OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER EIGHT: OF CRIMSON ENTRANCES, COLD KISSES, AND THE STORM

He stepped back, grin crooked.

"Please welcome—Headmaster Lazaro Soriano."

The silence that followed was deafening. Then—like a pressure wave breaking—the entire gym reacted.

Gasps rippled through the bleachers. A few students straightened in their seats. Others whispered his name like a spell they'd only heard in rumors.

A High Chamber represnatitive dropped her pen. Another whispered "He's here?" like it was a curse. Even the referees paused their briefing.

Because Headmaster Lazaro Soriano wasn't just a visiting dignitary. He was the mind behind the Court. And now, he was here.He didn't walk to the mic. He arrived—with the kind of presence that didn't.

"Students of Supreme Allievo. Members of the Ardent Court. Observers. Competitors."

His voice was clear and measured—calm, not cold. Controlled like someone who had seen war, and trained others to outthink it.

"This is not war. But make no mistake, it is not play either. This is refinement in motion. Pressure by design. Competition with consequence. You do not win merely by skill—but by conduct."

He paused, gaze flicking toward the Ardent line.

"To those of you wearing Ardent black—you carry my name, my discipline, and the expectations of the Academy I serve. Represent it with excellence. And more importantly—with restraint."

Then toward the home crowd,

"To those across from us—we did not come to dishonor. We came to learn from you, as you will from us."

"And as always," his tone gentled slightly, "my gratitude to Headmaster Levesque—for hosting this meeting of minds and spirit with trust and honor."

The words didn't need applause. They settled like gravity.Then Lazaro stepped back with a sharp nod—and the moment passed.

And the room remained silent until someone else moved.

Khaizer Dylan Dela Vega.

Of course. The Student Council President. The High Chamber Head.

He moved toward the mic, calm as ever. The crowd fell silent. His voice was calm. But it carried weight.

"Before we start," he began, "I want to remind everyone what this week really means."

He didn't smile. Didn't soften.

"This isn't about Court vs. Chamber. Or about who brought better gear. This is about how we test ourselves-through teamwork, through strategy, through struggle."

"Sportsmanship isn't just about being polite. It's about holding your ground without breaking someone else's. It's about knowing your strength-and still choosing restraint."

He paused. I could feel the stillness ripple across the gym.

"No medal, no victory, no headline matters more than the person standing next to you on the court. Respect them. Compete fiercely. But honor what this is."

"Because at the end of the week, titles won't matter."

"Character will."

Then came that flicker of a smirk—the kind only a few would catch.

"Also, don't die. Pretty sure that's still a rule."

The tension shattered into applause. I exhaled, unexpectedly moved.

He could still surprise me. He wasn't here just to play mind games. He cared. Not just about us, but about what this whole thing was supposed to be. And when he stepped back, gaze passing over me again-this time quieter, heavier-I knew it wasn't just for show.