Chapter 67: The Twilight Before The Crown (2)
The golden runes etched into the floor pulsed gently beneath their feet, casting flickering reflections across the silvered stone walls of the chamber.
Administrator Vaencel stood before the gathered examinees, his long coat slightly dusted with ash from the test site, his hands clasped behind his back.
Behind him, a half-circle of clerics and magical staff bowed slightly, already beginning the process of dismantling, storing, or analyzing what remained of the battlefield.
“To those staying behind,” Vaencel said, giving them a respectful nod, “your diligence is appreciated. Be thorough.”
Then he turned to the group on the circle.
“Examinees… Welcome to Twilight Crown.”
A final rune ignited beneath them, brilliant gold flooding the platform.
The air twisted.
Mana surged with a low thrumming hum, like a dozen tuning forks vibrating in harmony.
Light swallowed them whole.
And then.
A jolt.
A lurching snap of pressure, like being yanked by an invisible cord.
When the light faded, they were no longer standing in the charred remains of the aptitude arena.
Instead, they found themselves beneath a wide, domed ceiling of pale blue crystal and ivory stone.
Soft light filtered through the translucent panels, giving the chamber a dreamlike glow.
Lucien swayed, half-drugged and blinking in confusion.
“Hhuh… th’ ceiling’s moving… or am I?” he mumbled, eyes rolling slightly as a nearby healer caught his arm.
“You're fine, Mr. Crowley. Please don’t lick the stone walls.”
“...wasn't gonna…”
“Sure you weren’t.”
One by one, the examinees were guided outside by a team of handlers and ushers waiting by the chamber’s exit.
Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the atrium and emerged into the open air.
The transition was almost disorienting.
From stone and crystal to sky and town, the contrast was striking.
Before them lay the winding cobbled streets.
Bustling storefronts with arcane signboards, public fountains carved with magic beasts, and long staircases that curved around the mountainside in spirals.
Waiting near the exit were a dozen elaborately marked Twilight Crown carriages, each adorned with the Academy crest and pulled by sleek, horned equine beasts that shimmered faintly with magical energy.
The students were gently herded into groups.
Names called.
Balt and Corin ended up in the same carriage.
“Just my luck,” Balt muttered, collapsing onto the cushioned seat and resting his chin on his staff.
“From ancient murder lions to back breaking carriage rides. And this thing better not take us through another forest.”
Outside the carriage window, tall alpine trees passed by in blurry rhythm, wrapped in mist like ghosts rising from the ground.
Corin laughed.
“You're literally surrounded by a mountain forest right now.”
“Exactly. I noticed.”
He shuddered theatrically.
“I’m developing a deep, personal vendetta against foliage. If I see another vine twitch, I’m burning down an entire grove.”
“You should write about that in your autobiography.”
Corin gave a small, amused grunt, looking out the window.
“Why is there so much forest anyways, shouldn’t the academy be on an island and on top of Mountain at that?”
“The island’s divided into three main towns. We came through Virtuora, the oldest one. It’s where most of the markets, artisan guilds, and teleportation halls are located. It’s also the only town with open public access.”
Balt blinked.
“You... actually know this stuff?”
Corin shrugged.
“I’m here to study history. It’d be embarrassing not to know it.”
Balt stared at him.
“You are literally a maniac with an axe.”
“And you’re a talking drumstick.”
Corin huffed.
“Rude, but fair.”
Corin continued, gesturing lazily to the window as the carriage climbed higher along the mountain road.
“There’s also Elmarein, a harbor town on the southern cliffs. That’s where most of the Academy’s imports come in. Then there’s Tristveil, further north, built directly into the mountainside. That’s where the main research labs and restricted archives are.”
“You say that like you’ve been there.”
“I’ve read about them.”
“Still. You with a quill and textbook just feels… wrong.”
Corin smirked.
“Want me to show you my dissertation on post-elemental war runes?”
“Stars no, I want to live.”
The carriage tilted slightly as it turned around a higher ridge, revealing a stunning view of the alpine expanse below.
From up here, the road snaked through clouds, with thick forests, cliffs, and small lakes peeking through breaks in the mist.
Balt leaned against the glass, despite himself.
“…Okay. It’s pretty.”
“Almost worth getting your legs crushed, huh?”
“I’ll let you know when my spine stops itching.”
Behind them, more carriages followed in a neat line, each ferrying examinees toward the towering spires in the distance, their tips rising like spears from the mountain’s edge.
Twilight Crown Academy waited there.
A place of knowledge.
Of ambition.
Of secrets.
And for some, perhaps, a reckoning yet to come.
***
The Academy shimmered like a jewel at dusk, its towering spires glowing softly under the pale veil of enchanted lanternlight, the air buzzing with excitement and expectation.
But beneath the polished glamour of the capital’s greatest scholastic institution, a quieter story unfolded.
In the lower dormitory blocks, behind wards that were conveniently kept out of the eyes of highborn guests, a procession of carriages had arrived with grim efficiency.
No banners.
No applause.
No fanfare.
Just weary bodies escorted off with military precision.
These were the examinees, those who had fought and bled during the Aptitude Trials.
Survivors of a battlefield dressed up as an entrance exam.
They were the ones who had earned their place, not through name or title, but with cracked bones, scorched limbs, and bruised pride.
And now, they were being quietly filed away.
The Academy, for all its grandeur, knew better than to let the rawness of reality mingle with the opulence of its curated debutante ball.
The children of ministers, generals, nobles, and magnates, those who had entered through letters of recommendation, ancestral privilege, or fat donations, were preparing to dance beneath crystal chandeliers.
Their robes were freshly tailored.
Perfumes misted the halls.
Music already floated in from the upper towers.
Meanwhile, the ones who had survived the trial weren’t even given the chance to attend.
Not that most of them noticed.
Or had the strength to care.
The moment they were guided to their rooms, fatigue swept through them like a tidal wave.
The dormitory designated for the “Ruby Sector”, the segment of examinees that had made it through to admission, was plain but serviceable.
No velvet drapes.
No gilded frames.
Just a long, clean corridor and doors with brass number plates.
One by one, the students entered.
And one by one, they collapsed.
Corin, whose shoulder was still wrapped in gauze and faintly glowing from residual salve, barely made it to the bed before his knees gave out.
He face-planted into the pillow and was snoring within seconds, mouth open, arms askew.
Balt Byrine, who had fought tooth and nail through crushed ligaments and sobbed in private from the pain of his healing process, simply sat down on his bed and slumped sideways.
His half-buttoned shirt rode up slightly, revealing faded sigils drawn across his torso, remnants of healing circles painstakingly inked and reapplied.
His breathing was steady, peaceful.
He didn’t move again.
Even students who’d once held themselves with arrogance, the children of lesser nobility or ambitious merchant families, were too exhausted to maintain their poise.
A girl with her hair still matted lay curled in a ball on top of the blanket.
A boy with stained boots still on clutched a pillow like it was a lifeline.
There were no complaints.
No protests.
Just the sound of bodies dropping into rest.
But Lucien Crowley was not among them.
***
Lucien was guided through a separate entrance, half-carried by a pair of robed clerics.
His weight shifted between them like a doll being gently maneuvered.
His hair was damp from the sponge baths used to wipe away the blood.
His shredded clothing had been replaced by a soft cotton tunic, his feet bare and clean for the first time in days.
His eyes were closed, but not unconscious.
Not anymore.
He could hear the whisper of robes.
The faint tap of slippers against stone.
The almost reverent quiet of the healer's wing.
A nurse, her voice familiar, calm, kind, helped guide him into bed, her hands careful not to brush the bandages around his chest too harshly.
"You’re safe now, Mr. Crowley. Just rest," she said softly, tucking the blanket around his body like a mother would to a fevered child.
Then silence.
The door clicked shut.
The room was dimly lit.
A single lamp in the corner pulsed with a soft amber glow.
The sheets were warm, freshly dried.
The mattress, thin but far more luxurious than anything he’d touched since arriving in the capital.
And yet… Lucien didn’t sleep.
Not yet.
The drugs were wearing off.
His senses were crawling back, slowly, stubbornly, like roots clawing into soil.
The hazy numbness began to peel away, leaving him face to face with himself again.
He laid still, staring at the ceiling.
The memories poured in.
The D’Claire estate.
The long days of study under Richardson’s supervision.
Vaelira pretending not to watch him fall asleep face-down in textbooks.
Ms. Celeste’s disapproving glare when he cracked a joke about elemental theory.
The endless nights of physical training, pain, sweat, progress.
The journey to the capital.
Balt's stoicism.
Corin’s enthusiasm.
The nerves.
The written exam.
His hands trembling as he solved the final theorem on question twenty-three, praying his guess wasn’t completely off.
The Aptitude test.
The lions.
The stone guardians with wings of fury and breath of flame.
The battlefield lit in firelight.
Screams.
Sand turned to glass.
The smell of ozone.
The pain.
The bond.
That split-second decision to link himself to the guardian statue, to anchor it.
To buy time.
The feeling of mana surging through him like molten lead.
He winced.
His hand instinctively moved to his chest, pressing over the skin where the lion's mana had flowed.
He remembered the searing agony, not just physical pain, but something deeper, primal, like his soul itself had been scraped raw.
He’d passed out, hadn't he?
He remembered falling.
And then.
Something else.
That place.
It was a void.
Or a field of stars.
Or both.
He remembered floating.
Detached.
A passenger with no body to return to.
And then.
The voice.
It hadn't spoken in words, not exactly.
It had laughed.
Whispered.
Sarcastic.
Strange.
Not cruel, but… removed.
And then.
"Back you go."
And his soul had snapped back into his body like a whip being drawn taut.
Lucien shivered.
It wasn't just a dream.
He knew it wasn't.
Whatever that thing was, it had thrown him back into the waking world like a bored conductor tossing someone off the last train home.
He didn't know what it was.
A god?
A ghost?
A hallucination?
Whatever it had been, it had seen him.
Known him.
And it hadn't let him go.
"Wonderful," Lucien whispered to the ceiling.
His voice was hoarse, dry. "Add ‘possible eldritch stalker’ to my list of problems."
His body ached.
But it was a clean ache.
Healing ache.
Not the tearing, ripping pain of battle, but the slow, warm pull of muscles returning to life.
He sank deeper into the bed, the pillow cool against his neck.
He was alive.
He didn't know how.
Or why.
But he was alive.
And that meant.
Vaelira.
Richardson.
Balt.
Everything he’d promised himself, he still had time.
Lucien closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a breath that didn’t taste like blood or smoke.
Tomorrow, maybe, he’d think more about the thing in the void.
The voice.
The cost.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was just grateful to feel a blanket on his skin and a bed beneath his back.
Outside his room, footsteps echoed as nurses continued their rounds.
Above, music floated faintly down from the ballroom towers, where gowns sparkled and sons of dukes laughed over wine.
But in this quiet ward, in the cold shadow of that grandeur, real dreams were stirring.
And Lucien Crowley slept.
For now.
