The bi-annual "Imperial Unity Gala" was a tradition designed to remind the scions of the Great Houses that their power was a gift from the throne. For the students of the Apex Tier, it was a mandatory exercise in high-stakes diplomacy. The Academy's training leathers were replaced by silk, velvet, and the heavy weight of family crests.
The Grand Ballroom was a cathedral of light, with chandeliers made of floating sun-crystals and a floor of polished white marble that reflected the opulence above.
Alaric moved through the crowd with the same effortless precision he brought to a combat simulation. He wore the charcoal and silver of House Thorne, his posture impeccable. Beside him, Elara was a vision of royal authority in a gown of spun gold. Her presence—usually a sharpened blade—was now smoothed into the calm, unshakeable dignity of a Princess.
"Lord Thorne," a high-ranking Duke remarked, intercepting them near the champagne fountain. "The reports of your synchronization scores have reached the capital. To achieve such results with a North-born commoner in the mix... truly, your leadership is as mathematical as they say."
Alaric offered a polite, shallow bow. "The credit belongs to the squad's resilience, Duke Valen. Even the most complex equation requires sturdy variables."
"And a firm hand to solve them," the Duke added, glancing at Elara. "We are all relieved to see the Princess by your side. A Knight-Sovereign is the perfect check for a... volatile formation."
Alaric smiled, though his mind was already moving past the flattery. To these nobles, he was the Empire's greatest weapon being refined. He was the future they were betting their fortunes on.
"I find volatility can be a strength if redirected correctly," Alaric replied smoothly. "If you'll excuse us, Duke, I believe the Headmaster is signaling for the toast."
As they moved toward the dais, Alaric leaned closer to Elara. "I find these events far more taxing than the high-gravity chambers. The logic of politics is far too reliant on ego rather than objective truth."
"That is why I am here, Alaric," Elara whispered, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve. "To filter the noise so you can hear the signal."
While Alaric and Elara occupied the center of the room, the rest of Squad One was scattered across the periphery like discarded shadows.
Caspian stood by a balcony door, looking profoundly uncomfortable in his formal doublet. He looked like a wolf that had been forced into a dog's collar. Every time a noble looked his way with a mix of curiosity and disdain, his hand twitched toward where his claymore usually hung.
"The air is quite thin over here, isn't it?"
Caspian turned to find Seraphina. She was dressed in the pale blue silk of the Lunar Cathedral, her silver prayer beads wrapped around her wrist. She looked elegant, but her eyes were red-rimmed, searching the room with a frantic, bird-like intensity.
"It's better than the air near the Duke," Caspian grunted. He nodded toward the center of the room where Alaric was engaged in a calm discussion with the Minister of War. "He looks like he's playing chess while the rest of us are just trying to breathe."
Seraphina followed his gaze. She watched Alaric's hand—the way he gestured with such measured, graceful movements. "He doesn't make mistakes," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the orchestra. "That's what's so frightening. Even his laughter sounds... calculated."
Caspian looked at her, his eyes narrowing. He had noticed her behavior in the labs—the way she flinched at shadows, the way she watched Alaric with a terror that surpassed simple intimidation. "You watch him like you're waiting for an executioner's axe to fall, Priestess. Why?"
Seraphina stiffened. She couldn't say it. She couldn't tell this Northern brute that she had seen Alaric Thorne stand atop a mountain of corpses. "I... I am merely sensitive to mana-signatures. His is very... cold."
Caspian let out a short, bitter huff. "Cold? It's a glacier. But you aren't just sensitive. You look at him the way I look at a man who's already killed me once."
Seraphina's breath hitched. She turned to Caspian, her heart hammering. "And how do you look at him, Lord Caspian? You talk about 'calculators' and 'gilded cages.' You don't act like a boy meeting a prodigy. You act like a survivor."
The two stared at each other for a long, heavy moment. Neither was ready to trust. The risk was too high—the asylum or Elara's rapier was the only reward for a misplaced confession.
"I have things to do," Caspian said, breaking the gaze. "Stay out of the middle of the room, Priestess. The 'logic' over there is dangerous."
He walked away, leaving Seraphina alone by the balcony. She watched his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd, her mind racing. Does he know? Is it possible he saw the end too?
Late that night, Alaric sat in his study. The gala had been a success socially, but it had left him with a lingering question. He pulled out his private journal and flipped back through his notes on the squad's performance.
Observation: Subject Seraphina and Subject Caspian are displaying synchronized avoidance behaviors. Not only toward me, but toward the central political figures of the Empire.
He tapped his pen against his chin. It is as if they are both suffering from a specific, localized form of paranoia—one that assumes the current social order is a precursor to a catastrophe. Their reactions aren't random. They are specific.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Elara entered, having changed into a simple, elegant robe of white silk. She looked softer in the lamplight, her golden hair loose and falling over her shoulders.
"The gala took quite a bit out of you," she said, walking over to stand behind him. She didn't look at his notes, but her hand rested on his shoulder, her thumb kneading the tension there.
"I'm fine," Alaric said, leaning back into her touch. "I'm just trying to understand the 'human' element of our squad. They don't react to my leadership with the standard enthusiasm. It's almost as if they're... waiting for me to fail."
"Then let them wait," Elara said, her voice a soothing, low melody. "They are your tools, Alaric. A sword doesn't need to love the smith; it only needs to be sharp. I will make sure they stay sharp."
"I'd prefer they were partners, Elara. The squad's logic is stronger if everyone is aligned."
"They will align," Elara promised. She leaned down, her cheek momentarily brushing against his hair. "I'll make sure of it."
As she spoke, her eyes drifted to a map on the wall. It wasn't a map of the North—it was a map of the Imperial Capital. In her mind, she wasn't seeing the map of today. She was seeing the streets as they appeared when they were choked with the black mist of the Void-Breach.
She felt a surge of quiet, fierce resolve. She didn't care what Caspian or Seraphina suspected. She didn't care if they were "survivors" or "heroes." As long as they played their parts in Alaric's ascension, she would let them live.
"Go to sleep, Alaric," she whispered. "The world will still be here in the morning. I'll make sure of that, too."