The carriages rolled to a stop on uneven ground. Beyond the clearing, a sprawling camp had been erected—pavilions lined in neat rows, banners stitched with family colors fluttering under the morning breeze. In the middle, a massive tent dominated the space. That was where the lords and ladies would watch, the mana drones already floating above like silent eyes.

The door swung open, and Noel stepped down, Revenant Fang strapped at his side. Marcus and Clara emerged from another carriage, Marcus stretching like he'd just finished a nap, Clara fixing his collar with a sharp flick of her hand. Elena followed, her golden eyes scanning the camp with quiet curiosity.

Noel gave the camp a once-over, unimpressed. 'So this is it. I don't find it incredible either, the truth is, the area is quite similar to the last time.'

Around them, other heirs were already gathering. Some whispered, others stared outright when they noticed Noel. The weight of last year's failure lingered; everyone remembered how the Thorne name had sunk to the bottom after Damon and Kael's stunt.

Noel caught the looks and smirked faintly. 'Yeah, keep staring. I know you're dying to see me trip on the starting line. Not happening.'

Elena slipped closer to him, her arm brushing his as she whispered, "Don't mind them."

"Not planning to," Noel muttered, eyes flicking toward the huge tent at the center. "Just wondering how many of them bet against me already."

Marcus approached with Clara in tow, his grin annoyingly casual. "All of them, probably."

"Comforting as always," Noel shot back.

Marcus shrugged. "Hey, underdog stories are fun to watch."

Clara rolled her eyes and swatted his arm, while Elena hid a small smile. For a moment, it almost felt like they were back at the academy, not standing at the edge of a hunt that could shape their futures.

The illusion didn't last long. The low hum of the mana drones overhead reminded Noel exactly what this was: a stage, and every move they made would be judged just like the last time.

The heirs gathered near the center of the camp, where a large space had been cleared. Overhead, mana drones hovered in steady formation, their faint hums filling the silence. A long table had been set beneath the great tent for the lords and ladies, each seat already filled.

From within, Lord Edric de Nivaria stood. His voice carried easily, sharp as the mountain air.

"The Hunt begins tomorrow at dawn. Its length, as tradition dictates, will be seven days. Each family has sent three participants, and every step will be observed. The mana drones will remain above you at all times—no tampering, no interference." His gaze swept across the heirs before pausing, deliberate, on the Thornes. "I trust this year will not see… creative shortcuts."

The murmur that followed was low, but the meaning was clear. Damon's jaw tightened. Sylvette only smiled faintly, as though she enjoyed the attention.

Noel's lips curved into a dry smirk. 'Subtle as a hammer. Last year's disaster is still the talk of the continent. Guess we'll be the one paying for Damon and Kael's genius ideas.'

Edric didn't linger. "The beasts have been chosen accordingly. Adept rank. They will test your growth, and they will not forgive arrogance. Survive, hunt, and return alive—those are the only measures that matter."

The words settled like a weight over the heirs. Clara exchanged a look with Marcus; Elena's expression stayed calm, though Noel caught the way her fingers brushed her pendant, an old nervous habit.

For Noel, the tension felt familiar. 'Seven days in a mountain filled with monsters, while nobles place bets on who dies first. Sounds about right.'

Edric's final words were simple, cold. "This is not a festival. It is a judgment. Do not forget that."

The crowd scattered in waves after Edric's words, their voices dropping to hushed tones as they drifted back toward their family tents. Noel lingered, his eyes fixed on the mountains that loomed in the distance. The peaks were half-shrouded in mist.

He let out a slow breath and finally turned, following the flow of people back toward camp. Above, the faint hum of mana drones never stopped—like vultures circling, waiting for the first misstep.

Inside the largest tent, the atmosphere was very different. Heavy curtains muffled the outside noise, and mana crystals glowed steadily along the walls, illuminating the long table at its center. Around it sat the patriarchs and matriarchs of the gathered houses, their gazes fixed on the shimmering projections above. Each screen displayed a different part of the hunting grounds, the drones already mapping every tree, every shadow.

On one side, the Thornes sat in their rigid formation: Albrecht with his iron posture, Mirelle sharp and cold, Serina quietly venomous with her words when she chose to speak. They hardly needed to say anything—their silence itself cut as sharply as a blade.

Opposite them, the Lestaria carried themselves in stark contrast. Thalanor lounged comfortably in his chair, a grin playing on his lips, while his wivves radiated calm grace.

Thalanor's voice broke the tension first. "Quite the spectacle Edric has put together. Perhaps, when this is done, we'll need to prepare for another wedding."

The Thornes stiffened. Albrecht turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. "Another wedding? Explain."

Thalanor chuckled, his grin widening. "My son Veyron is already tied to your daughter. Now it seems Noel and Elena are… close. One marriage might not be enough to bind our houses."

Mirelle's cool gaze snapped to the projection showing Elena at Noel's side. Her voice was icy. "Elena? Not Damon? Not Kael?"

Thalanor leaned back, clearly enjoying her reaction. "It seems she had other preferences."

Mirelle's lips curved in the faintest, sharpest smile. "Your daughter may yet come to her senses. She could still choose someone… more fitting than Noel."

Thalanor's eyes glinted, his grin never fading. "Or perhaps she already has."

The tension thickened, the silent amusement of the other nobles rippling like smoke through the tent.

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