Fort Goldenleaf

Lucien sat perched on the arm of a chair, watching Arian pace the room. “You’ve been awfully composed since coming back. Almost too composed.”

Arian gave him a sidelong look. “Would you rather I stumble around looking fragile?”

“That would at least prove you’re human.” Lucien smirked faintly, but the edge in his voice betrayed him.

Arian stopped pacing. “You always doubt.”

Lucien shrugged. “Habit.” A pause. Then softer: “Do you remember… the garden behind the estate? You once swore you’d defeat me under the moonlight.”

Arian’s lips curved. “And you snapped your blade on the first strike. Yes, I remember.”

Lucien blinked, caught between embarrassment and relief. “…Trust you to cling to that memory.”

“Some things are too vivid to forget.”

The silence stretched. Arian’s gaze lingered on him, sharp but strangely gentle. “And you? Still dreaming of shadows?”

Lucien stiffened. He forced a casual scoff. “Not really. I’m fine.”

(It was a lie, one he’d told so many times it almost felt true.)

Arian didn’t press, but his eyes said he knew.

Before Lucien could shift the subject, a pulse of blue shimmered across the crystal resting on the desk. Both of them turned toward it.

Arian inhaled sharply. “My family.”

Lucien slid off the chair arm, giving him space. “Go on. Don’t keep them waiting.”

The crystal shimmered faintly in Arian’s hand, humming with stored mana. Its surface swirled like water touched by moonlight, then cleared into the image of a richly furnished hall. Chandeliers glittered above velvet drapes, a crest of silver roses on the wall.

And in the center, Lady Runerth appeared.

Her silver-black hair spilled loose from its pins, her pale eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, she simply stared. Then her hand flew to her mouth, and tears welled, spilling without restraint.

“Arian—” Her voice cracked. “My son, my child—” She leaned closer, as though distance could be bridged by sheer will. “You’re alive.”

Arian’s usual composure softened. He bowed his head slightly, voice low. “Mother. Forgive me.”

She shook her head violently, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare apologize. You came back. That is enough.”

Behind her, Lord Runerth entered, his broad shoulders draped in formal navy robes. His expression was stern, yet his hand came to rest gently on his wife’s trembling arm. “We feared the worst,” he admitted. “Your message was brief. Monsters, rivers… you wrote only what was necessary. I assumed the rest—”

Arian inclined his head. “I survived because of another’s kindness. Without them, I would not be—”

At that, his mother broke into fresh sobs. She pressed her sleeve to her face, trying and failing to regain composure. A smaller figure peeked from behind her skirts—a boy, perhaps ten, with sharp silver eyes too old for his face.

The child smirked faintly. “I knew you wouldn’t die that easily.”

“Lorien,” Arian murmured, lips twitching. “Still watching from behind?”

“Still watching you blunder, yes,” his cousin retorted, though his voice wavered. “You look… thinner.”

Lady Runerth pulled the boy close, brushing his hair with trembling fingers. “Don’t tease your brother. Not now.”

But Arian smiled faintly, a softness reserved for family. “It’s all right. Teasing means normalcy. I’ve missed that.”

Lucien stood a step back, silent witness. He felt the sharpness of the moment lodge in his chest—the way Arian’s mother wept, the way even Lord Runerth’s steady voice faltered. This wasn’t a mask. This was love, raw and unhidden.

At last, Lady Runerth drew a shaky breath. “When the semester allows, write. Even if only a word. Promise me, Arian. And come visit us with Luci as soon as possible. We, miss you.”

“I promise.”

Her eyes lingered on him, memorizing every line of his face, before the connection dimmed and the crystal went dark.

The silence afterward was heavy. Lucien finally broke it. “They love you more than the world.”

“Yes,” Arian said softly. His pale eyes lowered, unreadable. “And that is why I cannot fail.”

Fail?

---

The next morning, the Academy bustled with energy. Banners of deep blue and silver hung from the arched ceilings, marking the first week of full lessons. Students hurried through corridors with books tucked under arms, voices rising in anticipation.

The buzz was twofold—Professor Vael’s first strategy lecture, and tomorrow’s long-awaited Familiar Selection, when each every candidate would be or not be bound to their magical companion.

Inside the lecture hall, Professor Vael already waited. A tall woman clad in dark green robes, her hair bound tightly, her sharp eyes swept the room like blades. She tapped a long pointer against the slate as students shuffled into seats.

“Strategy,” she announced, “is not memorizing plays like actors. It is adaptation. It is knowing your enemy better than they know themselves. Those who think strength alone wins battles may leave now.”

No one moved.

Lucien leaned toward Toren, whispering, “She’s scarier than Alden.”

“Scarier?” Toren muttered back. “She’s like if discipline became a person and decided to haunt us.”

A piece of chalk sailed through the air and struck him on the forehead.

“Eyes forward, Mr. Malrik.” Professor Vael’s voice was ice.

The class erupted in muffled laughter as Toren rubbed his head, grinning sheepishly.

“Now.” Vael’s gaze swept the room. “You will divide into groups. Each group will be given a scenario. You have ten minutes to present not only a tactic, but a reason for why your tactic will succeed. Failure to persuade me means you’ve already lost.”

Lucien was swept into a group with Elira, Darius, and Arian, while Toren got pulled into another. Caelith remained at the far end, arms folded, silent as always. But more silent than normal. 

Elira immediately seized the quill and parchment. “We’re defending a village from raiders. Hills to the east, forest to the west, river to the south.”

Lucien frowned. “If we station guards by the river crossing—”

“They’ll split forces,” Elira interrupted. “The hills give vantage.”

“They’ll expect that.” Arian’s voice cut through smoothly. “Too obvious.”

Both turned to him. He leaned forward slightly, his pale fingers tracing the parchment. “Place decoys on the hills. Let them think we’re spread thin. The real line waits here, in the forest’s edge. Raiders will funnel themselves where terrain constricts, then we strike from both sides. Swift, decisive.”

Elira’s brow furrowed. “You’re suggesting we let them breach the outskirts first?”

“Yes. Panic in the village draws them further in. Overconfidence blinds more than fear.”

Silence followed. Then Darius gave a low grunt of approval. “Risky. But effective.”

Lucien blinked, then laughed. “Of course you’d think of that. Cold, precise… very you.”

Arian’s lips curved faintly. “Would you prefer I suggested banners and speeches?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Lucien muttered, though warmth spread through his chest at the familiar banter.

When they presented, Vael’s sharp eyes narrowed but she gave a single approving nod. “Not elegant, but effective. Remember—strategy is not beauty. It is survival.”

---

After class, the hallways thrummed with talk of the Familiar Selection.

“I’m hoping for a fire drake,” Toren boasted, striding beside them. “Imagine me with wings at my side. Unstoppable.”

“You’d burn your own hair off,” Elira said dryly. “I’m aiming for a shadow fox. Agile, subtle, intelligent. Unlike some.”

Darius rumbled, “A mountain bear. Strong enough to crush a shield wall.”

Lucien chuckled. “I’ll take anything that doesn’t bite me.”

He glanced at Arian, walking quietly beside him. “What about you?”

Arian’s expression remained composed. “Something that endures.”

Toren snorted. “Vague. You’ll end up with a talking snail at this rate.”

“Better a snail than an idiot,” Arian returned smoothly, earning laughter from Lucien and even a smirk from Elira.

The mood was light, chatter spilling over as students speculated wildly about which magical creature might choose them. Yet amid the noise, Lucien noticed Caelith again—standing apart, watching Arian with narrowed eyes.

---

That evening, Lucien cornered Arian in the courtyard, beneath lanterns glowing with enchanted fireflies.

“Hey,” Lucien said softly. “Can I ask you something?”

Arian turned, silver hair catching the light. “You may.”

"Are you—okay? Everything's okay right?"

Arian looked away. “I said I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it.”

For a long moment, Arian said nothing. Then, very quietly: “Do you remember the summer storm? The one when we were twelve.”

Lucien blinked. “The storm?”

“You insisted the thunder was chasing you, so you dragged me into the cellar. We sat there half the night, and you swore we’d make a fortress there one day.” His lips curved faintly. “You even named it. ‘Fort Goldenleaf.’”

Lucien’s breath caught. He hadn’t thought of that in years. He’d never told anyone else.

Only the real Arian would know.

His chest eased. “You… you remember everything.”

“Yes. My memory is better than yours after all. ” Arian’s voice was soft, almost tender. “Everything that matters.”

Lucien forced a smile. But said nothing much.

“Maybe.”

They stood in silence for a while, lantern light flickering between them.

---

That night, when Lucien finally slept, his dreams swam with shadows as always. But in another room, Arian sat awake by candlelight. His hand rested against his temple, eyes closed as if bracing against something unseen.

Images pressed at the edge of his mind—water closing over him, silver chains glinting in darkness, and laughter that wasn’t his own.

And then—

A memory.

Not the river. Not the monsters. Something older.

A courtyard of roses, white petals falling like snow. A voice—his mother’s? No. Someone else.

“You mustn’t forget. Even if it hurts.”

The memory slipped away before he could seize it, leaving only the echo.

Arian exhaled slowly, eyes opening to the flicker of the dying candle.

“I won’t forget,” he whispered.

But he didn’t know if it was promise or plea.

•••