The party, once filled with laughter and grace, came to a jarring halt due to the interference of two singular beings.
Elandir Virellen—a noble scion hailing from one of the major Elven provinces—had not come merely as a guest.
His presence bore weight. An emblem of diplomatic unity between his ancient forest kin and the human Houses, Elandir was said to be a prodigy, a master of the wind spirits, a wielder of the sixth circle.
And opposite him stood Vancroft Lovecraft.
To the assembly, his name was little more than a footnote. An illegitimate son, a stain on the otherwise illustrious name of Lovecraft.
Whispers painted him as a fluke, a mistake that had somehow survived the culling of obscurity.
What worth could one born without prestige or promise possess?
Indeed, it was the measure of their upbringing—those gathered there—raised on gilded pride and polished lies, that they judged so quickly.
They were never taught to read beyond the title of a book.
A space was cleared. A field with a magic barrier was conjured, a measure to avoid collateral damage—a courtesy, though few believed it necessary. This duel, many believed, would last but a moment.
Elandor turned, his long emerald braid swaying like a serpent's tail.
"Do you wish to declare any conditions before we begin, human?" He asked, voice as silken and sharp as a drawn bowstring.
Vancroft, ever composed, merely replied.
"None."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Suicide, they thought. To face a sixth-circle spirit master, unbound by restrictions?
Madness. Or perhaps ignorance.
But Vancroft smiled faintly.
"Damian", he murmured inwardly.
[Already processing. Spirit resonance and channelling patterns detected. Projected movements preloaded. All enchantment glyphs calibrated for atmospheric flux. You may proceed, sir.
There it was—confidence born not from arrogance, but from calculation.
He did not draw his sword, though it lay comfortably within his spatial ring.
Instead, he reached within his coat and retrieved a simple white cloth—silken, unassuming.
He folded it twice. Then twice again.
By the time it snapped through the air, it had taken the shape of a whip.
One of the older nobles scoffed.
"A cloth whip? Has the boy gone mad?"
But Vancroft's mind was elsewhere. On stories. On parables passed down through tongue and ink.
"David and Goliath..." he recalled.
Yes, the story was simple—timeless. But it spoke of truth. Pride had always been the root of downfall, especially among the so-called invincible. The higher one flies, the harder they fall.
Elandor raised a hand, and the wind moved with him.
A translucent spirit coalesced at his back, a towering sylph-like form with eyes of sky and limbs of gale.
The crowd gasped as pressure rippled through the air, petals from the garden torn into a spiralling frenzy.
Vancroft stood still.
The elf moved first—wind blades, sharp and crescent, screamed toward him. In a flash, Vancroft sidestepped, the whip snapping mid-air with enchantments layered across it.
The air shimmered. Speed. Power. Precision.
Elandor's brow furrowed. He sent the spirit into a dive, wind shrieking around its edges.
Vancroft rolled low, pivoted on his heel, and lashed out.
The whip, guided not merely by muscle but by the perfectly synchronised enchantments etched into its thread, struck the spirit's shoulder with force enough to send it howling back.
The crowd blinked.
"Impossible…" someone whispered.
Another exchange. Then another. Elandor cast wind traps, cyclone snares, and invisible blades. But with each move, Vancroft adapted.
"Damian—above," he said.
[Detected. Adjusting strength vector. Enhancing grip.
And with a mid-spin reversal, the whip curved upward—striking through a wind veil and landing square against Elandir's shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Pain flared. It wasn't serious, but it wasn't expected.
The elf's eyes narrowed.
How…?
How could this be happening?
This shouldn't be.
He was a mere insect… a joke.
The seed of fear had sprouted.
And fear… was poison.
The wind spirit, feeling its master's disturbance, began to falter.
Its rhythm collapsed. Its cohesion weakened.
Vancroft felt it. In the trembling air. In the slight shift in motion.
"Now," he whispered.
One final clash.
A surge of wind. A blur of black and white. Then silence.
The cloth, charged with enhanced enchantments and guided by the precision of perfect timing, struck Elandor's chest—not to wound, but to break his stance.
And break it did.
The elf's feet lifted. His body twisted. And then he hit the ground with a breathless thud.
The sylph shattered into mist.
Elandir Virellen lay unconscious.
A gasp. Then silence. Even his own retainers stood frozen, lips agape.
And then—
Clap.
Clap.
Laughter.
Lena, draped in crimson, leaned against the balustrade, clapping like a child offered a new toy.
"Bravo!" she laughed, delight in her tone.
"That was spectacular! I knew you'd give me something worthwhile."
Vancroft merely adjusted his glasses, sighing.
"…I just wanted dessert."
***
Vancroft sat once again with a plate of dessert in hand, the gentle chime of porcelain cutlery against fine china a comforting lullaby to his weary mind.
Fluffy soufflé glazed with golden syrup, fruit tarts adorned with translucent slivers of pear and crystallised rose petals, and custards as smooth as silk.
He let out a breath through his nose.
"Tiring, isn't it?" He muttered.
Damian, ever lurking just beneath the surface of his mind, replied with mechanical clarity.
[High expenditure of energy. Combat tension. Dopamine response caused by post-conflict reward. Consuming sugar is the right choice.
"Sugar and peace," Vancroft murmured, scooping another bite of mousse.
"This is what true life tastes like."
Around him, the eyes of nobles no longer held the sneer of disdain but the glint of caution… and fear.
Whispers floated like smoke from their lacquered lips, and none dared approach his table again.
'Finally,' he thought. 'Some quiet.'
Yet his serenity did not last long. The familiar voice of Lena Acheron broke through the low music and murmurs.
"Well, well… if it isn't our honoured guest hero."
She stood beside him with her own plate—assorted éclairs, a sugared croissant, and what looked like a slice of star-apple pie.
The red of her dress flared with the same energy in her smile.
"If someone told me a 4th-circle magician would publicly dismantle a 6th-level spirit master, I'd have laughed. Then again, you've always had a tendency to surprise."
Vancroft chewed slowly, too drained to counter her teasing.
"If you're here to prod, make it brief," he said.
"I only have energy left for cake."
Lena chuckled and, as if indulging him, slid a small velvet pouch into his palm beneath the table. The weight told him all he needed to know.
"Call it a thank you," she whispered. "You gave me the best part of this whole evening."
'Rich kids', he thought dryly. 'A blessing and a curse.'
The music soon shifted, a slow and elegant rhythm weaving through the air. The dance had begun.
Vancroft, however, found no interest in the swirling gowns or glittering chandeliers.
With his dessert in hand, he slipped away to the balcony.
The night sky stretched above, spattered with stars like ancient runes across the heavens.
Cool air brushed against his cheeks as he leaned against the balustrade.
Peace. At last.
Or so he thought.
Footsteps.
A quiet presence joined him.
The man had short black hair, neatly cropped, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to flicker with thought.
A silver brooch pinned to his collar bore the crest of the Imperial Academy.
"A lovely view," the stranger said, gazing toward the sky.
"You're not dancing either, I see."
Vancroft tilted his head slightly.
"I have no partner in mind. Besides, who would willingly dance with me?"
The young man offered a knowing smile.
"After what you did tonight? I can think of a few who might reconsider."
Vancroft gave a noncommittal shrug and forked a bit of tart.
"That wasn't for applause. It was a test—for myself."
"Still, an impressive one," the man continued.
"You wielded enhancement runes with remarkable fluency. I take it you won't still be considering enrolling at the Academy?"
The spoon paused halfway to Vancroft's mouth.
"No," he replied firmly. "My path lies elsewhere. The Academy's teachings have no place for 'outdated' mages like me."
"I see," the man said, his voice laced with quiet amusement.
"A rare answer. Most would have leapt at the occasion."
He extended a hand.
"Still, I'm glad I had the chance to see you. I hope we can see each other more in the future."
Vancroft accepted the handshake, though his eyes narrowed.
"You speak as though we will meet again."
"Who knows?"
With a parting nod, the stranger stepped back toward the door.
As he disappeared into the warm lights and drifting music of the ballroom, he whispered under his breath:
"He's not like me. He doesn't seem to remember me nor hold interest in the academy. Best observed from afar."
And so, beneath the watchful stars,
Vancroft remained alone on the balcony—dessert in hand and the night still long.