The walk to the central table felt like a march to the gallows for Lyra and Selene. Astraea, however, carried her tray of gray tubers as if it were a sacrificial offering to her own glory.
"Astraea," Lyra whispered, her voice hitching. "You keep saying 'army' and 'kingdom.' People are staring. If the instructors hear you talking like a... well, like a sovereign..."
"They will eventually have to get used to the sound of it," Astraea replied, not breaking her stride.
"Right," Selene muttered, clutching her single gauntlet to her chest. "Just a queen in muddy boots. Totally normal. Let's just try not to get turned into frogs before dessert."
The central table was a sanctuary of fine linens and actual, aromatic roasted chicken. Elara sat at the head, flanked by two brawny warriors from the Iron Wing who were currently competing for her attention.
Astraea didn't ask for permission. She kicked out a chair at the end of the table and sat down, the wooden legs screeching against the stone floor. Lyra and Selene hovered behind her, looking like they wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
Elara froze, a fork halfway to her mouth. She looked at Astraea, then at the tray of prison-grade porridge sitting on her silk tablecloth. "You. You were told your place is by the kitchens."
"I was told many things today," Astraea said, picking up a piece of Elara’s bread and inspecting it for quality. "Most of them were incorrect. For instance, I was told this was an Academy for excellence. Yet, I see a table full of 'elite' mages who can’t even maintain a basic anti-eavesdropping ward while they gossip. It’s sloppy."
One of the Iron Wing boys—a mountain of muscle named Boros—slammed his hand on the table. "Hey! You’re the one who cheated against Kaelen. This table is for those who contribute to the realm's defense. What do you contribute, little dagger-girl?"
Astraea didn't flinch. She leaned back, her gold-flecked eyes locking onto Boros. "I contribute perspective. For example: from here, I can see that your grip on that fork is too tight, meaning your wrist tension is ruined. You probably telegraph your overhead swings like a slow-moving cloud."
She turned her gaze back to Elara. "And you. You spend your mana on shimmering skin and warm seats. You’re a battery, Elara. A very pretty, very fragile battery. But when a real threat comes—the kind that doesn't care about your father’s title—who is going to stand in front of you?"
"My protectors will," Elara sneered, gesturing to the boys.
"They can't even protect their own dignity," Astraea countered. Her voice dropped, becoming low and resonant. She looked at Selene and Lyra, then back at the table. "I am building a Sovereign Guard. I don't need 'support.' I need women who are tired of being the shadows of lesser men."
The table went silent. A few students from the neighboring tables leaned in. It was absurd. It was delusional. Yet, the way Astraea said it—the absolute, bone-deep certainty in her voice—made the air in the room feel heavy.
"A Sovereign Guard?" Elara burst out laughing, though it sounded a bit forced. "With a mousy healer and a girl who can't cast a basic ward? You're not a queen; you're a lunatic."
"Perhaps," Astraea said, finally standing up. She hadn't eaten a bite of her own food, but she had successfully drained the color from Elara's face. "But by the end of the month, Lyra will have a bow that can split a hair at fifty paces, and Selene will be a fortress of steel. And you? You'll still be looking for someone to hide behind."
She turned to her two 'Maidens.' "Come. The air here is stagnant. We have gear to... negotiate for."
As they walked away, Lyra leaned in, her eyes wide. "Astraea? That was amazing, but... how are we going to get a bow? Or armor? We don't have any gold."
Astraea walked toward the exit, her mind already calculating the patrol routes of the Iron Wing armory. "Gold is for people who lack imagination. We have something better. We have the cover of night and my 'muscle memory.' Besides..."
She felt the tattoo on her thigh throb—a warm, encouraging glow.
"...I’ve always been very good at taking what I want."
The night air was crisp, a sharp reminder to Astraea that her mortal skin lacked the natural insulation of a celestial being. She stood in the shadows of the Iron Wing’s outer corridor, her eyes tracking the rhythmic glow of the sentries’ lanterns.
"Remember," Astraea whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the wind. "Lyra, you are my eyes. Do not look at the ground. Look at the silhouettes against the moonlight. If a shadow moves that shouldn't, you signal. One low whistle."
Lyra nodded, her face pale but her gaze focused. She was perched on a low stone ledge, her natural visual acuity—the same one Astraea had identified earlier—making her an ideal lookout.
"And Selene," Astraea turned to the taller girl. "You are our shroud. Do not try to heal. Do not try to shield. I want you to take that 'waterfall' of mana and flatten it. Push it outward. If anyone approaches, I want the air to feel so heavy they think they’ve walked into a pocket of bad spirits. Make them hesitate. That hesitation is my window."
Selene gripped her lone gauntlet, her jaw set. "Suppression. I can do that. I’ll make them feel like they’re wading through chest-high mud."
"Perfect."
Astraea vanished into the gloom. Without her divine strength, she couldn't simply tear the iron grate from the armory window. Instead, she used the 'Sovereign’s Tread'—a sequence of weight-shifting steps that made her footsteps silent even on loose gravel. She found a ventilation duct, wedged a stolen kitchen knife into the latch, and used a precise, high-leverage twist that relied on physics rather than brawn.
Inside, the armory smelled of oil and cold steel. Astraea’s heart sang at the sight of the weapons, but her current frame gave her a bitter reality check.
"Curse this fragile vessel," she hissed, eyeing a beautiful suit of full plate. "If I tried to carry that, I’d snap my own spine."
She moved with surgical efficiency. She found a recurve bow of polished yew—not a masterwork, but supple and far better than a healer’s staff. She slung it over her shoulder along with a quiver of bodkin-point arrows. For Selene, she couldn't take a full set, so she prioritized the 'Foundation': a reinforced breastplate and a matching right-hand gauntlet to complete the set.
Her muscles ached under the weight. Twenty pounds of gear felt like a mountain. Her breath came in shallow, hot gasps.
"One... more... thing," she grumbled, grabbing a roll of leather throwing-knife sheaths.
She slipped back out, meeting her maidens in the shadows. Lyra gave a sharp, silent nod—the coast was clear. Selene was glowing faintly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she projected a thick, oppressive aura of "Stay Away" toward the guard barracks.
"We have the prize," Astraea panted, sweat stinging her eyes. "But we don't take it to 4-B. Elara’s girls think they are above suspicion. We’ll use their arrogance as our shield."
They navigated to the Grace Wing’s outer gardens. Beneath a massive, decorative stone planter outside Elara’s dormitory window, there was a hollow maintenance crawlspace used for the heating pipes.
Astraea shoved the gear into the dark recess, covering it with a loose stone slab.
"The instructors will search the 'trash' rooms if they notice the theft," Astraea said, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. "They will never check the flowerbeds of their 'High Potentials.' It’s the perfect sanctuary."
She looked at Lyra and Selene. They were trembling—partly from fear, partly from the rush of the heist.
"You did well," Astraea said, her voice turning soft and regal. She reached out, her fingers grazing the mark on her thigh, which was now pulsing with a steady, satisfied gold light. "Tomorrow, the training begins. You won't just be 'support' anymore. You'll be the weapons that break this Academy's pride."
Selene looked at the hidden stone, then at Astraea. "You really are a menace, aren't you?"
Astraea smirked. "I’m a Goddess, Selene. We’re much worse."