The university corridors glowed with morning light crystal-paned, arching high overhead, as if the walls themselves strained to escape into the sky.
Lyra moved through them in silence, her footfalls echoing on the marble, cloak trailing like violet dusk. Her presence, as always, parted the students before her.
Some gazed at her with envy, others with awe, and a few with thinly veiled fear. She registered it all, but let nothing touch her. Today, her composure was an unbreakable shield.
Her bag was packed, every weapon and crystal checked thrice, her ceremonial attire immaculate beneath the heavy cloak. Still, there was a tremor under her skin that had nothing to do with nerves.
It was something older anticipation, or maybe the hunger for battle that had made her famous before she was even of age.
She made her way toward the council chamber for the final briefing, finding her mentor, Headmistress Vaela, waiting at the door.
Vaela looked, as ever, the image of dignified power: tall, silver-haired, with eyes like polished stone. She gave Lyra a nod—one warrior to another.
"Ready, Lyra?"
Lyra inclined her head. "As I'll ever be."
Vaela led her into the chamber, where three councilors stood by a floating crystal map of the realms. One, an elderly man with ink-stained fingers, gestured for silence.
"Lyra Elaris," he intoned, "today you will cross into the Mortal Plane and begin your role as Celestian Champion. There are new rules and intelligence to convey. Listen well."
Lyra folded her arms. "Speak plainly."
He seemed to approve. "This year, the Demon Council demanded direct introductions before the challenge begins. You will meet their champion at the teleportation circle in the Valley of Thrones. There will be witnesses: our own high councilor and the demon representative. You are to display courtesy and control—no magic unless attacked. Understood?"
She nodded. "And my opponent?"
Vaela stepped closer, her voice low. "We believe it will be Alayah Drax. I trust you have read her dossier?"
Lyra's lips pressed together. Of course she had. She'd studied every scrap of information, every report and sketch.
Alayah's name was whispered in nearly every Celestian war college: dangerous, unpredictable, with a kill list as long as her reputation. Black and white hair. Height and strength unusual even among demon kin.
Last seen—never captured. There had been wanted posters, sometimes with bounties attached none ever claimed.
"She's…famous," Lyra said quietly. "And not just among demons."
Vaela gave a wry, approving smile. "Be on your guard. Her record is impressive and she's a favorite of the lower courts. Remember: you represent us all."
Lyra bowed her head. "I won't forget."
The briefing continued with strategic reminders no outside help, no lethal strikes, collection of emotional essences only by mutual consent, and above all, decorum.
"We win," the councilor finished, "not with savagery, but with elegance."
When it was done, Vaela walked with Lyra through the halls to the portal gallery. The halls buzzed with the pulse of crystal magic, archways flickering with sigils and the sweet metallic scent of aether.
At the base of the last stair, Vaela stopped her, placing a hand on Lyra's shoulder.
"Whatever happens, remember who you are."
Lyra allowed herself a brief, fierce smile. "I'm not likely to forget."
Vaela's eyes softened, just for a heartbeat. "Good luck, child."
Lyra turned, pushing open the tall doors that led to the teleportation rotunda. The space was ringed by silver columns and ancient glyphs.
At its center, a shimmering disc of light rotated slowly, inscribed with the runes of passage and the celestial sigil of her house.
There, already waiting, was Councilor Sorell—an older woman with midnight hair coiled tight, clad in robes so pale they almost glowed. She gestured Lyra forward, then began the formal invocation.
The circle responded, a spiral of wind and violet light rising, building until the air hummed with magic.
Lyra stepped into the center, inhaling the pulse of raw possibility—her world, her birthright. As the energy coalesced, she felt the gentle tug, the world folding inward, the university fading behind her.
The world reformed, sharper and colder, and the landscape opened in an instant.
The Valley of Thrones. Wide and wind-carved, the ground studded with stones as ancient as memory, a place of contested power for a thousand years.
The teleportation circle stood on a dais of obsidian, the air filled with the scent of wild grass and the faint tang of sulfur.
And across the circle, they waited.
The demon party was a jarring contrast to her own: shadows within shadows, their councilor a tall, scarlet-skinned woman draped in black with gold filigree, horns spiraling upward like a crown. But Lyra only saw her opponent—Alayah Drax.
For a heartbeat, everything else vanished.
Alayah stood half-turned to the light, arms folded loosely, head tilted as if bored.
She wore a black shirt, open at the throat to reveal the sculpted lines of her collarbone and neck, sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing off arms corded with subtle muscle and marked with faint runes.
Her trousers were dark, fitted but practical, tucked into boots that looked battered and lethal. The black-and-white hair—thick, wild, perfectly unrepentant framed a strong, beautiful face with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
Her eyes, when they met Lyra's, were a shade of gray so deep they seemed almost metallic.
There was a lazy confidence in her stance, a coiled threat, but also something wilder—humor, perhaps, or a challenge. Every inch of her radiated heat, a presence that seemed to pull the world slightly off axis.
Lyra recognized her immediately. The resemblance to the wanted posters was uncanny, except the real Alayah was even more striking.
The posters hadn't captured the way she moved, the restless energy in her limbs, the slow, predatory way her gaze traced over Lyra as if measuring, calculating.
Alayah's reputation did not do her justice. She was beautiful in a dangerous, magnetic way—effortlessly, almost carelessly so.
She stood a head taller than most of her kind, shoulders squared, a smirk already tugging at her lips.
Lyra kept her face neutral, but inside, every instinct sharpened.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Watch every move.
She stepped forward as Councilor Sorell began the formalities. The air between the two parties crackled with unspoken rivalry.
Wind tossed Lyra's silver hair over her shoulders; Alayah's hair lifted just a little, the white streaks gleaming against the black.
The demon councilor's voice cut through the tension. "On behalf of the Abyssal Dominion, we present our chosen champion, Alayah Drax, First of the Blackfire, wielder of night flame and breaker of chains."
Councilor Sorell replied, "The Celestian realm offers Lyra Elaris, Shield of the Violet Flame, mistress of purified fire and defender of the high city."
Lyra stepped forward, spine straight, every movement precise. She locked eyes with Alayah giving nothing away.
Alayah grinned, all wolfish ease and unhurried grace. She sauntered closer, hands in her pockets, gaze flickering up and down Lyra's form with unconcealed interest.
"Well," Alayah drawled, her voice rough velvet, "they warned me you were beautiful, but I thought they were exaggerating. Seems the posters don't do you justice, princess."
Lyra's jaw clenched. "You're not what I expected either."
"Flattered," Alayah said, and her grin widened. "Though I hear I'm hard to forget."
"Hard to trust, certainly," Lyra replied coolly. "Your reputation precedes you."
Alayah's gaze sharpened, but she only smirked. "That's half the fun."
There was a hush as Councilor Sorell intoned, "You will now acknowledge your rival. Touch hands, as tradition demands, and let all gathered see that you accept this duel willingly."
Lyra hesitated only a moment, then extended her hand, palm up, as custom dictated. Her fingers were steady of course they were but she could feel the heat of Alayah's gaze on her skin.
Alayah stepped closer than necessary, close enough that Lyra could smell smoke and something sharper, darker, underneath.
Alayah's hand was warm, rougher than she expected, but her grip was gentle.
Instead of shaking, Alayah turned Lyra's hand in hers, brushing her thumb over the delicate bones.
Her eyes locked on Lyra's, and in front of the entire assembly, she lowered her head and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to Lyra's knuckles.