Chapter 8 Threads of Fire and Starlight

Aurelia

I was trying to ignore Swordwannabe. I was successufl for the most part during the first few days of classes. I wasn’t trying to be cruel or anything. Its just that I’m damn near a princess—I couldn’t come across as too eager. That wouldn’t be very noble-like.

But I couldn’t help but think about it. It pissed me off.

He did flirt with me. He did look at my legs.

And no it wasn't in in a creepy way or even in a way that was unwelcome.

Just… in that infuriating, casual, distracted swordsman kind of way—like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

The big jerk.

And then he had the audacity to not say anything afterward. No smug grin. No awkward compliment. Just that maddening little nod of acknowledgment, like I was the one who had stared too long.

Ugh.

I crossed my arms, looked the other way, and told myself I didn’t care.

Even though I absolutely, 100%, definitely did.

He had the audacity to refuse an invitation.

I wasn’t asking him to marry me. Just… meet. Talk. Maybe we’d hit it off. Maybe we wouldn’t. That wasn’t the point.

The point was I asked—and he turned me down like I was offering him moldy bread and a bad blind date.

I’m not used to being told no. Not when I make an effort. Not when I lower my guard just enough to ask.

And the worst part? He wasn’t rude about it. No arrogance, no mockery. Just that same infuriating calm, like he’d already made peace with it before I even opened my mouth.

Which somehow made it worse.

I don’t chase people. I don’t linger.

But here I was, replaying the moment in my head like an idiot, wondering if I should’ve smiled more… or less. Wondering if he saw it—really saw it—or if I’d just become another forgettable encounter in a long list of would’ve-beens.

Damn him.

And damn me for caring.

The moment I stepped into the open-air walkway between spires, the shift hit me. Mana pressure—raw, agitated, barely controlled. I quickened my pace. Siella and the others chattered behind me, but their voices dropped as the tension in the air thickened. Ahead, students had gathered in a wide semicircle. Spells lit the air. Sparks sizzled. Fear hung heavy. I didn’t ask. I pushed forward.

There were two of them in the center. One boy, clearly an incoming freshman like me, but who looked young, no older than 14, was backed against a pillar. Small. Thin. Spectacles half-cracked. His robe was a low-class issue, faded blue, sleeves too long. He was bleeding from his lip. He didn’t even try to cast—just held up his hands as if that would stop it.

The other was Korrin Drestal. Fourth-year. Heir to House Drestal and walking proof that power didn’t require character. A small crowd of highblood students flanked him, laughing as he conjured flickers of heat just inches from the younger man’s face.

“C’mon, little Nomad,” Korrin jeered, lifting his wand. “You’re in a school for elites. Do you even know what spell compression means? Or are you here to polish our boots?”

The boy stammered, trying to speak, but another spark cracked against his shoulder and he flinched hard.

My jaw tightened. My fingers twitched toward my sword. I hate nobles like this. Gave the rest of bad name. Maybe I should give him a beating. It would make feel better and Korrin could use it.

I wasn’t give the chance.

Another figure stepped into the ring. He moved like no one else there. Handsome. Tall. Silver blue hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Striking. I don’t say that about guys very often.

Hus every step was grounded. Balanced. The crowd instinctively parted, not out of respect—out of instinct. His coat was battered. One sleeve frayed. His boots scuffed, not from fashion but from use. The sword on his back didn’t gleam. It was old. Functional. Real.

Korrin turned with an amused grin. “Another low-class loser comes to beg?” The newcomer said nothing. Korrin’s grin widened. “You want to make this your problem?”

His voice was quiet. “You already made it mine.” He reached behind his back and drew the sword.

My breath caught. He didn’t draw it like a noble the smoothess of the movement was almost poetic. The blade cleared the sheath with a whisper. His left hand settled in the air—open, low, a counterbalance. I’d seen that stance before. Felt it crash into my ribcage in Ashglass Arena.

Korrin arched an eyebrow. “Really? You’ve no crest. I see you have no noble house, and your blade doesn’t have any enchantments. How exactly do you plan to beat me?”

The man with the sword raised an eyebrow. “How do I plan to beat you? I plan to hit you repeatedly with my sword. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

The man smiled. “You are welcome.”

Then he struck. A mid-tier fire burst—quick, dirty, enough to scorch clothes and leave serious burns. It was the kind of spell that usually ended fights in a single cast. The swordsman moved. Not fast.

Efficient.

One step.

A shoulder dip.

The spell missed by centimeters and exploded against the courtyard stone, sending heat across the crowd. Korrin cursed and launched another—this one arced, trying to catch him mid-dodge. He closed the distance instead. His sword came up—not to slash, but to strike. The flat hammered against Korrin’s arm, sending sparks and bones rattling. Korrin yelped, staggering back, but not before lashing out with a shock spell point-blank. The swordsman took the hit. Electric current snapped across his shoulder and chest. He grit his teeth, jaw clenched, and drove his palm into Korrin’s sternum hard enough to knock the wind from him. Korrin stumbled. Then he screamed. The swordsman had twisted the wand from his wrist and cracked it—snapping the focusing crystal. The crowd gasped.

Wands weren’t cheap. They weren’t exactly needed; the Systems interface allowed for casting spells directly from one's hands, but wands could help with consistency, mana conservation, and speed of casting. Plus, it was a mark of wealth. Scholarly mages used them. Battle mages did not. Breaking one wasn’t just dangerous—it was personal.

Korrin lunged now, fists clenched, casting raw mana blasts from his open hands like a brawler. The swordsman moved like he’d fought a hundred of these guys. Every hit that landed was deliberate: a cut across the thigh, a bash to the ribs, a twist of the wrist. He wasn’t showy. He was brutal. And it was working. Korrin collapsed after the sixth blow, face bruised, robe burned, unconscious before his head hit the flagstones. Silence rippled outward. Then someone clapped. It wasn’t ironic. It wasn’t mocking. It was stunned. A few others joined in—then more. The swordsman didn’t acknowledge it. He sheathed his sword and turned toward the younger boy still shaking near the pillar. He bent down, offered a hand.

“You okay?” The kid nodded, eyes wide. He nodded back and walked away, straight past the crowd, ignoring the whispers.

That was when his eyes flicked up. And met mine. For the second time that day, I forgot how to breathe. He didn’t stare. Didn’t frown. Just held my gaze for one second—two, at most—then kept walking, like I was just another face in the crowd. But my heart was pounding. Because every movement, every breath, every instinct…

it was him.

It was SwordWannabe.

I found him.