----

Of freedom and of flight,

Of power and of might,

Resilia shall once more fight.

Of carrion and of blood,

Of iron and of flood,

Bodies shall hit the mud.

We, the valiant, live in honor,

Ye who gather under our banner remain unbroken,

We, the valiant, live in slaughter,

Ye who pass on the legacy shan't remain unspoken.

Of river and of stone,

Of fire and of bone,

Our destiny remains unknown.

Of scarlet waters that run deep,

Queen Xuena's majesty shall come and reap,

The souls of our bloody sleep.

We, the resilient, live in honor,

Ye who gather under our banner remain unbroken,

We, the resilient, live in slaughter,

Ye who pass on the legacy of freedom.

- We the Valiant, a Resilian battle song written after the Firefight

----

King Mikhail Vya de la L’air gazed out towards the sea of retainers.

At his left, was the Grand Duke Amaryllis, and to his right was the Archduke Vya. The former his most loyal servant, and the latter his brother; both threats to his position.

For twenty years, he had upheld the dignity of L’air and the kingdom of Elevyar.

For twenty years, he had been the one chosen by Souveraine, the one under the pentaflower.

For twenty years, he had to deal with those trying to upset his seat.

“Your Majesty, I beseech you to deal with the Resilia situation!”

Marquis Vanahan flailed his limbs, resembling one of those flies drowning. Thrusting himself on the floor, he looked up desperately at the throne.

I have to give it to him, he’s a good actor, Mikhail thought to himself.

Only those from above could see the sinister glint in his eyes.

The Resilia situation.

It had been five years since the formerly-illustrious kingdom had been thrown into anarchy, and war. It was more than a turbulent situation, it was a controversial one - so much so mainly because no one had made a move on it yet. Once a pawn would be thrown forward on the board, it could be seen as trying to take over the Resilian land.

Elevyar, Likator, and Evangeline were at an impasse.

The Resilia situation had been a sore spot for the monarchs of all three respective kingdoms.

Vanahan…

The nobles in the Council court looked at the Marquis with mixed emotions. Those in the Royalist factions were looking at the Marquis with slight disapproval, while those in the Anti-Royalist factions’ eyes gleamed with anticipation.

There were two main political parties in the Elevyarian Noble Council: Royalists and Anti-Royalists. In addition, there were more factions in the two parties. Royalists supported the current King because it benefited them, while Anti-Royalists disliked the current King and wanted Mikhail replaced.

Anti-Royalist factions were split into those supporting the Archduke Vya, the seemingly ‘rightful’ heir to the throne and part of the Imperial bloodline, called the ‘Monarchist’ faction, and those who wanted the monarchy gone in favor of a more democratic government, called the ‘Radicals.’

Royalist factions were currently split into two factions, as well: those who wanted the Anti-Royalists gone, and those who wanted radical changes without overthrowing the current King, also called ‘Radicals.’

A mix of both Royalists and Anti-Royalists were scattered throughout the council, and both of them were equally a headache to deal with.

Marquis Vanahan was an Anti-Royal Monarchist, the faction that Mikhail had the most hard time dealing with at the moment. Now, the Anti-Royalists were closing in, pressuring him to deal with the Resilia situation once again. The Monarchists were particularly aggressive, wanting the Likatorites and Evangelinese to deal with Mikhail before promoting the Archduke Vya, borrowing a knife to kill.

Mikhail sighed internally.

Politics really were a headache.

The light-haired Countess Dubois, a Royalist Radical, interjected. “Marquis Vanahan, please exercise proper court etiquette when bringing an issue to the attention of His Majesty. You are in the presence of the Council.”

The marquis finally lessened his squirming, formally bending his knee into a genuflecting position. “Your Majesty, there are hundreds dying in the former Resilia every day. Please, have an ounce of compassion, I-”

Mikhail opened his mouth. “Silence, Marquis.”

The dimwit.

“I have been informed that recently, rogues near the Resilian border have increased their activities. Deaths have also increased. If the Marquis would like to be so compassionate, and take responsibility for the deaths being caused by the people you want to rescue, instead of throwing forward a proposition with no clear plan whatsoever, it would be appreciated by the Court.”

Before the Marquis could continue, Mikhail cut him off.

“Duke Rella’s territory seems to bear the brunt of it. Since the Marquis values compassion so much, this Majesty will issue a command dispatching the Marquis Vanahan to the border. That will be all.”

The Marquis floundered, “Your Majesty-”

Ah.

“This Majesty is bestowing upon you an opportunity to address the situation the Marquis was so concerned about. Is this not a gift?” Mikhail moved his gaze from the writhing Marquis to the Archduke beside him. “Isn’t it, brother?”

The Archduke Vya hesitated.

Answer your supporters, Alexei.

Mikhail used to love his brother - until. Until years of power plays had pitted the Vyas against each other, until Alexei had gotten involved in that petty tryst with one of Mikhail's concubines, until his brother became one of the most dangerous people to his seat.

When you spend enough time with a loved one as an opponent, the love becomes twisted, I suppose.

“Of course, it is a bestowment of an esteemed opportunity, Your Majesty,” the Archduke responded after a pause.

The next person who brings this up shall be sent to the border. That will be what I’m trying to put in their heads. Mikhail surveyed the whispering crowd. But the border situation really is getting worse. I must consult with Duke Rella.

“Ah, isn’t it time for recess?” Mikhail asked, languidly. “We will start again in two hours. I hope this issue has been resolved.” Pressuring the nobles with his gaze once more, Mikhail swept his Cout robe, gathering it so he rose to his feet as the court bowed, exiting their seats. With Souveraine’s royal scepter in his hand, Mikhail slowly descended the throne.

His attendants followed him as he made his exit.

Wait.

Mikhail turned his head, the attendants behind him leaping to the floor.

“Countess Dubois. Duke Rella. You may stay behind to seek a private audience.”

After one last sentence, the King made his recess exit just as he sighed once again.

Twenty years…

But it felt like it had just been yesterday.

----

Hundreds of people, all dressed in rags, in tents in a makeshift camp.

In the center was a tattered marquee, inside of which were a small group huddled over a makeshift table. A makeshift wooden pentaflower carving, placed on the right of a line on a map on the table’s surface.

All of the group members were armed, with specks of blood on their clothes.

The border rebels.

One figure, who seemed to be the leader, stabbed their finger at the line.

“We attack in two months.”

“Where first, Ace?” inquired another voice.

The leader’s finger shifted from the border to a small dot.

“We start here. A small town. Not a frontier town, but close enough that they likely won't seen it coming."

Under the dot, scrawled in pen, was a name.

ROOK.

----

The original Novarra’s memories weren’t very helpful.

She remembered hazy etiquette lessons, of actions that weren’t hers, of sneering nobles that strung her along like puppet strings. Of a warped life from an even worse perspective. Novicius had taken Nova’s trust and mangled Nova’s nonexistent ambition and placid nature into a figurehead with vision so clouded that it rivaled the bathroom mirrors at Novarra’s former school. Sometimes the memories were off-putting, like she was watching a horror movie she had no memory being the main character of. In her memories, ‘she’ did things she didn’t do, said things she didn’t say, and loved people she didn’t love.

Nova, not Novarra.

Even though their souls had merged, it was like remembering a previous life. A bitter, sad previous life as a different person. But although Novarra somewhat believed in previous lives - after all, she had transmigrated - she wasn’t the same person as her former self.

But, watching Novicius cutting off the Nova's every road of escape, from ‘her’ former friends to ‘her’ classmates, and plunging ‘her’ into a pit full of snakes that viewed ‘her’ as an irritating bug, had been unsettling...to say the least.

Almost painful.

Although they were separate people, Novarra’s animosity for Novicius was second to none. Nova and Varra weren’t the same person, but Varra was already emotionally attached. After all, she of all people knew how much ‘she’ had trusted Novicius.

The current Varra had no doubt that if Novicius was alive and walking, he would be the target of Varra’s first assassination.

Novarra stared at the dusty mirror in the inn room she had rented.

A face stared back at her.

‘Her’ face.

No, it was her face now.

They looked similar. Both of them had almond-shaped dark eyes, with dark hair and a delicate yet swooping nose. People called the Ultra family worthy of their title descendants of the Undines, likening their looks to "fairies." Of course, this had been before everything.

In her former life, Novarra had dressed well enough, enough to be called - well, what was the word of the level between pretty and beautiful? But she wasn’t bad.

In most of the stories, the girls were usually nation-toppling beauties that practically fell over the usually male protagonist’s feet. Either that, or they were Mary Sues who played hard to get. Rare were those who could stand on their own, usually because the stories were set in worlds where they didn’t have the opportunity to.

Novarra hadn’t been a nation-toppling beauty, in both lives. For that, she was grateful. Otherwise, she might’ve slashed her whole face... When Nova had been young, she had been pushed onto the mantle of ‘heir.’

Just like her.

What am I getting so sentimental for? Novarra blinked, turning her gaze from the mirror to the bed. She rubbed her eyes. Usually, when she started dwelling on her feelings, she was either sleepy, hungry, or both.

She had arrived in Vya, the capital city of the kingdom, at evening and had walked around a bit before deciding on an inn near the Academy.

Was it the scar? The mask? The sword that she threateningly held at the right times?

The innkeeper even gave her a discount.

What a nice guy.

Novarra had even deepened her voice, tucking her dark hair into an androgynous bun. Now, she removed the hairband as well as her cloak and mask, making sure to lock both doors. Placing a glass cup over the door handle and the windowpane, the glass would break if someone tried to break in. After washing her face in the small interconnecting bathroom, and drawing the curtains, she went to sleep.

----

Count Dubois, or more commonly known as Principal Dubois, ran Vya Academy.

He shared his politically powerful wife’s Radical beliefs, but was an anti-Royalist instead. It was a wonder he had been let to run the Academy, but again there were many wonders in the world.

In actuality, he was the result of a ‘political diversity’ catfight the Council had a decade ago. Perhaps it was staged, so there would be less anti-Royalists in the Council. Either way, he was here.

“Principal Dubois!” an assistant opened the door to his office. “The applicants for the teacher’s assistant position are here, ready for you to interview.”

The count looked up from the pile of papers on his desk, sighing tiredly as his drooping eyelids were flung open with the promise of more work.

He sometimes wished all catfights between the Council would cease, to end the paperwork that followed him in his nightmares for future generations.

But, here he was. Still here.

“I need to personally interview them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and failing.

I can’t even feel my face.

“Yes, Principal Dubois.” The assistant hesitated. “You’ve been doing this for the past ten years…”

“Alright, alright.” The count waved his aide off, rising from his creaking chair. He felt too old for this as he made his way through the halls.

Students greeted him. Children of the nobility, all talented prodigies.

He didn’t even remember their names.

The count stopped before the interviewing rooms just as the assistant placed a paper application in the count’s hands. The count scanned the summary of the first applicant.

----

[Name]: Ingrid Signia

[Hometown]: Rook, Rella Territory

[Former Occupation]: Town Administrator

[Age]: 24

[Gender]: (Female) (Male) (Other: ___)

[Capabilities]:

~ Elemental Master (Air)

[Air Manipulation] Master (Speciality) [Air Sensing] Master [Air Summoning] Master [Air Shifting] Understanding

~ Swords Master

[Swordsmanship] Master

----

“Her capabilities seem good,” the count mused. “Which room?”

“The first one.”

“Alright, then. You stay outside, it’ll go better that way.” The count opened the door.

He was met with a masked figure.

Dark hair in a tight bun, with a scar peeking out of the face-covering and arching across the neck; a gleaming hilt of a sword was attached to the belt. A shorn half-length cloak without its hood hung over a lanky - or was it petite? - figure, and sharp hazel eyes gleamed behind the mask.

Callused hands, the count noted, she looks trained.

After taking a seat, the count lazily spoke.

“Is the mask really mandatory?”

A blunt question.

The figure didn’t seem alarmed. “I prefer it this way while assisting, since it's more discreet. I prefer not to take it off unless necessary, but if the interview needs it, I will.” A curt, yet polite response.

Ah. She’s probably the type to view attention as unnecessary. Swordsmen really are eccentric. The count didn’t mind, though.

His wife was eccentric. His mansion was eccentric. Aera, even the butlers in the Dubois county were eccentric. As long as the benefits outweighed the costs, the count would even hire one of the fluffy noble puppies that his children liked to play with, the ones that got enraged at a single sound.

But Souveraine, he was tired.

“Why did you choose us?” he began. A standard question.

“I’ve always-”

“Cut the shivving bullcrap. Is the pay? Title? Just the motive is needed. An honest motive.”

The figure didn’t flinch.

Again.

“The title, probably. As long as the pay’s alright, I won't quit anytime soon. The title is worth more, though, I believe,” she replied. “Would you like me to demonstrate my abilities? Launch into a backstoryof my moral motivations?”

She seems serious.

“No, it’s alright. I’m convinced…Ingrid, was it?”

A pause, as if she was raising her eyebrows.

“Is there any form of protocol I need to know about, Your Lordship?” the figure asked, a bit cautiously. “I-”

“No,” the count repeated, “like I said, it’s alright. You can start tomorrow, but my assistant outside will give you the tour. You’ll be assigned to Professor Stefano Ricci, our Elemental Magic Theory professor; I assume you’re adept in elemental theory?”

After receiving a nod, the count continued, “If it doesn’t work out, you’ll be dismissed after a trial period of a month. Five vacation days are provided, and, after a year of work, the number will rise to ten. Monthly pay, as on the offer, is two silver. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask my assistant.”

He could see Ingrid blinking, as if absorbing this information.

“I’m sure you know,” she said slowly, “that I’m a commoner…and I don't have much work experience...”

You’re probably shocked by how easily you got in…

“Commoner or not, this interview is now over,” the count replied tactfully. “My assistant is waiting for you outside. I’ll be waiting for you to report to duty tomorrow.”

Callused hands.

Darting eyes.

A calm disposition, and calmer eyes.

A sharp aura.

Enough years of training and experience, perhaps by herself.

A desire to grow, and meld with others if needed.

Huh.

----

Novarra had killed two people in less than a month.

No, she had murdered one, framed the other one, and watched as her first victim’s family members went after her second ‘victim.’

Why?

A Baron’s illegitimate son had attempted to get Varra fired from her post simply because she failed to respond to his romantic advances. Perhaps he had a scar fetish? It obstructed her endgame, drawing attention to her.

Either way, she had gutted him in an alleyway. The Baron in question had three illegitimate children, but still had needed to put on some facade of revenge. Otherwise, his authority would be questioned.

So, Novarra had made it easy for him, tucking a scarf belonging to another teaching assistant into the illegitimate son’s pocket before murdering him with a knife also belonging to said teaching assistant.

She had made sure the other teaching assistant, who had attempted to sabotage some of her demonstrations, had no alibi.

Two birds, one stone.

There was no trail that could be led back to her, as she had used [Air Shifting], and the murder had been practically wrapped up in a pretty package for the masses to eat up.

I murdered someone.

And I acknowledged that I murdered someone.

An improvement? A step back?

“And so, those are the basics of Will and Core, the two fundamental cornerstones of magic. I’m sure all of you know, that most people ignore ‘Core,’ and tend to focus solely on ‘Will.’ However, just ‘willing’ your magic to harness an element without understanding what you’re harnessing can lead to a backlash, an obstacle that prevents most from Mastering their respective elements, as proposed by Magic Theory pioneer, Professor Carlos Hernandez,” Professor Ricci said, “your homework is investigate and write a report on said obstacle, and the harmfulness of leaving out Core, with minimum length of two scrolls, by next class. Class dismissed.”

By listening to and asking Professor Ricci about the theory behind Concepts, Novarra had mastered [Sky Whip] and the Skill [Air Shifting] after mulling over his teachings. This meant she could transform not just her arms and legs, but her entire body into air. It was how she had murdered the Baron’s son, and she could now travel along the wind currents.

It had only been a few weeks, but with access most of the Academy’s resources, she had improved.

Ah, the sweet benefits of Vya Academy.

The second-years gradually left the classroom.

All she needed to do in the lessons was to assist Professor Ricci was a couple demonstrations. Sometimes, she would even do continue with a lecture, or demonstration. That was what the other teaching assistant tried to sabotage, by slipping a drug into Novarra's drink in an attempt to make her slur her words to seem drunk. In a fit of revenge? Anger? Whatever was the case, Novarra really didn’t care.

They were dead now, anyways.

Besides, it was just a teaching assistant and an illegitimate baron’s son.

Although the case was investigated, there was little to no evidence and the count was probably too tired to suspect anything else.

Keeping her head down was the utmost priority.

The students had been wary of her mask, but after a couple days, the simmering interest had died down.

‘Leveling up’ was the main thing to do.

Novarra sighed, saying goodbye to the Professor, ducking her head down. Professors were qualified when they Mastered two elements. Mastery meant mastering both Summoning and Manipulating - mastering one more element could mean the difference between life and death, which was why Varra had decided on something…

She made her way to the library, where she spent most of her breaks, with a nod to the librarian. Inside the school hallways, no one really noticed her. Novarra tried to use her abilities as little as possible, and that had helped her image of being ‘quiet.’ Even the chattiest noble children didn’t disturb her much. Except Gerald. Oh fuck, she hated Gerald so, so much.

After finding a Water Manipulation book, she leaned her back against a discreet corner, and continued from where she left off. The library smelt like perfume or cologne that the kids who visited it wore most of the time - Varra didn't even need to go in the hallways to be informed of the latest fashionable scents. This time, it was a strong flowery one that didn't smell half-bad.

The book in her hands was amazingly detailed and impeccably written, compared to the ones sold at Rook’s local bookshop.The first-year class was the last class of the day. Since the rules said that both the staff and the students weren’t allowed to take their books back to their rooms, Varra mainly read them at the library.

An hour passed, and the students returned to their dorms, as the librarian gestured for her to leave.

“Teaching Assistant Signia?”

“Ah, sorry. I’m going.”

Novarra cleaned up the fountain pen she was using to take notes, and her note-scroll, pushing them into her bag as she headed back to the inn.

Another restless night.

Lo behold the tragedy of sleep deprivation.