The next morning, the academy was louder than usual.
Not from voices, but from tension.
In the grand corridor of the eastern wing, where morning lectures were about to begin, a crowd had gathered—not around a notice board or duel, but around a shattered rune slate. Someone had carved a mocking sigil into the marble wall beside it.
"A flame burns brightest before it's snuffed."
"What does it mean?" someone whispered.
Serena pulled me aside before I could reply. "It's aimed at you."
Of course it was.
The professors ordered a swift investigation, but I noticed the hesitation in their tone—no one wanted to touch this. Not now, not with the queen watching.
In Strategic Magic class, Professor Revin changed the seating chart. Reina and I were placed at the same table.
She looked at me like a mirror would—familiar, silent, dangerous.
"They want us to play the rivalry out," she said without turning, her tone dry.
"We never stopped playing," I replied.
She lifted an eyebrow, her expression sharp and cold. "Just don't forget who your opponent is."
The assignment was brutal: simulate a civil conflict within the academy's territory structure. Magic allocations, noble alliances, public morale—all to be settled on enchanted boards.
As class ended, murmurs spread: the Flameheart incident had resurfaced in the royal whisper networks.
I glanced back at Reina. For a brief moment, her eyes flicked toward me.
Not with hatred. Not with victory.
With calculation.