The noble wing of the academy was more than just walls and crests. It was carved expectation—polished marble floors, stained-glass windows bearing sigils of the Five High Houses, and chandeliers that never flickered, regardless of wind or mana flux.
Inside one of its larger salons, a dozen chairs circled a central table adorned with fruits, fine cheese, and bottles of chilled spellwine.
And at the head, standing with quiet confidence, was Dior of Valor.
He let the quiet settle before speaking.
"We need a change."
So of the students raised eyebrows—curious, not concerned.
Dior smiled smoothly.
"Not because sothing bad is happening. But because the past... changed."
He stepped forward, eyes eting every heir in the room one by one.
"There was a ti when the academy stood for sothing greater. It was a sanctuary of prestige, where the strongest and most noble were molded into leaders."
He paused—asured, deliberate.
"But over the past decade, things have changed. The purpose’s been diluted—twisted, even corrupted."
No one moved.
"The academy was founded on order, heritage, and inherited strength—not on shallow popularity or sob stories."
A few soft chuckles, a few knowing smirks.
Dior kept going.
"If we want this place to remain what it was ant to be—a beacon of excellence—we can’t let it beco a stage for petty experints or feel-good reforms."
Then he stopped directly in front of the table.
"As president, I will restore what’s slipping. Reinforce what still works. And ensure the council remains as it should be—composed of those born to lead."
The room was silent.
Then ca the nods.
The low murmurs.
A round of soft, confident applause.
He’d said exactly what they wanted to hear.
And more than a few of them had already decided:
The seat was his.
The northern corridor of the academy stretched wide, built from smooth stone with tall arched windows glowing with late morning sun. It was the busiest part of campus—students from every background crossed through here between lectures, training, and als.
And Seraphina of Valor walked directly through the heart of it.
Just her. And a single assistant walking three steps behind, silent and watchful.
Where Dior built alliances behind polished doors and embroidered banners, Seraphina walked where the voices were loudest.
She paused beside a study group cramd around a bench—mixed students: a half-elf, a dwarf, a dark-skinned human girl with an open spellbook and two broken quills.
Seraphina didn’t hover.
She crouched to their level.
"You short on materials?" she asked gently.
The girl blinked.
"We brought it up last week, but the supply office said it wasn’t a priority."
Seraphina nodded.
"It is now."
She stood again, not waiting for gratitude.
Further ahead, two beastkin students nearly stepped aside when they saw her. She stopped them with a quiet gesture.
"Are patrol shifts still lopsided?"
They exchanged looks.
Nodded slowly.
"We’ll fix it. Next rotation starts Monday."
One of them hesitated.
"You’re really running for president?"
Seraphina nodded once.
"I am."
"Why?"
She answered without hesitation.
"Because this academy was ant to be the place where we all stand on equal ground. Where what matters is what you do—not where you’re from."
A small crowd had gathered by then—nothing loud, nothing formal.
Just presence.
"No one should have an advantage just because of their bloodline. Not here. It must continue as it is, but better."
The eastern hall’s private dining chamber glowed with enchantnts that made the silver cutlery gleam without ever dulling, and the linens stay clean regardless of spilled wine.
The room slled of roasted mana-hare, smoked truffle oil, and cinnamon-pear tarts flown in—quite literally—from a noble estate.
At the head of the table sat Dior of Valor, posture relaxed, voice calm, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of crystal-clear herbal liquor.
Around him, no fewer than twenty nobles sat, laughed, and ate.
House emblems glead on their shoulders.
Every one of them had a na that mattered.
"Seraphina’s speeches are charming," one said with a soft laugh, "but charm doesn’t write laws."
"Or fund them," added another.
Dior smiled, not interrupting. Just listening. asuring.
Then he spoke.
"Change sounds noble... until you realize it cos at the cost of structure."
The table nodded.
"Tradition holds us together," he continued. "Letting emotion dictate policy only leads to chaos."
From the far end of the room, a young noble added:
"My father says we shouldn’t let the ’outer lines’ get a voice in matters they weren’t born for."
Several others laughed.
Dior didn’t.
He simply sipped from his glass.
Said nothing.
Didn’t correct it.
Didn’t condone it.
Just let the mont pass, like so many others.
Outside the chamber, two students—commoners—walked by the glass-lined wall. They couldn’t hear the words, but they could see the table:
Gleaming.
Laughing.
Untouchable.
The lecture hall was one of the largest in the eastern wing—rows of wide desks arranged in ascending tiers, walls inlaid with runic channels that pulsed faintly during spell theory lessons.
Today, Professor Daemar stood at the front, lecturing on mana flux synchronization in cooperative casting.
But no one was really listening.
At least, not like usual.
Noel sat in the third row from the back, chin resting on one hand, eyes half-lidded—but focused. Not on the professor.
On the people.
Dior sat near the front, surrounded by noble students. All perfectly grood, posture straight, eyes alert when Dior spoke, and bored when Daemar did.
Every ti Dior asked a question—or answered one—the nobles around him nodded. Laughed. Reacted.
Behind them, seated two rows back and one desk to the left, Seraphina took notes quietly, with no one flanking her.
But people looked her way.
Often.
Noel noticed it.
The split was already there.
The nobles clustered toward Dior.
Everyone else—mixed heritage, foreign-born, less famous surnas—drifted closer to Seraphina.
In the center of it all, Marcus, sitting with Clara and Selene, leaned toward Seraphina’s side. Laziel too. Garron, arms crossed, looked uncomfortable, but stayed near them.
’Of course.’
’The perfect protagonist with the perfect sense of justice, standing beside the noble-yet-progressive candidate.’
’How typical.’
The library was never truly quiet.
Not for soone like Noel.
It wasn’t the sound of turning pages or the faint hum of the mana lanterns that bothered him—it was the voices. The shifting weight of opinion. The tension that filled the gaps between conversation and silence.
He sat in the back left corner, book open in front of him.
He hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.
Two tables over, a group of second-years whispered furiously. One of them—an elven girl—kept repeating that Dior was the only "stable" choice. The others looked unconvinced.
At the far end, a group of beastkin shared bread and strategy: what Seraphina’s presence ant, what change might actually look like.
Closer still, soone quietly scribbled a list of house allegiances on a scrap of parchnt. Noel watched him do it with the edge of his vision.
His eyes drifted back to the page in front of him. It was a volu on elental feedback loops in enchanted blades.
Irrelevant.
Useless.
’She has to win.’
He closed the book.
Slowly.
’In the original tiline, Dior won.’
’And from that mont on, everything started falling apart.’
’Corruption in the council. Purges in the curriculum. Divisions growing deeper each month.’
’It didn’t happen overnight. But it started here. With that election.’
He leaned back in his chair.
Fingers tapping the closed cover of the book.
’I can’t let that happen again.’
’I don’t care if I have to push from the shadows like last ti, or appear like the protagonist. If I have to cheat the system myself.’
’Seraphina has to win if I want to live.’
The tower looked abandoned from the outside.
It stood near the edge of the eastern zone of the academy, the zone with better views of the city.
Just a regular padlock—rusted, old, and clinging to the latch like it had sothing worth protecting.
Noel, of course, ignored it.
He took his sword and with a swing it broke.
Now, he was on the roof.
He’d climbed out through a narrow window, careful not to dislodge the glass. The slate tiles beneath him were cold, angled, and solid. From up here, the entire academy stretched out in shadow and silver moonlight, and a bit more far away the city of Valon.
He lay back, arms folded behind his head, cloak spread beneath him like a mat.
For a long while, he didn’t move.
Just breathed.
Just listened.
The air was cold, the sky clear—still and untouched.
But below him, everything buzzed with motion.
Votes. Promises. Lies. All echoing louder than the wind.
Up here?
Silence.
He exhaled.
"Well," he muttered to himself, staring at the stars, "Act II’s off to a good start."
He raised his hand, fingers outstretched toward the sky.
"Status."
A blue panel flickered into view, hovering silently over his palm:
[Mana Core: Novice Rank]
[Current Progress: 73.33%]
[Sword Equipped: Revenant Fang – Grade: Unique (Awakened)]
[Ring Equipped: Ashen Sigil – Grade: Unawakened]
[Quest: Save the world.]
Noel let out a small huff of breath. Almost a laugh.
"Not bad at all."
He looked at his hand, then down to the blade resting beside him.
"Revenant Fang’s awake."
"And I’ve got this pretty new ring, Ashen Sigil."
He turned his head to the side.
Eyes closed.
The weight of the day slowly bleeding off his shoulders.
Reviews
All reviews (0)