Gathering of storms

The moment the cabin door clicked shut behind him, Arman exhaled, rolling the tension from his shoulders. Kyra had been relentless since they boarded—curling into his lap like she belonged there, her tail flicking against his arm, her scent of wild berries and sun-warmed fur clinging to his clothes. It was maddening.

He needed air.

Or, more accurately, he needed to invent a reason to be anywhere but trapped in that cabin with her before he did something reckless.

Like pinning her to the bed and finding out if her lips tasted as sweet as her scent.

The thought alone made his jaw clench. God damn it.

The excuse of speaking to the captain had been flimsy, but it got him out the door. Now, he just needed to kill time—preferably long enough for her to either fall asleep or bury herself so deep in that damned grimoire she forgot about tormenting him.

The airship's grand lounge sprawled before him, a cavernous space of polished mahogany and gilded brass, bathed in the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. Nobles, scholars, and academy hopefuls mingled beneath the vaulted ceiling, their chatter blending with the hum of the arcane engines below. Arman ignored them, making his way toward the bar at the general lounge.

That's when he spotted her across the room.

Lilia of the Dawn—the White Cathedral's so-called living saint and another heroine of the crowned king and his seven vows.

That's when she saw him. Her gaze sharpening a little bit before disappearing just as quick.

He felt it before he saw her: the weight of her attention, like a finger tracing the nape of his neck. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

She sat at a low table, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight, a porcelain teacup cradled between her palms. The crowd around her had stilled, their conversations dying mid-sentence as they followed her gaze.

To him.

Her mercury-swirled eyes—the ones rumored to see the very fabric of a soul—widened slightly.

Arman's muscles coiled.

He didn't know what she was seeing, but it definitely didn't look good.

Lilia's lips parted, as if she meant to speak.

Arman turned away before she could.

He didn't look back, but he didn't need to. The lounge was a tapestry of power, and its threads were impossible to miss.

Near the panoramic windows, Sylvaran Icebloom stood like a statue carved from glacial ice, her back rigid, her gloved hands clasped behind her. The temperature dropped three degrees in her vicinity. A group of students hovered nearby, whispering—until one, a bold young man with an academy pin on his lapel, stepped forward.

"P-Princess Sylvaran, your thesis on glacial runic arrays—"

She glanced in his direction slightly, indifferent, but with such finality that the student recoiled. Sylvaran barely even turned her head.

Arman noted the frost creeping over the railing where her fingers rested.

Controlled. But not unfeeling.

Suddenly, a burst of laughter drew his attention to the opposite side of the lounge.

There, sprawled across a velvet divan like a queen holding court, was Seraphina Ignis—crown princess of the Ignis Dynasty and, if rumors were to be believed, the most powerful pyromancer born in a century.

Her crimson skirts pooled around her like liquid fire, the golden embroidery catching the light with every languid movement. A goblet of spiced wine dangled from her fingers as she regaled her audience with some no-doubt scandalous tale.

"—and then I told him, 'If you wanted a gentle flame, you shouldn't have bet against an inferno!'" She threw her head back, laughing, the sound rich and unapologetic. "His eyebrows took weeks to grow back!"

Another heroine, huh…

The words echoed hollowly in his mind as his fingers twitched at his sides. Three of them—three—all gathered in this single lounge like some divine joke. These weren't just names from reports or faces on wanted posters. These were the people who had kept him company in the darkest nights of his exile, their legends woven into dog-eared novels he'd read until the pages frayed.

Lilia, the Saintess whose mercy could heal nations—or whose judgment could break them.

Sylvaran, the Frostfire Princess who had frozen an entire rebellion in place with a single glance.

Seraphina, the Blazing Heir who laughed as she burned her enemies to ash.

Heroines. Villains. Depending on who you asked.

And now they were here.

Real.

Breathing.

Close enough that if he reached out, he could—

Arman's hand curled into a fist.

Gods, I used to dream about this.

The thought was bitter. Pathetic, even. But in the years when he'd had nothing but tattered books and the cold walls of his prison cell, their stories had been the only thing that kept him from losing his mind.

And now?

Now they were just… people.

Flesh and blood. Flawed. Dangerous.

He turned around and left, thoughts still churning.

Finally, Lion was lounging near the exit, arms crossed, his bright blond hair neatly combed, and he was staring out the window as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Then his head turned and their eyes met.

He smiled lightly then turned back.

Arman ignored him.

And kept walking.

By the time he returned to the cabin, his nerves were frayed.

Enough of this. He needed to—

The room was empty.

The grimoire lay open on the bed, a single page glowing faintly. Beside it, a note in Kyra's messy scrawl:

"Went exploring! Don't worry, I'll be super sneaky. ~♡"

Arman closed his eyes.

Gods damn it all..