Freya understood.
‘Father probably already knows or suspects Lyra’s existence and views her as an unstable factor.’
“What about the Imperial Family?” Freya asked.
“I haven’t had time to formally pass the word, but Raymond came by yesterday. Surely the news has reached them,” Calanso said, his expression thoughtful.
“Your father has a strong stance, but the Imperial Family will likely be even more subtle. Ross is a proud child; he may not accept being ‘rejected.’ The pressure might come directly from the palace.”
As they were speaking, Butler Aru walked in, holding an exquisite, gold-leaf invitation.
“My Lady, this was sent from the Royal Academy. It is an invitation to observe the ‘Inter-Academy Magic Practice Exchange Tournament.’ It specifically notes that you are invited to attend as an outstanding student representative, and you may bring one accompanying person.”
He handed the invitation to Freya.
Freya unfolded the parchment.
The exchange tournament was to be held in three days at the Royal Academy of Magic’s practice grounds.
At the bottom of the invitation, next to the seal of the Royal Academy’s headmaster, was a smaller, private emblem—the personal crest of the Crown Prince.
“It seems the response came quickly.” Calanso’s eyes grew cold.
“They want to force you to appear in public and state your position in front of everyone, or… test your attitude and the weight of the person by your side.”
To bring one accompanying person…
This was almost a blatant suggestion that she could bring Lyra.
The Crown Prince wanted to see for himself exactly who this “assistant” who had suddenly appeared beside her was.
Perhaps he also wanted to understand her recent strange attitude.
“I will go,” Freya said, closing the invitation.
Her voice was calm yet firm.
“It just so happens that I also need a suitable occasion to let Lyra ‘officially’ enter certain people’s sight.”
She needed an opportunity to arrange an academic identity for Lyra, and this tournament—which gathered the elites of the capital’s major academies and numerous nobles—was undoubtedly a good springboard.
“Do you need me to help make arrangements?” Calanso asked.
“Not for now, Grandfather. Some things I need to handle myself.” A flash of purple light flickered in Freya’s eyes.
“Besides, Lyra’s identity… perhaps I can use this opportunity to resolve it in a more ‘reasonable’ way.”
She had Aru call Lyra to the study.
When Lyra heard about the tournament and Freya’s plan to take her and secure an academic identity for her, her eyes first lit up, but then her face fell.
“Boss, you’re not planning to make me… perform a talent at that kind of event, are you? Like dancing?” She was clearly still brooding over Freya’s “threat” from the day before.
A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of Freya’s mouth.
“It’s just an observation. There is no need for you to dance. But you need to play the role of a ‘capable and promising special assistant who might be accepted by the Central Magic Academy as an exception.’ There might be some… minor tests or attention.”
“Tests?” Lyra arched an eyebrow.
She seemed to realize something, and that eager, slightly wicked smile reappeared on her face.
“For instance, someone wanting to see if this ‘blade’ of mine is sharp? No problem, Boss. I promise to make them ‘deeply impressed.’ However…”
She leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice. “Will that Ross Castor be there?”
Freya felt a prick of alertness in her heart, but she kept her expression neutral.
“He is a Holy Sword Candidate and a key focus of the Royal Academy’s cultivation. He will likely attend such an event.”
A cold, ghostly light flashed through Lyra’s red eyes, so fast it was almost impossible to catch.
“That’s wonderful,” she whispered, offering no further explanation.
Three days passed in the blink of an eye.
During this time, Freya gave Lyra a crash course in basic magical knowledge and an overview of the capital’s noble families.
At the very least, it would keep Lyra from exposing herself on common-sense matters.
Lyra’s learning ability was indeed startling; she possessed a near-photographic memory, though her attitude remained habitually careless.
On the day of the exchange tournament, Freya changed into the standard formal robes of the Central Magic Academy.
Purple trim adorned the garment, making it solemn yet elegant.
Her long hair was tied up with a simple silver crown.
Lyra wore a set of sharp, dark-colored training gear that Freya had a tailor rush to complete overnight.
Over it, she wore a short cloak bearing the crest of House Dale.
Her white hair was tied high, making her look capable and possessed of a dashing, wild aura.
At her waist, she wore a seemingly ordinary longsword—a weapon Freya had retrieved from the family armory, enchanted with hidden and durability magic.
When they arrived at the Royal Academy of Magic in the Dale family carriage, the area around the practice grounds was already teeming with people.
Flags of various academies fluttered in the wind, students in different styles of robes gathered together, and a constant stream of noble carriages arrived.
The air was thick with excitement and competition.
Freya’s appearance caused a small stir.
Whether it was her outstanding beauty, the halo of the Elwin and Dale families, or the recent rumors surrounding her, she became the center of attention.
And when a white-haired, red-eyed girl with a unique temperament—clearly not a servant—followed behind her, the inquisitive gazes doubled.
“Look, that’s Freya Christo Dale…”
“Who is that girl next to her? I’ve never seen her before.”
“I heard she’s a new assistant. Apparently, she has some skill…”
“What does it mean, bringing a fresh face at a time like this?”
Faint whispers drifted toward them.
Freya acted as if she hadn’t heard a thing, leading Lyra straight toward the seating area designated for the Central Magic Academy.
She could feel several exceptionally sharp gazes landing on her—coming from the direction of the Royal Academy’s seats.
Just as they were about to sit down, a warm, magnetic voice rang out.
“Freya, I am glad you could come.”
Freya paused and turned around.
The young man approaching them was tall and straight, wearing the highest-grade gold and white formal uniform of the Royal Academy.
His handsome face bore an impeccable, elegant smile.
His light blond hair shimmered in the sunlight, and his azure eyes gazed at her tenderly.
It was the Crown Prince, Ross Castor.
Behind him followed Chief Attendant Raymond and several elite students from the academy.
Almost the moment Ross appeared, Freya felt Lyra, standing slightly behind her, tense up imperceptibly for a heartbeat.
Those habitually lazy red eyes suddenly narrowed, stabbing straight at Ross like a predator locking onto its target.
The air seemed to freeze in that moment.
Freya took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm before offering Ross a standard, formal salute.
“Greetings to The Empire’s Most Noble Little Sun, Your Highness the Crown Prince. May you be well.”
The words Ross had intended to say were choked in his throat by such a formal greeting.
“Freya, what’s wrong with you? Ever since you went home to rest after your last illness, I have been wor—”
Ross didn’t finish his sentence.
Both Freya and Lyra heard a breathless, dainty girl’s voice from behind them.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness! I’m late.”
Hearing that voice, Freya’s body snapped taut.
Ross looked back as a figure with golden hair and pink eyes appeared before everyone.
She wore the academy’s uniform robes and held a staff in her hand as she jogged to Ross’s side.
The golden-haired girl then began bowing repeatedly to Ross, apologizing and saying she was late.
Whether it was Freya’s imagination or not, she thought she heard Lyra let out a cold snort.
That sound contained… rage and contempt?
“Student Irina, it’s alright. You don’t need to be so cautious. We are classmates; we help and understand each other.”
That’s right.
This girl was one of the culprits who had caused Freya’s death in her past life—the future Holy Light Priest, Irina Ewell.
Freya stood still, silently watching the interaction between Irina and Ross.
Then, Irina acted as if she had only just noticed Freya.
Her eyes sparkled with joy.
She walked over to Freya, her expression full of admiration and envy.
“Are you Student Freya? I didn’t get a chance to greet you properly last time. I heard from our classmates that you’re the most outstanding student in the class. I admire you so much—”
Then, as if remembering something, she looked at Freya tentatively.
“Student Freya, you took a leave of absence because you were sick. It seemed quite serious. Is your health alright now?”
Her gaze was filled with kindness and concern.
It was then that Freya remembered.
Oh—she really had taken a leave of absence before.
In her past life, after Freya was killed by Ross, her consciousness had plunged into a sea of darkness…
“Freya…”
“Freya…”
It felt as if someone was calling her name…
“Freya Christo Dale!”
“Present!”
Snapping her eyes open, Freya realized she had bolted upright.
The thick, inseparable darkness, along with the all-consuming pain and cold of her heart being torn away, vanished as if wiped away by an invisible hand.
Light flooded her vision, soft and even.
Freya’s eyelashes fluttered violently.
The blurry patches of color began to condense and clarify.
This wasn’t the single, stingy beam of light from the dungeon; this was bright, spacious indoor lighting.
The scent lingering at the tip of her nose was no longer rot and rust, but sun-dried wood, old scrolls, and the faint fragrance of flowers and grass wafting in from the window.
What her back felt was not the freezing stone, but… a slightly hard, wooden chair back.
“Freya?”
A warm, slightly aged, and incredibly familiar voice spoke near her.
Her unfocused pupils suddenly snapped into alignment.
What entered her sight was a face etched with the lines of time yet full of wisdom and kindness.
Wearing thin-framed glasses, his grayish-white hair was combed meticulously.
He was leaning forward slightly, looking at her with concern.
On his deep blue professor’s robes was the badge of a senior tutor of the Central Magic Academy.
Professor Mabel.
Her Magimechanics tutor, and one of the few elders who had truly appreciated her talent and given her warm guidance back then.
Freya’s entire body was stiff, and her breath stalled.
She stared intently at the professor’s face, as if trying to confirm whether this was a pathetic hallucination before death or another meticulously woven torment.
Seeing that she only stared with wide eyes, her face frighteningly pale and her temples breaking into a fine sweat, Professor Mabel reached out a calloused but warm hand and gently tapped the oak desk in front of her.