Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Rumors and Sabotage

The room was small but polished—tucked beneath the east wing in one of the old strategy chambers reserved for noble meetings. Thick velvet curtains blocked the windows. A charm sigil carved into the door shimmered faintly, indicating no sound would escape.

Dior sat at the head of the round table, fingers steepled.

Three other nobles sat with him—young, sharp, loyal.

Alric Von Valein.

Cassian Therin.

Liora of Derness.

All from ancient bloodlines. All eager to prove themselves.

The atmosphere was controlled. But tense.

Cassian was the first to speak.

“Her speech hit harder than I thought it would. I mean, even I caught myself wondering what the right move was. Whoops—sorry, Prince Dior. Didn’t mean to betray the cause.”

Liora nodded, and quickly tried to help Cassian.

“She spoke like she already believed she’d won.”

Alric leaned back in his chair. “It’s getting worse. Even commoners are quoting her now. In the sparring fields.”

Dior kept his gaze on the candle flame in the center of the table.

“Momentum is a dangerous thing,” he said softly.

“Especially when it starts rolling downhill.”

Cassian cleared his throat.

“We could… remind people what happens when the academy forgets its structure.”

Dior said nothing.

Just looked up.

Met Cassian’s eyes.

“There was some minor disturbance in the library this morning, wasn’t there?”

Cassian hesitated.

Then nodded.

“A spell misfire. Nothing serious.”

Dior’s voice remained calm.

“And the one responsible—he was a student who supports Seraphina, wasn’t he?”

Liora’s eyes lit up.

“Yes. One of the first year supporters.”

Dior smiled faintly. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t issue an order.

“Then it would be a shame,” he said softly, “if people began to associate her movement with disorder.”

The three nobles exchanged glances.

Nothing else needed to be said.

The academy library was usually a haven of silence.

High ceilings with endless shelves. Lanterns enchanted to float above the reading zones. Students scattered in quiet pockets, each lost in their studies or preparation for upcoming practical exams.

But not today.

Near the west wing, in a side aisle lined with advanced spell theory tomes, two voices were rising.

One belonged to a second-year noble—Cassian Therin, dressed impeccably in the scarlet-accented uniform of his House. Calm, polite, but unmistakably condescending.

The other, a first-year boy—Rane, short brown hair, worn uniform, and a bright silver pin on his collar with Seraphina’s emblem.

They weren’t shouting.

But their words were sharp.

“I’m just saying,” Rane muttered, trying to keep his voice low, “maybe people are tired of letting old families run everything like it’s their birthright.”

Cassian gave a smooth, quiet laugh.

“Ah. The voice of the enlightened future.”

“Tell me—when that future burns down around you, will she offer you more words, or a shield?”

Rane stepped forward.

Too close.

Cassian took a step back—intentionally dramatic—and brushed against a stack of books.

A spell tome slipped loose.

It hit the floor.

And pulsed.

The protective enchantment inside it—a defense array designed for emergency training—activated with a flash of blue light.

A shockwave burst outward.

Loud enough to knock over a nearby shelf.

Books crashed and the pages flew.

Students screamed in surprise and ducked.

Instructors rushed over from the central hall. Mana flared as they locked down the area.

And in the middle of it all, Cassian stood looking stunned.

Rane stood frozen—half-lunged, caught in the worst possible posture.

Someone already had their hand raised, pointing.

“He did it! The kid, who supports the Princess—he lost control!”

And just like that—

The lie took its first breath.

By the next morning, the story had already changed.

Twice.

What had started as a minor mishap in the west wing of the library had become something else entirely.

In the common dining hall:

“Did you hear? A Seraphina supporter attacked a noble with a spell.”

In the training fields:

“Apparently they’re getting aggressive. First the speeches, now intimidation tactics?”

“Yes, the nobles need to be careful.”

In one of the stairwells leading to the east dorms:

A single, unsigned poster had appeared.

Simple white paper.

Bold black ink.

“Is this the unity she promised?”

– S-Class, Think Before You Vote.

No one knew who posted it.

But no one really questioned it either.

That was the nature of a good rumor.

It didn’t need truth.

Just momentum.

Noel heard the whispers on his way to class.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t slow down.

But by the third time someone mentioned “the library incident,” he finally stopped in his tracks.

Roberto caught up beside him, raising an eyebrow.

“Something wrong?”

Noel’s voice was quiet.

Flat.

“Yeah.”

“With the class?”

“With the smell.”

“What smell?”

“The one that follows bullshit.”

He turned sharply and started down another hallway.

Straight toward the library.

The west wing of the library was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The broken shelf had already been repaired—enchanted wood restored, books neatly returned. But the air still felt off, like a room that had recently hosted a storm and was pretending it hadn’t.

Noel walked in like he belonged there.

Which, by now, he did.

He didn’t look around.

He already knew what he was searching for.

Behind the main reception desk, a young assistant mage sat reviewing inventory scrolls. She flinched slightly when Noel’s shadow fell over her workspace.

“You were here yesterday,” he said.

Not a question.

The girl looked up, cautious.

“Y-yes?”

“Tell me exactly what happened. No making things up—lying’s not a great idea, right?”

She blinked.

“I—I already gave a report to Instructor Valenn—”

“Not to him. To me.”

His voice didn’t rise.

Didn’t need to.

It landed like a blade set gently on a table.

The assistant swallowed.

And spoke.

A few minutes later, Noel had what he needed.

Rane had barely moved. Cassian had instigated. The book’s activation was no accident.

It was a setup.

Clean and simple.

Noel didn’t say anything when she finished.

Just turned and walked out.

He found Cassian five minutes later.

Not in the halls.

But just outside the eastern courtyard, talking to two other nobles and laughing like nothing in the world could touch him.

Noel approached.

Didn’t greet him.

Just stopped a meter away and stared.

Cassian turned. Smirked.

“Something I can help you with, Thorne?”

Noel’s voice was quiet.

“If you pull a stunt like that again…”

He stepped forward.

Cassian’s smile faltered.

“…you won’t have to worry about Seraphina ruining your campaign.”

Noel leaned in slightly.

Eyes flat. Cold.

“Because I’ll end it before she does.”

Cassian’s mouth opened.

Noel didn’t wait for a reply.

He walked off.

The silence left behind was louder than anything Cassian might’ve said.

Noel didn’t expect to be followed.

But as he turned the corner of the east hallway, headed toward the back garden stairs, footsteps matched his—precise, composed, and unhurried.

He glanced back once.

Of course.

Seraphina of Valor.

She wore the standard uniform, no crest or cape. Her hair was braided back, and her posture was as regal in the quiet as it had been onstage.

Noel stopped beside a narrow window overlooking the courtyard.

“What?”

She came to a halt a few paces behind him.

“I heard what you did.”

Noel didn’t respond.

“Rane told me. And the assistant librarian.”

Still nothing.

She stepped closer, but not enough to break the line of tension between them.

“You didn’t have to step in.”

“You’re right,” he said, voice flat. “I didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

Noel looked out the window.

At the courtyard. The sky. Anything but her.

Then he said:

“I don’t like liars.”

A pause.

“Especially bad ones.”

Seraphina let that sit for a second.

Then:

“You’re not as far outside the stage as you pretend to be.”

Noel gave a small, humorless smile.

“Well, everyone does what they have to. I just like tipping the stage when it leans too far.”

She didn’t smile.

But she didn’t argue either.

Just nodded once.

And walked away.

Leaving him there—alone, again.

But less distant than before.

The chamber was dimly lit.

A quiet office beneath the western tower—one of the unused professor quarters, now claimed by Lereus as his own. No sigils, no books on the desk. Just two chairs, a plain table, and silence.

Dior stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Lereus sat calmly, hands folded, watching him like a physician watches a patient too proud to admit he’s sick.

“They shut it down,” Dior muttered. “He shut it down.”

Lereus said nothing.

“All that setup. All that effort. And now they’re talking about him instead.”

Still, no reply.

Dior finally turned to face him.

“Why didn’t it work?”

Lereus’s voice was quiet.

Controlled.

“Because you underestimated the danger of apathy turned active.”

Dior frowned.

“He’s just some background student.”

“Then why is it that your movement bends around him, not the other way?”

Dior didn’t answer.

Lereus stood slowly.

Walked past Dior toward the center of the room.

“Noel Thorne is an anomaly. And anomalies, left unchecked, disrupt patterns.”

He turned his head slightly.

“Remove the anomaly.”

Dior hesitated.

“You mean… physically?”

Lereus smiled faintly.

Not with warmth.

“Not yet. But go ahead and send him a message—one of those he can’t ignore.”

“He stepped into your path.”

“Make sure he remembers why that’s a mistake.”

Dior said nothing.

But his silence… was permission.

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