The days after awakening were not peaceful.
For Kael Riven, recovery came in quiet shadows.
No heralds. No parades. No saints.
Just a body rebuilding itself, breath by ragged breath—
a mind sharpening in silence.
He said nothing when the attendants asked if he needed anything.
He let them think he couldn't speak.
What he could do, though, was think.
He remembered the whisper.
He remembered the elixir.
He remembered the absence of light in his room until that one moment someone brought it back.
So he watched. Not the halls or the guards.
He watched the shadows.
Waiting for them to speak again.
Lucien, meanwhile, was nowhere near silent.
Three days after waking, still half-crippled by drained mana veins and torn nerves, he demanded a private audience with the Emperor.
Not as a son.
As a prince.
The meeting was granted.
High in the celestial throne chamber, golden runes flickered behind the Emperor's chair. The scent of incense filled the vast hall, too clean to be comforting.
Lucien stood, draped in imperial silks over healing bandages, and faced the man who ruled the continent.
"I'm not here to apologize."
His father's eyes narrowed. "I would've been insulted if you did."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "You saw the fight."
"I did."
"Then you know he didn't lose."
The Emperor leaned back. "He didn't win, either."
Lucien stepped forward, slower than usual, still limping.
"He's seventeen," he said. "He has no training. He's not from a House. No teacher. And still—he pushed me that far."
The room was quiet.
Lucien clenched his fists. "I want your word, Father. I want your protection on Kael Riven's name. I want you to swear that no noble, no inquisitor, no opportunist will try to dissect him, recruit him, or destroy him."
The Emperor studied him for a long, long time.
"You love him?"
Lucien blinked. "What?"
"You sound like someone guarding a heart, not a rival."
Lucien looked away. "It's not about love. It's about… truth. He deserves to live. As far as the world will let him."
Another pause.
Then, finally, the Emperor spoke.
"…Fine. I'll make it known that Kael Riven is under the personal protection of the Crown. But if he ever becomes a threat to the Empire—"
Lucien met his eyes, cold and sharp.
"He won't."
It took six more days before Kael was cleared to leave the chamber.
He didn't ask why the guards looked afraid of him now.
He didn't comment on the fact that his room had no windows, no sharp tools, and no magical monitoring spells—just a single note placed on the nightstand when no one was looking.
"Live. As far as they'll let you.
You've already done enough.
–L"
He stared at it for a long time.
Then folded it, tucked it into his jacket, and walked out without saying a word.
The morning both returned to the Academy was overcast.
No lightning. No drums. No formal announcements.
Just two boys walking through the wide marble halls of the Imperial Academy in matching uniforms, their steps echoing across shocked silence.
Students turned. Froze. Whispered.
Even instructors paused, glancing between Kael and Lucien as if staring at gods in mortal skin.
Someone dropped a book.
No one spoke to them.
Lucien grinned and slung his bag over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. "First class is Theory, right?"
Kael nodded, as if they hadn't nearly died.
"Yup."
Lucien scratched his head. "Still hate that subject."
Kael shrugged. "It hates you too."
A few girls nearly fainted.
To outsiders, it was unnerving.
How calm they looked. How unbothered.
After a duel that shook the magical foundations of the Empire itself.
After mana and aura collided in defiance of all known logic.
After seventeen days of unconscious silence, they returned—
as if nothing happened.
But the world knew better.
And it would never stop watching again.