A week had passed since the Grand Hall ceremony, yet Riley still felt a flutter in her chest every time she walked the corridors of the Imperial Academy.
The place breathed with a rhythm of its own — structured yet chaotic, polished yet alive. Footsteps echoed against marble floors, voices overlapped in countless cadences, and the scent of parchment and polished brass drifted from open classroom doors. It was like stepping into a city contained within four sprawling walls.
The first three days were reserved for orientation. Riley, along with the rest of the new first-years, had been guided across the campus by upper-year volunteers. They learned the history of the Academy, its guarded traditions, and — most importantly — the one rule that stood above all: the separation between Thriver and Comun.
It wasn't just about uniforms, though the difference was unmistakable. Thrivers wore black with dark red trim, their status impossible to miss. Comun students wore black with navy. That divide extended everywhere — lecture halls, dining spaces, training grounds, even the dormitories.
The staff claimed it wasn't about rank, but safety. Macht, even when perfectly controlled, could injure — and in careless hands, it could kill. The separation was meant to protect the Comun from accidents... or from deliberate acts of aggression.
Riley had listened quietly, nodding in understanding. But the longer she stayed, the more she noticed the subtler truths: the lingering glances, the slight pauses in conversation when she passed, the way some Thrivers looked at her group as if they were fragile porcelain... or perhaps easily replaced.
Still — she was here. That fact alone was enough to keep her chin high.
Classes began on the fourth day. The Imperial Academy's system resembled a sprawling university more than a traditional school — students moved from building to building for each subject. Mandatory courses kept year groups connected, while electives allowed freedom, shaping a student's path through credits rather than age.
Riley slipped into rhythm quickly — lectures, assigned reading, drills. The unexpected highlight of her week came in the form of Aciell Sweinz, who insisted everyone call him "Ace."
With messy crimson hair and eyes to match, Ace looked as if he'd been plucked from a bonfire — restless, crackling with playful energy that didn't match the solemn weight of his family name. The surname Sweinz was known across the Empire for producing disciplined, lethal swordsmen — yet Ace seemed more likely to start a food fight than a duel.
He was smaller than most boys his age, but still taller and broader than Riley — just enough to be unmistakably male without the looming presence some others carried. That in-between build, paired with his constant grin, made him feel approachable in a way most heirs never were.
"I swear, that math professor's hairstyle changes with the weather," he muttered one lunch, leaning conspiratorially toward her. "I bet there's a barometer involved."
Riley laughed more around him than she had in years. Sharing nearly all their classes — thanks to both being first-year Comun — meant plenty of whispered comments behind textbooks. Only their electives differed.
She had chosen War Tactics.
Ace had taken Martial History.
Today was her first War Tactics meeting.
The course was one of the few mixed electives — open to both Comun and Thrivers. Thrivers, however, needed special permission to attend: the Acknowledgement Pin.
A small silver brooch in the shape of the Academy crest, set with a tiny red gem at its center — the gem containing a drop of the wearer's blood. The pin could not be transferred and was awarded only to Thrivers who had demonstrated flawless macht control and maintained an unblemished record. Possession of the pin granted entry into Comun spaces and joint classes, a rare privilege built on trust. But the rules were iron-clad — the smallest misuse of macht meant immediate revocation.
Riley admired the principle behind it. It valued discipline over raw talent.
Still, she hadn't expected to see so many Thrivers in the room.
And especially not him.
He entered like a shadow given form — tall, black-haired, the red trim of a senior Thriver's uniform cutting sharp against the black.
Conversations dipped; some students stiffened, others dropped their gazes entirely.
Riellischus Desillix.
She'd heard the name in passing — whispered in corridors, edged with equal parts awe and wariness. She didn't know it was possible for someone to look so completely unbothered by the weight they carried. His face was unreadable, eyes like the surface of a frozen lake — still, cold, impossible to read.
Yet when his gaze swept over the room and landed on her, something in her chest gave an almost imperceptible jolt. It wasn't attraction — not exactly. It was something older, heavier, like a shadow from a dream she couldn't remember.
Her hand twitched — a faint urge to adjust her seating position the way she always did before sparring practice.
Only... she'd never sparred in her life. Not here. Not in this one.
When the instructor began assigning project groups, Riley fully expected him to be paired with other seniors — or at the very least, with other Thrivers.
But no.
Her name was called.
Then his.
Same team.
Riley blinked.
She wasn't sure what startled her more — being paired with a senior Thriver, or the fact that this Thriver was the one sitting at the back of the room, watching her with an expression so still it felt deliberate.
Their eyes met.
And the air between them tightened. Not just awkwardness — something else. A current, thin but undeniable, tugging at the edges of her thoughts. Beneath the confusion, a whisper rose inside her.
A whisper that said maybe... just maybe... they had met before.
----
He hadn't expected to see her here.
When Riel chose War Tactics, it had been on a whim. He knew the Imperial Academy's lessons already — he'd lived through all of this once. The professors' voices, the seating charts, the flow of the term — all predictable. He thought changing electives might keep the monotony at bay.
But nothing could have prepared him for this.
She was here.
Sitting near the front, violet hair catching the light, posture perfect. She turned briefly at the sound of the door — her gaze polite, detached, entirely unfamiliar.
But he knew her.
He could have picked her out in the haze of a battlefield with blood in his eyes.
Riley.
His step faltered — just enough for the closing door to draw every gaze to him. The Acknowledgement Pin at his collar caught the light, and as always, a ripple of wary glances followed.
It wasn't him they feared — it was the name. Desillix.
He had worn it like armor for years. But now, the stares barely registered.
His focus was on her.
That false name still clung to her — Vyrilleya Vreisz. It had struck him as wrong at the ceremony last week. Today, it felt even more discordant.
When the professor read out:
"Team Nine: First year, Vyrilleya Vreisz. Fourth year, Riellischus Desillix."
—he caught the faintest flinch.
Her head turned to the back. To him.
And their eyes met.
For a suspended moment, the air between them felt stretched, taut, as though the room had gone quieter without anyone noticing.
Her gaze held his for a heartbeat longer than politeness required. Just long enough for him to catch it — the subtle way her shoulders shifted, her feet aligning as if bracing for an opponent's charge. She didn't even realize she'd done it. But he did.
He had taught her that stance.
Then she blinked, gave a small, polite nod, and faced forward.
As if it meant nothing.
Of course, Riel thought bitterly. She doesn't remember.
And yet there she was — alive, graceful, wearing a noble's poise like she'd been born to it. So achingly familiar, yet foreign in name and station.
He should have felt relief. Instead, the memories from the first timeline pressed against his chest — the fire, her smile strained through pain, the weight he had forced her to bear.
Even if she didn't remember... he did.
This time, he would do things differently.
But before shielding her, before making any choice, he needed to understand her life now. Whether she was happy. Safe. And if the girl he had once known still lived behind those amethyst eyes.
The professor's voice droned on, outlining the semester project, but Riel barely heard it. His mind was already moving, plotting steps, calculating risks.
One thing was certain:
If fate had brought her into his path again...
He wouldn't let go. Not this time.