“I am Althéa of Soléandre. That should be sufficient.”

  She hadn’t raised her voice, but the words had cracked through the air like a verdict.

  Kael barely frowned. Beside him, he heard Lucanis draw in a sharp breath… and drop to one knee.

  Just like that.

  Kael, on the other hand, stayed standing. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the girl. Althéa—or whatever—met his gaze head-on, chin lifted, back straight, as if she were wearing an invisible crown.

  Lucanis, kneeling, bowed his head like a beaten servant.

  “Bow,” he hissed at Kael, tension tight in his voice.

  “What? Lose something, or is this for the folklore?” Kael replied, not moving an inch.

  Lucanis clenched his teeth and clicked his tongue in irritation.

  “Your Highness,” he said quickly.

  “please forgive him. He is a… brute. A savage. A walking accident.”

  Kael raised his eyebrows, mock-offended.

  “A savage? That’s it? And to think I let you have the last piece of rabbit this morning. I almost regret it.”

  He looked Althéa up and down—not with contempt, but with sheer curiosity.

  “So you’re the famous princess of Soléandre, huh? You don’t look very… sunny, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Kael examined her openly, without bothering to hide it.

  She was tall. Slender. A little shorter than him—but barely.

  Her posture was straight, almost too straight. As if she were balancing on her own pride.

  Her hair stopped him for a moment.

  Pure white. Long, wavy, almost excessive. The kind that would’ve earned laughter in a tavern—but here… no. There was something noble about it. Something alive. Even with dead leaves and mud clinging to it.

  Her skin was smooth, pale, and her face still bore traces of exhaustion.

  And her eyes—

  Frozen amethysts. Cold. Precise. As if they could dissect every weakness without ever touching you.

  But beautiful. Truly. Even Kael had to admit it, reluctantly, in some corner of his mind:

  Damn. Those eyes… they’re something else.

  But she looked worn down.

  Her clothes bore the marks of a rough journey—scratches, smears of dirt.

  Despite the way she stood like a statue, she was in bad shape.

  And yet, she radiated a presence that was impossible to ignore.

  Kael didn’t lower his gaze.

  Neither did she.

  They stared at each other. Two worlds with nothing to say to one another—yet everything to prove.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You may stand like an empress,” he said, “but you’re a mess, you know that? Looks like the forest chewed you up and spat you back out.”

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  No Your Highness. No forced respect.

  Just the statement, thrown out like an obvious fact.

  Lucanis, still on one knee, flinched.

  He sprang up at once, wiping away the kneel, and clamped a hand over Kael’s mouth.

  “Shut up. Please,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  Kael raised his hands in mock surrender, eyes still locked on Althéa over Lucanis’s palm.

  Althéa didn’t even blink.

  She hadn’t moved.

  Hadn’t smiled.

  Hadn’t frowned.

  She simply… observed.

  As if she were coldly weighing whether he deserved a reply.

  Or a slap.

  At last, Althéa moved.

  One step. Then another.

  She approached Kael slowly, arms still at her sides, her gaze fixed on his.

  “You are exceedingly insolent,” she said.

  Her voice was composed. No anger. No irritation.

  Just a glacial statement, laid on the table like a blade.

  Lucanis immediately stepped between them, panic flaring at the thought of things spiraling out of control.

  “He—he didn’t mean any disrespect,” he said hurriedly.

  “Kael comes from the Broken Crown,” he went on.

  “He doesn’t… have the codes. He grew up in a world where no one kneels before anyone, and—”

  He hesitated. Then sighed.

  “—where surviving matters far more than good manners.”

  Kael didn’t look away.

  He still held Althéa’s gaze—without provocation this time.

  Just pride.

  Or perhaps the need to exist as an equal.

  Lucanis blinked. Once. Twice.

  He felt like he was witnessing a kind of duel he didn’t understand.

  Why are they looking at each other like that?

  This was supposed to be an introduction. A formal exchange. A recognition between Trame Bearers—Not a contest of murderous stares.

  He swallowed, uneasy.

  Kael… Kael wasn’t acting like himself.

  He didn’t have that crooked, mocking half-smile.

  Not that loose posture of someone who didn’t care about anything.

  He was standing straight. Tense. Almost… invested.

  And her—the princess…

  Was she going to skewer him with her stare, or strangle him outright?

  Lucanis shot a quick glance between the two of them.

  He hadn’t signed up for this.

  He just wanted to find other Trame Bearers, set up a secure camp, maybe hunt down one more creature.

  Not referee a silent dominance duel between the heir of the most prestigious family in existence and a kid from the slums.

  So he did what he always did in situations like this:

  He stepped in.

  He panicked.

  And he talked too much.

  Kael narrowed his eyes, still facing her.

  “You can look at me like that for as long as you want,” he said,

  “it’s not going to help me get down on my knees.”

  Same tone. Mocking. Insolent.

  But Althéa didn’t answer. She didn’t even move.

  She simply kept staring at him.

  And then—something shifted.

  Almost imperceptible.

  A fraction of a second.

  Kael looked away.

  Not out of cowardice. Not out of fear.

  As if something, just at the edge of his vision, had caught his attention.

  Then everything happened fast.

  He moved. One sharp step forward.

  He nudged Althéa aside with his forearm—not to shove her away, but to move her. Instinctive. She didn’t have time to protest.

  Kael had already drawn his Needle-Blade.

  The movement was sharp. Fluid.

  The kind of motion you don’t learn in a classroom.

  He pivoted, dropped into a half-crouch—and struck.

  Behind them, the Overdrawn they had believed dead had risen again, silent, ready to pounce.

  The Needle-Blade cut through the air.

  Its tip bit into the creature’s throat and finished it in a single, clean blow.

  The body collapsed for good this time, in a muffled rasp and the soft sigh of blackened wings.

  Althéa didn’t move.

  But her eyes… shifted.

  Just slightly.

  No thanks. No obvious surprise.

  Yet in the faint crease at the corner of her mouth, in the barely perceptible flutter of her lashes…

  Something had cracked.

  Lucanis had raised a hand—ready to intervene.

  He had been certain Kael was about to do something stupid. Something catastrophically stupid.

  He had even already imagined the sound Althéa’s fist would make when it met his companion’s jaw.

  But he hadn’t seen this coming. Even him—always alert—had failed to notice the Overdrawn rising behind them.

  He froze, shame and admiration hovering on his lips.

  Althéa, meanwhile, hadn’t taken her eyes off Kael. Something had changed in her gaze. More neutral. Less contemptuous. Not warm. Just… curious, perhaps.

  She turned slowly to look properly.

  Kael had already sheathed his Needle-Blade with a casual motion, as if it were nothing more than a tool. He studied the creature’s corpse with faint disgust, lips pressed tight.

  Then he waved a hand at Lucanis, almost cheerful.

  “Did you see that, Lucanis? I took one down!”

  “Well—this one didn’t look like much, but still!”

  He said it lightly.

  Like he’d just won a stupid bet.

  Not like someone who had just prevented an injury—or worse—to one of the Institute’s most brilliant students.

  Silence settled around them again.

  Three figures.

  An improbable trio.

  And on the ground between them, the inert body of the Overdrawn.

  The calm after the shock.