By the next morning, the campus had transformed into barely controlled chaos.
Students were everywhere.
The courtyards, usually calm and neatly organized, were now filled with flashes of light as spells were practiced with varying levels of success. Some students stood in tight circles, repeating incantations under their breath, while others shouted them with unnecessary confidence. On the training fields, groups ran drille, some coordinated, others disastrously out of sync.
I passed at least three people who were crying, two who were bragging loudly about their family's magical lineage, and one who was doing both simultaneously.
The day before assessments, apparently, brought out the best in everyone.
Or the worst.
I'd woken up early, gone through my usual routine, and decided almost immediately that staying anywhere near the training grounds would be a mistake. Panic was contagious, and I had no intention of catching it.
The library, on the other hand, seemed like a safer option.
I was half right.
It was busy, far busier than usual, but at least people here had the decency to be quiet about their anxiety. The tension hung in the air regardless, thick and suffocating, but it was contained in hushed whispers, frantic page-turning, and the occasional suppressed groan.
I walked between the tall shelves, scanning for a suitable spot, and eventually found a corner table tucked neatly between two towering bookcases. It was just far enough from the main area that I could pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.
Perfect.
The book I'd grabbed was dense: Magical Theory and Combat Applications. A Dry enough book that most people wouldn't even glance at it twice, but exactly the kind of thing that might actually be useful.
I settled in, flipped it open, and started reading.
Unlike most of the students outside, I wasn't interested in flashy spells or last-minute cramming. Understanding the structure behind magic—the why and how—was far more valuable than memorizing techniques you didn't fully grasp.
Twenty minutes passed in comfortable silence.
Then a shadow fell across my page.
"You know assessments are tomorrow, right?"
I didn't look up.
"I'm aware."
"Then why are you here reading instead of training?"
The voice was male, confident in that particular way that suggested he'd never been told no in his entire life.
"Everyone else is preparing. You're just... slacking off."
I turned the page.
"Hello? I'm talking to you."
Apparently, this was going to be a theme today.
I sighed softly, then I finally looked up, and had to admit, he was handsome.
Dark hair, neatly styled as if he'd put thought into it without wanting it to look like he had. Sharp jawline, straight nose, and eyes that carried a kind of self-assured intensity. He stood with perfect posture, shoulders relaxed but purposeful, just like someone trained to command attention without trying.
The kind of face that probably got him whatever he wanted.
Still… not the most attractive person I'd seen.
The guy I'd bumped into yesterday...now that was a different story entirely.
This one? He was just… polished.
"Kai Arden," he said, clearly expecting recognition. "I'm ranked third in our year."
"Congratulations," I said calmly. "Is that in strength or looks?"
For a moment, he froze.
It was subtle, but I caught it; the slight hint of surprise, the almost invisible clenching of his jaw. His confidence didn't disappear, but it shifted.
Good.
"I—" He cleared his throat, straightening slightly. "Strength. Obviously."
"Of course," I murmured, already looking back down at my book.
Silence stretched for half a second.
Then—
"You're making a mistake," he said, leaning against the table like he'd decided this conversation wasn't over. "The assessments aren't a joke. If you don't prepare, you'll end up at the bottom of the rankings. Is that really what you want?"
I picked up my pen, highlighted a passage about defensive ward construction, and scribbled a small note in the margin.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"No," I said.
The pause that followed was almost impressive.
I could practically feel his frustration building, radiating off him like heat. He wasn't used to being ignored. Not like this.
Most people probably hung onto every word he said.
Unfortunate for him, I wasn't most people.
"You should be training," he tried again, this time sounding more insistent. "At least practicing your spell control or combat stance. Even basic drills would be better than this."
I flipped the page.
Still nothing.
He exhaled sharply, then changed tactics.
"Look," he said, softer now, almost persuasive. "I can help you. If you're struggling, I mean. I don't mind giving you a few pointers."
That earned him a glance.
"You're wasting your own valuable training time," I said, resting my chin lightly on my hand. "Spending it talking to a poor commoner like me."
His expression tightened.
"I'm not wasting my time," he replied quickly. "I don't need as much training as the others."
"Oh?"
"I've been trained since childhood," he said, straightening slightly, his voice taking on a familiar edge of pride. "The Arden family leads the royal army. Combat is practically in my blood. I've already mastered techniques most students here haven't even seen before."
I nodded slowly, like I was paying attention.
I wasn't.
His voice faded into background noise as my eyes drifted back to the page. Something about counter-offensive redirection, far more interesting than whatever speech he was currently giving about legacy and expectations.
He kept talking.
Something about discipline.
Something about superiority.
Something about standards.
I underlined another sentence.
"You should consider it an opportunity," he continued. "Not everyone gets advice from someone like me."
"Mm," I hummed vaguely.
Silence.
Then—
"Are you serious right now?"
I glanced up again, blinking once. "Sorry, were you still talking?"
That did it.
"Fine," he said sharply, pushing himself off the table. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
He took a step back, clearly done trying.
"When you're crying after the combat assessment tomorrow," he added, "remember that I tried to help."
I gave a small, polite nod. "I'll keep that in mind."
He lingered for half a second, like he expected something, an apology, maybe. Or gratitude.
He got neither.
With a final huff, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing faintly through the library.
The quiet returned almost immediately.
I went back to my reading.
The section on counter-offensive techniques was actually pretty interesting, even if the author's writing style was drier than desert sand. There was a particular method involving energy redirection that could be useful if applied correctly—assuming, of course, your opponent underestimated you.
Which, conveniently, most people did.
Tomorrow would bring assessments, rankings, and a whole lot of expectations.
Serena Carver thought I didn't know my place.
Kai Arden thought I was unprepared.
They were both wrong.
But that wasn't surprising.
People like them saw what they expected to see—titles, appearances, status. They built their conclusions on surface-level observations and called it judgment.
It made things easier for me.
I turned another page, completely at ease despite the tension humming through the rest of the library.
Let them underestimate me.
Let them assume I was weak, careless, or oblivious.
It only made things more convenient when it mattered.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at my lips.