STRINGS BETWEEN US

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: OF UNIFORMS, UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS, AND THE DAY THE COURT WAL

My stomach did a slow, uneasy turn. Of course. Because why let the last day of the festival be boring?

"As Celestine's highest internal authority—above student councils, faculty, and board—they will hold executive autonomy during their stay in Supreme Allievo Academy. We welcome them not as visitors, but as ruling equals."

And just like that, Allievo Commons detonated.

Shouts. Screams. A juice box hit the floor like it had a personal vendetta. Laughter broke out in patches, sharp and confused. Somewhere near the back, someone actually fainted—because apparently, this was Victorian-era drama now.

But I didn't move.

Because I knew that phrasing. I knew that tone. I knew exactly what it meant when Celestine sent their highest court—and it wasn't for sightseeing.

They weren't coming.
They were already here.

The main doors of the Commons swung open, creaking in that overdramatic, made-for-film way you'd swear was sound design.

And then they stepped in.

They didn't walk. They arrived.

Allievo Commons, for once, went still—like even the air knew to hold its breath.

And then I saw them. All of them.

Draped in war-born elegance and metal-threaded silence, wearing colors that didn't beg for attention—they took it without asking.

The Ardent Court didn't wear uniforms.

They wore legacy.

Lyle led them—black hair perfectly side-parted like it kept its own schedule, hazel-brown eyes steady, unreadable. Midnight velvet coat lined with royal intent fell in perfect folds, twin gold stripes at his collar marking something above command. A capelet over his shoulder carried the Strategist's insignia like a battle standard. Black gloves etched with circuit lines flexed once as he walked—control, carved into leather. The polished boots with golden crest buckles spoke for him.

A step behind, Xythe—not new, not unfamiliar. A student here now.  He moved behind him like a phantom prince—midnight-black hair forever falling into ocean-blue eyes sharp enough to calculate the air between heartbeats. His graphite-lined coat was silver-threaded only at the cuffs, authority whispered instead of screamed. Matte obsidian buttons vanished into shadow, silent-soul boots giving him away only to the floor. He moved like dawnlight in human form—warm, untouchable, but edged with ice.

Then came Saichel, silver-blond hair styled by sheer ego, lavender eyes gleaming with mischief. His asymmetric jacket caught stray beams like it was in on the secrets, iridescent threads flashing with every flick of his coat. A hidden hood threatened to drop from his collar. Mirror-gloss boots stomped with intention. Gloves glinted with fingertip tech. 

Thres followed, neat black hair framing amber eyes as calm as they were unshakable. His armored coat bulked over broad shoulders, cross-harness tight, riot cuffs integrated into the sleeves. Bronze-gold insignia caught the light before disappearing under the weight of duty. His boots—made for breaching, not beauty—hit the floor like a warning.

Tofer barely seemed to be there at all. Soft brown hair, windswept and unbothered, shaded dark red eyes that saw without being seen. His matte-black tactical jacket was cut short, stitched with signal blockers and drone pouches like classified intel. The steel-gray insignia blinked once—maybe glitch, maybe threat. Gloves clicked faintly with retractable drone ports. His presence was absence itself.

Seb was precision dressed in charcoal, warm-brown hair swept back from silver eyes cold enough to measure a person before speaking. Minimalist coat. Minimalist movement. The deep burgundy insignia over his chest looked less like a crest and more like a warning.