The High Council

The council chamber deep beneath Yurelda's palace pulsed with quiet menace. Obsidian-polished walls shimmered faintly with spiritstone veins, whispering with latent energy. Only five were present.

King Cedric stood alone beneath a suspended ring of pale light.

He hadn't summoned them for guidance.

He had summoned them to listen.

Four thrones encircled him — elevated, carved from distinct materials that spoke of their bearers: Ironwood for the elven scholar, scorched obsidian for the beast-lord of the West, mirrored silver for the noble heir, and marble laced with opal for the High Priestess of the Sanctum.

None of them looked pleased.

"You acted without us," growled the beast-lord, a hulking figure of fur and antlered pride. His claws tapped out a warning on the stone. "You sent your assassin. He brought the boy to the palace. You made the decision alone."

Cedric didn't flinch. "I did."

Murmurs rose — low, sharp-edged.

"You risked everything for a peasant.""You should have consulted the Table—"

Cedric raised one gloved hand, a single finger.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

His golden eyes swept across the chamber, cold and steady.

"Do you question my authority?"

No one answered.

Because none dared.

After a beat, he spoke again — calm, precise. "Do any of you truly believe I would place him in the Tournament of Nobles without a reason?"

The question cut through the tension like a blade.

The elven scholar leaned forward, eyes narrowed behind golden spectacles. "Then indulge us, Your Majesty. What reason justifies giving a street rat the Crown's stage?"

Cedric's tone was measured. "You know I've never cared for the politics of magic. The Four Elements of Origin, the rituals, the prestige — none of it has ever interested me." His voice sharpened. "But this, I cannot ignore. In all my years… in all the capital's living memory… not a single soul — noble, merchant, or soldier — has wielded Water Magic."

He glanced to each of them in turn. "And yet, here it is… in someone with a black eye."

The young noble sneered. "A black-eyed bastard with Water Magic. If word spreads—"

"—Then we explain it," Cedric interrupted smoothly. "We credit his noble eye. Present him not as a threat, but as a curiosity — a half-noble prodigy touched by one of the original elements. The people still believe in such symbols, and they will accept that."

The elf's eyes glinted. "And in doing so, you strip him of his power as a symbol. If they believe it comes from noble blood, it cannot belong to them."

The High Priestess tilted her head slightly. "Then tell us, King Cedric — how can it be that he wields Water Magic?"

Cedric's gaze swept the chamber. "It doesn't matter how. The story we give them is all they will believe."

"But what is he?" the beast-lord demanded. "One black eye, one green. I found nothing in our records — not even in history itself."

The elf adjusted her robe. "There are theories. He could be a failed experiment from the old arcana vaults. Or worse…"

All eyes turned to her.

"…a union between a noble and a slave."

The noble spat. "Impossible. Mixing noble blood with black eyes? Heresy."

"It's happened before," she said coldly. "The records prove it. But none produced a child with eyes like his."

Cedric's voice lowered. "Exactly. And that is why we control the narrative now, before it spreads beyond our reach."

The High Priestess studied him. "Is that what you believe he is, then? An accident of blood? A threat made flesh?"

Cedric paused, turning toward the illusionary map that hovered beside him — the city rendered in ghostly light. He stared at it, though his gaze seemed far away.

"…I don't know what he is."

The confession was not weakness. It was calculation.

"But I know what he represents," Cedric continued.

"A test. A weapon. Or a warning. And I intend to find out which."

The noble scoffed. "By risking the sanctity of the Tournament?"

Cedric turned back to them, his presence expanding like a tide.

"We frame it as mercy — a half-noble, confused blood, elevated for evaluation. But in truth… the tournament is our answer."

He let that hang in the air, letting their minds catch up.

"This arena will not only measure his strength — it will reveal his intent. If he fails, he's discarded. If he survives… we learn what he truly wants."

The elven scholar narrowed her gaze. "And if he demands something forbidden with his wish?"

Cedric's eyes flashed. "Then we have what we need — a legitimate reason to kill him. No unrest. No backlash. The nobles will see him as a traitor. A threat cloaked in mercy, revealed by his own ambition."

The beast-lord's tone was grim. "And if he dies during the tournament?"

"Then it's an unforeseen outcome," Cedric said with a shrug. "Sport is dangerous. Blame the match. Shed ceremonial tears. Close the casket and move on."

The High Priestess folded her hands. "So the cards fall in our favor no matter the result."

Cedric nodded. "Exactly. And don't forget — he's under Setsuna's command now. That should calm your nerves. If anyone can contain or dispose of him quietly, it's him."

He stepped back into the circle of pale light, his tone sharpening like a knife.

"This tournament will decide whether the boy becomes a threat… or something we can use. If we succeed, if we frame him properly, if the people believe it — then no revolution, no uprising, will ever find ground to grow. Not in this generation. Not in the next."

Silence swallowed the chamber whole.

"Prepare the arena. Announce the tournament."

He paused, gaze distant now, almost thoughtful.

"Let the people cheer… while we decide his fate."

The steel doors behind him parted without a sound.

And just like that, the meeting was over.

A few days later — Training Grounds

The sun was bleeding its last light over the capital, dipping behind the western walls in a quiet burn. Orange streaks painted the clouds, and the training yard behind the barracks shimmered with soft gold. The week had been nothing but drills, bruises, and too many rice crackers.

Kazuo exhaled, his palm still wet from conjuring another stream of water. The puddle at his feet had long overflowed the dirt ring Setsuna had drawn.

"Your magic control's better," Setsuna said, crouching beside a shattered training dummy half-frozen from earlier. "But still messy. The moment you tighten one thread, you loosen three others."

Kazuo groaned and fell backward onto the grass. "I'll tie them all up in the morning."

"Or trip over them like usual," Setsuna smirked.

Kazuo shut his eyes, savoring the wind's chill. He was already picturing his bed. A quiet night. No nobles, no pressure—

"Nonono."

A shadow loomed. He opened one eye.

Sora stood over him. Her hands were on her hips — but not in her usual dramatic fashion. Her tail hung low. Her voice, while light, didn't carry the same spark.

"You are not skipping tonight," she said. "You promised."

"I never did," Kazuo muttered, pushing himself up slightly.

Sora's gaze didn't waver.

"We're going out. The three of us. Without Sir Ice Emperor."

Kazuo blinked. "Without Setsuna?"

"So we can talk trash about him properly."

"No, I'm out. I have experiments." Tetsu said.

Sora, without looking, pulled out a sliver of deep blue ore and held it up.

Tetsu paused. "…Is that star iron?"

"Depends on your answer," she smirked.

"…I'm in."

Kazuo exhaled. "You gave in fast."

He got to his feet. "No thanks. I'm not—"

"Is it because we're nobles?"

Sora's voice cut him off. Flat. Quiet. No smile.

Kazuo turned to her.

She stood still, eyes down, shoulders stiff. Her cat ears were low — not tilted, not twitching. Just flat against her head.

This time, there was no sarcasm—only disappointment.

Kazuo looked away.

"No," he said, slower now. "It's not that. It's not you."

He breathed in, the evening air sharp in his lungs.

"It's just... I've spent my whole life staying out of sight. Keeping my head down, pulling up a hood, making sure no one looked too closely. With one black eye and one green, people never know whether to treat me like I belong or like I should be thrown out. And nobles?" He gave a faint shrug. "Better to keep my distance. Not out of hate. Just… to stay alive."

Silence followed. Even the wind paused.

Then—

"I'd recommend going."

Setsuna stepped in from the side, arms folded, a rice cracker halfway to his mouth. He took a bite before continuing, voice neutral but carrying weight.

"Even if your 'formal' debut is at the Tournament, tonight is the first time people will see you out in the open. That emblem on your coat? That means something."

Kazuo glanced down. The Royal Guard sigil shimmered faintly on his chest.

Setsuna crunched another bite, speaking between chews. "First impressions matter. You don't get to choose whether people stare. But you can choose how they remember you."

Then he walked off, letting the words settle.

Kazuo stood in silence for a long moment. Sora hadn't moved.

I can't go to the Lower Crescent anyways, not until that whole thing is over. But maybe... this is the first step toward something new. I do wonder what the Upper Crescent is like...

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if it turns into a noble poetry night, I'm setting something on fire."

Sora's tail swished once, mischievous again. "Let's go!"

Kazuo took one last glance at the darkening sky, then followed them toward the lantern-lit streets ahead.

He didn't know what this feeling was.

But somehow… it felt warm.

And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.