Aether is it?

Aethercrest's central courtyard shimmered beneath the twin moons as Headmaster Caedric finished the final speech of the quarter's closing ceremony. Students had already begun boarding carriages bound for the various noble provinces, towns, and outer districts, chatter filling the air like restless birds.

Vale and Ava stood side by side, not speaking.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because so much had already been said between them in silence.

Their synchronized dreams hadn't been a fluke. And now, three months after awakening in this strange world, they were going back to the lives they apparently once lived… as Vale Lumire and Lyra Albert.

As fiancés.

As nobles.

As weapons forged in politics and pressure.

They exchanged one final glance before splitting off to separate carriages. No words. Just the faintest nod of understanding.

They'd see each other again.

But first—they had to face where they came from.

Vale Lumire: A House of Blades and Cold BloodThe Lumire estate was built from dark stone and sharper shadows.

Its windows reflected no warmth, and its halls echoed with formality instead of family. When Vale stepped out of the carriage, he was met by a line of servants and a steward whose face had the emotional range of wet parchment.

"Third heir, Lord Vale. Welcome home."

"Can we skip the titles?" Vale muttered.

The steward did not answer. Of course he didn't.

The estate was exactly as he remembered it: precise, clean, painfully silent. A place of obedience. Of heirship.

Of expectations.

Vale had barely unpacked before a message arrived—handwritten, in fine script.

You're expected in the training yard before dusk. Your brother Victor wishes to measure your "progress."

He scoffed.

Of course.

The Lumire training grounds were as elegant as they were brutal. Marble tiles gleamed beneath Vale's boots as he stepped into the wide dueling circle. Across from him stood Victor Lumire, his eldest brother.

A paragon of the Lumire name—tall, poised, immaculately dressed in dark combat attire.

"You came back taller," Victor said coolly. "But still lacking posture."

"You wrote a whole invitation just to insult me?" Vale asked, stretching his wrists. "I'm flattered."

"This isn't personal," Victor replied, drawing a slender dueling blade. "Father wants to assess whether you've grown past your usual… unpredictability."

"I assume that means beating me down in front of the house guards," Vale muttered.

Victor offered no denial.

The duel began with sharp speed. Victor moved like clockwork—every strike mechanical, perfect, honed. Vale's Vein Aether flared to match, pulsing through his nerves, amplifying reflexes, sharpening instincts.

But Victor had experience. He controlled tempo. Forced Vale into tight angles. Cut off escape.

Vale countered with unpredictability—switching grips, throwing in feints, using footwork his brother had never trained for.

He was losing—slowly—but not by much.

"Improved," Victor said as their blades locked. "But still raw. Unrefined. Reckless."

"And you're still boring," Vale grunted.

Then, in a move that surprised them both, Vale used a dagger throw—short-range—forcing Victor to parry wide. With that opening, Vale slid in and barely tapped the edge of his blade to Victor's chest.

Point scored.

Silence fell.

Victor stared at the blade. Then lowered his.

No praise. No insult.

Just silence.

Vale wiped sweat from his brow.

He'd won—barely.

But the smirk he wore as he left the circle was full of quiet rebellion.

Lyra Albert: The Heir by Force, Not FavorThe Albert estate was a manor wrapped in golden vines, nestled in the quieter hills of the Viscount territories. Where Lumire exuded cold strength, the Albert house dressed itself in false warmth—gilded corridors, soft-spoken servants, paintings of ancestors who likely hated each other.

When Ava—Lyra—arrived, her father barely greeted her.

"Your brother is in the east courtyard," he said. "Try not to provoke him."

"I didn't do anything."

"You exist," her father said dryly. "That's often enough."

She didn't argue.

She found Darren Albert, her older brother, where he always sulked—half-drunk, shirt open, sword in hand, tossing bottles at garden statues.

Once, he'd been the heir. But after several public outbursts, a failed duel, and a disgraceful incident with a diplomat's daughter… the title had passed to Lyra.

He'd never forgiven her.

"Well, well," Darren slurred. "If it isn't our new pride and joy."

"Hello, Darren," Ava said evenly. "Still pretending you're the victim?"

"You took everything from me."

"I took nothing," she snapped. "You threw it away."

He lunged without warning. His blade sparked off hers as Ava instinctively blocked.

No challenge. No countdown.

Just rage.

A servant nearby gasped—but didn't interfere.

Dueling among nobles, even siblings, was not rare.

Darren's Aether—raw and unstable—flared red and hot, matching his fury. Ava's Shadowshift instinctively blinked her out of the next strike, reappearing at his flank.

"I don't want to fight you," she said.

"Too bad!"

He pressed harder, wild and aggressive. Ava stayed on the defensive, using technique over power. She absorbed his momentum, danced around his sloppy strikes.

But when he overextended with a screaming overhead swing, she struck.

Not hard. Just enough.

A clean disarm.

His blade clattered across the marble.

She held her ground, panting.

"I didn't take your future," she said quietly. "You lost it because you couldn't grow up."

He stared at her, chest heaving, eyes burning.

And then—

He turned and walked away.

Not defeated.

Just… broken.

Two Different Houses, One Shared BondThat night, both Vale and Ava sat in their respective rooms—staring at the ceilings of places that no longer felt like home.

They had fought for their right to exist. Again.

The past wasn't fiction anymore.

It was alive.

And while their noble families tried to control them with blades, titles, or resentment—they were beginning to remember who they really were.

Not just Vale and Lyra.

Not just Noctis and Ava.

But something new, built from both.

The path back to Aethercrest would not be just a return to school.

It would be a return to war.

A war for identity.

And maybe—freedom.