Chapter 80: Constructs and Automatons
The oil lamp on Lucien’s desk flickered gently, casting long, quivering shadows over the parchment laid flat before him.
Inked in precise, bureaucratic script, the parchment detailed what might have been the most overwhelming list of academic options he had ever seen.
Dozens of courses.
Categorized.
Codified.
Condescendingly well-organized.
His eyes dragged slowly across the headers: 'Arcane Combat Tactics, Runic Inscription and Application, Applied Elemental Channeling, Mana Efficiency through Movement, Advanced Sword Technique with Magical Infusion…'
Then came the non-magical ones: 'Political Theory and Statecraft, Trade Routes and Economic Logistics, Engineering Principles in Golem Design, Historical Warfare and Tactics, Psychological Profiling of Criminal Spellcasters, Classical Literature and Cultural Analysis, Introduction to Law and Magical Ethics…'
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
‘What is this’, he thought, ‘a battlefield or a graduate program?’
There were classes on everything from monster-slaying to diplomacy, from building magical machines to cooking for enchanted beasts.
One elective literally read: 'Practical Baking in Hostile Environments.'
‘I… don’t even know if that one’s a joke.’
He leaned back in his chair and ran both hands down his face, dragging exhaustion down with them.
It wasn’t the variety that was the problem.
It was the motive.
He already knew what he had to do.
‘Leonardo.’
The golden boy.
The charismatic "hero."
The fan-favorite character blessed by the narrative.
And the one person Lucien would, eventually, inevitably, will kill.
Not verbally.
Not socially.
Not even symbolically.
But physically.
Brutally.
Permanently.
Lucien’s jaw tensed.
His fingers curled over the edge of the parchment.
If that’s the goal… then picking combat-heavy classes made sense.
'Arcane Combat, Reinforced Melee Forms, Monster Subjugation, Dueling for Real-World Scenarios', they would turn him into someone capable of fighting Leonardo on equal ground.
Someone not immediately squashed by narrative bias.
But there was another side to the conflict.
The other obstacle.
The Heroine.
Golden-hearted.
Magical prodigy.
Social center of gravity.
And completely, painfully entangled with Leonardo.
Lucien still remembered the old visual novel mechanics.
Her powers scaled emotionally.
Her magic adapted to the ones she bonded with.
She didn’t study magic.
She felt it into existence.
And she learned best by proximity.
‘If I want to isolate her from him, he thought, I need to be near her. Get close enough to collect data, build a rapport, maybe twist the narrative trajectory away from its default.’
That meant taking the same classes she would.
Lucien flipped the parchment back to the electives and scanned the softer subjects: Support Spell Theory, Healing Arts, Emotional Resonance and Spellcasting, Mythic Symbolism, Speechcraft and Social Spellwork, Enchanted Musical Expression, History of Heroic Lineages.
And outside of the magic-leaning ones, there were still more that appealed to idealistic types like her: Social Welfare Systems and Reform, Cross-Cultural Diplomacy, Civic Leadership in Crisis Zones.
She would definitely gravitate toward them.
And then there was Vaelira.
The only real person he could trust in this entire mess.
The one with a future just as grim and as uncertain as his.
She wasn’t just a known variable, she was a human one.
Someone whose presence made this whole nightmare a little less suffocating.
He couldn't afford to lose track of her either.
Whether it was to danger or distance.
Though if you asked the narrator, it wasn’t about trust or safety or reliable alliances.
‘Of course’, the dry, cynical voice whispered in the back of his skull, ‘it’s definitely only because she’s an ally. Absolutely no emotional entanglement involved.’
He scowled and elbowed the lamp slightly to the side.
‘Stay focused.’
He looked back down at the list, lips pressed into a tight line.
Three paths.
Three targets.
Three conflicting priorities.
He needed to get stronger, for the fight that was coming.
He needed to get smarter, for the heroine who could bend fate itself.
And he needed to stay tethered, to the girl who might be the last thread of his humanity.
Lucien let out a breath.
No, he needed information first.
He couldn’t make these decisions blind.
Not with this many variables spinning out of control.
He needed to find out what the Heroine had enrolled in.
If he could track down her subjects before finalizing his own schedule, he could thread the needle, stay close without suspicion, build influence, gather intel, maybe even divert her attachment away from Leonardo entirely.
‘Figure out the battlefield first’, he told himself.
‘Then draw your blade.’
With that, Lucien folded the parchment and slid it into the desk drawer.
Tomorrow, he would ask questions.
Listen closely.
Watch even more carefully.
And once he had her class list in hand, he’d enroll in every single one.
For reconnaissance, of course.
Nothing more.
***
The window shutters were half-drawn, letting in the soft breeze that wrapped around the academy's spires.
Beyond it, the moon traced its slow arc across a velvet sky, dragging the stars in its wake. But Vaelira barely noticed.
She sat at the edge of her bed, fingers laced together atop her knees, her uniform blouse slightly rumpled, the tips of her silvery hair brushing her arms.
The candle on her nightstand had long since burned halfway down, the wax pooled like a melted clock, but she hadn’t lit another.
The room was hushed, liminal, caught between sleep and thought.
She was still thinking about him.
About Lucien.
About that moment.
That look.
Her breath caught, unbidden, as it replayed once again in her mind, an echo she couldn't silence.
He had stood there like a statue, backlit by crystal chandeliers and the shifting swirl of ballroom dancers.
And yet, while everyone else had looked up at the glittering light, Lucien’s gaze had gone downward, inward, locked onto that one couple as if they were the only thing keeping his heart tethered to his ribs.
His eyes had narrowed.
Not in jealousy.
Not in sorrow.
But in rage.
A hot, focused, intelligent rage.
The kind of look a soldier wears when he finds the man who murdered his brother.
The kind of fury that was measured and precise, not wild, but intentional.
And it hadn’t been the Lucien she knew.
Not the one who joked dryly about etiquette books.
Not the one who made uncomfortable moments somehow fun.
Not the one who stumbled over library footstools.
That Lucien was awkward, clever, a little sardonic, yes, but also kind, and careful.
That Lucien didn’t glare like a wolf scenting old blood.
She rubbed at her arms.
The memory lingered like a bruise, not painful, but sore.
Pressed too deep into her heart to be ignored.
She'd called his name then, softly, hoping he would hear her through the music.
And he had.
That was the part she kept circling back to.
He’d blinked, like someone emerging from a nightmare, and his entire expression had changed.
His shoulders eased.
His hands unclenched.
His gaze softened.
For a moment, it was like the heat inside him had receded, not extinguished, never that, but sealed away.
All because she said his name.
It had brought her comfort.
Strange comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
But also… questions.
So many questions.
She had asked him who the girl was, and he had said simply, “my nurse.”
Said it like it was a fact.
Not a lie, perhaps.
But not a truth either.
That answer had been too neat.
Too shallow for the way he’d looked at her, at them.
Especially the boy.
Maybe not always with her eyes, but certainly with her heart.
She knew his tones, his tics, the way his sarcasm could double as a deflection.
She knew when his shoulders stiffened from tension, or when his smirk was a little too sharp to be real.
And in that moment, when she’d asked about the boy, he hadn’t even tried to answer.
He’d dodged it entirely.
‘Who was he, Lucien?’
She wondered, eyes fixed on the shifting silver of the clouds outside.
‘What did he do to you? What did you see when you looked at him?’
She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin atop them.
The sheets rustled faintly, but the room remained still.
Secrets.
That was what it boiled down to, wasn’t it?
People, all people, carried secrets like coins sewn into the lining of their coats.
Some were innocent.
Others rusted and sharp.
But every secret had weight.
And even those who wore their hearts on their sleeves still carried some deep in their chest, where no one could see.
She didn’t begrudge him for it.
She knew what it was like to live behind masks.
What it was like to say just enough to keep the world from prying deeper.
She knew how it felt to be a symbol rather than a person.
The “Ardent Heiress.”
The girl born with a title written in someone else’s ink.
So no, she didn’t resent Lucien for his silence.
But she did want to understand it.
Not out of suspicion.
Not even out of caution.
Out of… curiosity.
‘No.’
Honesty mattered, even in private thoughts.
‘Out of care.’
Lucien was a contradiction wrapped in wit and melancholy.
He spoke like a man who'd seen too much, smiled like he knew how fragile joy could be.
He didn’t talk about his past, but his eyes sometimes did.
And that night, at that ball, his eyes had screamed.
She wanted to know what haunted him.
Who had hurt him.
What bound him so tightly to a fury he couldn't express in words.
And in chasing those answers, about the nurse, about the boy, about whatever ghost had stalked Lucien into this school, she knew she would come to know more about him.
The real him.
Not just the clever partner in group projects or the quietly heroic figure who fought like a madman during the aptitude test.
But the boy with shadows in his blood.
And maybe, if she could understand that part of him… she could help him carry it.
She exhaled slowly and laid back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her heart still ached, just a little.
But beneath that ache was something else.
A flicker of fire.
‘I’ll find out who they were, she promised herself. Not to pry. Not to invade. But to understand. For his sake.’
Because Lucien wasn’t just a classmate.
Wasn’t just an ally.
He was her friend.
And if fate had given her a puzzle, then she intended to solve it.
Piece by piece.
