Divine Royale Academy had survived its first twenty-four hours with Arila Vellion on campus. Barely. The noble boys split up after the chaos of dinner like shell-shocked soldiers retreating from a battlefield made of sugar and emotional damage.
Julian strolled beside Lucien under the moonlight like he was auditioning for a rom-com, arms behind his head and a grin locked and loaded for maximum teasing.
"Sooooo…" Julian began.
Lucien didn't look up. "No."
"Oh, come on. You're so courting her. The sparkles practically formed a heart when you caught her."
"I was preventing a head injury."
"A head injury caused by how breathtaking she is—admit it!"
Darian, walking ahead with the patience of a man who had survived a thousand emotionally constipated nobles, sighed. "He admitted it to me yesterday. Mostly."
Vincent raised a brow. "Wait. Did I miss the confession arc?"
Lucien exhaled slowly. "It's not a confession arc. The King merely suggested…"
"Suggested?" Julian pounced. "Like a you should marry her and produce chaos-powered heirs sort of suggestion?"
Lucien, ever the master of subtlety, gave a rare flicker of expression—a complicated mess of interest, resignation, and something far too close to admiration. "He thinks her magic is... politically significant."
"Oh wow. That's royal for 'I'm halfway betrothed.'" Julian twirled dramatically. "Do I get to be the flower girl?"
Vincent muttered, "I'll bring the wine."
Lucien said nothing more, but his silence had the weight of something dangerous and sincere.
Clarissa Blackbrook was melting down. Not a ladylike meltdown. A full, fan-snapping, floor-pacing, lip-gloss-smearing rage opera.
"I handed him perfectly chilled lemon tarts, and he handed her a custard swirl like it was a love letter!"
Her two besties—Petra and Maelynn—nodded with the kind of supportive terror found only among women who knew a magical girl meltdown could level a city block.
Maelynn offered a cautious, "Maybe he's just… being polite?"
Clarissa spun, hair whipcord sharp. "Polite?! That marshmallow-slinging disaster flirts by falling on people!"
Petra tried, "Maybe Lucien likes chaos?"
Clarissa narrowed her eyes. "Then I'll give him war. I'm going to challenge her to a duel. Show him who the real high-class elemental is."
"Won't that get… messy?" Maelynn whispered.
Clarissa smiled like a cat with a dagger. "Exactly."
Morning came with the cruel vengeance of reality. Arila groaned as Lira stormed in with the efficiency of a battle general disguised as a maid.
"Up! You can't be late for your first class," Lira said, yanking open curtains with the precision of someone used to managing emotionally unstable nobility.
Arila flailed under the blankets. "I reject the morning. Return it to sender."
"Too late," Lira said, already setting out Arila's clothes: a dark blue skirt just above the knee, a black blouse with a collar dramatic enough to land a lead role in a gothic opera, her divine white cloak, and the inevitable black sneakers.
Ninko sat on Arila's pillow, munching a marshmallow with the smug pride of a deity observing their chosen mess-maker.
"Mirror," Arila said, turning to the enchanted reflective menace on the wall. "Am I not the very image of dignity and disaster?"
The mirror sniffed, unimpressed. "You look like a runaway princess who found fashion in a lightning strike."
"Perfect," Arila grinned. "Then we're ready."
Lira adjusted the cloak with the solemnity of someone preparing a sacrificial lamb. "Try not to explode anything."
"No promises."
The classroom was a magical amphitheater shaped like a noble coliseum crossed with a wizard's laboratory. Floating chandeliers pulsed with ambient mana, the floor was polished obsidian etched with glowing runes, and the center platform looked like it had been designed specifically for dramatic magical combat… or dance battles.
Arila chose the back row, naturally.
Lucien arrived looking annoyingly pristine. He slid into the seat beside her like fate had assigned him a partner for magical disaster. Darian followed, already bracing for nonsense. Julian bounced into place with a croissant and zero shame. Vincent arrived with coffee and the expression of someone reconsidering all his life choices.
Felicia beamed as she plopped into the empty seat beside Arila. "You smell like marshmallows."
"That's because I keep them in my sleeves," Arila said, handing her one.
Julian waggled his brows. "Is this a cult now?"
"More like a support group," Arila replied. "The Society for Survivors of Spontaneous Magic Mishaps."
"Meetings are held during lunch," Ninko communicated via deeply judgmental stare.
Professor Daelen Rowe swept in like a caffeine-fueled thundercloud wrapped in academic robes. His cloak was charcoal. His patience was at zero.
"Today," he announced, "we explore Magical Infinities, Control, and Combinations."
"Vellion," he added with a sigh, "to the platform."
Arila stood. "Do I get a last meal?"
"No. But we'll record your screams for future cautionary lectures."
She stepped onto the center stage, dramatic cloak swirling like an opera villain preparing to monologue.
"Show us all five," Daelen said. "And try not to bring the roof down."
Arila lifted one hand—lightning cracked. The other—flames erupted. Wind twisted into a spiral dance around her. Earth surged beneath her boots in artistic vines. Water floated above like a lazy orbiting halo. Ninko, on her shoulder, summoned frost with a twitch of his tails, adding shimmering flakes for ambiance.
Gasps. Felicia applauded. Julian whistled. "She's a one-girl apocalypse."
Vincent muttered, "And yet somehow still wearing sneakers."
Daelen began his lecture. "Nobles typically possess two elemental affinities. Royalty—three, with light always present. Rare exceptions exist." His eyes flicked to Felicia and Arila. "As you can see."
Arila whispered, "That means we're special."
Ninko fluffed in agreement. "Special like a cursed cupcake."
As Daelen lectured on how fire enhances wind, how earth nullifies lightning, how light disrupts darkness—Arila froze. Gamer instincts. That tingle that screamed: You are being watched by something that thinks you're bite-sized.
Ninko bristled, tails fanning like a furious peacock made of snow and judgment.
"Arila?" Felicia asked, confused.
Arila walked calmly to the window. The class went quiet. Students craned their necks. Was she… skipping class? Starting her villain arc?
Lucien tensed. Julian straightened. Daelen paused mid-sentence.
Arila flared her hands. "Fire blast."
She launched a searing bolt into the woods. Silence. Then—a roar.
From the trees burst a hulking demon, all bone-white horns and blood-red wings, shaped like someone mixed a nightmare with a gym membership.
The class screamed.
Julian shouted, "She was RIGHT! I owe her five silver!"
Felicia ducked. "THAT'S a demon?!"
Lucien and Darian stepped in front of Arila, magic flaring. Ninko hissed so hard, the air visibly froze around him.
The demon snarled, no words—just one emotion: destruction.
Arila cracked her knuckles. "I woke up today, got judged by my mirror, wore the cloak of chaos, and now you think you can ruin my morning?"
Daelen sighed. "Vellion. Please don't destroy the courtyard. Again."
Julian whooped. "Now this is a school day."
To be continued...