Chapter 8 – The Road Between Names
The train moved like a breath drawn too long.
Outside the glass, fields blurred into forests, then into long stretches of jagged stone. Distant rivers carved silver paths between the hills, and sharp-winged birds cut lazy spirals into the sky. The world here felt wider. Wilder.
Leonhart sat alone in the luxury car, boots propped near the polished window, his coat draped neatly beside him. A cup of untouched tea cooled on the table.
He wasn't watching the scenery.
He was thinking.
It had been one and a half years since he first rode this train—unconscious, bound, mistaken for someone he hadn't yet become.
Now, he was awake. Aware.
And still pretending.
His thumb ran along the edge of the glass.
He was almost fifteen.
Almost Leonhart.
But the weight in his chest still belonged to someone else.
Across the aisle, a girl sat by the window. Maybe his age, maybe a little older. Her coat was dark green, tailored but worn at the edges. A leather satchel sat beside her boots, and an open book lay forgotten on her lap.
She wasn't reading.
She was watching the world pass by with that silent, practiced gaze.
Her hair was black—not the polished onyx of noble daughters, but wind-brushed and practical. A hawk embroidered in gold perched on the hem of her coat, wings arched over a broken sun.
Leonhart didn't know the crest.
But he watched her just long enough to know she wasn't watching him.
He turned back to the window and let the silence remain.
That night, the train shifted.
A soft chime rang. A quiet whirr followed. The velvet chairs folded inward. Panels in the walls withdrew with a whisper of steam. A bed rose smoothly from the floor, unfurling itself with perfect mechanical grace.
A crystalline voice hummed above:
"Night configuration complete. May your rest be undisturbed."
Leonhart lay down, eyes open.
Sleep never came.
He rose quietly after some time, pulled on his coat, and stepped toward a small panel at the end of the car. He pressed it.
A soft hiss. The wall parted.
A narrow balcony slid outward, wind slicing across his face.
He stepped into the cold air.
And saw her.
The girl in green stood on the adjacent balcony, arms folded over the rail, hair drifting in the wind. She didn't look at him.
Not right away.
"So you also couldn't sleep?" she asked finally.
Leonhart hesitated. "Yeah. You too?"
"I slept enough."
She glanced over.
"Since we'll be stepping over each other's shadows for the next few years, I suppose I should introduce myself." She turned, chin lifted slightly. "Clara Wensmoor. House Wensmoor."
Leonhart's eyes narrowed just slightly.
Wensmoor — a neighboring house. Richer. Stronger. Still well-fed where Elgrave had thinned.
He gave a nod. "Leonhart. Elgrave."
She didn't mock the name. Didn't flinch. Just studied him for a beat.
"You're younger than I expected," she said. "How old?"
"Almost fifteen. Two months."
That made her blink.
"You're not even fifteen yet?"
"No."
She frowned. "There's no public exam for underage nobles. I waited until sixteen."
"I still have to take the test," Leonhart said. "Just like the rest of you."
"And they let you?"
"I asked."
Clara folded her arms. "If someone has talent, they can enter at fifteen… huh."
She paused, then turned back to the stars. "You must've made quite the impression."
Leonhart didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The air shifted.
A tremor passed through the steel beneath them.
Leonhart blinked.
His eyes flared faintly gold.
Ether.
A shimmer — faint, but wrong — crept through the corridor near their cabin.
And behind one of the sealed doors, movement.
He stepped forward, eyes fixed.
Then—
A whisper of instinct.
He shouted, "Move!"
Clara didn't hesitate.
A dagger shot past where her head had just been and buried itself in the wall behind her with a shnk of metal on metal.
They ran inside as another blade followed.
The balcony door sealed with a hiss.
The boy with silver rings stormed into the corridor, half-dressed, half-awake.
"What the hell was that sound?"
"Someone just tried to kill her," Leonhart said.
"No one's there," the boy replied, scoffing. "That's a storage cabin."
Leonhart didn't answer. He stepped toward the far door, Ghost Eyes active.
He could see the ether threading through it.
"Someone's there."
"Yeah, sure," the boy muttered. "What's next—ghosts?"
Then— clack.
The lock clicked.
The door began to open.
The figure stepped forward.
Wrapped in black. Face hidden. Sword curved and silent in the dark.
Clara froze.
"The Hollow Veil," she whispered.
Leonhart stepped beside her.
The boy vanished behind them.
The assassin lunged.
Leonhart caught the strike.
Clara spun and parried the next.
They moved together — steel against steel, light against dark, Leonhart's Ghost Eyes flashing as he read the next movement—
"Left!" he shouted.
She ducked.
He struck.
The assassin flipped, vanished, reappeared—too fast.
Then—
"Enough."
The voice stopped everything.
A robed figure emerged from the shadows. Black cloak. Gold trim. No insignia.
He raised two fingers.
The assassin lowered his blade… and disappeared into smoke.
Clara stared. "Who are you?"
"An assessor."
Leonhart's grip tightened. "That was a test?"
"You passed."
Clara's voice turned to ice. "You risked our lives."
The man smiled faintly.
"The Academy watches before it welcomes."
And then he was gone.
Back in the cabin, the train shifted again — preparing for arrival.
Clara sat across from him, cleaning her blade.
"You didn't hesitate," she said quietly.
"Neither did you."
"I'm still punching someone when we get there."
Leonhart almost smiled. "I'll hold them down."
Outside the window, dawn crept over the capital.
Massive towers rose into the sky, carved in silver stone.
And beyond them…
The Spire of Accord.
Leonhart stood.
No more hesitation.
The train slowed.
A new chapter waited.
And this time, he'd walk into it on his own terms.
End of Chapter 8 – The Road Between Names