The morning of the Winter Gala did not bring the usual warmth of the Zenith sun. Instead, a biting, crystalline wind swept down from the upper atmosphere, carrying the scent of ancient glaciers. The sky-dragons circled lower than usual, their metallic roars muffled by the heavy, mana-thick clouds that had begun to settle over the spires. The world was holding its breath.

Inside Villa 3, the silence was absolute. Vane stood before the full-length mahogany mirror in his dressing room, looking at a stranger.

The suit from the Golden Needle was a masterpiece of tactical elegance. It was a deep, midnight blue that appeared almost black until the light caught the subtle weave of enchanted silk. The jacket was tailored with military precision, broadening his shoulders and tapering sharply at his waist. There were no flashy jewels or excessive gold braiding. Its power lay in its fit: a silent, expensive declaration of status.

Vane adjusted the high collar. He thought of his mother, Helena, and how she used to mend his rags with trembling hands in the dim light of an Oakhaven shack. He thought of Senna and the way she had looked at him through blood-matted hair, telling him to become a blade.

"I am out of the well, Mom," Vane whispered to the empty room.

He felt a sudden thrum in his chest. His mana was restless, swirling with a density that made his veins feel tight. The Gate to Rank 4 was pulsing, the fluid energy of his Elite status begging to crystallize into the rigid, unbreakable structure of a Sentinel. He pushed the sensation down, forcing his aura into a state of dormant, predatory calm. He could not afford a breakthrough in the middle of a ballroom.

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

"If you are still in your bathrobe, I am leaving you behind," Ashe's voice rang out, muffled by the heavy wood.

Vane opened the door and stepped into the common room. He stopped.

The three women waiting for him had undergone a transformation that made the Labyrinth's horrors feel like a distant dream.

Valerica stood by the window, draped in a gown of molten silver that seemed to be woven from moonlight itself. It was backless, revealing her elegant creamy skin. She looked every bit the Solar Princess Alistair Sol demanded her to be.

Ashe was a vision of violent crimson. Her dress was made of Eastern dragon-silk, slit high up the thigh to allow for movement, with a structured bodice that mimicked the lines of Razar armor. Her obsidian horns had been polished until they shone like glass, and she wore a heavy collar of rubies that matched the fire in her eyes.

Isole was the most ethereal of the three. She wore a gown of translucent lavender that shifted like mist around her feet. Her mismatched eyes were calm, but the mana radiating from her was cool and sharp, like a forest after a frost.

"Well," Ashe said, her gaze traveling slowly from Vane's boots to his face. She let out a low, appreciative whistle. "The tailor didn't lie. You actually look like someone I'd hesitate to punch."

"You look like the Rank 1 of this academy," Valerica corrected. She walked toward him, her golden heels clicking against the stone floor. She reached out and straightened his lapel, her fingers lingering for a second. "The predatory boredom, Vane. Remember it. Every noble in that room will try to bait you into a reaction. Give them nothing but silence."

"I am ready," Vane said.

They left the villa and boarded the ceremonial carriage. Zenith had been transformed into a city of light. Floating lanterns in the shape of stars drifted between the buildings, and the Grand Spire was wrapped in a ribbon of blue fire that could be seen from the horizon.

As they reached the entrance to the Zenith Ballroom, the sheer scale of the event became clear. Hundreds of mages, diplomats, and generals from across the globe were funneling through the massive archway. The air was a chaotic soup of Master and Grandmaster-rank auras, creating a pressure that would have brought a normal human to their knees.

The herald at the door struck a heavy staff against the floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous hall.

"Presenting Team 5 of Zenith Academy," the herald bellowed, his voice magically amplified. "The Lady Ashe Razar of the East! The Lady Isole Sylvaris of the Silver Woods! The Lady Valerica Sol of the House of Sol!"

The herald paused, taking a breath as the chattering in the ballroom began to die down.

"And Vane. Rank 1 of the Zenith first years."

The silence that followed was heavy. Vane stepped onto the balcony overlooking the ballroom, his teammates flanking him like a royal guard. Thousands of eyes turned upward. He didn't look for his fans, and he didn't look for the professors. He scanned the crowd for the threats.

He saw Kaito Razar standing with a group of Eastern generals, a small, proud smirk on his face. He saw Alistair Sol near the Imperial delegation, his molten eyes tracking Valerica with clinical intensity.

Vane started down the grand staircase. He used the Sovereign's Glide, his movements effortless and arrogant. He felt the weight of the gold badge on his chest, but it didn't feel like a burden anymore. It felt like a target, and he was daring anyone in the room to take a shot.

"They are terrified of you," Isole whispered, her voice barely audible over the rising murmur of the crowd. "They see the Gate in your mana, Vane. They see a Sentinel waiting to be born."

"Let them be terrified," Vane replied.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and was immediately surrounded by a sea of silk and perfume. Minor nobles and eager students tried to crowd in, but a single, cold glance from Valerica kept them at bay.

The Gala had begun. The wine was flowing, the music was playing, and the political knives were being sharpened. Vane accepted a glass of sparkling nectar from a passing servant, but he didn't drink. He stood at the center of the room, a midnight-blue shadow amidst the gold, waiting for the real players to make their move.

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