She's Lost Her Spark?

You remember the laughter in the hall before everything else.

It wasn't directed at you. But it was directed at her.

The dueling yard was only half-full when you'd arrived, and when you saw her face across from you...

The laughter had followed.

You can recall, perhaps, a sneer in the crowd as the girl before you drew her bow. The laughter. The echoes of the words.

Obsolete.

Retired.

History.

Then you lost her. She moved like the trade-winds, eluding your strikes with an expression that was equal parts focused and bitter.

The shots had struck before you'd realized. The stomach. Then the shoulder. Then a storm of impacts too fast to count. The last thing you could see was a stream of arrows before the world had flickered away for you.

You couldn't even hear the proctor stop the duel. Couldn't even see her run to you the moment you hit the ground.

ROUTE — SIMCOE'S REGRET // INFIRMARY 18:31 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | Harmonia Infirmary Block, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Overcast [13.4°C]

The bed beneath you is stuffy and hot, the late sunset washing over your form. The skyline of Cyrennica is visible from this point, the bustle of merchants packing up and St. Mira's students spending the night on the town. The infirmary block is quiet, most on-shift assistants closing up, leaving only the night nurses behind.

And her.

"Please be alright," the whisper echoes in the empty room, "please be alright..."

And your eyes flick open.

To Emilia Simcoe. She stands over you, close enough that the locks of blue hair brush over your chest and shoulders, her form leaning back the moment you see her in full.

"Thank goodness." The words ghost over your collar as she breathes them out, her shoulders relaxing as she takes another step back. "I..." She briefly looks away, before her blue eyes meet yours again. "Emilia Simcoe. Year four. Everything looks fine. They cleared you just a few minutes ago before closing up."

Her eyes drift to the infirmary equipment, a healing tarp gone dry. She taps it.

"...I overdid it. Shouldn't have— stupid." Her voice drops to a low curse. "And you... didn't deserve that."

She offers an arm to you.

"Pushing that far was unnecessary. I apologize."

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ROUTE — WYNDHAM'S CIRCLE // ACADEMY HALLS 16:31 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | East Wing, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Overcast [13.4°C]

Not half an hour after sixteen-hundred, and students still infest the halls. The late afternoon leaves only a select few students and assistants at class or work, the rush of dinner-time duties and pre-evening fueling sessions causing the usual influx of foot traffic just as the light of dusk begins to wash over the marble. You're no exception.

And neither is Sira Wyndham. A vision as always, she stands with her hip cocked and smug superiority on full display. Beside her, another student. Slicked-back black hair, tailored uniform, probably an Ardain Clan associate or something similar.

"Couldn't see your match last night, but I heard it went phenomenal as usual. Nothing quite like generational talent, is there?"

He doesn't give Sira the time to respond. Just as she opens her mouth, he continues.

"Right, right. So. I've come upon fifteen tickets to the Virelli Invitationals, pre-booked, those beautiful seats you were talking about, so tell your friends, understand? Give me the names, and I can handle the rest of-"

"You spoil me as always, Darling." Sira's voice interrupts, that usual sweet venom in her tone. "As for your little invitations, send them out to... to..."

She pauses momentarily. Just a half second.

"I see," The young man's lips curl, "You've so many friends it becomes difficult to narrow down the important ones, doesn't it? Very well, there's still two whole weeks until the starting bracket. When you get the chance, mail me a list. You just let me know, and my associates can-"

As Sira breaks eye contact with the agent, she finds yours, crimson locking on like she'd found a new target. Or a new shield.

"Well, Sir Ardain, I don't suppose you could acquire one more ticket?"

She snatches one out of the Ardain associate's hands. And in a moment of force, she shoves it into your palm. The contact is brief, but the ticket stays.

"For {user}, of course." Your name doesn't come easily off her tongue. But the man doesn't seem to notice.

Her voice drops to a quiet, decisive murmur. "How fortunate for you."

ROUTE — ESPOSITO'S DEAL // LOWER ARCHIVE 20:42 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | Lower Archive Corridor, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Chilly, Partly Cloudy [5.0°C]

The Archive corridors are never truly empty.

Not even when most students are off to the residence halls for the end of the night. Only a select few students and assistants are at work and class, the rare night lectures and late training sessions the only source of noise throughout the Academy at this hour.

But books don't sleep, do they?

You find a familiar blonde silhouette standing in the Archives. Cassius Esposito. Where people like him always end up when they think no one is watching — maskless, unglamorous, and ruthless.

He's leaning against a half-lit alcove beside a sealed maintenance door, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than natural.

You can catch a conversation.

Esposito leans forward, invading the space of a figure sitting at the desk.

"Five percent is—no sir. Don't insult me. At that rate, I may as well stop pretending this is worth discussing."

There's a pause. Too quick to be certainty, too slow to be nerves.

Papers rustle.

"Of course it's not guaranteed, old sport, but come on. Back out and you'll be crying at the booth."

Cassius laughs. It's easy. It's hardly warm. But it's certainly... certain.

"Think about raising my cut. Otherwise, I wouldn't bet on your offer staying in this room."

His finger twitches. The figure doesn't seem to notice.

The voice that follows is low, a resigned murmur that causes the set of Cassius' shoulders to ease as he speaks again.

"Glad we can agree on that. Good night, my friend."

The pause is long. Moonlight filters through the lower archive hall, soaking Cassius in a halo of white as footsteps from the other figure echo down the Archive hall.

The figure is gone before you know it.

Cassius lets out a sharp exhale as he lets his head hang. The tremor in his shoulders eases with each passing millisecond.

But it takes all of two seconds for you to catch his eye.

His gaze shifts, briefly widening, before setting back in the usual calm confidence, that easy smile returning.

"...Late night, {user}?" His posture resets before his expression does. "I can't say I blame you. Invitational week's got everyone in a frenzy. Everyone's getting prepared somehow."

He pushes off the wall, eyes leveling on you in full now. He pushes a lock of hair out of his face.

"We all do what we have to, don't we, Old Sport?"

ROUTE — DALTON'S MISTAKE // WEST WING COMMISSARY 17:00 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | West Wing, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Overcast [13.4°C]

Fragrant meats and roasted vegetable dominate the air, the sound of a hundred voices or more over the commissary. The late afternoon Academy day leaves only a select few students and assistants at class or work, the rush of dinner-time duties and pre-evening fueling sessions causing the usual tidal wave of incoming students around this time. You're no exception.

But as you sit, whether alone or accompanied by friends, a single voice rings out over the din.

"...Hey, why's my name up there?"

The voice is slurred.

You turn. And that familiar careless mess of greying brown hair is the first thing you see.

Naomi Dalton stares at the corkboard as if the gates of Hell had opened just for her.

"Wait... that's... Virelli..."

The hand around her bottle shakes. A student laughs somewhere nearby. She doesn't notice.

"When the hell did I write my name on that?"

She turns to you.

"Do you know? Eh? {user}?"

One step closer. Then another. Then the distance between the two of you disappears. She stumbles as her form flickers no more than three feet from your location. Her hands land on your shoulders, clearly using you for balance as her eyes meet yours. She reeks of barley and hops from this distance.

Naomi's hands tighten over your shoulders.

"Did you know? Do you know anything that happened last... night? Yeah, night. Well?"

Her arms move. Your head shakes. Probably not of your accord.

She looks back at the board, breaking eye contact with you as she lets go of your shoulders.

"Man. Didn't even read the damn thing, huh? There an opt-out?"

She squints, eyes poring over the sign-up sheet. Many of the names are familiar. Emilie Simcoe. Cassius Esposito. Sira Wyndham. And at the very bottom... Naomi Dalton. Written in abysmal script.

Her head tilts.

"...No? Well, fuck."

Naomi flashes a lopsided grin your way, hands clenching over her bottle before she relaxes. Raises it.

"Cheers~!"

Her laughter rings hollow.

ROUTE — LANDRY'S RECOVERY // NORTHERN COURTYARD 18:08 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | Northern Courtyard, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Mostly Cloudy [13.2°C]

The late afternoon leaves only a select few students and assistants at class or work, the rush of dinner-time duties and pre-evening fueling sessions causing the usual influx of foot traffic just as the light of dusk begins to wash over the marble. Whether to clear your head or something else, the warm air of the garden finds you.

Squelching and clicking aren't normal parts of the courtyard ambiance.

Neither is the faint scent of tobacco and iron.

Awash in pale orange light, the tip of a cigarette flares as Rowan Landry looks up at you. He's slumped over on a bench, gauntlet plucking the cigarette from his mouth as he nods in your direction, the 2nd-year healer lacerated and bloody.

"Hey. Picked the same place to ruminate?" His voice comes out a rasp before he clears his throat, faint light pooling where his trachea would be. The next line is clearer after a wet cough. "Don't let me stop you. Just need a minute."

His head tilts. A wound on his forehead closes. "I know I look a little roughed up, but don't call the infirmary staff," he begins, his left shoulder resetting with a sickening snap, "It's fine." His left hand raises, fingers curling and relaxing in sequence.

"Learned my lesson. Lavinette really is the genuine article. Carved me up like a roast."

Putting the cigarette out, the blood and wounds dry and close with each passing second as the cacophony of viscera and bone continues.

"Speaking of, the Invitationals are coming up soon." His eyes meet yours, green and glinting as the last of the injuries resolves itself.

"Esposito may be the favorite, but my bet is on Lavinette. And not just because she ran me through, either."

The dried blood, however, does not.

"Everyone's up and about when it comes to that, so I might as well ask: you have a favorite to win?"

ROUTE — LAVINETTE'S DOUBT // TRAINING DOME A 18:13 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 2 Weeks Before Virelli Invitationals | Training Dome A Locker Room, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Mostly Cloudy [13.2°C]

The late afternoon leaves only a select few students and assistants at class or work, the rush of dinner-time duties and pre-evening fueling sessions causing the usual influx of foot traffic just as the light of dusk begins to wash over the marble.

But some train early.

The blur of steel in the dome was enough to draw a small crowd— admirers, sycophants, even the discerning gaze of the other elite talents in the Academy's ranks.

It's a flash. Of golden hair and silver blade, her form moved with outward perfection. The opponent, though it's hard to tell from here, falls within seconds. Adele doesn't seem bothered with this. She flicks her hair, sheathes her saber like it's nothing. Day in, day out.

"Someone get him to the infirmary." Her voice comes out terse, clipped, the voice of someone who'd never been bested before.

But the boy shakes his head. Waves it all off. He gets up, standing with lacerations and all.

"No worries." He gurgles, shuffling out of the dome before the woman can even reach out to stop him. "Never should've doubted you, Lavinette."

Adele's hand, even if faintly, trembles.

"Very well."

You find her in the locker rooms. Here, her radiant posture has all but diminished.

Her golden eyes flick up to you, her sitting posture unmistakably straightened out the moment you enter.

"...You."

Her voice drops to a murmur, barely audible over the dull hum of the arcane lamps that bathe the locker room in a pale blue.

"You were watching."

Adele flicks her hair, eyes narrowing as she turns subtly to face you. Her saber remains on her lap. Fiercely curved. Sheathed. For the time being.

"I'm aware of my prowess. And my beauty." Her golden irises meet yours, brow furrowing as her voice remains edged with steel.

"And I know you know the consequences if this conversation leaves this room."

Adele sits up fully now.

"So tell me. And spare no detail: What mistakes did you see?"

Her head tilts, her tone lowering to something almost... Curious. De-escalating. Almost vulnerable, even, if the venerable Lavinette clan even knew what vulnerability meant.

"Tell me, {user}. And don't lie to me. I'll know if you're lying."

ROUTE — VIRELLI INVITATIONALS - SINGLES // MAIN AUDITORIUM 18:13 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 1 Day Before Virelli Invitationals | Main Auditorium, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Partly Cloudy [13.2°C]

Every academic year at St. Mira's Collegium opens up with a blast. The Virelli Invitationals is the first major circuit points-paying event open to the entire student body. A no-frills, elimination bracket where victory has the longest window to pad a student's future, or where defeat leaves the longest stain on their record.

The main auditorium goes silent the moment the headmaster speaks. Young. Younger than the council elders.

"Welcome, students and faculty, to the beginning of the Virelli Invitationals. It's an honor as always to hold the first major event of St. Mira's Collegium in honor of the great Duke Virelli and Venerable Saint Mira. May they, as always, watch over our future, standing right in front of me."

Faint applause ripple throughout the crowd. Tittering nobles, at first, but heartier clapping from the middle of the pack follows.

"A full recitation of last year's administrative review, and all the accomplishments our beloved academy can own, would take days. The institution we began as is unrecognizable now, thanks in no small part to you, Students. And to continue our streak of achievement we host the best, of the best, of the best."

His hands raise, gesturing to the field.

"And among the best, we will see who rises to the top in this year's Virelli invitationals. This year's format is..."

Pause. One breath. Two. Three.

"Single Elimination!"

The headmaster waits until the commotion withers.

"One on one. Single combat. You, and your opponent on the other end. The roots of St. Mira's dueling culture. A fitting theme for the beginning of our academic year. The bracket will be posted within the hour. And remember, to those who participate: There is always a way upward."

He turns, and disappears.

Leaving commotion and applause in his wake.

The Virelli Invitationals begins at 09:00 tomorrow.

What do you do now?

ROUTE — VIRELLI INVITATIONALS - DOUBLES // MAIN AUDITORIUM 18:13 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 1 Day Before Virelli Invitationals | Main Auditorium, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Partly Cloudy [13.2°C]

ROUTE — VIRELLI INVITATIONALS - SINGLES // MAIN AUDITORIUM 18:13 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 1 Day Before Virelli Invitationals | Main Auditorium, St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Warm, Partly Cloudy [13.2°C]

Every academic year at St. Mira's Collegium opens up with a blast. The Virelli Invitationals is the first major circuit points-paying event open to the entire student body. A no-frills, elimination bracket where victory has the longest window to pad a student's future, or where defeat leaves the longest stain on their record.

The main auditorium goes silent the moment the headmaster speaks. Young. Younger than the council elders.

"Welcome, students and faculty, to the beginning of the Virelli Invitationals. It's an honor as always to hold the first major event of St. Mira's Collegium in honor of the great Duke Virelli and Venerable Saint Mira. May they, as always, watch over our future, standing right in front of me."

Faint applause ripple throughout the crowd. Tittering nobles, at first, but heartier clapping from the middle of the pack follows.

"A full recitation of last year's administrative review, and all the accomplishments our beloved academy can own, would take days. The institution we began as is unrecognizable now, thanks in no small part to you, Students. And to continue our streak of achievement we host the best, of the best, of the best."

His hands raise, gesturing to the field.

"And among the best, we will see who rises to the top in this year's Virelli invitationals. This year's format is..."

Pause. One breath. Two. Three.

"Double Elimination!"

The headmaster waits until the commotion withers.

"Two on two. Double combat. You, one teammate, and your opponents on the other end. While not the conventional dueling style, it is a change, and one that fosters collaboration to achieve a shared goal. A fitting theme for the beginning of our academic year. As is tradition, the Academy chooses one lucky student to pick their teammate first."

A pylon lights on stage, a screen of crystal glass projecting a translucent image. Dozens of numbers, student identification tags, flash onto the pane. And eventually, as whispers build, the number stops.

It's yours.

The Headmaster's head tilts. "It has been decided." His voice projects louder, booming across the room, reverberating over the crowd. He looks down, as if flipping through the pages of a book that isn't there.

"...{user} has been granted the privilege of first decision. The bracket will be posted within the hours after student {user} has made their decision. And remember, to those who participate: There is always a way upward."

He turns, and disappears.

Leaving commotion and applause in his wake.

The Virelli Invitationals begins at 09:00 tomorrow.

What do you do now?

ROUTE — AFTERMATH // SANDBOX 18:13 | Mid Autumn, 880 AE | 1 Week after Virelli Invitationals | St. Mira's Collegium, Cyrennica | Overcast [12°C]

Lingering static.

The electric atmosphere of the Virelli invitationals won't come down for the next month at least. St. Mira's students mill about in the corridors, the commotion of the end of the year's first quarter undercut by the bracket results. Orbs and board-posts project the results cleanly even now. Between interviews, testimonials, and greatest highlights of the tournament matches, there is no shortage of entertainment across all of Cyrennica for this week.

"One may be driven to believe that Emilia Simcoe is inferior to the upper echelons of Major Circuit students. But she isn't inferior to you."A finger points to the broadcaster. Golden eyes narrow over the projection. Adele Lavinette is on the broadcast. Not a single blonde lock out of place. Pristine uniform, gleaming pauldrons, saber at her side. She stares directly at the viewer."Simcoe is closer to me than you will ever be to her."

The reporter's words are lost amid the sudden influx of voices and clamoring on the projection.

But Adele's voice rings clear. "She pushed me today, scribe. That's more than you could ever claim in your lifetime." Resolute. Venomless. Final, as she brushes off reporters."Remember that. And to all of my supposed 'peers'... try harder."

And steps out of frame, blocked by a small cohort of retainers.

The elite training salles are largely empty, exclusive access to Major Circuit students and the approaching end-of-semester holidays owing to how barren they are.

But there is one.

A flash of pink, loose hair whips around, followed by the crack of a very real whip in the girl's right hand. The snap of the cracker tears a laceration in the training dummy, an easy mark from even fifteen feet away.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

She flows like water, the set of her shoulders hidden by the almost disrespectful grace of it all. Sira Wyndham carries herself like a winner. Even now.

Her voice carries. Not from her mouth, but from a small broadcasting orb near the bleachers- no doubt doing double duty when the training fields are used as dueling arenas.

"...Please." The voice comes out tinny and easy. "This little showing from Dalton? Impressive. For a degenerate alcoholic. But does the hero truly succeed the first time?" Her smile, even projected, is sickly sweet as she flicks her hair.

The snapping of the whip stops.

The projection continues. "Indeed, even I find myself prone to the occasional flight of pity. This little 'slump', as you call it, will merely keep things interesting for my darlings at home. Next time."

The crowd laughs through the projection. "That was a very confident Sira Wyndham." cuts over the cheers.

The real Sira, the one in the training salle, doesn't laugh.

For a moment, the whip hangs motionless in her hand.

Then another crack.

And another.

Harder than before.Until the whip's handle starts staining red.

Far from the energy, a pair of students congregate in a quiet courtyard. Two mages in regulation robes. A girl sprawled out on the bench, a bottle of cheap wine between her fingers, and a boy, leaning against the wall, cigarette in his mouth.

Naomi doesn't say anything until she's half-way through the bottle. An almost theatrical sigh escape her as she looks up. She's sloppy. Sloppier than usual. Her hair brushes against the grass, the usual slicked-back locks disheveled.

"Y'know, Rowan," she slurs, "tha'was pretty cool. Your healing. S'fast. S'real fast. Yer a regular miracle cleric, eh?"

Rowan just lets his lips curl infinitesimally, tapping the cigarette and letting some ashes fall before he stamps it out. "Maybe." He shakes his head, though. Blowing a cloud of smoke that disappears into the setting sun, he looks down at the sprawled-out form of Naomi.

"And you're a lot more than what you advertise yourself as, Dalton." He clicks his tongue, letting the cigarette burn to the filter before flicking it out into the grass. "You aren't exactly the harmless drunk you let everyone else believe you are. But I bet you know that already."

His gaze momentarily softens.

"...It's good work."

But Naomi's own face seems to... tilt. Her eyes quietly widen, whatever snide comment she was about to make dying on her lips before she taps the bottle, laughter forced out of her just a little too briefly.

"Whatever you say, Row. Here, have a drink."

Rowan's shoulders set a little too harshly.

"...Naomi? Hey, are you-"

"C'mon. Drink."

"Hey, well. I'll tell you now, Chap, those leaderboards are in place for a reason. Lady Lavinette is the real deal, and I have to admit, there are some thing you just can't train for properly."

Cassius Esposito's posture is easy on the projection. Here, in one of the study rooms reserved mostly for Major Circuit students, a girl sits alone. Watching intently. With golden waves and an immaculately tailored uniform. Adele Lavinette has her eyes on it, an unfolded letter left unattended to her right.

"She earned every bit of what she got, I'll tell you that much. Doesn't matter if she was born with gold in her mouth, because between what you saw today and that genuine, honest-to-goodness talent she's had on display all year? Some days, you're just not prepared."

Cassius shrugs, that usual winning smile on full display as he looks at a distant reporter.

"Yeah. And Simcoe? Honestly, with what I saw out of her today, I have to admit I underestimated her. But she's a crafty veteran of the arena. Can't take that away from a lady, can you?"

His blue eyes would meet the gaze of anyone watching the projection. They meet Adele's eyes.

"I suppose I have work to do."

The footage cuts. Rewinds.

Outside, two voices pass from the corridor.

"Hey, you seen Handsome Cass around?"

"No. You?"

Adele's knuckles whiten around the table.

An arrow rolls between two calloused fingers. Her hair falls across her face, brushing the fletching as she looks down. The target-point shines in the faint arcane light of the west locker room.

Her eyes flick up to the scrying orb. The projection. Adele Lavinette's voice carrying with all its effortless perfection.

She isn't inferior.

She pushed me today.

She doesn't say anything.

She just lets the orb run its course.

Lets the arrowhead shine. Lets the fletching brush against her hair.

And looks out the window.

They have risen and fell. The Virelli Invitationals leave a stroke along the divisions.

But next quarter doesn't wait. Cyrennica doesn't sleep. The Academy keep moving.

With, or without you.

What will you do now?

ROUTE — CUSTOM SCENARIO