Chapter 66: The Twilight Before The Crown (1)
The medical tent was quieter now.
Outside, the light of dusk clung to the horizon, and in its fading glow, the sounds of groaning examinees, clinking potion vials, and chanting clerics had softened to a steady rhythm, less chaos, more coordination.
The worst was over.
Inside the command pavilion, a modest circle of clerics, medics, and healer students stood before Administrator Vaencel, whose long silver-blue coat swayed slightly with the breeze.
His eyes, as unreadable as always, were fixed on the healer in charge, a middle-aged woman in a crimson-collared robe marked with Twilight Crown’s crest.
She gave a low bow before beginning the report.
“Administrator. We’ve stabilized all the Ruby Sector examinees. Their vital signs are steady, and the magical trauma has either been reversed or is regressing within safe thresholds. We’ve begun prepping the transfer protocol.”
From the side, a pair of junior clerics unfurled a glowing scroll inscribed with teleportation runes, complex concentric diagrams sketched with silver chalk and mana ink.
The parchment hovered a few inches above the table, gently pulsing.
“The teleportation circles are being calibrated as we speak,” the head healer continued.
“The clerics say they’ll be ready within a few hours. Most of the examinees can be moved directly to the Twilight Crown Academy infirmary for continued treatment if needed.”
“And the boy with the crushed legs?”
Vaencel asked without missing a beat.
“Balt Byrine,” she replied.
“His condition is improving. It took multiple healers and near-constant physiotherapy, but he’s walking again, albeit slowly. Full mobility will take a few more weeks.”
Vaencel nodded once.
“Good. And Lucien Crowley?”
At that, the head healer turned her eyes to someone standing just behind her.
“The one who’s been tending to Crowley personally,” she said, stepping aside.
“You should hear it from her.”
The nurse stepped forward.
Unlike the head healer, she did not wear the formal robes of Twilight Crown’s faculty.
Instead, she bore the plain white garb of a healing volunteer, unadorned except for the soft gold embroidery on her sleeves and the thin sash that marked her as a registered practitioner from the Church of the Guiding Light.
Her hair was tied back in a neat bun, not a strand out of place, and her posture, serene, straight, composed, spoke more of discipline than vanity.
She bowed low.
“Administrator Vaencel,” she said, her voice calm, “Lucien Crowley is stable. He’s endured multiple healing cycles paired with carefully rationed potion doses. His body is responding well, all things considered. But-”
Her tone dipped ever so slightly.
“-his injuries are the most severe among all the examinees. Several layers of tissue damage, both magical and physical. Burnt, frostbitten, torn. And worse still…”
She hesitated, not for dramatic effect, but from the weight of truth.
“…We’ve detected the earliest stages of mana-induced necrosis in his internal muscle fibers. Likely a result of when he linked himself with the Guardian construct. Its mana signature was imprinted onto his, then was overloaded...”
The tent was silent for a long moment.
Even the scroll’s humming seemed to quiet.
Vaencel’s gaze did not waver.
“So direct healing spells could make it worse.”
“Precisely,” the nurse replied.
“Standard or high-tier healing techniques are out of the question. It’s only because we’ve been using base-grade restorative pulses, applied gently over time, that we’ve managed to avoid a collapse of his arcane nervous system.”
Another moment passed before Vaencel finally spoke.
“You were the one assigned to him?”
She nodded.
“I volunteered,” she said.
“The word was sent of an emergency needing immediate care, and I arrived with the other medics within the first hour of call. When I saw the condition of his body, I requested full oversight of his care because I believed that it was the most optimum decision to make since I was the only one available at the moment who was trained to deal with Mana induced Necrosis.”
Her voice carried a need to justify why she had taken over such a delicate case as a volunteer instead of leaving it to someone else.
Vaencel studied her for a moment longer.
“You’ve handled such a complex case here. And you’ve done so under enormous pressure with minimal staff support. I will not forget that.”
She bowed again, lower this time.
“It’s a duty I took an oath to uphold. And your words are appreciated, Administrator, but I only did what any healer would have.”
“We were understaffed who could provide first aid. Overwhelmed. Without the volunteers, without all of you, we would have been in a much worse state than we are now.”
Vaencel said plainly.
He turned to the half-circle of students, nurses, and journeyman healers who stood behind her.
“You came here with barely a few hours’ notice. And in doing so, you helped carry a burden most professionals would’ve faltered under. You have my thanks. And my respect.”
A few students exchanged wide-eyed glances.
One tried to straighten their robes, visibly trying not to beam.
“Once the teleportation circles activate,” Vaencel continued, “you’re free to return to the academy. Take the evening to rest. Prepare yourselves for the Ceremonial Ball.”
He stepped aside and gave them a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Dismissed.”
The group bowed in unison, murmuring soft thanks as they turned to leave.
But the nurse lingered a moment longer.
Her gaze flicked, just briefly, toward the recovery tent where Lucien lay sleeping.
Then she too turned and walked away, her steps light, silent, vanishing into the fading golden light outside.
***
Twilight Crown Academy.
The most revered academic institution on the continent.
A place where knowledge was power, prestige a second currency, and reputation more easily built on lineage than merit.
And yet, for all its grandeur, the student quarters were starkly modest.
Vaelira’s room was small, no more than a rectangle carved into the vast dormitory halls.
A single bed with crisp white linens, a pinewood desk by the window, a simple bookshelf already burdened by academy-issued tomes, and a dresser she hadn’t even opened yet.
She sat at the desk, back straight despite the ache coiling in her shoulders.
Outside the window, the mountain forests that ringed the Academy like a living wall stirred under the breeze.
Towering pines leaned and swayed like silent sentinels, whispering to one another in a language older than time.
The clouds above had dipped lower today, brushing against the peaks like drapes of silver fog.
Inside, her desk was cluttered with letters.
She sighed and picked up the first one.
Elegant calligraphy.
Wax-sealed with a noble crest.
"Dear Lady Vaelira, Allow us to extend our warmest congratulations on your successful entry into Twilight Crown. We trust that your brilliance will..."
She stopped reading halfway through.
The next letter wasn’t much better.
“…and should the opportunity arise, I do hope you’ll remember our pleasant dinner at House Thalvane's autumn banquet two years ago. I would be most grateful for your recommendation to…”
Another.
“…so proud of your accomplishments. Perhaps we could arrange a correspondence later in the season? I’d be ever so interested in your curriculum…”
Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose.
Each letter felt the same, hollow courtesies written with flowery ink and self-serving undertones.
Most came from people she barely remembered, distant cousins, acquaintances of her mother, or sycophants orbiting the noble sphere back in the capital.
They did not ask how she was doing.
They asked what she could do for them.
She nearly swept them all off the desk in frustration, but stopped herself.
Instead, she picked up the final letter.
This one was sealed with a wax insignia she knew well: the D’Claire crest.
Unfussy.
Understated.
Her pulse steadied.
She unfolded the parchment carefully, the scent of aged oak faint in the paper fibers.
[To Lady Vaelira,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and stead. I have heard of your successful admittance to the Academy and offer my sincere congratulations.
I trust the coursework has not been too draining. Do remember to rest between your studies and eat well. No glory comes to those who collapse from exhaustion.
Your absence is greatly felt in our household. We wait with bated breath for your return whenever circumstances may permit it to be so.
If you do come across young Lucien, do let us know. We haven’t heard from him since the examination, and I expect the boy is either lost, unconscious, or scheming something ridiculous.
Either way, it would ease some nerves at the estate to know he’s alive, and hopefully, still in one piece.
Until then, be well.
-Sir Richardson]
Vaelira smiled despite herself.
The handwriting was stiff, the words proper, and the tone formal, but there was warmth beneath it.
Not sentimental, never flowery, but sincere in a way that didn’t need embellishment.
Richardson’s letter was not an attempt to leverage her success, nor a performance of pleasantries, it was genuine care, dressed in his usual deadpan pragmatism.
She leaned back in the chair and let out a breath she’d been holding for what felt like eternity.
A rare flicker of homesickness crept into her chest.
Not for the D’Claire estate exactly, but for the familiar, the real.
Sir Richardson’s gruff care.
Ms. Celeste’s biting wit.
Mr. Terrin's chaotic enthusiasm.
And.
Her eyes lowered.
Lucien.
She hadn't heard anything either.
No news.
No rumor.
Not even whispers in the dormitory gossip channels.
The last time she’d seen him, he was…smiling like an idiot.
Vaelira stood up abruptly and walked to the window.
She unlatched it and pushed it open.
The chill of highland air rushed in, slipping through the seams of her uniform and stealing the warmth from her skin.
She didn’t care.
The cold was grounding.
She closed her eyes and breathed it in.
"Where are you, you reckless dumbass..." she murmured to herself.
Her fingers gripped the stone windowsill, white-knuckled.
She hated this place sometimes.
The way everyone seemed to wear masks, even the professors.
The constant jockeying for favor, for prestige, for advantage.
Everyone was playing a game, and no one was really talking.
No one cared.
Lucien, for all his madness and unpredictability, had been… real.
Warm.
Unapologetically alive.
And now he was nowhere.
She exhaled, pulled the window closed again, and drew the curtains halfway.
Maybe she’d hear something tomorrow.
Maybe not.
***
A soft snore echoed through the quiet, sterile infirmary.
Lucien lay sprawled across a reinforced academy cot, one hand dangling off the edge of the mattress, his bandaged arm twitching slightly as he dreamed.
His chest rose and fell with ease now.
The worst was over.
He was still alive.
And despite the haze of potions and residual mana sickness… the beginnings of a stupid, sleepy smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
