In the past three days Liam had spent in the Tempest Palace, he’d been holding onto the hope that he could soon return to the academy and resume his normal life. Though he had sworn to kill demons, that oath was primarily aimed at the Blood Demons. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t kill Gaia Demons if necessary—but risking his life in a battle that could end him before he even began his journey to hunt the one who killed Grandpa Billy wasn’t something he was eager for.

But that hope was shattered the moment Queen Lucy informed him of the continent-wide academy lockdown.

Liam was pissed. The last thing he wanted was to drift around idly, with no direction. Still, he didn’t care too much—he figured he’d just return to Nystra City and stay with the Silverharts until the lockdown was lifted.

While Liam often appeared emotionless, the Silverharts held a rare place in his heart. Going back to them would’ve been the best thing to happen to him in months.

Unfortunately, that hope was crushed again—by none other than Lucy herself.

She told him she wanted him to remain in the palace. Liam had been reluctant at first, but he was also tempted. The palace had the best training hall he’d seen and most likely housed tomes with rare knowledge—exactly the kind of things he craved. What he absolutely didn’t want, however, was to deal with Lucy’s son: the arrogant, egotistical bastard he couldn’t stand—Chris Rature.

Liam didn’t fear Chris, but he had zero interest in crossing paths with him. The thought alone was annoying. Worse, the odds of Chris returning to the academy after the lockdown with some twisted story—boasting about how Liam was homeless and he, Chris, had been generous enough to convince the Queen to let Liam stay—was way too high.

Liam wasn’t going to deal with that kind of drama.

But Lucy gave her word. Liam would be staying in the palace’s underground wing, a place Chris knew nothing about. The chances of them meeting were practically zero.

Taking her word into account, Liam agreed to stay. He wasn’t ready to walk away from all the training and knowledge available to him. Still, he had conditions—two of them.

First: Lucy had to guarantee the Silverharts’ safety until the Sylvathar threat was dealt with.

Second: he’d be allowed to spar regularly with Mabel.

Lucy had agreed to both conditions without a moment’s hesitation. In fact, she seemed almost amused by how direct Liam was with his demands.

The Silverharts’ protection was handled immediately. Lucy deployed ten of her elite Shadow operatives to Nystra City with strict orders to guard the family discreetly. If anything so much as stirred out of place near them, those agents would eliminate the threat long before it reached the Silverharts’ door. That alone gave Liam enough peace to finally unclench his fists in his sleep.

The second condition—sparring with Mabel—was something Liam had wanted more than anything. And ironically, Lucy was glad he brought it up himself. She had already planned to test Mystica’s theory about Liam possibly having a soft spot for Mabel, and now he was handing her the perfect opportunity.

Liam and Mabel didn’t spar daily, but when they did, the sessions were intense. Mabel never used more than half of her full strength, but Liam still couldn’t beat her—not yet. Realistically, he knew the problem wasn’t raw power. It was her spatial magic. He’d fought many things in his life—beasts, monsters, demons—but spatial magic, especially the way Mabel wielded it, was still foreign territory.

But that didn’t matter.

He would adapt. He was adapting.

In the three days since their first clash, they’d fought twice more. Each time, Mabel pushed him harder. Her speed, power, and experience clearly outmatched his, but Liam’s unpredictability and ruthless tenacity forced her to stay sharp. He always walked away bruised, breathless, and bloodied—but grinning.

Even Mabel, caught in the thrill of their duels, had started to grin back.

Despite the isolation, Liam was growing faster than ever. His days were consumed by rigorous training, quiet meditation, deciphering tomes in the palace archives, and brutal sparring matches with Mabel. He spoke only when necessary—but to the one person still watching him closely, it was clear: Liam was evolving.

The underground section of the palace became his sanctuary. Few guards ever passed through it, and none dared disturb him. It was silent, still—and best of all, Chris was nowhere in sight.

***

Today, knowing a summit was underway, Liam and Mabel didn’t spar. Although the training hall helped suppress the excess myst released during their fights, Lucy had warned them that someone like Eliv Borges—a Primordial—would inevitably sense it. The risk of Liam’s identity as a dark magic user being revealed was too great.

So Liam spent the day in meditation and reading, also taking the time to rest and heal from his intense matches with Mabel. He refused any healer’s aid; after all, his injuries were nothing he couldn’t mend himself with the Mend spell.

After nearly a full day of rest, Liam stepped out of the bathroom. Wearing black pants, barefoot and shirtless, a towel draped over his damp hair, he casually walked to the bed in the grand room.

Sitting down with a soft sigh, he spoke calmly, “I wonder—is it really necessary for you to keep using your Invisibility spell when I know you’re here?”

From near the door, Mabel’s voice answered, “Yes, it’s a matter of privacy.” Then her figure shimmered into view—dressed in the familiar dark uniform, the half-mask revealing only the bridge of her nose and above, her hair tied back in the same ponytail as before.

Liam’s expression remained detached as he asked, “Your privacy… or mine?”

Mabel’s eyes flickered, something unreadable stirring just beneath her calm exterior. “Both, I suppose. You value your solitude, and I prefer to observe without disturbing.”

Liam gave a soft scoff as he pulled the towel from his head and tossed it over the bedpost. “Observe without disturbing? Sounds like a fancy way of saying you enjoy lurking.”

Mabel tilted her head, arms folded. “I prefer silent surveillance.”

Liam arched a brow at that. “Same thing, just with a more dramatic flair. You always talk like that?”

“Only around people who are dangerous,” she replied dryly.

“Dangerous?” Liam echoed, his tone still casual. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“You are,” Mabel said, eyes narrowing. “Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

He shrugged, standing and walking toward the bookshelf. “Most people call me reckless, brooding… scary, maybe. But ‘dangerous’? Sounds like you’re impressed.”

Mabel’s heart skipped—just slightly—but her expression remained still. ‘There it is again… that way he says things.’

To Liam, it was just words. Blunt, simple, maybe a bit sarcastic. But to Mabel, they were beginning to sound layered. The way his voice had dipped just enough when he said “impressed”… the way he didn’t even look at her when he said it, like it wasn’t meant to be heard, only felt.

‘Was that… flirting? No, it couldn’t be. He’s not like that.’

Yet she couldn’t shake the echo of Mystica’s voice in her head—”He smiled when you said that flirtatious line. He never smiles.”

‘Was he really? No. That can’t be. He’s just a kid. Six years younger.’ She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. ‘I’m twenty-one. He’s fifteen. This isn’t supposed to even be a possibility.’

But the signs… the things Mystica noticed, the subtle glances, the ease with which he fought her, the smirk that broke through his usual stoicism when she said something teasing in battle… They were starting to pile up in her head like unwanted evidence.

And worst of all, now she was noticing him.

His sharp eyes that always seemed to catch more than he let on. The way he moved when he fought—fluid, efficient, almost beautiful in the brutality. The way he never whined or complained, even when bloodied and bruised. There was no fragility in him. Just focus. And fire.

It made her uncomfortable. Not because he was disrespectful—Liam was the opposite of that. But because she was starting to think about it. And that made her furious.

‘This isn’t right. I’m not here to admire him, or analyze if he likes me. I’m here because Queen Lucy told me to. Because I swore to serve her. This is duty, not whatever Mystica is trying to stir up. This is about watching over a talented weapon—not getting drawn in.’

But that didn’t stop her from feeling it—that irritation when he smirked too easily, that flutter of awareness when he brushed past her after a spar, shirt soaked in sweat, jaw tight with determination.

‘He’s still a child.’ She reminded herself. ‘He’s not mine to watch with anything but detachment.’

And yet…

“You’re zoning out,” Liam said suddenly, turning around, a small book in hand. “Did I bore you that fast, or are you building a tactical plan on how to dodge my next spar?”

Mabel blinked, her mind snapping back to the present. She stared at him—book in hand, shirtless, expression neutral but not unkind—and for the first time in a while, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“I was just thinking,” she answered, her voice a little too controlled.

“Thinking about how to kill me faster, I hope,” he said, settling back down on the bed, flipping the book open.

“You wish,” she muttered.

“I kind of do,” he replied, and his lips twitched—just a little. “That way, I know I’m fighting with my life on the line.”

Mabel turned away, pretending to inspect the wall. Her face hidden, her expression shifted. ‘He doesn’t even know what he’s doing… does he? Or maybe he does?’ The uncertainty twisted in her chest.

‘Mystica might’ve been right. Damn it.’

Mabel’s thoughts shattered at the soft creak of the chamber door. Instantly, she was on high alert.

No one entered Liam’s quarters. Not without reason—and never without warning. Even Mystica and Queen Lucy used portals when they came through. And if it were a servant, there would’ve been a knock.

So why was someone walking in?

Without hesitation, Mabel summoned a sleek black steel leaf-blade into her hand, spun it once, and with practiced precision, launched it straight at the intruder’s throat.

But it never landed.

Her hand froze mid-throw—not by choice, but as if an unseen weight had crushed her will to act. The oppressive pressure came all at once, thick and suffocating, washing over her like a tidal wave of raw superiority. It stopped her breath and her blade.

Her eyes locked with his—cold, crimson, unreadable.

Galen.

A chill climbed up her spine, and her heartbeat slammed in her chest like a warning bell. That wasn’t just power. It was something primal. Something that made even the trained warrior in her feel like a rookie again.

“Best take that out of my face,” Galen said, voice low and without the need for threat. “Unless you’re looking to lose an arm.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep