Gwenna Stormveil stepped inside, and an almost soundless pressure came with her.
She wasn't walking fast, but her pace was perfectly steady. Every step seemed placed with exact calculation, landing on the quietest patch of floor possible. Her boots made almost no sound at all, yet everyone instinctively felt that invisible pressure drawing closer.
The servants parted of their own accord and lined the corridor on both sides. No one dared look up and meet her eyes. All they could catch out of the corners of their vision was that sweep of dark blue and silver-white moving slowly down the hall, like a blade still in its sheath and already enough to set hearts pounding.
She wore a sharply tailored dark blue knight's dress uniform. The silver-white cloak over her shoulders swayed lightly with each step, like ice and snow flowing through the light.
She hadn't removed the sword at her waist. The scabbard rested against her hip and rocked gently as she walked. The sense that it could clear the sheath at any moment tightened the air around her.
It wasn't deliberate intimidation. It was the instinctive presence of someone honed by years on battlefields and in the halls of power, the kind that made people unconsciously hold their breath.
Damien stood at the doorway, watching her approach one step at a time.
The smile on his face was exactly right—neither too warm nor remotely cold.
He raised an arm, calm and elegant, like a well-trained noble welcoming a guest of equal standing.
"Welcome, Miss Gwenna," he said, his tone gentle and almost perfectly even.
Gwenna stopped in front of him.
She gave the slightest nod, but didn't return the pleasantry. Her gaze lingered on his face for a beat, then slowly lowered and stopped at his shoulder.
A raven perched there.
Its feathers were black as ink, with not a trace of any other color under the lamplight. They were sleek to the point of seeming unnatural, as if it didn't belong to any ordinary creature.
That lone eye watched her in silence. Deep in its pupil, a faint ghost-blue glimmer flashed, enough to trigger an instinctive sense that something was off.
Gwenna said nothing.
But in that instant, her breathing tightened ever so slightly.
She didn't ask. She just looked away, as if nothing had happened, and walked past Damien. Then the two of them entered the manor side by side.
Neither of them spoke.
The corridor lights laid shifting bands of light and shadow across them. Their footsteps were swallowed by the thick carpet, leaving only the silence between them to keep building.
Vaelric perched on Damien's shoulder, unusually quiet, as if even it knew this was no time to pipe up.
That silence lasted until they entered the meeting room.
The moment the heavy wooden door shut behind them, every sound from outside was cut off.
The fire in the hearth flickered softly. Orange-red light washed over the walls, making the whole room feel warm, but it couldn't drive away the tension hanging just beneath the surface.
Damien sent the servants the faintest glance.
There was almost no emotion in it, but it was enough to make his meaning clear.
The servants immediately lowered their heads and withdrew, taking the others with them. Even when they closed the door, they did it carefully, afraid to make a single unnecessary sound.
The room went still.
All that remained was the faint crackle of the fire, and the unspoken standoff between the two of them.
Gwenna walked to the table and sat down.
Her movements were crisp and efficient, without a trace of anything unnecessary.
Her hands folded over her knees, her back straight. Her whole body looked like a longsword set on its stand—still, composed, and sharp. When she lifted her eyes, there wasn't the slightest hesitation. They fell directly on Damien.
"The invitation from Arcanis Royal Academy," she said, her tone so calm it was nearly cold. "Did you receive it?"
Damien sat down across from her.
He reached out and lightly tapped the tabletop. The soft click of knuckles against wood sounded unusually clear in the quiet room. He nodded, his expression unchanged.
"I did."
The air seemed to go still for a moment.
The fire kept burning, but its warmth couldn't seem to pierce the invisible barrier between them.
Gwenna's gaze didn't waver in the slightest, but Damien could clearly feel her studying him, as if she were trying to read something from his breathing, his expression, even the tiniest twitch of muscle.
There was no hostility in that scrutiny.
It was sharp enough anyway.
Damien sighed inwardly.
He knew exactly who the woman in front of him was.
Gwenna Stormveil—the second daughter of the Stormveil family, Guardian of the North, and the youngest Knight Commander in the kingdom.
In the game's lore, she was the textbook cornerstone of the righteous faction—iron-willed, overwhelmingly strong, with almost no weaknesses.
And in the original storyline, she was the one who personally cut Damien Thornevale down with her sword.
That scene was still vivid in his memory.
The cold flash of steel. The strike without a moment's hesitation. The absolute decisiveness behind it.
They were engaged.
But they had never truly been close.
And now she was here, the very person who had secured him a professorship at Arcanis Royal Academy.
That alone was strange enough.
Damien looked at her, a few possible motives flashing through his mind in rapid succession.
Duty?
Her family's interests?
Or… some feeling even he himself couldn't understand?
He had no answer.
So he decided to test the waters.
Damien raised a hand.
A nearly invisible ripple spread through the air. In the next instant, five Healing Potions shimmering with a crimson sheen appeared on the table out of thin air.
The glass bottles clinked softly together. Red liquid rocked inside them, giving off a steady, gentle aura of life.
At once, the mana in the room shifted.
Gwenna's pupils contracted slightly.
Damien pushed the potions toward her, unhurried, his tone still mild.
"A thank-you gift," he said. "For stepping in on my behalf. Selene told me. I don't want to owe you a favor."
Gwenna's gaze fell to the potions.
She didn't reach for them.
She just studied them in silence, the slightest crease forming between her brows. It wasn't doubt about their value. It was more like instinctive assessment—she was gauging their quality.
A moment later, she looked away.
But she said nothing.
Damien watched that obviously restrained response, and something flickered through his mind.
He knew very well that someone like Gwenna wouldn't readily accept something from an uncertain source—especially not alchemical potions that were clearly beyond ordinary standards.
"These potions aren't low-grade," he added calmly. "You should be able to tell."
Gwenna still didn't answer.
She only turned toward the hearth, her eyes settling on the flames, her lips pressing together slightly. For a moment, her breathing seemed a little heavier than before, as if she were suppressing some emotion.
The room fell quiet again.
The fire crackled softly.
A few seconds later, she finally spoke.
Her voice was a shade lower than before.
"Yesterday…" She paused, as if checking her wording. "Did you really confess your feelings to the duke's daughter at the banquet?"