"As we decided, the consequences of this match are obvious," Father Prince declared, his voice carrying over the training grounds.

But the place was silent.

No cheers, no whispers—just the stunned breathing of students who didn't know what to make of what they had witnessed. Sylas—the untouchable, the one who strutted as though the academy belonged to him—was broken on the ground. Aramith stood unscathed, calm, almost detached, as though this outcome had been inevitable from the beginning.

The silence dragged until Aramith moved, walking steadily toward Mozrael's side. His steps echoed in the stillness. The moment he reached her, a sound split the quiet.

Clap.

Every head turned.

Mozrael blinked in shock when she saw who it was. "Sylvia?"

The girl's hands didn't falter. She clapped with a small smile, her gaze fixed on Aramith. And as if her courage gave them permission, other students joined in. Slowly, the applause grew until it rolled across the field. Praise mingled with awe—Aramith had come out not only victorious, but untouchable.

A flawless victory.

Meanwhile, Sylas's friends scurried forward, trying to gather the broken boy, but Father Prince's voice stopped them cold.

"If you are planning on taking him to his room, then consider yourselves outcasts as well. As of now, he has no room. None of his belongings belong to him. He cannot even take the dust from that place without the owner's permission." His finger pointed straight at Aramith.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"And carry him instead—" Father Prince's hand shifted, now toward the unconscious Aris. "—to the room that once belonged to Sylas."

The friends froze, stricken. Reluctantly, others stepped in, hauling Aris away while Sylas was left to lie where he had fallen, stripped of title, stripped of place, stripped of dignity.

In minutes, everything had changed.

The boy who was once revered had become an outcast.

And though many celebrated Aramith, not all smiles were genuine. Some eyes followed him with envy, with contempt—especially those who had once marched under Sylas's shadow. To them, Aramith's rise was a betrayal of the natural order.

At the back, three boys muttered among themselves.

"I told you Mozrael wasn't with him for no reason," one said, eyes narrowed.

"I know… I thought it was just because of his good looks," the second admitted.

"Yeah, me too," the third nodded quickly.

The first exhaled, defeated. "Well, I guess we know now. Stronger, better-looking. There's no way she'd choose anyone else. We never stood a chance."

"You're giving up already?" the second scoffed.

The third smirked, puffing his chest. "You two are idiots."

The others shot him a look. "Don't let it get in your head. Just because you still have hope doesn't make you better than us."

"No," he said, grinning slyly, "you're missing something. Think about it. Have they ever said they're together? No. All anyone knows is that they're usually side by side. That doesn't mean anything."

The others frowned. "So what? That's the same thing."

"Not exactly," the third pressed. "What if they're not lovers? What if they're… siblings?"

Silence.

The two exchanged glances, realization dawning—until they looked back at Aramith and Mozrael. The pair were simply watching the crowd, frowning faintly, but it was enough to make the suggestion ridiculous.

The first two smacked their companion across the head.

"Dumbass."

"Shit-brained."

He rubbed his scalp. "What's wrong with you two?"

"Do they even look alike?"

"What makes them seem like brother and sister?"

The muttering dissolved into childish bickering, drowned out by the crowd's noise.

Meanwhile, Sylas's name sank lower with every passing moment. The applause for Aramith was also laughter at his downfall. By the time he was dragged away, his reputation was in ruins.

Later, when Aramith stepped into his new dorm, he paused.

The place was empty.

Except for one figure—Aris, unconscious but treated, lying where others had placed him.

Sylas's hold had been so great that his roommates had abandoned their own beds to give him a chamber all to himself. But now, stripped of even that, the same privilege was being handed over—to Aramith.

The boy once lowest at the academy had become its most respected and feared.

And Sylas? He was nothing.

In her dorm, Mozrael sat on her bed, and Elira didn't stop yapping about how the day went. She kept dramatically describing how the fight had happened, her favorite part being when Sylas couldn't do anything anymore.

"Well, he deserved that. I don't even know what he sent those boys in here for. Stupid pervert."

Mozrael watched her rattle on, then calmly asked her a question. "Why did you cry?" She asked.

"What?"

"During the fight, you cried. Why?"

Elira remembered when she cried as she thought Aramith was losing the fight. Her face brightened.

"It was nothing, I wasn't feeling well."

Mozrael squinted, eyeing the girl carefully, but Elira quickly changed the topic.

"But don't you find it odd that Sylvia clapped? She never cares about anything, so why did she clap for Aramith? Maybe she has—"

The door opened as Sylvia entered, and Elira quickly covered her mouth.

Sylvia held her gaze for three full seconds before breaking off.

Elira forced a yawn and stretched her arms. "Ahhh. So tired. Good night, see you tomorrow." She disappeared under her covers.

But Mozrael looked at the distant girl, wondering why she clapped for Aramith.

The next morning, Aramith was introduced to Mozrael's class as their new member. Aris was sent to a different class.

There were a few empty seats, but he chose to sit beside Mozrael.

Whispers spread as people gossiped about him. He was still a hot topic in the academy.

Some even wanted to approach him and offer to be friends, but he looked too serious.

Not long after they'd settled down, someone approached his desk.

"I'm Sylvia Drakemire, pleased to meet you, Aramith."

The class froze, becoming so quiet you could hear yourself breathe.

Sylvia had her hand stretched out in greeting, smiling at Aramith.

He recognized her long before from when Mozrael first described her roommates.

He glanced at Mozrael, confused.

Isn't she supposed to be the one who doesn't care about anything?

But Mozrael only shrugged. She didn't understand Sylvia one bit.

Aramith nodded at Sylvia and shook her hand. If he didn't do so, everyone would judge him as someone who thought too highly of himself. No need to do that on the first day in class.

"I'm strong," she declared.

Aramith looked at her awkwardly. What's the meaning of declaring you're strong right off the bat like that?

Before he could think of a response, she continued.

"You're stronger than me, so I want you to help me get stronger."

So, that's what she wanted all along.

Aramith shook his head. "I—"

"Before you decide to make a decision, I want you to know who I am. I'm from the Dravenholt clan."

The room became silent.

Everyone knew the Dravenholt clan.

It was a powerful clan that is rumored to have dragon blood in their veins. All members of the clan are intelligent or strong, or both.

She was establishing her position as someone with strong backing, but...

Aramith frowned. "If I am not mistaken, the Dravenholt clan resides in the Celestial Fang Kingdom, and they prefer to attend the Acaedmies there, so why are you here?"

Sylvia smiled. "I'm glad you know. My respect for you has doubled." She leaned in closer, hands on the desk. "You'll believe me if I show you proof?"

Aramith stared at her defiantly. "I can't tell if it would change my decision. I don't—"

Mozrael nudged him, tilting her head toward the girl. She was interested in the girl's claims. Whether it was because of her connection to Agaboz or just curiosity, Aramith couldn't tell. But he understood waht she meant.

"Fine, prove it," Aramith replied to Sylvia.

"Fine, come with me," Sylvia said and walked out.

Aramith sighed and followed her out. Some of the students got up to follow, but Mozrael glared at them, making them pretend to be stretching.

Aramith knew the most obvious proof of being in the Dravenholt clan was their dual attribute— Fire and ice.

Sylvia led him down a quiet corridor, stopping only when the voices of the class had faded completely. She glanced back, her eyes gleaming.

"My clan is known for our dual attribute. Fire and ice would be proof enough," she said, her voice low and certain. "But anyone could fake that. This, however…"

Aramith folded his arms. "Get to the point."

Sylvia's face was one of seriousness. "Don't regret saying that."

Before he could respond, she slipped her fingers under the hem of her top and unbuttoned it, just enough to bare the side of her ribcage.

Aramith's eyes widened. His first instinct was to look away, but the mark caught him—etched like living fire and frost, a dragon coiled around a symbol split between flame and snowflake. It shimmered faintly, as if alive.

He froze. His face heated. "You—what are you doing showing me that here?"

Sylvia tilted her head, utterly unbothered. "Why hide it? Power isn't something to be ashamed of. Only the weak act as though it should be hidden."

Aramith struggled to look at anything but the glowing tattoo. He could feel his composure slipping.

"Still," he muttered, forcing his gaze away, "this isn't something you show a stranger—"

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a challenge. "You're not a stranger. You're stronger than me. That's enough."

Before he could even form a retort, footsteps echoed sharply from behind.

"Aramith?"

Both of them turned. Mozrael stood frozen in the corridor, her eyes fixed on Sylvia, then on Aramith, then on the exposed skin between them.

Her expression darkened instantly, a dangerous cold flickering in her eyes.

Aramith's stomach dropped. "Mozrael—it's not what it looks like—"

Sylvia calmly let her shirt fall back into place, unhurried, looking calmly at Mozrael's glare. "Oh, but it is what it looks like. Proof."

She tapped her side where the mark now hid beneath cloth. "He's seen it. That's all that matters."

"Seen what?" Mozrael asked.

Aramith held his breath, muttering under his breath, "This is going to get me killed…"

Mozrael's fists clenched at her sides, faint wisps of blue flame flickering between her fingers. The air in the corridor felt hotter.

Aramith felt it instantly. "Mozrael—calm down. It's not what you think."

But her eyes never left Sylvia. They were sharper than blades, and her voice was low and dangerous. "You… you dare show him something like that?"

Sylvia didn't flinch. If anything, her expression turned more serious, her tone mocking. "What's the matter? Are you afraid?"

Mozrael's flames flared violently, her fist burning up. "One more word, and I'll—"

Aramith stepped between them, hands raised. "Enough! Sylvia, you've proven your point. Mozrael, there's nothing going on here."

Mozrael's gaze flicked to him, wounded but furious, before dropping to the ground. She turned on her heel sharply, the fire dissipating as she stormed back down the corridor.

Sylvia folded her arms, her expression now tinged with something mischievous. "She's spirited. I like her. No wonder you keep her close."

Aramith exhaled heavily, glaring at her. "You're bad news, Sylvia."

Sylvia leaned in, her eyes glittering with a mix of pride and challenge. "If she's strong, she won't break from something this small. Consider it… a test."

Aramith turned and left.

When Aramith returned to class, every head turned. The silence was deafening.

Mozrael didn't say a word, but the cold aura radiating from her was enough to make even the boldest students shrink into their seats.

The room buzzed instantly.

"Did they fight?" someone whispered."No, maybe she caught him doing something with Sylvia!" another hissed back."I told you, he's too cold to stay loyal to one girl.""Damn, a Playboy on day one of entering class?""But I thought Sylvia was cold, right?"

The whispers grew, weaving faster than wildfire, some students craning their necks to glimpse Aramith's face.

He ignored them, moving quickly to Mozrael's side. He lowered his voice, leaning toward her. "Mozrael, listen to me. You've got it wrong. Nothing happened."

She didn't answer. She pulled out a book and opened it with a sharp thump. Her eyes dropped to the page as if the world around her had ceased to exist.

"Mozrael…" His voice softened. He hated this. The silence hurt more than her flames ever could.

Still nothing. She turned a page, calm, deliberate, every motion like a wall slamming in his face.

From the corner of the room, a boy muttered, "Ooooh, he's in trouble."Another snickered, "Guess even the strong fall eventually."

"Maybe I have a chance with her now," another said.

"Don't be stupid. You have no chance."

Aramith's jaw tightened. He could feel eyes boring into him from all directions. He wanted to snap at them, but Mozrael's silence cut deeper than their gossip.

Leaning closer, he tried again, his words low enough only for her. "Please. At least look at me. I swear, I didn't—"

She lifted her hand—not to strike, but to quietly turn another page. The message was clear.

Aramith sat back, exhaling slowly. Around them, the class hummed with speculation, whispers buzzing like bees, all while Mozrael sat untouched, her book shielding her, her cold presence daring anyone to ask questions aloud.

What is all this?

Aramith didn't even know how things escalated so quickly.

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