Chapter 67

Chapter 67: Chapter 67

The Silvermoon delegation was a sea of white and silver.

Seventy students in pristine uniforms, their hair braided and pinned with elegant precision, their postures perfect, their expressions serene. They moved through the academy gates like a procession of swans, each step graceful and deliberate, their eyes taking in everything with quiet assessment. The morning sun caught the silver embroidery on their sleeves and the polished gleam of their boots, and more than one Shadowmoon student found themselves staring openly.

Headmistress Lady Isolde led the procession, her silver hair gleaming in the morning light, her pale eyes sharp and knowing. She was tall and regal, her presence commanding without effort, and when she spoke, her voice carried the unmistakable authority of someone who had spent decades shaping young women into leaders. Behind her came the instructors—twelve women in darker silver robes, their faces stern and watchful, their eyes already cataloguing the strengths and weaknesses of the students around them. And behind them, the students themselves, moving in perfect formation, their gazes forward, their hands clasped demurely in front of them.

The Shadowmoon students lined the courtyard in their best uniforms, their expressions ranging from curiosity to wariness to barely concealed admiration. The Silvermoon girls were beautiful. That was undeniable. Their hair was braided in elaborate styles, their skin glowing with health, their smiles practiced and poised. But they were also dangerous—anyone with eyes could see the coiled strength beneath their elegant exteriors, the way they moved with the controlled grace of trained fighters. These were not delicate flowers. These were warriors in silk.

Proctor Kane stepped forward to greet Lady Isolde with formal courtesy, his iron-gray hair brushed back, his ceremonial robes immaculate for the first time in weeks. "Headmistress. Welcome to Shadowmoon Academy. We are honored by your presence."

"Proctor Kane." Lady Isolde inclined her head, her smile perfectly measured. "The honor is ours. We have heard much about this year’s showcase. The King’s attendance has raised the stakes considerably. Silvermoon is prepared to meet those stakes."

"Indeed. But I have every confidence that both our academies will rise to the occasion."

"Of course." Lady Isolde’s pale eyes swept across the assembled students. "We expect nothing less. From either side."

The formalities continued—speeches, introductions, the exchange of ceremonial gifts that had been prepared weeks in advance. Nyra stood with Finn, Marek, and Jasper near the middle of the courtyard, watching the exchange with careful attention. She had dressed as Thorne—loose tunic, bound chest, silver hair pulled back in a short tail—and her expression was the practiced neutrality of a prince who had been trained to hide his emotions.

"There are so many of them," Finn whispered, his eyes wide. "And they’re all so... perfect. It’s unsettling. Look at their hair. How do they get their hair to do that?"

"They’re students, just like us," Jasper said, though his sharp eyes were tracking the Silvermoon girls with unusual intensity. "They just have better posture."

"Much better posture. It’s intimidating. I feel like I should be standing straighter."

"You should. You slouch."

"I do not slouch. I have a relaxed stance. It’s approachable."

"Focus," Marek said quietly, his deep voice cutting through their bickering. "We’re being watched as much as we’re watching them."

He was right. The Silvermoon students were assessing the Shadowmoon students with the same sharp attention, their eyes moving from face to face, cataloguing potential opponents and allies. Some of them whispered behind gloved hands. Others smiled with cool amusement at the obvious staring they were receiving. A few—the ones with the hardest eyes—were already marking targets.

But Nyra’s attention was elsewhere. She was watching Soren, who stood near the front of the courtyard with Ragnar at his side. He looked calm—bored, even—but she knew him well enough now to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight. He was looking at the Silvermoon students with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

And then she noticed something strange.

The Silvermoon students were all accounted for—seventy of them, arranged in neat rows behind their instructors. But there was an empty space near the front of their formation, a gap where someone important should have been standing. Their leader, the one who had addressed them with such authority before the journey, was nowhere to be seen.

Where is she? Luna asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

I don’t know. But I have a bad feeling about this.

When do you not have a bad feeling?

Fair point.

The welcoming ceremony concluded, and the students were dismissed to their various activities. The Silvermoon delegation was escorted to the east wing to settle into their quarters, and the Shadowmoon students returned to their training the showcase was only two weeks away, and there was no time to waste.

The main training hall was a vast, echoing chamber of stone and iron, its high windows letting in shafts of pale morning light. It was here that the joint training sessions would be held, and it was here that Soren had retreated the moment the formalities ended. He had no interest in standing around while the Proctor and Lady Isolde exchanged pleasantries. He had no interest in the whispers and stares of the Silvermoon students. He had training to do, and training was the only thing that quieted his mind.

The hall was already crowded with students from both academies—Shadowmoon students running drills on one side, Silvermoon students observing with cool interest on the other. The air was thick with the sound of clashing steel and shouted instructions and the heavy breathing of exhausted fighters. Soren stood at the center of it all, his shirt already damp with sweat, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he moved through his combinations with mechanical precision.

Ragnar sparred with him, their blades meeting in a shower of sparks. "You’re distracted," Ragnar observed, blocking a strike that should have landed. "More than usual."

"I’m focused."

"You’re brooding. There’s a difference."

"I don’t brood."

"You’re brooding right now. Is it the Silvermoon girls? The showcase? The fact that your father is coming and you haven’t told—"

"Ragnar." Soren’s voice was a warning.

"Fine. I’ll drop it. But you need to get your head in the game before someone notices."

Around them, the training continued. Finn was practicing with Marek near the eastern wall, his movements sharper than they had been weeks ago but still not quite sharp enough. Jasper observed from a bench, his book open but his eyes on the Silvermoon students. Orion and Silas were running drills with some of the younger students. Corvin was across the hall with Lucian and his team, his dark eyes occasionally flicking toward the door as if he was waiting for someone.

Nyra was near the center of the hall, working through her own combinations with a training dummy. She had changed into her training clothes—loose trousers, a fitted tunic, her silver hair pulled back. Her movements were fluid and precise, the result of weeks of brutal training with Soren. But her mind was elsewhere. She kept glancing toward the door, toward the Silvermoon students who were filtering into the hall, toward the empty space where their mysterious leader should have been.

She’s not here, Luna observed. The leader. She’s still missing.

I noticed.

Do you think she’s avoiding the training?

I think she’s avoiding something. I just don’t know what.

The doors to the training hall swung open.

And she walked in.

The moment she appeared, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. Conversations faltered. Sparring matches paused. Even the instructors turned to look as the mysterious Silvermoon leader stepped through the doorway, her dark hair cascading down her back in perfect waves, her amber eyes scanning the room with calm, unhurried assessment. She was beautiful—there was no denying that. But it was not a soft beauty. It was the beauty of a blade, sharp and refined and utterly deliberate. Every movement she made was precise. Every step was calculated. She moved through the crowded hall like a queen surveying her domain, and the students parted before her without conscious thought.

She was looking for someone.

Her amber eyes swept across the training hall—past the Silvermoon students who nodded respectfully as she passed, past the Shadowmoon students who stared with open curiosity, past the instructors who watched her with narrowed eyes. She wasn’t interested in any of them.

Her gaze found Soren.

He was in the middle of a combination, his blade clashing against Ragnar’s, his muscles coiling and releasing with practiced precision. He hadn’t noticed her yet. He was too focused on his training, too lost in the rhythm of combat.

She smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips and began to walk toward him.

Nyra saw it happen. She saw the woman’s trajectory, saw the way her amber eyes were fixed on Soren with an intensity that made Nyra’s stomach tighten. She saw the confidence in her stride, the familiarity in her expression, the way she moved toward him like she had every right to be there.

Who is she? Luna asked.

I don’t know.

But she was about to find out.

"Long time no see," the woman said, her voice carrying across the training hall with perfect clarity.

Soren froze mid-strike. His blade stopped inches from Ragnar’s, and he turned slowly, his dark eyes widening with something that looked like shock. Recognition. And something else—something that might have been dread.

"Selene," he said.

The name hit Nyra like a physical blow.

Selene. Who is she and why’s Soren looking at her like that?.

I guess we will have to find out. Luna whispered.

Selene walked up to Soren with the fluid grace of someone who had never been denied anything in her life. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t falter. She reached him, and before anyone could react, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace that was far more intimate than any public greeting should have been.

"I’ve missed you," she said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Her voice was warm, affectionate, perfectly pitched to carry across the silent training hall.

Soren stood rigid for a moment, his arms at his sides. Then, slowly, he raised them and returned the embrace. It was awkward. Stiff. The embrace of a man who didn’t want to be hugging the woman in his arms but couldn’t find a way to refuse.

"Betrothed," Selene said, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Her hands remained on his shoulders, her touch familiar and possessive. "Long time no see."

The word echoed through the training hall like a thunderclap.

Betrothed.

Nyra felt the world tilt beneath her feet. Her hands, which had been raised in a fighting stance, fell limply to her sides. The training dummy she had been striking stood forgotten. Everything around her—the clashing of steel, the shouts of instructors, the murmur of curious students—faded into a distant roar.

Betrothed.