Sol-Regis Academy – Senior Wing. International Diplomacy & Politics Classroom – Morning.
The atmosphere inside the classroom was stifling and tedious. The low drone of Professor Hargo dissecting the "Salt Treaty of 655" acted as a remarkably effective lullaby.
In the very back row, Sir Roland was fighting a losing battle to keep his head upright. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead. Only hours ago, he had been pouring every ounce of his acting talent into playing a raving drunkard in front of the Iron Vault Bank until three in the morning—all to distract the guards. Now, every inch of muscle in his shoulders and back throbbed with a dull ache.
In the guest seat directly behind him, Sir Rianor sat composed, his quill scratching steadily across his parchment. He wore thin, silver-rimmed spectacles that gave him the air of a hyper-perfectionist, perhaps even a stern teaching assistant.
"Rianor," Roland whispered without turning his head, his voice barely a ghost in the quiet room. "My shoulders are about to fall off. Give me a rub, will you?"
"Hush," Rianor replied coldly, his eyes never straying from his notes. He pushed his glasses up with a precise flick of his middle finger. "Stay fully alert. Morvath is undoubtedly mobilizing every spy he has to find a scapegoat for last night's bank incident. Do not give them a reason to find your behavior suspicious."
Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. Tap. Tap.
Professor Hargo stopped mid-sentence, causing every head in the room to swivel. As the Headmaster stepped inside followed by a young woman, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet by five degrees. A sharp, biting chill pricked at their skin.
The girl was on an entirely different level.
Her hair was a shimmering, pale silver, cascading perfectly straight down to her waist. Her skin was as white as expensive porcelain, providing a stark contrast to a pair of sharp, crimson eyes with vertical, reptilian pupils. She wore the academy uniform, but with the addition of a white fur mantle over her shoulders that radiated absolute authority. Her presence alone made the children of Aethelgard's high-ranking officials look like commoners.
"Attention, everyone," the Headmaster said, his voice trembling with a hint of nervous tension. "Today, we welcome a distinguished exchange student from the Draconian Empire. Allow me to introduce Her Highness, Princess Seraphina Draconia."
GASP.
The previously silent classroom erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. Draconia? The militaristic empire to the north that reportedly carried the blood of dragons in their veins?
Seraphina stepped forward. She did not smile. Her red eyes swept over the room with a look of utter disdain, as if she were observing a colony of ants.
"I am here to study your weaknesses... I mean, Aethelgardian culture," she said in a flat, frigid tone. "Do not bother me, and I won't have to incinerate you."
"My, she's a prickly one," Roland whispered, his eyes now wide open. "Exactly my type."
"You're just looking for a shortcut to the grave," Rianor murmured back.
"Please, take a seat, Your Highness," Professor Hargo said, mopping sweat from his balding forehead. "There happens to be a vacancy next to... Sir Roland."
Seraphina glided toward the desk. Her footsteps were impossibly light, producing almost no sound against the wooden floor. As she sat beside Roland, a unique scent wafted over—not the cloying rose perfume or powder typical of Capital girls, but a crisp aroma of mint mingled with a faint, sharp scent of brimstone.
Roland, feeling his calling as a diplomat (and his Casanova instincts) stir, flashed his most lethal smile.
"Welcome to Aethelgard, Princess," Roland greeted her smoothly, pitching his voice to its most charming register. "I am Roland Sudrath. Should you require a tour guide or perhaps just some pleasant lunch company, I—"
Seraphina turned slowly. Her crimson eyes locked onto Roland with an intensity that made him feel as though he were being stared down by a primeval predator. Suddenly, she leaned in, her face inches from his, and sniffed the air near his shoulder.
Gulp. Roland swallowed hard.
"You..." Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "You smell of cheap ale... and the residue of Corrosive Acid."
Roland's heart skipped a beat. Cold sweat began to prickle at his temples. Corrosive acid? That was the substance Rhea had used to melt the vault hinges only hours ago! Dammit, the scent must have lingered on his clothes when they shared a celebratory hug at dawn.
"Acid?" Roland let out a forced, high-pitched laugh born of panic. "Ah, perhaps it's my new soap. A family factory experiment, you know how it is... us Northerners..."
Seraphina didn't blink. She held his gaze for a long moment, as if dissecting every layer of his lie. Then, her eyes shifted toward Rianor sitting behind him. She squinted at the way Rianor's glasses caught the morning sun.
"And you," Seraphina pointed with her chin at Rianor. "Those glasses are fake. Your vision is perfect. Why do you wear them?"
Rianor remained unphased. He pushed the frame up with a neat, practiced motion. "They are a filter for fools, Princess. Though it seems they don't work when facing someone like you."
The corner of Seraphina's lip twitched—a smile so faint it was nearly undetectable. "Fascinating. It seems there are at least two people in this class who aren't dreadfully boring."
She turned back to the front, dismissing Roland entirely as if he had just turned into thin air.
Lunch Break – Academy Cafeteria.
Roland, Rianor, and Rhea huddled at the farthest corner table, away from the prying ears of other students.
"She smelled the acid on my coat!" Roland hissed, frantically chewing his bread. "Her nose is like a bloodhound's! What if she realizes we're the ones who hit the bank?"
"She's from the Dragon Clan, Roland," Rianor explained with a grim expression. "Draconians possess senses far beyond those of ordinary humans. To her, your scent was likely as loud as an explosion."
"So what do I do?" Roland asked, frustrated. "She's going to be sitting next to me every single day!"
"Use it," Rhea said casually, idly spinning her dagger beneath the table. "Draconia and Aethelgard are bitter rivals currently in a fragile ceasefire. If they sent a Crown Princess here, there's a massive diplomatic or espionage mission behind it."
"Get close to her," Rianor commanded. "Not to make her your lover—unless you truly wish to be charred to a crisp—but to gather intel. Why would the Draconian Empire send their most valuable asset to a neighboring school? There's a larger agenda at play."
"But she's ice cold! Her name might be Seraphina, but her gaze belongs in a freezer!"
"You have a 'Golden Tongue', don't you?" Rianor offered a thin smirk. "Thaw the ice. Use your diplomatic skills... or just give her some soap."
Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the center of the cafeteria. This time, it wasn't a physical brawl. Valerian Morvath stood blocking Seraphina's path, flanked by his lackeys. Valerian clearly intended to assert his dominance over the newcomer.
"Princess Seraphina," Valerian greeted her with a heavy coat of arrogance. "I am Valerian Morvath, Student Council President. In this academy, there are unwritten rules that every new student must officially report to me for—"
"Move," Seraphina cut him off. She didn't even slow her stride.
Valerian felt the sting of the insult instantly. He spread his arms, barring her way. "I am speaking to you, My Lady. Draconia may be powerful in the north, but in Sol-Regis, the name Morvath is the law."
Seraphina stopped. She looked at Valerian with a gaze that could freeze blood in one's veins.
"Morvath?" she asked flatly. "Oh... you mean the son of the Minister whose private bank was picked clean just last night?"
TOTAL SILENCE.
The entire cafeteria went dead quiet. News of the bank robbery hadn't even hit the official papers yet! How did this girl know? Valerian's face turned a violent shade of crimson, caught between humiliation and explosive rage. "That... that is a baseless rumor! Who told you that?!"
"My father has spies in every rat hole in this kingdom," Seraphina said calmly. "You Aethelgardians are weak. You can't even protect your own hoard."
Seraphina intentionally brushed past Valerian's shoulder as she walked away, leaving the Student Council President standing there with his pride in tatters.
Roland stared at the scene, mouth agape. "Damn... her tongue is even sharper than Rhea's."
Rianor smiled mysteriously as he sipped his tea. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Roland. You just found a golden opportunity. She hates Morvath, and we want to destroy Morvath. I think the two of you will make a wonderful pair."