The mess hall was a cathedral of clattering silver and hushed gossip, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and the simmering tension of the previous day's events. The seating arrangement at Aethelgard was a rigid map of power: the center table was reserved for the High Council’s children and the top-tier Iron Wing squires, while the surrounding tables spiraled outward in decreasing order of importance.
Astraea walked in, her "Coven" flanking her in a loose, confident formation. Every head in the hall turned. The "4-B Losers" didn't look like losers anymore; they moved with the coordinated grace of a wolf pack.
Remembering Valerius’s frantic plea for discretion, Astraea didn't head for the center. Instead, she claimed the table directly adjacent to it. It was a calculated move—technically following the rules, but close enough that her presence acted as a gravitational pull, warping the "Elite" atmosphere.
Isolde sat at the center table, surrounded by Elara’s inner circle. She looked stiff, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, but her eyes darted nervously toward the nearby table. Every time her fellow Elites spoke of "protocol" or "lineage," Isolde felt a cold knot of boredom in her stomach. She was a different creature now, and the silver mana beneath her skin felt heavy, like mercury waiting to be poured.
Astraea settled onto the bench, her back to the "High" table, but she twisted slightly to grab a flagon of water.
In that moment, she caught Isolde’s gaze.
Astraea didn't say a word. She simply offered a knowing, slow smile—the kind that held the memory of the cushions and the silver-chrome light—and followed it with a mischievous wink.
The effect was instantaneous.
Isolde’s face didn't just redden; it turned a violent, scorching crimson that clashed vividly with her silver hair. She choked on her sip of watered wine, her hand trembling so hard the cup clattered against the table. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, the "Sovereign Link" between them thrumming with a sudden, playful heat.
"Isolde? Are you alright?" Elara asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked from her friend to the back of Astraea’s head. "You’ve been acting... erratic... since the cave."
"I... I’m just warm," Isolde stammered, her gaze fixed firmly on her plate. "The kitchens... the heat must be rising."
Across the gap between the tables, Astraea’s six girls were giggling softly. They knew that blush. They had all worn it.
Hana leaned in close to Astraea, whispering loud enough for only the inner circle to hear. "She’s going to be at our door five minutes before curfew, isn't she?"
"Six," Astraea corrected, her golden eyes sparkling with amusement.
She could feel Isolde’s anticipation—a mixture of fear, longing, and a desperate need to be back in the amber glow of Room 4-B. By sending her back to the Elites, Astraea hadn't just created a spy; she had created a vacuum in the girl’s soul that only the Sovereign could fill.
As Astraea began to eat, she focused a tiny, invisible pulse through the link—just a flick of mana against Isolde’s core. Isolde nearly jumped out of her seat, her breath catching in a silent, jagged gasp.
The "Discretion" Valerius wanted was a thin veil. To the outside world, Astraea was just a student sitting at a secondary table. But to those within the link, she was the sun, and the mess hall was just a dark room waiting for her to decide when to burn it down.
---
The atmosphere at Aethelgard shifted from academic tension to a wartime footing almost overnight. The High Council, spooked by the "anomalies" reported in the caves, sanctioned a series of In-House Combat Gauntlets.
The goal was twofold: to sharpen the Elites into a force capable of handling the rising tide of high-tier monsters, and—secretly—to stress-test the "4-B Misfits" until their supposed "luck" ran out.
The Academy’s central arena was transformed into a shifting landscape of magical hazards and summoned beasts. Instructor Valerius stood on the observation deck, her eyes constantly drifting toward Astraea, who stood at the edge of the sands with her now seven-strong circle.
"First Trial: The Golem Tide!" the Headmaster’s voice boomed.
A dozen massive Granite Sentinels rumbled into existence. These were Tier-4 constructs, designed to withstand hours of sustained bombardment. The Iron Wing squads moved in first, their traditional "Shield-and-Strike" formations looking slow and clunky. They chipped away at the stone, sweating and shouting, desperate to prove their worth after the cave disaster.
Then came 4-B.
Astraea didn't even draw her daggers. She stood with her arms crossed, the "Sovereign Link" humming with the collective mana of her girls.
"Hana, the joints. Miri, the core," Astraea commanded, her voice cutting through the din like a bell.
Hana didn't throw a potion; she snapped her fingers, and the very air around the Golems' knees turned into concentrated acid—a feat of Sovereign-Altered Chemistry. As the giants buckled, Miri’s spectral hound—now larger and wreathed in golden flame—tore through the stone chests to retrieve the mana-crystals within. It was a surgical slaughter.
The teachers in the stands stopped taking notes. They simply watched, pencils frozen over parchment.
Throughout the day, as the trials escalated, Astraea began to notice a pattern. Every time a beast died near her, she felt a sharp, metallic tang in the back of her throat. The "High Tier" monsters weren't just appearing; they were being compressed into existence by the sheer pressure of her growing divinity.
In the final bout of the afternoon, a Storm-Drake was summoned for the top-tier Elites. But as it materialized, something went wrong. The mana swirled, turning from blue to a bruised, sickly violet. The Drake grew second and third heads, its power level spiking into the "Calamity" range.
The instructors rushed to deactivate the summoning circle, but it was locked. The Drake lunged for the observation deck.
Astraea moved. She didn't strike the beast. She struck the air. She used the mana the Drake was breathing in and turned it into solid weight. The three-headed monster was slammed into the arena floor as if an invisible mountain had dropped on its back.
Astraea stepped onto the sands, her golden eyes glowing so brightly they left trails in the air. She looked up at the teachers—and specifically at Elara, who was watching with a pale, trembling fury.
"Your pets are getting unruly," Astraea remarked, her voice amplified by the divine link so that it shook the very foundations of the arena. "Perhaps you should stop playing with things you don't have the strength to hold."
---
As the session ended, the "Infection" reached a new demographic: the lower-tier boys.
They had seen the 4-B girls—the ones they used to ignore or mock—operating with a power that made the Iron Wing look like children playing with sticks. The envy was no longer just about magic; it was about the radiance the girls shared.
As the 4-B pack walked back to the Grace Wing, they were followed not by whispers of mockery, but by a heavy, worshipping silence.
Isolde, still playing her part among the Elites, caught Astraea’s eye across the arena. She felt the phantom throb of the Sovereign's mark on her back, a hot reminder of where she truly belonged. She saw the "4-B Misfits" laughing, their skin shimmering with health and power, and she realized the ruse was becoming harder to maintain. She didn't want to play the spy; she wanted to be back on the cushions, being filled with the only light that mattered.
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