The Scholar Council formally reprimanded both parties but did not issue severe punishment, as no real damage was done. The confrontation ended, but the underlying hostility remained.

The dining hall’s rhythm limped back into place. Ruvian heard it first—cutlery clinking again, voices rising in uneven bursts. They sounded like they were trying to fake confidence.

Ruvian returned to his table without a word, shoulders relaxed but mind still turning. Julian left soon after. Unbothered, as if none of it truly mattered to him. But he sure remembered to pay the debt later.

His eyes swept the hall, noting laughter bubbling up again—stiff at first, then loosening. The tension hadn’t fully disappeared; it had only buried itself for a while.

Ruvian felt their eyes linger more than he saw them, prickling against the back of his neck. He set his glass down with deliberate care, letting the scrape of glass on wood say what he wouldn’t.

When he finally glanced up, he found their gazes not on him, but on the three who had stepped in earlier. Their presence cut through the room like frost on a window, clarity and cold authority both. He almost smiled, dry and humourless. People always claimed they wanted justice. What they really wanted was spectacle.

The Scholar Council. He let the words roll in his head, sour and metallic. Third-years, technically, though titles meant little when they walked like executioners. His ears caught the subtle shift of voices when the trio moved—tones bending lower, respectful, fearful.

They weren’t elected, no. They were chosen, handpicked by the Chancellor himself, branded with Velthia’s doctrine.

In the scholar’s little kingdom, those three weren’t merely senior students. They were gods in cheap uniforms. Gods who dined in the same building, breathing the same stale air, but still managed to stand a head higher than anyone else.

Ruvian smirked faintly into his glass, the sweet drink fitting the thought.

'Gods among the flawed. Even the other academies across the Dominion recognized them. Especially, Nereus Calleon—the one known as The Primordial Son of the Sea.’

The three of them didn’t just represent the Academy’s highest student body. They were the body, mind, voice, and will.

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‘Oh great, now that's worth causing a scene.’

Ruvian returned to his seat without haste, his steps unburdened by the weight of dozens of eyes still fastened on his back. The storm had passed, at least on the surface, but the air had not softened.

He sat down quietly.

Around him, his group was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

Horren leaned forward first. “W-why did you do that, Ruvian?” he muttered with concern. His eyes scanned the hall, as if expecting retaliation to be waiting in the shadows. And yet, beneath the tension in his voice, there was something quieter too.

Respect. Or maybe disbelief that someone like Ruvian would be the one to draw the line.

Arlok let out a dry, incredulous scoff, arms folding across his chest. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he said, still staring at the space where Julian had stood as if trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.

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“However, standing your ground like that… That’s not just guts but also putting a target on all our backs, you know that?” Arlok didn’t say it like an accusation. Just the truth. Ruvian leaned back and let the words hang.

His eyes drifted across the table—Shima, lips pressed thin, her silence louder than most people’s shouting. The light caught the edge of her silver hair. Eventually, she spoke quietly, but firm enough to cut through the thick air.

“You didn’t have to provoke him like that,” Shima said, eyes still on the table. “You might’ve won the moment, but you’ve stirred the whole board. Your actions have affected us as well and we’re not ready if things escalate.”

The scrape of her spoon against the bowl punctuated the words, irritation masked as composure. Ruvian sipped from his glass, grape juice thick on his tongue. 'Well, that's the most expected response.'

Before he could bother with a reply, Yerin leaned forward. Fingers steepled under her chin, her gaze soften. The faint scent of citrus soap drifted off her.

“She’s right,” Yerin said calmly. “That move… it won’t just fall on your shoulders, Ruvian.” There was no malice in her tone, just clarity, and a bit of respect.

“But…” her voice shifted, softer now, carrying warmth into the cracks left by Shima’s cold, “if we keep flinching every time someone steps on us, we’ll never change where we stand.”

She smiled faintly toward Shima, the kind of smile that said I understand without conceding. Then her eyes met Ruvian’s. Steady, serious. “Just next time… let us know before you swing at a hornet’s nest.”

It wasn’t a rebuke. But a reminder. That he didn’t have to fight alone. That part, more than anything, surprised him.

And this time, no one disagreed.

Horren’s hand went to his hair again—the third time in as many minutes. Dark strands stuck up like a storm cloud as his eyes darted toward the edges of the hall. The boy looked like he expected Julian’s thugs to crawl out from under the tables, fists swinging. His voice cracked low, tight as a frayed rope. “Y-you do know he’s not letting this slide, right? And he’ll come for the rest of us too… one way or another.”

The words trembled, but the fear behind them was solid enough. Ruvian caught the faint rasp in Horren’s throat, like the taste of swallowed nerves.

Across the table, Yerin stayed silent. Her gaze was steady, unreadable, and somehow heavier than Horren’s panic. She understood. Maybe better than Horren did.

Ruvian didn’t flinch under their stares. Why would he? He met their eyes with the same calm he’d wear while confronting Julian. His fingers tapped once against the rim of his glass, the ringing softly, like a bell.

“I know,” Ruvian said. “But don’t worry. He won’t do a thing until the Vazrun Island Test.”

As long as Julian wasn’t cornered, he wouldn’t resort to cheap tricks. Ruvian knew, because he’d already read the man’s script. Edited it, even. His next words carried no apology, no pride—just the blunt weight of awareness.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t already weighed the cost.”

He leaned forward, arms resting on the table, the wood cool beneath his skin.

“If my actions drag any of you into danger, then I’ll take responsibility. I didn’t make that choice lightly. But whatever happens between now and the Island Test, I’ll make sure none of it disrupts our chances. That much, I promise.”

Yerin studied him for a long moment, her hazel eyes narrowing as though trying to peel him open. “You have a plan?" Ruvian held her gaze, let the silence press for just a heartbeat too long. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Maybe. But not one I can share. Not yet. I’ll share it when the time comes.”

The table hushed. Even the dining hall noise seemed distant for a moment. They exchanged glances, measuring him, and in the end they didn’t argue. Trust wasn’t firm yet, more like thin roots probing shallow soil. But roots all the same.

Even Horren, still jittering in his seat like he’d rather bolt, kept his mouth shut. Ruvian’s recklessness hadn’t gone anywhere. But resolve had a gravity of its own, and for now, it held them.

They would have to trust him.

For now.

Then, two figures drifted toward his table, dragging their steps. Violet led, though the sharp edge she normally carried in her stride had dulled. Careful steps that almost apologized for existing. The boy trailed beside her, the same one who’d practically folded under Julian’s glare earlier. He stuck close to her shadow, chin dipped, fists locked so tight his knuckles paled. Like that would hold his shame in place.

Ruvian didn’t bother lifting his eyes. His gaze stayed on the tabletop, tracing the faint scratches carved by generations of restless hands. Still, he could feel them there—nervous.

It took Violet longer than it should have to find her voice. “…I wanted to thank you,” she said at last. The words were measured, too careful. “You didn’t have to step in.”

The boy nodded. “Thank you… and I—I’m sorry. You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…” His apology trailed off like even he lost interest in it.

Only then did Ruvian lift his gaze. His eyes caught theirs, steady, reading all the things they didn’t say. Gratitude pressed tight in their shoulders. Guilt twitching in the boy’s clenched jaw. Fear shadowing both. And beneath it all—the confusion of people who couldn’t quite grasp why he, of all people, had interfered.

Ruvian sighed. “Don’t apologize,” he said, tone flat as ever. “It was always going to come to this.”

Violet’s brows creased, lips parting, her protest loading on her tongue. Ruvian spared her the effort. He cut the rope clean. “I didn’t do it for you.”

The words didn’t strike loud, but they landed heavy. The boy flinched, guilt written clear in the stiff angle of his shoulders. Before another half-formed apology could crawl out, Ruvian’s voice slid in again, smoother, certain.

“I did it for me. So go. It’s fine. I don’t like being in anyone’s debt.”

His gaze slipped back to the glass at his elbow, empty. His throat felt dry, scratchy, as if to remind him he’d been talking too much already.

'Ah. I'm still thirsty.'

Violet lingered, eyes on him, searching for some crack in his dispassion. Whatever she hoped to find, she didn’t. His mask stayed in place, both steel and silent.

And yet, she smiled. The kind of smile that shows acceptance.

“…I see.” In the end, she didn’t push, didn’t demand answers he’d never give. Just dipped her head once, a nod less of thanks than of agreement, a contract of terms.

“Then we won’t bring it up again.”

With that, she turned, the boy glued to her side.

PP= 6510

ME= 215