Week Two

The second week of the Summit and Tournament marked a significant shift.

While the matches continued to captivate audiences and the political discussions grew more tense, Delphia had chosen a different path. Her impressive academic turnaround at the Academy, coupled with her newfound role as a quiet observer within the Summit, meant she had intentionally stepped back from the Tournament.

Instead, her focus remained on the growing tensions within the Kingdom and how she could strategically position herself to make an impact.

The discussion hall was abuzz with activity as Nobles, advisors, and prominent figures filed in for the day's open-floor session. Though the public attendance was limited to influential families and trusted officials, the rare opportunity for voices to be heard outside of the Dukes and senior advisors created an electric energy in the air.

Delphia sat quietly in one of the middle rows, her small notebook resting on her lap. The discussion revolved around the Kingdom's allocation of resources—primarily the dwindling supply of mana crystals and their strategic importance in both magical research and military defense.

It was a topic she had studied meticulously since arriving in this world, and her notes were filled with charts and analyses she had compiled on the subject.

Duke Mooresbane, who was one of the leading voices in the room, stood to speak, his booming voice carrying across the hall. "If we are to sustain the Kingdom's magical infrastructure, we must prioritize our most productive crystal mines. Allocating resources equally among all regions would be inefficient." There were murmurs of agreement, but Duke Witchade raised a hand. "And yet, the regions with less productive mines are often those most vulnerable to external threats. If we neglect their defenses, we leave ourselves open to exploitation."

The debate continued, and while Delphia found herself nodding along with certain points, she also noticed gaps in the arguments. The discussion had veered into rhetoric, with few proposing actionable solutions. Her fingers tapped lightly on the edge of her notebook as she considered whether to speak.

Finally, an advisor announced, "The floor is now open for comments or suggestions."

The room fell silent for a moment as attendees glanced around, waiting for someone to step forward. Delphia hesitated but then rose from her seat, her movements measured and deliberate. The rustling of fabric and the murmurs of curiosity followed her as she made her way to the center aisle.

When she spoke, her voice was steady, carrying just enough volume to command attention without sounding overbearing. "If I may," she began, "it seems to me that we're approaching this issue from a perspective that lacks a long-term strategy."

Eyes turned toward her, some curious, others skeptical. Delphia met their gazes evenly. "The focus on mana crystal allocation is, of course, critical. But we're discussing a finite resource as though it is limitless. Without significant investment in research to develop sustainable alternatives, we risk depleting our reserves entirely within a generation."

There were murmurs in the room, some surprised by her boldness, others intrigued by her words. Duke Mooresbane raised an eyebrow. "And what, Lady Vosswell, would you propose as a solution to this so-called long-term issue?"

Delphia didn't falter. "First, we must allocate a portion of our resources toward magical research and innovation. There are already studies in the Magic Tower exploring the refinement of lower-quality crystals for broader use. Second, we must implement stricter regulations on crystal extraction to minimize waste. And third—" she paused for effect, her gaze sweeping the room, "we must reconsider how we approach alliances with neighboring kingdoms. If we can secure trade agreements for alternative magical resources, we lessen our dependency on our own mines."

The room was silent for a beat before a murmur of discussion broke out. Some nodded in agreement, while others exchanged skeptical glances.

Duke Witchade, however, leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. "You make a compelling argument, Lady Vosswell," he said. "It is rare to hear such forward thinking from someone of your age."

Delphia inclined her head respectfully. "Thank you, Your Grace. I only wish to contribute where I can."

As she returned to her seat, she could feel the weight of several gazes following her, including that of Zypher, who stood at the back of the hall. His maroon eyes gleamed with something between approval and amusement, and she knew without looking that a small smirk graced his lips.

Later, as the session concluded and the attendees began to disperse, Zypher approached her.

"You've certainly turned a few heads today," he remarked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "I think some of them weren't expecting the impudent Lady Vosswell to have such a sharp mind." Delphia shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Let them think what they will. I'm not here to impress them."

Zypher chuckled softly. "No, but you did anyway."

*

The highlight of the week came during one of the most anticipated duels of the tournament—a fiery confrontation between Sybil Mooresbane and Lyra of the Magic Tower. The stands were packed, buzzing with anticipation. Even the Dukes and their entourages had taken their seats early, and the elevated viewing platform held the unmistakable presence of Crown Prince Alaric, with Calista Faremont seated elegantly by his side.

The arena below shimmered beneath an enchantment dome, its magical barriers crackling faintly in the sunlight—a protective veil designed to keep the volatile energy of spellfire from reaching the audience.

Delphia and Zypher sat side by side in the upper gallery, their posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Around them, the low murmur of nobles placing silent bets and whispering assessments filled the air.

Sybil entered first. The sun caught in her auburn hair, casting fiery glints with each step. Her tailored dueling uniform bore the subtle markings of Mooresbane prestige—sleek, sharp, and proud. But beneath her calm exterior, Delphia noted the rigidity in her shoulders, the clenched jaw. She was carrying far more than just the weight of the duel.

"Too tense," Zypher said under his breath, his gaze keen and dissecting. "She's entering like she's already on trial."

Delphia nodded, her eyes following Sybil's every movement. "She knows she can't afford to lose again. Not here. Not in front of them." Her gaze flicked toward the Crown Prince's dais.

A moment later, Lyra strode onto the field—cool, unhurried, exuding quiet confidence. The sigil of the Magic Tower gleamed across her high-collared cloak, and the crowd stirred with appreciative murmurs. She was a favorite among the academicians and a formidable competitor, known for her surgical precision.

The signal flared, and the match began with a surge of tension that crackled through the air.

Sybil opened aggressively—no subtlety, no preamble. A crashing wave of water burst from her hands, churning and rising with raw force. The crowd gasped as it raced toward Lyra like a living tide.

Lyra responded with practiced grace, summoning a dome of light that refracted the water's momentum into harmless mist. The collision sent a rippling boom across the arena, but Lyra didn't so much as flinch.

"She's pushing too hard," Zypher muttered, eyes narrowing. "Too emotional. It's not just about winning—she's trying to prove something."

"To everyone watching," Delphia added quietly. "To Calista. To Alaric. Maybe even to herself."

Sybil's next spell followed quickly—spear-like shards of ice, hurled in rapid succession. Lyra wove between them with almost languid precision, deflecting each one with a sweep of radiant sigils that glowed in the air like celestial glyphs.

Lyra didn't fight to overwhelm—she waited. Measured. Calculated. A predator that knew her prey would tire itself out.

Delphia's fingers curled slightly in her lap as she watched the pattern unfold. This wasn't a duel anymore. It was a slow, elegant dismantling.

And the audience was beginning to realize it.

Whispers turned into murmurs. A few noble spectators began to shift in their seats, their enthusiasm dimming as Sybil's desperation became harder to ignore.

The turning point came with a flare of light magic—a concentrated lance of brilliance that seared through Sybil's hastily conjured barrier and sent her skidding backward across the dueling field.

The crowd reacted with a collective gasp.

Delphia's eyes didn't leave Sybil's figure as she staggered upright again, cheeks flushed, magic flickering unsteadily around her.

"She's unraveling," Delphia murmured. "One more mistake and she'll lose control entirely."

Zypher's gaze flicked not to the arena, but toward the royal viewing box. "She already has."

Delphia followed his line of sight—and caught it: Calista, watching with a mask of perfect politeness, her hands folded demurely in her lap. But there was a glint in her eyes. A subtle curl to her lips. Not mockery, not cruelty. Satisfaction.

Calculated victory.

"She's not even celebrating," Delphia said under her breath, voice tinged with unease. "She doesn't need to. Sybil's failure is the celebration."

Zypher tilted his head, lips curling faintly. "Because Sybil was never just a rival in the tournament. She was Calista's contrast. And now, that contrast is burning out."

The final blow came swiftly—a radiant pulse that knocked Sybil's staff from her hands and sent her staggering to her knees. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Lyra raised a hand in victory, composed and unruffled.

Delphia exhaled slowly.

Sybil rose, head high but shoulders taut with defeat. Her exit was dignified, but the silence that followed her path from the field was louder than the applause had ever been.

"She fought well," Delphia said softly. "But she fought from fear, not strategy."

"She's being buried while still standing," Zypher replied. "Not by Lyra—but by the narrative forming around her."

Delphia's gaze swept over the nobles around them—already murmuring, already shifting their alliances and recalibrating their opinions. She caught snippets of conversations—words like unrefined, impulsive, outmatched.

A whisper war was already beginning.

And at the center of it, Calista Faremont sat like a queen in waiting—serene, composed, untouched.

Delphia's expression cooled. This wasn't just about winning battles. It was about controlling the story that followed them.

And tonight, Sybil Mooresbane had lost both.

*

Later that evening, Delphia and Zypher retreated to one of the palace's smaller lounges tucked behind the west wing—a quiet alcove far from the ceremonial corridors and pointed conversations of the Summit.

The room was cocooned in warm firelight, the scent of aged woodsmoke and polished velvet settling like a hush over the space. Plush armchairs nestled near the hearth offered a rare reprieve, though the distant murmur of nobles beyond the corridor reminded them the world outside was still watching—always watching.

Zypher lounged with practiced ease, one arm draped over the side of his chair, his wine glass turning slowly between his fingers. "Sybil's desperation is showing," he said at last, voice smooth but edged with thought. "And Calista… she knows exactly how to use it."

Delphia exhaled softly, her gaze flickering with the firelight. She swirled the dark red in her glass, watching the way it caught the glow like blood and garnet. "She didn't even need to lift a hand," she murmured. "Just sat there and let the audience draw their own conclusions. That kind of restraint takes calculation."

Zypher's lips quirked faintly, though his eyes remained sharp. "A masterclass in manipulation, indeed."

There was a beat of quiet between them before he added, more quietly, "But her mana control faltered again. Barely a flicker—but it was there."

Delphia turned to him, brows knitting slightly. "You're still watching for that?"

"I never stopped," he replied, voice low and measured. "She's either overreaching—or something else is bleeding through."

Her mind flicked back to the Witchade Soirée, to the way he'd observed Calista like a puzzle he hadn't quite solved. She leaned forward slightly, setting her glass down with a soft click. "You think it's not just strain?"

"I think," he said, eyes resting on her instead of the fire, "there's more happening beneath the surface. And it's beginning to leak through the cracks."

Delphia reached into the side pocket of her coat and pulled out her notebook, flipping to a page where inked circles surrounded a few scribbled names. She tapped one. "There's another advisor—something shifted. The way he spoke during the council session felt rehearsed. Like he was threading someone else's thoughts."

Zypher leaned in, his presence suddenly nearer—warm, grounded, quietly intense. The scent of spiced wine and cedar curled between them, mingling with the smoke.

"If he's feeding Gideon information," he said, eyes scanning the name, "we're dealing with more than opportunism. This is coordination."

"Which means we have less time than we thought." Her voice was quieter now, nearly lost beneath the crackle of the fire. "If we push too hard, we expose ourselves. But if we wait too long…"

"They consolidate," Zypher finished for her. His gaze lingered, a beat longer than necessary. "You think they suspect us?"

"I think they're watching everyone," she replied. "But I'm beginning to feel their eyes more keenly than most."

His expression softened—just barely. "You held your ground today," he said, voice low and deliberate, as if every word was meant to anchor her. "In that room full of Dukes and backstabbers, you didn't flinch."

Delphia met his gaze, heat brushing at her cheeks though her tone remained steady. "I've spent long enough being underestimated," she said. "Let them start seeing me now. Let them start wondering what else I've been hiding."

A slow, rare smile curved his lips—less blade, more ember.

"Good," he murmured, lifting his glass in quiet toast. "Let them wonder."

His eyes held hers for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering beneath the usual clever sharpness.

Because maybe, Delphia realized, it wasn't just about strategy anymore.

Maybe he was beginning to see her differently too.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn't mind.