Damien didn't answer right away.
He stayed where he was, fingers resting on the tabletop. The cool wood grounded him for a second.
His thoughts stalled.
The fire in the hearth flickered softly. Light and shadow slid across his face, making his expression harder to read than usual.
He didn't answer.
Because the answer wasn't his.
That banquet. That flippant little confession. That almost-provocative move in front of everyone—none of it was his.
It belonged to the other Damien.
And somehow—
he was the one paying for it.
The feeling was awful.
Borderline ridiculous.
Gwenna took his silence as an answer.
In that instant, her expression turned completely cold. The restraint in her posture snapped tight, like a sword pinned in its sheath suddenly starting to vibrate. Her fingers curled slightly, the knuckles whitening, and her breathing dropped heavier by a notch.
"Damien."
She said his name through clenched teeth—quiet, but packed with anger she couldn't quite keep down.
"She's seventeen." Her gaze locked on him, dead straight, like she meant to strip every reaction off his face. "You actually flirted with a minor at a banquet, right in front of everyone?"
The air in the room thickened.
The flames kept burning, but it was like some invisible pressure pressed them down; even the light seemed dimmer.
Vaelric stood at the corner of the table without a sound, but its feathers had subtly drawn in tight. Its single eye glinted faintly, clearly sensing how dangerous the mood had gotten.
Damien didn't argue immediately.
He just lifted his head slowly and met Gwenna's eyes.
In that moment, he could see her anger with absolute clarity—and it wasn't jealousy. It wasn't the engagement. It was something cleaner than that: pure outrage, an instinctive disgust at someone crossing a line they had no business crossing.
Of course.
This was Gwenna Stormveil.
She could tolerate emotional distance, but she would never tolerate moral rot.
One wrong word—
and this was over.
Or worse.
Damien weighed it fast, in the space of a breath.
Then he spoke.
"I'm not interested in her."
His voice was low, but razor-clear.
When the words left his mouth, there was no hesitation in his tone—no tremor, no emotion, like he was stating a fact already verified.
"I have no interest in that duke's daughter. None."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Gwenna's gaze didn't change right away, but her breathing paused—just slightly. The smallest hitch, but enough to show she hadn't fully expected that answer.
She kept staring at him.
"But it's already gotten out." Her voice stayed controlled, but the edge had dulled compared to a second ago. "The entire noble circle is talking about it."
Damien nodded.
Not quickly. Not defensively. Just steady.
"I know," he said.
He leaned back a little, his eyes dropping briefly to the few bottles of Healing Potion he'd already pushed to her side of the table, then returning to her face.
"I'll take care of it," he said. "I won't let it keep spreading."
His tone was still calm, but now there was something more in that calm—something definite. A decision.
This was never just a rumor.
Names like theirs—
things spread fast.
And once they did—
they didn't stop.
And the reason Gwenna had come to ask in person wasn't only because of the engagement.
It was also because—
She'd already been dragged into it.
Gwenna fell silent for a moment.
Her gaze slowly slid off Damien's face and landed on the five red potions on the table.
Firelight shimmered through the glass, throwing back a soft glow. That steady, clean pulse of life inside them made something in her eyes waver—just for a heartbeat.
Her lips pressed together slightly.
Like she was holding back words she still hadn't decided to say.
After a moment, she let out a quiet sigh.
It was so light it barely counted as sound, but it felt like something tightly wound had finally loosened a fraction.
She stood.
Still crisp. Still decisive.
This time she didn't hesitate. She reached out and gathered the five Healing Potions.
Her fingers brushed the bottles—just for a second—then she put them away.
"If you run into trouble," she said as she reached the door, stopping without turning around, "you can come to me."
Her voice wasn't hard anymore.
Still restrained, though.
"I'll help you."
Then she pushed the door open.
Her cloak snapped up in a clean arc as she turned, the silver edging flashing once in the light before her figure vanished into the hall.
The wooden door eased shut behind her, cutting off the sound of footsteps outside.
The room went quiet again.
Damien stayed seated, unmoving.
A few seconds later, he finally breathed out.
The breath wasn't heavy, but there was a thread of exhaustion in it all the same—fine enough you could miss it if you weren't looking.
Vaelric hopped down from the corner of the table.
It landed lightly on the tabletop and shook out its feathers, like it was flicking off the oppressive mood that had been hanging in the air. That single eye stayed fixed on the door, its look oddly complicated.
"Her eyes are terrifying," it muttered. "Like she can see straight through your soul."
It paused, then its tone abruptly brightened.
"Good thing I'm just an ordinary crow."
Damien glanced at it.
There was something in that look—so slight you could almost pretend it wasn't there.
"One-eyed crow," he said flatly, "isn't ordinary at all."
The fireplace crackled softly.
And the room returned to stillness.
…
The next morning, sunlight slanted down between the high towers, filtering through window lattices carved with intricate patterns. It painted the stone-paved road in interlocking bars of light and shadow.
A faint ripple of mana hung in the air—something ordinary people would never notice, but that made a mage feel comfortable on instinct. Like every breath came with a trace of invisible energy mixed in.
When Damien stepped onto the stairs leading up to Arcanis Royal Academy, his pace slowed without him meaning to.
He looked up.
The academy's main gate rose at the end of his view: a massive arch of pale gray stone spanning the entrance, its surface engraved with layers upon layers of ancient runes.
The runes weren't still. Under the sun they moved in a slow, steady flow, like light sealed inside rock.
Farther in, towers speared up from the ground. Between them, thin strands of magical light floated in the air, crossing and weaving into a net that draped over the entire district, giving the faint illusion you were stepping across the border between the real world and something hidden.
He stopped in front of the gate for a beat.
The sense of familiarity hit him hard and out of nowhere.
Like a piece of memory was sliding over from another world, lining up perfectly on top of this one.
He remembered this place.
He'd been here before.
Not like this.
As a player.
Grinding spells. Chasing quests. Climbing ranks.
Again and again.
At this gate.
And the thing burned into his memory more than anything—
That tower.
The Tower of Trials.
Also called the Arcane Spire.
He'd challenged its trials again and again, grinding experience, unlocking rare skills, learning the limits of spellcraft through endless failures and restarts.
To him, that tower had never been just a building. It was progression.
Pure and simple.
And now—
He was about to walk back in here as a professor.
Professor.
The word didn't feel real.