SCENE 1
POV: Maxwell Ardent
The first day of any semester always felt like a test, even when the teachers weren't watching. For Maxwell Ardent, though, it was more than that. It wasn't just tests or magic assessments—it was a statement. One he intended to make quietly, without the fanfare his family assumed he could never achieve. Exiled or not, low class or not, he had survived worse. And surviving had a way of sharpening focus in ways the pampered children of elite houses could never understand.
He adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked through the grand entrance of New York City Mage Academy. The campus spread like a miniature city, half glass and steel, half ancient stone, with glowing runes etched along the walls. Mana detectors blinked softly on the main gates, scanning students as they entered, sorting them into categories—elemental, hybrid, rare. Maxwell ignored the brief flares of recognition in some of the eyes that met his; most assumed he was insignificant. Let them.
"Maxwell Ardent?" a cheerful voice called.
He looked up to see a boy about his age, tall with a fire-haired mop, easy grin, and an air of confidence that wasn't the arrogant kind, but the type earned from ability rather than birthright.
"You must be new," the boy continued. "Name's Tobias Vance. I'll show you how to get your paperwork done and where your dorm is. You don't want to get lost on your first day—it's a rite of humiliation."
Maxwell allowed a small smirk. "I doubt a walk through bureaucracy can humiliate me."
Tobias laughed and fell into step beside him. "Famous last words, buddy. Trust me, this place has a way of chewing you up if you let it."
As they walked, Maxwell observed Tobias casually, noting his aura of fire magic and the way it blended with calm focus rather than brute display. Respect, not condescension. That was rare among students with visible elemental affinity.
"So," Tobias asked, adjusting the strap of his bag, "what's the plan for the semester? Any goals besides surviving the dorm registration line?"
"Prove I can handle myself," Maxwell replied evenly. "Academics, missions, sparring… see how far skill alone can get me."
Tobias nodded. "Good. Keep your head down and your blades ready, and maybe don't get too distracted by the royals. Though, speaking of them…" He winked, "you might see someone interesting today."
The corridor opened into the administration hall, where hovering ID scanners and enchanted paper forms floated in neat lines. Students queued, some confidently waving charms, others muttering as mana-inscribed forms hovered in front of them. The administrator, a tall woman with silver hair and sharp eyes, directed them efficiently.
"Ardent, Vance," she said, scanning their documents with a flick of her wrist. "Dorm keys, ID cards, orientation schedule. Check your wings—light and elemental sections are segregated. Any issues, report immediately."
Maxwell received his key card and ID, noting the subtle runic engraving that would identify him as a rare ability user in the system, though his rank barely registered. Tobias received his own with a grin and a slight nod toward Maxwell. "See? Easy enough."
POV: Rachel Voss
On the other side of the campus, the royal limousine hissed to a stop, and Rachel stepped out, the polished black surface gleaming under the academy's sunlit atrium. Her luggage rolled smoothly behind her, but she hardly noticed the envious glances and whispers. All she saw was another day of scrutiny. Another day where perfection was expected. Another day where any mistake, any falter, could become a headline in the whispered gossip of mage society.
They all called her perfect. Princess. Champion. Untouchable. The undefeated prodigy of her arena school, a record of 128 wins, and not a single loss in sight. They didn't know that every step toward perfection had been walked on jagged glass, that every smile she gave the public was measured, and every failure she hid behind a wall of light magic.
She wanted something new. Something no one expected. A moment where she could stumble and recover without the world judging her. She wanted to be Rachel—not the princess, not the champion—but just Rachel.
Her eyes scanned the academy hall as she walked. Students stopped and stared. Whispers followed her footsteps, but she kept her head high. Her luggage clicked against the enchanted marble floor, each step measured. She felt the familiar weight of her mother's expectations pressing against her shoulders, but today she refused to let it define her.
A turn, a set of stairs, and then—collision.
POV: Maxwell Ardent
"Whoa!" Maxwell's reflexes kicked in as he reached forward, hands grabbing for the figure hurtling toward the stair railing. The princess, he realized instantly, not that he cared at the moment—just someone who might break a leg if he didn't act.
He caught her wrist, guiding her balance, but a subtle miscalculation made contact with her burst area—a concentrated reserve of light magic shimmering just beneath her skin. The surge sent a brief shock through both of them. She recoiled instinctively, her aura flaring with golden sparks that lit the stairwell.
Maxwell stepped back, bowing slightly. "Careful. You almost took a nasty fall."
Her eyes, bright with the fury of someone not used to being touched uninvited, met his. "You…!" She exhaled sharply, forcing control, but her magic still flared in subtle arcs along the stairs. "You just… you saved me, didn't you?"
"Yes," Maxwell said evenly, reading the tension, gauging strength, and noting the reaction through the faint shimmer of her aura. "Accidentally, perhaps. But the result is the same."
She studied him for a heartbeat longer, her initial rage simmering into something more curious. Then, with the slightest lift of her chin, she straightened, her aura dimming to a controlled glow. "Fine. I should thank you for saving me." She paused, letting her eyes narrow slightly. "But… I think I need a proper challenge. A duel. Now."
Maxwell blinked. A duel. First day. Collision. Burst area flare. Already interesting. "You're serious?"
"As serious as my undefeated record," she replied, stepping into a defensive stance, golden light outlining her form.
Scene 2
The arena was silent, save for the faint hum of the wards lining the walls and the soft scuff of boots on polished stone. Maxwell stood at one end, katana sheathed at his side, eyes scanning the space with calm precision. Every student who had gathered in the stands whispered, casting sideways glances at the low-class mage facing the undefeated princess.
Rachel Voss stood at the opposite end, golden light dancing along the edges of her sword. Her aura flared with barely contained power, a visual testament to her reputation. Every movement was disciplined, controlled, lethal in its precision.
Maxwell's calm did not waver. He had survived worse, and today he would prove something not even whispers or rank could shake.
"You've been cleared for a duel," a voice called out.
Both turned to see a man in a crisp suit, gold-rimmed glasses glinting, stride toward the center. Dr. Timothy, principal of the academy, stopped between them, observing carefully.
"What's happening here?" His tone was measured, authoritative, but with a hint of curiosity.
Rachel stepped forward. "Principal, Maxwell Ardent challenged me." Her posture was perfect, and every eye in the arena followed her.
Dr. Timothy's gaze lingered on Maxwell, a subtle flicker of recognition passing over his face. He had seen rare abilities before, but something about this boy made him pause. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well. Begin, but with caution. This is your first day. The arena is for controlled combat, not recklessness."
The words barely left his lips before whispers erupted. "Maxwell Ardent? Against Princess Rachel?" "He won't last a minute." "Low-class mage… she'll crush him."
Maxwell ignored them. He looked at Rachel, her eyes sharp, her aura flaring. He adjusted his grip on his katana. "Attack with all honesty," he said.
Rachel laughed softly, a musical sound laced with tension. "I will. And with honor."
Rachel moved first, a blur of golden light. Her sword cut through the air, each strike accompanied by bursts of concentrated light magic, arcs of energy designed to test his reflexes, to see if he could withstand even a fraction of her skill.
Maxwell merely observed. Step by step, swing by swing, he studied her. Every footfall, every shift in weight, every flicker of magic became part of a pattern he etched into memory. He leaned back, sidestepped, ducked—never striking, never overextending, only avoiding.
Rachel's brow furrowed, her attacks becoming faster, more forceful. "Are you even going to fight back?" she snapped, sending a spinning slash of light that could have cleaved through a less-prepared mage.
"I've seen what I wanted to get," Maxwell said calmly, his voice steady even as the energy around him flared.
Rachel paused for a fraction of a second, irritation mixing with curiosity. She adjusted her stance, her golden aura pulsing brighter, but her rhythm betrayed her.
Then Maxwell moved.
It started subtle. A sidestep that mirrored her spinning slash, a counter that redirected her momentum just enough to disrupt her balance. He didn't need raw power; he needed precision, timing, and understanding. Every attack she threw became a tool, every feint a clue.
Her eyes widened as her strikes, which had broken every opponent before, were deflected, sidestepped, or redirected. The crowd gasped, murmurs turning into outright whispers. The princess, undefeated for over a hundred duels, was being outmaneuvered by a low-class mage.
Rachel's frustration mounted. She struck faster, harder, but Maxwell's calm continued. Each swing of her blade, each burst of light, he copied, adapted, and used against her. Momentum, aura flow, magical output—everything she relied on became a weapon she didn't realize she was feeding into his strategy.
"Why aren't you attacking properly?" she demanded, fury in her voice, breath sharp.
"I am," Maxwell replied, his eyes locked on her form. "In my own way. I've seen everything I need to."
The arena seemed to slow as Maxwell began his final sequence. He had studied every strike, every magical nuance, every hesitation. Mana coalesced within him, filling every fiber of his being. He mirrored her last series of attacks, but now with subtle enhancements, redirecting her power, exploiting her rhythm, breaking her defense.
Rachel's aura flared violently, but she was already too predictable, too precise, too human. Maxwell stepped in, katana slicing in perfect synchronization with her own swings, each counter a lesson in his copy ability. He stored all remaining energy, all accumulated mana, and focused it into one final strike.
The air snapped. Light collided with sheer precision. Rachel's eyes widened as the final thrust connected. She stumbled, chest heaving, aura flickering uncontrollably. Maxwell followed through, every ounce of stored energy released. The crowd erupted in stunned silence.
"Maxwell Ardent… victorious!" the announcer declared.
Both fell to the floor, exhausted. Rachel dropped to her knees, struggling to maintain focus. Maxwell lay motionless, drained completely, katana slipping from his grasp.
"Call the infirmary!" Tobias shouted, leaping from the stands, Elias and Liora close behind.
Healers teleported in, hands glowing as they hovered over the two combatants. The crowd, stunned into silence, whispered in awe.
Even Rachel, struggling to breathe, glanced at Maxwell with something more than irritation,respect, curiosity, and a quiet acknowledgment of his skill. The duel had ended, but something far more complex had just begun.
Scene 3
Rachel's eyes fluttered open to a soft glow of sunlight spilling through the infirmary window. The events of the duel returned to her mind in vivid detail: Maxwell's calm, uncanny avoidance of her attacks, the sudden surge when he mirrored her strikes, and the final devastating blow that left them both unconscious. She winced at the memory, a mix of frustration and admiration bubbling inside her.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. "Princess Voss? Are you awake?"
Rachel turned her head to see a nurse smiling warmly. "Yes… I'm awake." She stretched lightly, careful not to aggravate her still-tender muscles.
"You're being discharged today," the nurse said, checking her chart. "Do you need assistance?"
"I'll manage. Thank you," Rachel replied. Then, curiosity struck. "Which room was… Maxwell admitted to?"
The nurse's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Room 12B, on the east wing. He's stable, but still resting after the duel."
Rachel's lips curled into a small smile. Without another word, she rose, gathered her belongings, and headed toward the east wing.
Maxwell stood by the window, his back to her, gazing out at the sprawling academy grounds. The faint shimmer of lingering mana surrounded him, a remnant of the final strike. He hadn't noticed her approach until she cleared her throat softly.
He turned, eyes meeting hers, and a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.
"I… I admit defeat," Rachel said quickly, stepping closer. "I… I'm sorry for underestimating you. And for the bet." She hesitated, then added, "And for hitting you with my magic like that."
Maxwell chuckled lightly. "No apology necessary. You fought well."
Rachel's lips quirked into a smile, the tension of the duel easing slightly. "I suppose introductions are in order. I'm Rachel Voss, and you are…?"
"Maxwell Ardent," he replied, extending a hand. "Though I doubt you didn't already know that."
She laughed softly, shaking his hand. "I suppose not. But now, I know you better than I thought I would on my first day."
Maxwell's gaze flicked to the faint scar of mana residue along her wrist. "The bet," he said casually. "You mentioned the condition. That still stands, does it not?"
Rachel froze, her mind involuntarily spinning into a strange, mischievous scenario. She flushed, realizing what she had imagined, and in a burst of embarrassment, blurted out, "Use me as you want, you pervert!"
Maxwell froze for half a heartbeat, then erupted into laughter. His amusement was genuine, easy, infectious. "Pervert? I don't know about that. But… teach me. Teach me how to level up my abilities."
Rachel blinked in surprise. "My… abilities?"
Maxwell leaned back against the windowsill, gaze softening. "I come from a family where my abilities are considered… insignificant. Low-class, weak, hardly worth mention. They didn't care to train me. In fact, they exiled me because of it. If I'm to survive, I have to learn from others—people who know how to wield power, strategize, fight…" His voice dropped, almost reflective. "…and maybe understand myself along the way."
Rachel's expression softened. She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time outside the duel. "That… that's not fair. But… it explains a lot."
Maxwell shrugged lightly. "I've learned to adapt. I've learned to rely on myself. But… I'd rather learn with someone I respect."
There was a pause, then Rachel smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. "I respect that. And… I think I like you better than I thought I would."
Maxwell's grin mirrored hers, their earlier duel tension melting into mutual understanding. "Then it's settled. You teach me, I survive, and perhaps—eventually—I get to challenge you again."
Rachel laughed again, the sound echoing softly through the east wing. "Perhaps. But don't think I'll go easy next time."
For the first time that day, they both felt a strange ease, a tentative bond forming between them—born from rivalry, tempered by respect, and tempered even further by their shared curiosity about each other.
The afternoon sun streamed across the window as they continued talking, laughter blending with serious conversation about magic, training, and survival. Maxwell shared pieces of his family's harsh rules, his rare ability, and the discipline that had shaped him. Rachel shared her struggles as a princess, the weight of expectations, and the desire for freedom.
By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, an unspoken understanding had settled between them. Rivals in the arena, allies in ambition, and perhaps something more budding under the surface, they finally relaxed, letting the tension of the first day fade.