Kael was falling.

  The void swallowed him whole. He kicked wildly, desperately, as if some invisible surface might appear beneath his feet at the very last second.

  He glanced down.

  Terrible mistake.

  The ground was rushing up fast—about twenty meters. A fraction of a second.

  Why does everyone keep grabbing me by the collar today? he thought, almost angrily.

  Ten meters.

  Am I really going to die like this? Thrown into the void by a noble too arrogant to take a comment? Seriously?

  Five meters.

  Fuck.

  He shut his eyes. His whole body tensed. Fear flooded him—brutal, acidic.

  Then… nothing.

  He opened them again.

  He was standing.

  On the terrace.

  Alive.

  Around him, Althéa, Lucanis, and Dean Ford were leaning over the railing, staring into the void as if they expected to see a shattered corpse on the stones below.

  Velara was gone.

  Kael slowly brought a hand to his face, disbelieving.

  Huh? Am I dead? So this is it. I’m dead?

  His legs were shaking. He swayed slightly.

  Then a hand settled on his shoulder.

  He spun around, eyes wide.

  Velara.

  Right behind him.

  Calm. Amused. As if nothing had happened.

  “The next time you feel like hitting a princess,” she said lightly,

  “or mocking someone… or even looking sideways at the strongest Elan Wielder in the world—”

  “Think back to this moment.”

  The others had turned around.

  Althéa was visibly trembling. Lucanis stood frozen, eyes wide. The Dean let out a long breath of relief.

  Kael didn’t move.

  He stared at Velara, petrified—utterly unable to understand what had just happened.

  She calmly returned to her seat and motioned for the others to do the same with a simple wave of her hand.

  They obeyed.

  Without argument.

  Kael felt his head start to spin. He grabbed the railing—

  and vomited what remained of his meal.

  What the hell just happened?

  Velara had already sat back down, her back turned to Kael. No one dared take the seat beside her. Even the Dean had settled a little farther away, near the two young Trame Bearers.

  Then, without turning around, she said calmly:

  “Kael? Come sit next to me. We’re not done talking.”

  Kael moved forward almost mechanically. His gaze was unfocused, his head lowered. He took the seat beside her without a word.

  Velara picked up the plate he hadn’t finished and carefully slid it back in front of him.

  “Eat,” she said simply.

  “Everything you had already went over the railing.”

  Kael looked at the plate without the slightest desire. Then, slowly, he began to eat again. Little by little. Without appetite.

  Lucanis and Althéa watched in silence. Then their gazes shifted to Velara—who was staring at Kael with a strange intensity.

  Althéa finally broke the silence.

  “What did you do to him?”

  Velara turned her head toward her, a faint smile on her lips. She slipped an arm around Kael’s shoulders, almost cheerfully.

  “Oh, not much.”

  She let the words hang for a moment.

  “Let’s just say… I trained him.”

  Althéa went pale.

  Velara continued, perfectly composed:

  “I let him fall, yes. But I caught him before he hit the ground. And brought him back up here. Nothing dramatic.”

  She paused to take a sip of water, as if recounting an ordinary anecdote.

  “Some people don’t learn through conventional methods,” she added with a shrug.

  Then she tilted her chin toward Kael without even looking at him.

  “With him, you have to be… forceful, it seems.”

  Velara clapped her hands, as if to close a parenthesis that had grown a little too silent for her liking.

  “Well then! Let’s hear the rest.

  So—our clever little troublemaker and the princess fought… and after that?”

  Lucanis swallowed slowly, choosing his words with care.

  “After that… we got moving again. We kept crossing the canyon, but it didn’t take long to realize we were on the wrong side. And sure enough…”

  He cast a glance at Kael, who was still silent.

  “We spotted the teleportation beacon, and the Class-S reappeared. It was clearly targeting Kael—

  or rather… the princess. She wanted to settle the score.”

  Althéa lowered her eyes, saying nothing.

  “She and I crossed the circle first. Kael followed. And then…” Lucanis went on.

  “The Class-S appeared with him. Same face. Same eyes. It was like seeing a warped reflection in a mirror.”

  He fell silent for a moment.

  “After that… you already know the rest.”

  Kael still hadn’t spoken a single word.

  He kept eating mechanically, chewing without tasting, his mind far away.

  Velara watched him for a moment—then suddenly slapped him on the back.

  Kael jolted, coughing up a half-chewed piece of food.

  “You’re something else,” she laughed.

  “Even Class-S entities want to teach you a lesson.”

  The Dean finally spoke. His voice was formal, but carried genuine gravity.

  “I commend you. All of you. For your courage and your effectiveness.”

  He bowed deeply.

  “And… please accept my sincerest apologies for the mistake we made.

  It could have cost you your lives.”

  Silence fell again.

  Kael kept chewing.

  But this time, his eyes had lifted.

  They left the Dean’s office without a word.

  Althéa was escorted back to her private quarters by Velara, in silence.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Kael and Lucanis, meanwhile, walked slowly through the Trame Bearers’ hall toward the dormitories.

  Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor like the sound of exhaustion.

  They started up the staircase.

  But Kael stopped short.

  Lucanis turned back, one hand already on the railing.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, puzzled.

  Kael stood frozen for a moment.

  Then a shiver ran through him, from the nape of his neck down to his heels. He clenched his teeth.

  “Fuck… she’s terrifying,” he muttered.

  “I almost pissed myself when I realized what she’d done.”

  He brought his hands to his head, gripping it as if it were about to burst.

  “One day… she’ll see.”

  His voice had hardened.

  There was a darkness in that murmur—a cold, bitter edge.

  Lucanis studied him for a moment.

  “I didn’t take you for the vengeful type.”

  Kael took a deep breath, steadied himself, then nodded as if shaking off a weight.

  They resumed climbing the stairs in silence.

  At the turn of the corridor, Kael asked, suddenly lighter:

  “I never asked you… what kind of Trame are you?”

  Lucanis answered without hesitation.

  “Innate.”

  “Yeah… figures,” Kael replied, without mockery. Just an observation.

  They reached the door to their rooms.

  Kael placed a hand on the handle—then hesitated.

  “Lucanis?”

  Lucanis stopped and turned to him.

  Kael met his gaze.

  “Thank you. I wouldn’t have survived without you.”

  Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  Lucanis stood there for a moment, motionless.

  Then he let a small, crooked smile slip and headed for his own door a little farther down the hall.

  Inside his room, Kael leaned back against the door, slowly.

  Night had fallen.

  He slid down the wood and crouched there, his back against it, knees drawn to his chest.

  Empty.

  Breath short.

  Silence, at last.

  Kael remained curled up against the door, his forehead resting on his knees.

  The silence weighed heavily, broken only by his uneven breathing.

  “I just wanted to be like my mother…” he murmured, barely audible.

  “To be a Canal Weaver. Not even the best one. Just… a good one.”

  To live a quiet little life.

  Without owing anything to anyone.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trembling.

  “And now I get mocked by people who don’t even know me…”

  Thrown into the wild, hunted by monsters I didn’t even know existed a few days ago.

  His fingers dug into his arms.

  “I get beaten. Humiliated. Over and over again…”

  And when I think it’s finally over—when I can finally breathe—

  They blame me for nothing more than trying to survive.

  His voice broke.

  “And then they throw me into the void.”

  He stayed motionless for a long time.

  Then, in a half-voice, shoulders shaking, he let out:

  “That’s… a bit much. For me.”

  Silence returned.

  Kael closed his eyes.

  Body drained. Mind spent.

  He wiped the tears running down his cheeks with his sleeve.

  Then he lifted his head. Slowly.

  His eyes were red—but clear.

  And when his voice rose in the stillness of the room, it no longer trembled.

  “Well then… fine.”

  “You want to play it that way?”

  He straightened up, slowly, deliberately—

  as if refusing to remain on his knees for even one more second.

  “Then watch closely what happens next.”

  His jaw was clenched. His gaze hard.

  No trace of panic. No weakness left.

  Only a silent promise.

  He stood there, alone in the middle of the room, fists tight.

  No shouting.

  No grand speech.

  Just that spark.

  That breaking point.

  In her private quarters, Althéa was pacing back and forth.

  The room was spacious and bright, set high above the ground, with an open terrace overlooking the Institute’s coliseum.

  Refined furnishings, discreet gilding—everything betrayed the status of the place: quarters reserved for Trame Bearers from the most noble Houses.

  But Althéa saw none of it.

  She was pacing back and forth, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

  Velara, leaning against one of the terrace columns, held a glass of red wine in her hand. She watched the princess with a crooked smile, her sharp gaze half-veiled by the evening shadows.

  “What’s wrong with you, Princess?” she said mockingly.

  “You’ve been walking in circles ever since we arrived.”

  Althéa stopped short, immediately on the defensive.

  “But… did you see the state you left Kael in?” she snapped.

  “Seriously. Was that really necessary?”

  Velara shrugged, visibly unimpressed.

  “He needed to understand who he was dealing with.

  He simply paid the consequences of his actions.”

  She paused, absently swirling the wine in her glass before adding, her tone sharper:

  “He struck you. And I was merciful.

  Normally, an Ombrevu—if he ever crosses paths with one—who dares raise a hand against a princess… should die. Or be tortured. I don’t know.”

  Althéa froze. Her gaze darkened.

  “He hit me because I hit him first,” she shot back angrily.

  “And I threatened him with a knife.”

  Velara let out a small laugh and took a sip of wine.

  “Well then… you’ve changed, haven’t you?”

  She half-turned, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

  “That cold, taciturn little girl who found everyone boring…

  has become a fury who threatens Ombrevu with a blade before beating them senseless?”

  “I’ll admit—I didn’t see that coming.”

  She laughed again, this time without malice, and took another drink.

  Althéa lowered her eyes, uncomfortable. Her voice grew quieter, hesitant.

  “It’s true. I’ve changed…”

  A silence fell.

  “And it’s because of him.”

  Velara watched her closely now, intrigued. She didn’t say a word—

  but everything about her posture said it clearly:

  Go on.

  Althéa took a breath and continued, still visibly uncomfortable.

  “I was completely overwhelmed by the situation. Lost.

  And him… he was calm. Casual. He found solutions to everything without forcing them.

  I was trying to keep up appearances, to pretend I was in control—but I cracked.”

  She hesitated, then went on:

  “We were about to climb the cliff to reach the canyon.

  He offered to go first, to mark all the stable handholds so I could climb safely.

  And I refused. I chose to go up on my own, ignoring the danger.”

  Her fists clenched.

  “He told me to stop acting like a child. To put my pride aside.”

  She tightened her jaw.

  “And I did exactly what you did.

  I reminded him of what he was. Brutally.

  I thought he’d shrink back out of habit. That he’d falter. Lower his eyes.”

  She lifted her head and looked straight at Velara.

  “But nothing. Not even a blink.

  I told him who I was. I threw my name at him… and it meant nothing to him.”

  She paused.

  “You want to know what did make him react?”

  Velara remained silent, then slowly nodded.

  Tell me.

  Althéa met her gaze.

  “He slapped me.”

  Silence fell over the room.

  “He slapped me. The princess. The heir to the throne.”

  Her voice dropped.

  “A simple Ombrevu struck me across the face… then threatened me. Coldly.

  And his eyes—his eyes weren’t joking. Not at all.”

  Her tone darkened, slowed, as if she were reliving the moment.

  “I felt like I was the beast in a cage.

  Like I was at his mercy. Not the other way around.

  He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t defending himself.

  He was looking at me.

  As if he were deciding whether I still had the right to exist.”

  She fell silent, her gaze lost in the distance.

  “I had no choice… but to submit.”

  Velara slowly lowered the glass of wine she had been about to raise to her lips.

  Her expression had hardened.

  “I don’t like that,” she murmured.

  “Not one bit.”

  She stared into nothing, jaw tense.

  “That’s exactly what I saw in his eyes.

  Right before I threw him over the terrace.”

  Althéa turned to her, cutting in.

  “And despite everything I said to him… do you know what he did after that?”

  Velara slowly shook her head.

  Althéa continued, her voice calmer now—almost fragile.

  “He still marked every stable handhold along the cliff.

  He took the time.

  He spent energy, risked his life… for me.

  After I had just treated him like he was less than nothing.”

  She paused.

  A faint smile—barely there—brushed her lips.

  A quiet, sincere flicker of nostalgia. Shy. Unguarded.

  “For the first time in my life…

  I was treated like an ordinary person.”

  She remained standing there, lost in her thoughts.

  Velara said nothing.

  Althéa crossed her arms and went on more quickly, as if the words were slipping out on their own:

  “So yes, it’s true—he’s irritating. More than he has any right to be.

  Lazy. Mocking. Always answering me with that infuriatingly casual tone…”

  She stopped for a second, then resumed, a spark lighting her eyes:

  “But he’s brilliant, Velara.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone adapt so fast.

  He always finds a solution—even in the worst chaos.”

  Without realizing it, she had stepped closer, her eyes shining with a new light.

  Velara, surprised, took a small step back.

  “Did you know he can move without making the slightest sound?” Althéa said, as if reciting a list of precious facts.

  “That his sense of touch is incredibly sharp?

  And that he knows how to sew? Look.”

  She turned on herself, revealing her black fur cloak—elegant, perfectly cut.

  “He made it. Tailored.

  He’s incredibly resourceful…”

  Velara listened, stunned.

  Althéa was talking about Kael the way one speaks of a novel’s hero—admiring, animated, completely enthralled.

  “I don’t like this…” Velara muttered.

  But Althéa went on, unstoppable.

  “You should have seen him climbing that cliff.

  He was bare-chested… lean, muscular, sweat running down his skin…”

  “Uh… Princess…?” Velara tried, raising a hand.

  Althéa’s eyes sparkled.

  Velara understood.

  Her expression froze.

  “Althéa… no. That’s not possible.

  And it’s… deeply inappropriate.”

  But Althéa wasn’t listening anymore.

  She was speaking now the way one confesses a secret kept far too long.

  “Since we fought… and I woke up lying on top of him…

  my chest hurts when I get too close to him.

  Even when I just think about him sometimes, I feel this strange discomfort… here.”

  She placed a hand over her chest.

  Velara staggered slightly, stepped back, then dropped heavily into a chair.

  “You… fell asleep… on top of him?” she asked, almost frantic.

  Althéa shrugged.

  “Not exactly.

  Actually… I was on top of him. Choking him.”

  Velara’s eyes widened, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

  “And then I passed out. I don’t really know why.”

  Velara leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers pressing against her temples as if trying to crush the migraine forming there.

  “I should have killed him…” she muttered.

  Behind her, Althéa was gazing up at the stars, arms crossed, perfectly calm—

  as if she hadn’t, moments earlier, delivered a passionate monologue about a boy she had tried to strangle.

  She had no idea what her words truly meant.

  Velara suddenly stood up, hesitated, then crossed the distance in a few quick steps.

  She grabbed Althéa by the shoulders, a little too roughly.

  A thin bead of sweat slid down her forehead.

  “Princess, listen to me,” she said, her voice slightly strained.

  “You… you can’t. This is… this is inappropriate.”

  Althéa blinked, innocently.

  “Why? Tell me, Velara.”

  The noblewoman felt her stomach twist.

  “It’s not just that,” she replied too quickly.

  “It’s… it’s… what you’re thinking right now.

  Or what you might be feeling.

  Or what you’re not feeling yet but everyone else can see except you—which is even worse…”

  She was rambling. She knew it. And she couldn’t stop.

  “You understand what I mean, right?”

  Althéa looked at her, perfectly calm.

  “Not at all.”

  Velara closed her eyes briefly, exasperated.

  “You just told me about his muscular body ‘glistening’ with sweat.”

  “And so?” Althéa shot back, slightly offended.

  “He has a very beautiful body. It looks sculpted.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “Is he not allowed to have a beautiful body?”

  “It’s not a body issue—it’s a you, a him, and the entire universe exploding if you keep saying things like that in public, Althéa!”

  Velara threw her hands into the air, as if begging the gods to drop a meteor on her just to end her suffering.

  Althéa raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t see the problem. He’s competent. Quick to react. And he’s… pleasant to look at. That’s factual.”

  “By the heavens, stop…” Velara groaned.

  “I’m merely observing. Nothing more. You’re overreacting.”

  “I’m overreacting?! I’m overreacting?! You’re the one who told me your ‘chest hurts’ when he gets too close!”

  Althéa shrugged.

  “Yes, I did say that. It’s strange. A kind of odd pressure.

  But maybe I got hit and didn’t feel it at the time.”

  Velara froze.

  A long silence followed.

  She opened her mouth.

  Closed it.

  Then murmured:

  “So… it’s medical.”

  “Exactly,” Althéa confirmed, very seriously.

  “I might have to consult a healer if it persists.”

  Velara stepped back, collapsed into an armchair with a defeated sigh, one hand pressed to her forehead.

  “By all the gods…”

  Velara closed her eyes.

  She didn’t say another word.

  She simply… couldn’t anymore.