At her side, Yuki noticed. The crimson glint in her left eye caught Blanche's expression, and for a moment, the icy calm that always cloaked her softened.
"She'll be fine."
Her voice was low, steady, like a calm hearth fire in the middle of a frozen night.
Blanche turned to her, uncertain.
Yuki's gaze held firm.
"Yuxin's in the hands of the right person. Fuuka isn't called the Library Phantom for nothing. When it comes to matters hidden in that labyrinth, she's unmatched. You don't have to doubt her."
The reassurance washed over Blanche slowly, like warmth creeping back into chilled fingers. She exhaled, not quite relief, but close enough to loosen the knot in her chest. She gave a small nod.
"…Yes. I suppose you're right. Fuuka is… trustworthy."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but tentative, like the first steps on unfamiliar ground. Then Yuki tilted her head slightly, breaking it with quiet formality.
"Izanami Yuki. President of the radio club. It's good to meet you properly, Lady Equinox."
The title landed like a stone in Blanche's stomach. She straightened almost reflexively, every ounce of her noble training snapping into place.
"Blanche Van Equinox. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Izanami."
The words were polished, rehearsed, dipped in etiquette—but her tone carried the faint stiffness of someone who wasn't sure if it was the right mask to wear.
Yuki's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
"You don't have to be that formal. I'm not the kind who cares for titles."
Blanche hesitated, her hands brushing against the hem of her skirt.
"…Ah, yes. Of course. Forgive me. Old habits die hard."
She tried to relax her shoulders, but the stiffness lingered in her posture. It wasn't that she didn't want to—only that a lifetime of noble expectation was hard to shed in a single breath.
Yuki caught the trace of hesitation, but said nothing further. Her silence was not judgmental, merely patient, like frost waiting for the sun to decide if it would linger or melt.
And so they walked side by side down the quiet corridor, two figures bound by the same concern for the girl left behind, yet still learning the rhythm of each other's steps.
Their footsteps echoed softly down the marble corridor, the silence between them a fragile thread. Blanche was still half-turned toward the closed library doors, her mind unable to leave Yuxin behind. Yuki, however, glanced at her sidelong, her voice calm but deliberate.
"Blanche… there's something you should keep in mind. The academy tournament is drawing near. And from the looks of the brackets… your opponent in the round of sixteen might very well be Irina Volkovskaya."
Blanche froze mid-step, her breath catching.
"…Irina? You mean—that Irina?"
Her tone cracked slightly, disbelief flashing across her usually disciplined composure. For a heartbeat, she thought she had misheard. But Yuki's expression told her otherwise.
"Yes. The Frozen Lily herself. Varyshka's princess."
Blanche's pulse quickened. She had prepared herself for many possibilities—skilled duelists, unpredictable Pacta bearers—but Irina? That was something else entirely.
Images surged in her mind: the pale-haired princess standing regal and unyielding, her fur-lined ushanka unmistakable, her eyes like winter skies that had never known warmth. Blanche had seen her train before—how spectral firearms of frost would descend from runes shimmering above her, how each shot rang not like gunfire but like decrees of judgment.
Irina Volkovskaya. The name carried weight like iron shackles.
Born in Varyshka, raised in the blood-soaked tradition of generals, she wasn't just another competitor—she was the embodiment of her homeland's frozen discipline. Her Astraga, Volkov's Judgment, manifested as rune-etched firearms, a hybrid of Invocation and Channeling. A shotgun that tore battlefields into shards of ice. A sniper rifle that whispered frost across its barrel with every breath, each bullet more decree than projectile. Her battle cries, shouted in her native tongue—Пронзи́! Разори́! Верши́ приговор!—were enough to chill the air and rattle even seasoned fighters.
Blanche swallowed hard. To face someone like that so early—barely the top sixteen—felt almost cruel. Irina wasn't simply strong, she was methodical, unrelenting, a storm given shape. A warrior princess whose every strike carried not just power, but the authority of her entire bloodline.
For the first time in a long while, Blanche felt something close to a dread curl in her chest. She clenched her hands, her noble pride warring against the gnawing realization: this match would not be easy. No—it would be a trial by frost and steel.
Blanche let out a slow breath, forcing her features back into order even though the tension still lingered in her chest. She turned slightly toward Yuki, her voice quiet but sincere.
"...Thank you, Yuki. For telling me this. I'll keep it in mind."
There was a faint bow of her head, the kind nobles gave when words weren't enough. She hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then straightened and offered the slightest smile, fragile but genuine.
"I should… return to my dormitory. There are things I need to think through. And people I need to speak with."
Yuki tilted her head, studying her with that unreadable gaze.
Blanche didn't elaborate further, but in her mind the thought was already clear. Ruka. Vila. They'll know what to say. They'll help me make sense of this. The image of her two closest allies steadied her heart, even if just a little.
With that, Blanche gathered her skirts, pivoted, and strode down the corridor at a brisk pace. Her heels struck the marble rhythmically, each step faster than the last, as though she could outrun the storm of unease curling inside her. The long hallway swallowed her figure, the faint glint of her blond hair fading into distance.
Left behind, Yuki watched her go in silence. The radio club president's expression remained still, though her crimson eye flickered briefly with something softer, almost wistful.
And then, under her breath, words slipped free—meant for no one, carried away by the quiet draft of the hall.
"...Good luck, Blanche."