When Priscilla arrived at the Academy, she already understood how the ga would be played. She didn’t co expecting fairness or warmth.
The Academy was just another court dressed in marble and gold—a place where power decided who spoke and who stayed silent. Her surna might have opened doors, but her bloodline would make sure every one of them closed again.
The first night confird it. The mont she stepped into her assigned dorm, she could feel it—the air had a kind of watchfulness to it. Lamps burned too steadily, the silence held too long. Soone was nearby. Not close enough to confront her, not foolish enough to be caught—just close enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.
She hung her cloak by the window, unpacked what little she brought, and ignored the pull to look over her shoulder. The sound of her heartbeat filled the gaps where conversation should have been. That was how her life would be here: every word weighed, every breath asured, every silence judged.
She’d thought of what would happen to herself have stayed quiet that night at the banquet. If she’d swallowed the words instead of speaking against Lucien, her path might have been easier.
She knew that. But knowing never ant she could do it. She had spoken. She had sided with Lucavion. And now the whole empire had a new story to tell about her—the half-born princess who forgot her place. Lucien hadn’t needed to punish her directly. The Academy would do it for him.
By morning, the whispers were already crawling through the halls of the dormitory building. She could feel them at her back even when no one spoke. Servants bowed too long. Students avoided her eyes but never her presence.
Doors that were supposed to open needed knocking twice.
A missing crest on her uniform, a misplaced key, a late al tray—small things, aningless on their own, but precise when arranged together. Little ssages left by invisible hands. You don’t belong.
Then ca the orientation weekend—if it could be called that. The others spent their days wandering the courtyards, laughing under banners, learning the nas of their professors.
Priscilla spent hers beneath a diagnostic rune. It was an excuse that Lucien herself stated as a reason.
The magister’s politeness was exact and hollow, her smile too rehearsed. "It’s standard," she said. "Mixed lineages require careful evaluation."
She was very well aware of the fact that Magister Marisse was soone who was on the sa side with Lucien, and it was too bad that Priscilla was under her block for the Dormitory and the Orientation.
The circle’s light pressed cold against Priscilla’s skin until she could feel it under her ribs. She said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t confirm their expectations. When they dismissed her at dusk, the gardens were already full of music and clinking glass.
She walked past the laughter, her reflection catching in a fountain’s surface—white hair, crimson eyes, the face that had started all of this.
By the ti examination week arrived, the rhythm of hostility had beco routine. Desks already claid before she entered, papers returned with vague criticisms, corridors that went silent when she turned a corner.
Her examination timings were when she would be isolated, sothing that she expected but could not say much.
The first week at the Academy had already begun to show its teeth.
Even the schedule seed arranged to bruise. Every examination she was assigned to ca at an hour ant to wear down the body before it ever reached the mind—dawn sessions, long walks across half-lit courtyards.
Her first trial—Combat Awareness—had taken place the day before. A group exercise, they called it. A test of coordination and adaptability against projected beasts ford from collective mana.
The announcent had made the younger nobles grin; teamwork was where they thrived. For Priscilla, it had ant standing among three strangers who exchanged glances that said we won’t be the ones to fail because of her.
When the simulation began, the courtyard dissolved into the translucent walls of a conjured forest, the air thick with illusionary mist.
She rembered the first roar—low, tallic, unreal—and the way the others instantly moved to form their circle, leaving her on the outside edge. She had drawn her spell line without complaint.
That was the rule: adapt or perish. But the pattern had been obvious—open gaps where she was ant to fill, attacks that veered too close to her flank.
The first bolt of compressed mana had co from her own side, not the monster’s. A "misfire," the boy had said later, his apology dripping with false politeness.
Another followed, then a shove when she shifted too slow for their liking. Her shield runes caught one of the incoming claws that should have struck another teammate. No thanks, only a muttered remark about how she "attracts attention."
By the ti the illusion shattered and the evaluators called the session complete, her arms ached from spells that weren’t ant to land, and her jaw hurt from clenching through it.
On her way out, one of them brushed her shoulder deliberately hard; another let a smirk linger just long enough to make sure she noticed. None of it left marks, but it left sothing worse—a pressure under the skin, the knowledge that their hostility was not montary. It was organized.
That night she had returned to her dorm long after. The runes along the corridor dimd when she passed, as though reacting to her mana, though she knew better—it was manual.
Soone had adjusted the calibration to flicker when she walked through. The shadows blinked like eyes. She undressed in silence, her ribs already blooming with dull color where one of the mock "friendly strikes" had hit.
The following day brought the written examinations—both theory and composition, the kind of tests that asured precision rather than strength.
It should have been a relief. Theory was familiar ground, and ink did not care about lineage.
The hall was filled end to end with desks, a sea of white sleeves and focused faces. She took her place near the front, the spot left conveniently empty until the last mont.
The exam itself was straightforward. Questions on mana conduits, array symtries....topics she knew well enough to answer without second thought. When she paused, she could almost pretend this was normal, that she was just another student chasing a mark.
When the exam ended, the sound that filled the hall was a long, collective breath. Quills stilled. Papers rustled. Dozens of students exhaled together in that brief, fragile relief that ca when tension finally released its hold.
Priscilla allowed herself the smallest of pauses before standing. Her hand brushed over the surface of the desk, fingertips catching on the faint groove her quill had left behind. The questions hadn’t been difficult. The work had been clean, efficient—sothing she could be quietly proud of, if pride wasn’t dangerous here.
Across the hall, a few students were laughing already, the kind of laughter that ca too quickly, too loud, ant more for each other than for joy. Their voices echoed strangely in the high-ceilinged chamber. For a heartbeat, she thought it was over—that the day might end quietly.
Then she felt it.
The gazes.
It wasn’t unusual. People had always stared at her, so out of curiosity, so out of contempt.
She had learned to get used to it.
But today felt different. The stares didn’t slide off like usual...There was sothing that made her feel heavy.
Her shoulders stiffened. The hum of conversation blurred to a low murmur. She couldn’t say why, but the air had changed—tightened sohow. The laughter behind her was sharper now, and when she turned to gather her things, she caught the flicker of three girls near the back row. They were whispering, heads close, glancing her way between words.
The instinct ca before thought. Leave.
She rose, folding her papers neatly into the submission pile, her posture calm but her pulse betraying her. The magister by the podium didn’t look up as she passed. The hall doors stood open, spilling pale light into the corridor beyond.
She stepped through, the noise fading behind her, replaced by the quiet hum of runes in the hallway. She didn’t look back—there was no need. The sound of footsteps followed a few seconds later, asured, deliberate.
"Princess."
Reviews
All reviews (0)