"I didn't sleep much, it seems," she murmured, rubbing her thumb along the inside of her wrist—habit, not comfort. "Again."

Awakened bodies, she reminded herself, didn't need sleep the way others did. Their cells burned cleaner. Faster. She could go days without, if pressed.

But that was the body.

The mind was another thing entirely.

Especially for a mage.

Especially for her.

Because for mages, the mind wasn't just a battleground—it was the castle. The library. The last thread of clarity between control and collapse.

And hers?

Hers was beginning to feel more like a haunted ruin than anything else.

She didn't bother lighting a spell-globe. The dark was fine. Better, even. It didn't ask questions.

Barefoot, still in her linen shift, she stepped to the door, fingers light against the cool wood. Her other hand tugged her cloak from the chair without looking. Habit. Ease. Nothing in her movement said ritual, but it felt like one.

A long exhale slipped from her lips as she pulled the door open.

The corridor beyond was empty. As it should be. No footsteps. No whispers. Just the hush of magic asleep in the stone.

Good.

She needed quiet.

She needed space.

She needed—

A walk.

She didn't even need to think about where her feet were taking her.

She had done this before.

So many times.

When she was small—too small to sit still for the tutors but too sharp to escape their notice—she would take these walks. Slipping past the sleeping servants, skirting corners like secrets, brushing past the velvet curtains in the Valoria estate with the practiced grace of a girl born to run but raised to rule.

It wasn't rebellion, not exactly. It was… space.

A breath between lessons.

'Elara, straighten your back.'

'Elara, don't slouch when you curtsy—again.'

'No, the ledger doesn't balance—try again.'

'Elara, what is the capital output of the southern grain tithe by season?'

Etiquette. History. Sword forms. Highborn protocol.

Laws of land and inheritance. Treatise structures. Trade agreements.

Dance—every form from southern veils to northern formations.

Liturgies. Rhetoric. Calligraphy.

And of course—magic.

There had never been time.

Never enough.

Only pressure. Only the expectation of precision.

"You are Valoria. You will not be permitted mediocrity."

And back then, just like now, she'd find herself walking halls not meant for freedom—but borrowing it anyway.

Even now, even cloaked in another girl's face and another name's burden, the habit had not changed.

She didn't feel like training. Her limbs still hummed from the dream, too tight in the wrong places. Cultivation would help, yes—it always steadied the body, calmed the flame. But cultivation needed focus. Direction.

And she didn't have that.

Not right now.

She just needed out.

The wooden door sighed softly shut behind her as she padded into the hall, its cool stone brushing her soles. The dormitory's architecture—though labeled temporary—was anything but plain. The Academy had spared no detail.

Not with who they were.

Even these transitional quarters bore the subtle flourishes of Empire wealth: vine-gilded lanterns suspended from aether-infused chains, woodwork that shifted hue with the time of day, sigils inscribed discreetly along the walls to prevent eavesdropping.

No detail unnoticed.

No comfort denied.

It should've been suffocating.

But Elara found a strange sort of detachment in it.

None of this was hers.

None of it ever would be.

Which meant—for now—it was a place she could walk without the floor expecting her to own it.

She reached the wide spiral stairs and moved silently downward, the hem of her cloak brushing against her ankles. Each step cooled her further. Her heartbeat, still a little too loud from the dream, began to settle.

By the time she reached the ground floor, the stone beneath her feet had warmed subtly, a courtesy of enchanted underlay meant to soothe residents walking barefoot in the early hours.

She could hear voices, low and scattered—distant enough not to intrude.

The dining hall.

Of course.

Even now, at this hour, some of the Academy's personnel were awake. Maybe preparing morning rotations. Maybe too old, or too tired, or too wise to trust sleep. Their presence wasn't loud. Just a murmur of life.

And without deciding, without forcing it—

—Elara turned toward the open archway.

Drawn.

The scent hit her before she reached the threshold.

Not overwhelming. Not sweet or sharp. But strange.

Familiar in the way dreams were familiar—fragments and phantom traces that pulled more from memory than present sense.

She stepped into the dining hall quietly, the stone arch giving way to soft, amber-lit warmth. Long tables, mostly empty, stretched across the room with their enchanted runner-lamps flickering low in their sconces. Two kitchen staff moved at the far end, chatting in quiet tones as they prepped trays.

But the smell—

It curled around her, distinct from the soft bitterness of brewed coffee or the earthy curl of green tea.

This was something else.

Something warmer. Smokier.

Layered.

She moved toward the serving counter, where the beverage urns stood in their quiet row, each one labeled in small, tidy glyphs: Spiced Tiliq, Midnight Bloom, Coffee—Bitter Pressed, Aether Ceylon, Jasmine Root…

Still no match.

"El— ah." The voice cut in softly. A female attendant, no older than thirty, her uniform pressed and sleeves slightly rolled up, had turned from the central prep station. She inclined her head politely, her tone gentle, eyes clear but unfamiliar.

Not recognition. Just courtesy.

"Could I help you, miss?" she asked.

Elara nodded slightly, stepping closer. The smell curled stronger here, low and slow like smoke on silk.

"What is this smell?" she asked, her voice quieter than she expected it to be.

The attendant blinked. "Which smell, exactly?"

"This…" Elara tilted her head slightly. "This weird one."

The woman looked momentarily puzzled, then scanned the urns. "I'm not sure, miss. Most of these are common brews. Would you like to sample a few to see which one you're referring to?"

Elara nodded once.

The woman began preparing small pours, her movements clean and practiced. One after another, she handed them across. Elara barely sipped most. Coffee—too bitter. Jasmine Root—too bright. Spiced Tiliq—too sharp. Nothing fit.

But then—

The sixth cup.

It was nearly colorless. Faintly cloudy. No steam rose from it, but the smell… that smell.

Elara's fingers closed around the cup before the woman could even finish sliding it over.

She lifted it, eyes narrowing.

That warmth. That strange pull. She couldn't place it. It wasn't nostalgic, exactly. Not a scent from the manor, not a tea they served in the courts. Not from the southern isles or the northern harvests. It was… different.

Subtle, almost unfinished.

But undeniably magnetic.

"This one," she said.

The attendant watched her sip again, then nodded, recognition finally settling in her posture.

"Ah. That one," she said gently, wiping her hands on a cloth and stepping toward the urn that sat slightly apart from the others. "It's from the far west. Beyond the Verdant Crescent. Some mountain province—I don't recall the name exactly, but the label says Vharathin."

Elara repeated the word under her breath. Vharathin. It tasted like stone and salt in her mouth.

"It's rare," the woman continued, glancing toward the nearly empty pot with a flicker of reverence. "Bitter to some. A little metallic, others say. But the monks who brew it are said to spend most of their lives in silence, and they use this during mental fasts. Clears the mind—or so the scholars claim."

Elara didn't answer right away.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the ceramic, the scent still spiraling up toward her with that same unsettling pull. It wasn't unpleasant, just… indistinct. Like it was constantly shifting before she could grasp it.

"I see," she murmured.

A breath passed. Then—

"Would you like a cup, miss?"

Elara's eyes flicked upward. "Yes."

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