Iris Lockhart’s third elimination was not a fight.

The student, a boy from one of the lesser noble houses, tried to ambush her from behind a broken stone ridge. She felt the shift in mana before he even moved.

She did not turn. There was no need for panic. As he lunged, shifting his weight onto his leading foot, a thin layer of ice spread across the ground beneath his boot.

He slipped.

Iris lifted a hand. Two constructs of glittering ice formed at once. One rose to a razor-sharp point beside his throat, stopping just short of the skin, a silent threat that stole his breath.

She gave him a moment. An opportunity to surrender with some dignity intact.

He took it, his face a mask of shame, and raised his hands in defeat.

The retrieval ward activated, its light washing over him before the Academy staff arrived and he vanished from the field. Iris’s personal node glowed softly, confirming the transfer of points.

That was her third student.

She surveyed the surrounding forest, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had expected to find more targets by now. Not a crowd, but more than this. The battle royale had been underway for more than a while.

Instead, the terrain felt quiet. Almost too open.

Then again, the Academy’s controlled southern border was massive. Larger than the territories claimed by the other two great academies combined. Larger, in terms of practical military control, than many holdings of the four great families themselves.

Her frown deepened at the thought. The four great families.

The issue she had been trying to suppress during the event resurfaced.

Someone had been targeting her.

It was not the ordinary ugliness of noble politics, the petty games of gossip and exclusion young heirs and heiresses played. This was different. A coordinated campaign of small attacks. Rumours appearing far too much truth. Minor acts of sabotage following in their wake. A training tool adjusted incorrectly. A schedule changed without notice. A servant delivering the wrong message. Each incident was deniable on its own, a plausible accident or a simple mistake. But together, they formed a pattern too consistent to dismiss.

Then came the market incident. A low-level assassination attempt.

Iris moved through the forest, replaying it in her mind. It had happened outside the Academy walls, a rare trip to the capital market. Two attackers, both weak, both poorly equipped, both comically obvious. Rank 1 at most. Their movements were clumsy, their killing intent was shallow, and their escape plan was nonexistent.

They had not been sent to kill her. That was the point.

They were sent to show that someone could reach her. That somebody was targeting her.

Her father had been furious. She remembered his face with a clarity she did not want. Selis Lockhart had not shouted. He had grown quiet, which was always worse. He wanted investigations, pressure on the Academy, formal complaints, retaliation. He wanted to treat it as a direct insult to the Lockhart main family. Because that is what it was.

Iris had told him not to overreact. She had called it nothing. A minor incident. She assured him the Academy was safe. Whoever sent those attackers had chosen the market for a reason, they could not, or would not, risk a proper strike inside Luminara.

But safety was not the issue. The issue was the message.

Someone wanted her unsettled. Someone wanted her watching the shadows, questioning her own security. Someone wanted her to know that the name Lockhart did not make her untouchable.

She cycled through the possible culprits again. It had to be someone with status. A small noble house would not dare, not unless backed by a larger power. A merchant faction might have the money, but not the confidence for such a move. A personal enemy could spread rumours, but they could not coordinate sabotage and a staged attack while keeping their trail so clean.

A great family, then.

Her thoughts went first to Ashbourne. To Ronan.

The name was an irritation, a burr under her skin. Not because he was a likely suspect. Because he was not.

Ronan Ashbourne was many things. Useless, once. Pathetic, once. Now... now he was something sharper, more shameless, and far more dangerous than she had ever given him credit for. But he had no reason to target her this way.

He had already played her. The thought made her jaw tighten.

When Ronan ended their engagement, Iris had thought he had given her an escape. His pride, his stupidity, some sudden flicker of self-awareness—whatever the cause, she believed it was an opening she could exploit. If both heirs rejected the arrangement, perhaps their families would finally relent.

That was foolish. She saw that now.

Ashbourne and Lockhart were too useful to each other. Vulcan Ashbourne and Selis Lockhart would never let such a convenient alliance collapse simply because their children disliked it. Ronan had ended the engagement first, and when the families moved to restore it, he was the one who gained leverage. He had negotiated terms.

Iris had gained nothing but the quiet humiliation of realizing she had mistaken temporary relief for freedom.

Still, that did not make him the culprit. If Ronan wanted to pressure her, he would use the engagement itself. He would use family politics. He would use that irritating, knowing smile of his and speak as if everything had already gone exactly according to his plan. He would not send low-quality thugs to a marketplace. Besides, the old Ronan had been obsessed with her. That kind of feeling, however one-sided, did not curdle into sloppy assassination attempts overnight. People did not change that completely in a few months.

Irene was too proud for such indirection – she’d have issued a challenge, not sent thugs to a market. Ravencrest was possible, their reach wide enough, but the pattern felt too personal, too small for a family like them.

A branch snapped somewhere to her left. Iris’s hand curled, ice gathering instinctively at her fingertips before she realized it was just a bird, nothing more. She sighed and continued with her thoughts.

Then there was the Lockhart branch family. They’d always rubbed her wrong. Freya’s name surfaced, but not because she thought she was like that, but because she was one of the few who wasn’t like that. Freya was an amazing girl, and she was one of the few people Iris truly cared for.

Elara crossed her mind next, if only for the family connection. The possibility was almost laughable. Ridiculous. Elara had grown, yes. The Inter-Class War had proven that. But arranging coordinated rumours, sabotage, and a staged attack required networks, patience, and a comfort with moving in the dark. Elara did not fit.

The list wasn’t finished, but her thoughts were interrupted by a branch snapping.

She reacted instantly. This one was not a false alarm.

Ice gathered at her fingertips, her posture shifting from a slow walk into a state of coiled readiness as a figure stumbled out from between two thick trunks.

Then she recognized him.

Ronan Ashbourne.

Of course. The person she had just been thinking about.

He looked up and saw her. He was limping, his leg clearly broken. Relief washed over his face, so open and artless that Iris understood the situation immediately.

He was glad to see her because he thought she would help him.

Worse, he was right.

Technically, she could eliminate him. The rules of the battle royale more than allowed it. Publicly, no one could fault her for removing a competitor, even an injured one.

Privately, the matter was entirely different.

Ashbourne and Lockhart were allied. Their engagement, however fragile, was restored. If Iris Lockhart, in full view of the Academy’s broadcast, eliminated her injured fiancé while he was alone and barely able to walk, it would be seen as an insult. A private humiliation in the public. A needless provocation.

Vulcan Ashbourne would not forgive it.

Her own father would be furious.

Ronan, from the look on his face, likely understood none of this.

He probably thought she would help him because he was her fiancé, as if that word had ever meant anything between them beyond obligation. At least, to her.

He tried to take a step toward her.

His injured leg buckled.

He caught himself against a tree, his breath hissing through his teeth.

Iris pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What happened?" Her tone was controlled, betraying none of the irritation building inside her.

"N-noth–" He tried to play it off as a minor injury, then stumbled forward again.

Iris lifted a single finger.

A pillar of ice rose from the ground, catching him under the chest and shoulder before he could fall face-first into the dirt.

"T-thank you," he managed, his voice strained with a mixture of pain and embarrassment.

She gave him a curt nod and studied him properly. The leg was definitely broken. Dirt smeared his clothes, his breathing was uneven, and while there were signs of a fight, it was impossible to tell the full story.

This could be a trap, but Iris doubted it. Ronan wouldn’t do that to her – even if she wished he would try – and the pain in his eyes looked very real. If this was an act... it was a very convincing one. An act that Iris did not believe Ronan had the ability to perform.

"How many points do you have?"

He hesitated.

"None."

No eliminations. No captured points. Nothing. He was a complete burden.

Iris closed her eyes for a long moment. Of course, what had she expected.

She should leave him. That was the cleanest solution. Point him toward the boundary and let the zone contraction or another student finish the job. She was here to qualify for the Radiant Crown Tournament, not to escort a broken-legged student to the finals.

But of course, it was never that simple.

She formed a walking stick from compacted ice. It was simple, durable.

She offered it to him. He could follow. For now.

He took it with an exaggerated gratitude that grated on her nerves. "You’re the best fiancée in the world, Iris."

She rolled her eyes and started walking before he could say anything else.

Her mind was already moving ahead.

She could find Luca.

If Luca eliminated Ronan, the matter would become clean. Luca had no engagement, no family alliance, no political obligation to preserve Ronan’s dignity. It would simply be one competitor removing another.

Yes. That would be ideal.

Iris moved forward with a newfound purpose, Ronan limping along behind her. She was outwardly helping him, but inwardly, she was already searching for the most politically convenient way to get rid of him.