just... noticed."

"That’s the same thing."

"It’s not the same thing at all."

"It’s exactly the same thing. "

Theon opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.

He’d learned by now that arguing with Lyra and Cryvathar at the same time was a losing battle.

The open grounds before the Forest were vast enough to hold the entire student body of the Imperial Academy.

Thousands of students stood in formation, their uniforms a sea of black and silver, their voices a low murmur that filled the morning air.

Theon and Lyra found a spot near the middle of the crowd, close enough to see the stage but not close enough to be noticed.

Five instructors walked onto the raised platform. They moved with the easy authority of people who had spent decades commanding respect. Their robes were embroidered with symbols of their rank, their expressions stern and unreadable.

The student body fell silent.

The instructor in the middle—a tall man with iron-gray hair and eyes like winter ice—stepped forward.

He clapped twice.

The sound echoed across the grounds like a thunderclap.

In an instant, absolute silence.

The instructor surveyed the gathered students, his gaze sweeping across the thousands of faces before him.

The thought struck Theon like a shard of ice, sharp and undeniable. *If I can get the Spirit Sovereign to contract with me, I’ll heal. Not just mend—I’ll be armored against whatever hunts me next. His hand drifted instinctively to his side, pressing against the bandages that were already damp with warmth. The pain was a familiar companion now, but beneath it lurked a deeper chill: the fear of being caught broken and helpless, a bird with a shattered wing.

The price of such a contract was a monstrous unknown, a gamble that could bind his soul as easily as it could save his flesh. Yet, the alternative—limping through the shadows, watching his strength drain with every drop of blood—was a slow surrender he refused to accept. With a breath that shuddered but didn’t break, he turned his gaze toward the jagged peaks where the Sovereign was said to dwell. Fear coiled coldly in his gut, whispering of power too vast to control. But he silenced it with a single, brutal truth: fear was a luxury for the whole. For the broken, there was only action. He would find the Spirit Sovereign. He would gamble everything. And he would either walk out whole, or he wouldn’t walk out at all.