Chapter 190 Cecilia's Sweet Sixteen (7)

Words : 1472 Updated : Sep 21st, 2025

Elara Astoria, Rank 5 of Slatemark Academy, was something of an anomaly. Support magic, the art of bolstering others rather than crushing enemies, was often dismissed as outdated—relics of a time when warriors needed healers in the backlines rather than energy shields and nanotech enhancements. Yet, despite this, Elara had dedicated herself to mastering it. Her magic wasn't the kind that made headlines. It didn't split mountains or tear open the sky. It didn't turn entire cities to dust or carve one's name into the annals of history. No, Elara's magic protected. Strengthened. Mended. Light, earth, wind, water, and space—each one woven together in perfect harmony, allowing her to reinforce allies, manipulate battlefields, and ensure her team could fight harder, longer, and better than they ever could alone. It was a skillset that was underappreciated, but not by those who had ever fought beside her. Of course, her utter lack of offensive magic was a well-known flaw. She had about as much natural talent for attack spells as a fish had for mountain climbing. And yet, despite that, she was still Rank 5 of Slatemark Academy, the second-most prestigious academy in the world. A testament to how terrifyingly good she was at what she could do. She had earned her place through raw ability. That was something no one could take away from her. But Elara Astoria, for all her talent, was also… well, painfully kind-hearted. Some would call it naive, others simply a refusal to see the world for what it was. Raised by a father who doted on her after her mother passed during childbirth, she had been sheltered in ways she hadn't even realized. She wasn't spoiled, not by any means, but the world had always seemed a little softer to her. A little kinder. Perhaps that was why she struggled with places like this. She stood at the edge of the ballroom, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering from couple to couple as they twirled and spun to the rhythm of the music. The grand chandeliers above shimmered like starlight, refracting off the polished marble floors, casting an almost ethereal glow over the attendees. The room was a perfect storm of grace, elegance, and politics, and Elara—despite her best efforts—felt like an intruder. She had never quite mastered the subtle art of conversation, the unspoken rules of noble gatherings where every word was measured, where every glance carried meaning. The way people could glide from one conversation to another with effortless charm baffled her. It was overwhelming. It was exhausting. And it made her feel very, very small. Then Arthur Nightingale extended his hand to her. For a second, she just stared. This was Arthur Nightingale. The new Rank 1 of Mythos Academy for first-years. The boy who had defeated Lucifer Windward—the one everyone assumed would hold that title without contest. A boy who had no business asking her to dance. Her first instinct was to hesitate, her gaze flickering toward the Imperial Family. The Crown Prince was watching. The weight of his presence pressed against her thoughts, reminding her of all the unspoken expectations, the delicate balance of alliances and rivalries that noble families danced around like a house of cards. And yet… when she looked back at Arthur, his expression was unreadable. There was no hidden meaning behind the offer, no calculated move in some grand political game. Just an invitation. A simple would you like to dance? So she reached out. And placed her hand in his. The moment they stepped onto the dance floor, the noise of the world seemed to fade. Arthur moved with practiced ease, his movements steady, his grip firm but not overbearing. He guided her effortlessly, allowing her to match his steps without fear of misstep. At first, she was stiff, overly focused on her footing, terrified of embarrassing herself. But Arthur… Arthur was calm. He wasn't leading her into a performance, wasn't expecting her to dazzle or impress. He just danced, and in doing so, he made it easy for her to follow. "You dance well," he said, his voice light and easy, as if they were discussing the weather rather than gliding across the ballroom floor. Elara flushed, not quite believing him, but the sincerity in his voice made her want to try anyway. The tension in her shoulders eased. Her movements became smoother, more natural. She let herself get lost in the music, in the steady rhythm of their steps. She almost forgot the Crown Prince was still watching. Almost. Her gaze flickered to where he stood, expression unreadable. Anxiety curled at the edges of her mind, whispering doubts, warning her that she was stepping onto fragile ground. But then Arthur spun her gently, and when she met his eyes again, there was something in them that steadied her. It was just a dance. A moment in time. And for now, that moment was enough. __________________________________________________________________________________ Cecilia watched Arthur dance with Elara, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of her glass. Annoying. That was the only word for it. Elara Astoria, the daughter of Archduke Astoria. Cecilia knew her well. Knew her far too well. She was Rachel all over again—kind, warm, radiant in a way that made her impossible to shatter. Not because she was clever, not because she played the game well, but because she simply refused to be broken. It was infuriating. Cecilia could play with people like pieces on a board, twist them, mold them, break them if she wanted to—but not Elara. And now, Elara was dancing with Arthur. Her Arthur. Cecilia exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to relax. 'I can't be like this,' she reminded herself. 'Arthur won't love me if I act like this.' Love required subtlety, patience. Not unchecked possessiveness. She turned her head slightly, her sharp eyes landing on her older brother, Valerian. He wasn't even being discreet about it—his gaze was practically burning holes into Arthur and Elara as they moved across the dance floor. Cecilia's lips curled in irritation. "Valerian," she said, her voice light but carrying an unmistakable edge. He flinched, then quickly masked it with a smile. "Hey, Cecilia." A weak attempt at feigned nonchalance. Pathetic. She could read him like a book. If she could unravel Arthur's thoughts—Arthur, who was so frustratingly enigmatic—then Valerian was as transparent as glass. "You know," she continued, her tone almost conversational, "as my brother, I do care about you." There was no warmth in her voice. Valerian stiffened. "But I will warn you," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "Don't you dare touch Arthur." His expression tightened, but he remained silent. That was a mistake. Cecilia's gaze sharpened, a slow, dangerous smile creeping onto her lips. "If you do, I'll make sure you lose everything," she whispered, her voice carrying all the weight of an executioner delivering a verdict. "Just keep being the heir to the Slatemark Empire and behave, yeah?" Valerian hesitated. Too long. "Answer me," she said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Y-yes," he stammered, the crack in his voice betraying him. Cecilia smiled, pleased. 'Good thing I broke him before.' She turned on her heel, only to feel a pair of sharp, assessing eyes on her. Her father. She sighed, already anticipating a lecture as she approached him. "What is it, Father?" she asked, crossing her arms. Quinn Slatemark studied his daughter, unreadable as always. "I noticed your conversation," he said simply. S~eaʀᴄh the Novelƒire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Cecilia arched an eyebrow. "So?" "You shouldn't hurt your brother." She scoffed. "I don't care." Quinn's gaze didn't waver. "You should." "You're the one who taught me, Father," she said, tilting her head. "Protect what's important. And that person isn't Valerian. It's Arthur." Her father didn't respond immediately, but something flickered in his expression—approval, maybe. Amusement. Cecilia gave him a smirk. "So I'll do whatever I wish. After all—" she turned, her golden hair catching the light, "isn't that how a true Slatemark lives, Father?" Quinn watched as she walked away, his gaze contemplative. A perfect Slatemark. That's what she was. Ruthless, pragmatic, unshakable. He turned his attention to his son—Valerian, the future Emperor, who was still stiff with tension, his shoulders tight with the weight of his younger sister's words. Quinn sighed. 'To think the next Emperor could be shaken by his own sister.' Then, finally, his gaze shifted to Arthur. 'A Nightingale,' he thought. His fingers tapped against the edge of his glass. 'I wonder if their voice will pierce the skies this generation?'

Chapter 190 Cecilia's Sweet Sixteen (7)

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