"Vincent! Wake up — you're gonna be late for your meeting!" Ragnar shouted, half-dressed, his tie hanging loose around his neck.
The Wryd estate was usually quiet at dawn, but not this morning. The calm halls were soon filled with laughter echoing through the corridors — the kind of laughter that made even the cold walls feel alive.
Ragnar turned just in time to see Lilly sprint past the hallway, holding a cup of water like a weapon, with Merlin — her long hair tied in a messy ponytail — chasing after her with mock fury.
"Lilly! Stop running, you're going to slip!" Merlin called out, holding up the bottom of her apron as she ran.
Lilly turned with a mischievous grin and splashed the water at her.
I won't stop until you agree to teach me magic!"
Merlin froze mid-step, blinking through dripping water. "Lilly!" she gasped, half laughing, half pretending to scold. "You're too young for that!"
"But you said when I turn nine you'd teach me something! Lilly beamed proudly, her eyes sparkling with triumph.
Merlin sighed, smiling despite herself. "I meant when you turn nine and stop acting like a hurricane!"
"Then you'll be waiting forever! Lilly giggled, taking off down the hall again.
Merlin laughed softly, hands on her hips. "This child…" she muttered, though her voice carried warmth — the kind that only came from someone who truly cared.
Ragnar chuckled from the stairs, shaking his head. "You two are gonna bring the whole house down one day."
Merlin turned to him with an exasperated smile. Don't just stand there laughing, Ragnar. A little help, maybe?"
He shrugged. "You seem to be handling it perfectly."
Lilly stuck her tongue out at him as she ran by again. "You're just jealous cause you can't catch her either!"
Merlin's laughter filled the air, light and genuine — and for a fleeting moment, it reminded Ragnar what peace used to sound like.
Then, as if the thought itself hurt, Ragnar's smile faltered. A sharp, cold pain struck his chest — deep and sudden. His hand gripped where his heart was, his breath quickening.
The laughter faded into a distant echo.
"Ragnar?"
Vincent appeared at his side, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. His eyes — tired and heavy — met Ragnar's, silently acknowledging the pain he saw there.
"It's best not to bring up the past, Vincent said quietly.
Ragnar exhaled shakily, the pain fading. "Yeah…" he muttered. "Thanks for waking me up."
Vincent gave a faint smile. "No problem. You look worse than I do."
Ragnar raised a brow. "That's a first."
"Trust me," Vincent said, buttoning his coat. "You wouldn't want my schedule right now. The king's holding an emergency meeting."
Ragnar's expression darkened. "What's going on this time?"
"The kingdom of Nefaria," Vincent said bitterly. "They're demanding more supplies, more mana stones, and more soldiers — knowing damn well we're still weak from the Aviorix War. If we refuse, they're threatening another invasion."
Ragnar frowned. The Aviorix War was pointless to begin with. Thousands dead for no gain."
"Exactly," Vincent replied. "And now that our armies are still recovering, every nation around us suddenly 'can't get involved.' No aid. No communication. Like someone's pulling strings from the shadows."
Ragnar's tone dropped, his usual playful energy gone. "This isn't coincidence. Aviorix weakened us, isolated us, and now Nefaria moves in at the perfect time. This was planned."
Vincent blinked. "You think both wars are connected?"
Ragnar nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like someone wanted this. Aviorix was the bait, Nefaria's the blade."
Vincent rubbed his temple. "If that's true, we're screwed. The council's already talking about involving academy students. If things go bad, they might actually let kids fight."
Ragnar's eyes widened. "That's insane."
Vincent's voice hardened. "And the first academy they'll target is Saint High."
Ragnar clenched his jaw. "Saint High would never allow that."
"Not as long as Godfrey stands in their way," Vincent muttered. "He's the only one the king won't touch."
Ragnar looked down, silent for a moment. "So the old man's still protecting the school… huh."
Vincent sighed. "Yeah. For now."
The silence that followed was heavy — too heavy for a morning this bright.
Then Ragnar grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Guess I should get going before I'm late. Again."
Vincent chuckled weakly. "Try not to make any explosions this time."
"No promises," Ragnar said with a smirk, heading for the door.
As he stepped into the courtyard, the sound of laughter caught his ear again.
Merlin sat cross-legged on the grass, her clothes damp and wrinkled, brushing dirt from Lilly's hair. The girl sat in front of her, legs swinging, smiling wide.
"You're impossible," Merlin said softly.
"But you love me anyway," Lilly teased.
Merlin laughed, tugging lightly on her braid. "You have no idea."
Ragnar stood at the doorway for a long moment, just watching. That warmth — that small, fragile happiness — was something he hadn't felt in years. His smile faded slowly, replaced by something distant… haunted.
'They remind me of how things were,' he thought, the echo of old memories flickering behind his eyes.
Then he turned and walked away — the laughter of the two fading behind him, leaving only silence and the ghosts of the past.
---
The streets buzzed faintly as morning carriages rolled past, students in robes rushing through cobbled alleys. Ragnar walked at a slow pace, eyes half-open, scarf loose around his neck. The chill wind brushed past his hair as he checked the time on his crystal watch.
"…Damn it. Late again.:
He sighed, scratching his head. "Well… might as well," he muttered, stopping by a small café near the tram line — "The Golden Mug."
Inside, warm air and roasted coffee beans filled the room. He slumped into a corner seat.
A waitress, her notebook trembling in her hand, approached him with a polite smile.
"What will you be having today, sir?"
Ragnar cracked his knuckles dramatically.
"Right, so— medium roast blend, two shots of caramel syrup, half-cream foam, sprinkle of mint dust, exactly three cubes of ice, one cinnamon stick for scent… and— oh! Add a dash of ether-leaf essence if you have it."
The waitress blinked. "…Right. Ether-leaf. Got it."
As she scribbled, she looked across the table and realized someone else was sitting opposite Ragnar — a man who'd somehow appeared there without a sound.
He was dressed… oddly. A clown's outfit, but not the kind you'd laugh at. His attire was a blend of regal red and deep violet, gold-lined seams running along a long coat that looked half circus, half royal uniform. His hair was snow-white, eyes two sharp crimson mirrors that seemed to reflect light in strange patterns. A single black diamond was painted beneath his left eye — not makeup, but something almost natural.
The waitress hesitated. "And you, sir?"
He smiled faintly, voice smooth as velvet.
"I'll have the same as the kid."
Ragnar froze. The man hadn't even looked at the menu.
The waitress nodded and hurried off. Ragnar leaned back, wary. How did I not notice him there until now?
The man chuckled softly. "Don't worry, kid. I'm not here to do anything bad to you.
Ragnar's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you here for?"
"Coffee," the man said simply. "And conversation. You looked like you needed both."
That earned a small snort from Ragnar. "You sure have a way with words for a guy dressed like a street magician."
The man laughed — a low, genuine sound that made the air feel lighter. "Street magician, huh? Haven't been called that one before."
Their drinks arrived, and the two talked — about everything and nothing. The man cracked ridiculous jokes about how he once juggled fireballs in front of nobles and almost burned the duke's wig off; Ragnar laughed so hard the other customers stared. For a moment, all the weight he carried — the war, the ache in his chest, the endless thoughts — faded into quiet laughter and spilled coffee.
When the talk slowed, Ragnar tilted his head. "You never told me your name."
The man smiled, his crimson eyes gleaming.
"Queen."
"…Queen?" Ragnar blinked. "What kind of name is that?"
"The kind that doesn't matter until it does." He stood, leaving a few coins on the table. "Enjoy your coffee, Ragnar Wryd."
Ragnar's breath caught. He knows my name.
But before he could speak, Queen was gone — vanished into the busy street, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and burnt sugar.
---
By the time Ragnar reached the academy gates, the morning bell was long gone. Alys was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"You're late. Again."
Ragnar grinned. "Fashionably."
Magna sighed. "You smell like caffeine and bad decisions."
"Met someone interesting," Ragnar said vaguely.
Light raised an eyebrow. "You're always meeting weird people, bro."
Lilia walked up, papers in hand, looking tired but calm. "You all can joke later. The teachers called for us — we're to report to the faculty office after homeroom."
"Did they say why?" Yuuki asked nervously.
"No," she said. "But given what's happening outside these walls, I can guess."
The group exchanged silent glances. For a moment, no one spoke.
Ragnar looked up at the cloudy sky, thinking to himself:
We can't talk about the war here. Not with so many ears around. One wrong word, and rumors spread — fear spreads. The kingdom's cracking, and even Saint High's walls can't keep that out forever.
He forced a small smile. "Alright then. Let's not keep the teachers waiting."
As they walked together toward the main building, their laughter slowly returned — forced, but warm enough to hide the dread sitting quietly behind their smiles.
The Five Saints stood quietly in the faculty office, the air heavy with silence. Sunlight filtered through tall glass windows, cutting across the marble floor and casting thin, gold lines that reached toward the students like watchful eyes.
At the center of the room stood Headmaster Godfrey's assistant, Professor Lucien. A tall man with slick silver hair and thin glasses, his tone carried both authority and weariness.
"I'll get straight to the point," he began, sliding a stack of sealed papers onto his desk. "Whatever rumors you've heard about the situation outside Saint High — forget them. The academy is aware of the tensions between kingdoms, and Headmaster Godfrey himself is handling the matter personally."
Ragnar leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
'So the old man really is moving behind the scenes…'
Lucien's eyes scanned the group. "Your duty as students is to focus on your studies — and more importantly, on the Continental Arcane Tournament."
Light raised an eyebrow. "The one between the academies?"
"Precisely," Lucien said, adjusting his glasses. "Saint High has held the championship title for twenty consecutive years. But this time…" He paused, expression hardening. "This year will not be easy. Our rivals have been training under military instructors. Their curriculum has shifted toward combat specialization."
Alys smirked slightly. "Good. It'll make winning more satisfying.'
Magna groaned. "Of course you'd say that."
Lucien ignored their banter and gestured to the board behind him, showing an outline of the tournament bracket.
"Only one representative from each class — A through F — will be chosen. Six in total. You'll be competing not only against other schools across the continent but also against your own peers. The internal selections begin in three weeks."
The announcement sent a ripple through the room. Even Ragnar's eyes narrowed a little.
Outside, as the group left the office, the chatter in the halls was deafening. Students from all classes whispered about the upcoming selection — the challenge, the honor, the fame.
Saint High's system was brutal but clear: those with talent rose, those without fell.
Students from Class A like the Five Saints wore immaculate black-and-gold uniforms — long coats lined with enchanted thread, symbolizing excellence and superiority.
Class B uniforms were dark blue with silver trim — respectable, but clearly a rank below.
Class C through F wore simpler attire, each class a duller shade, until Class F's grey jackets stood as a public reminder of their "lack of potential."
The academy didn't hide it.
"Those who are smarter, stronger, and more capable deserve better."
That was Saint High's unspoken rule — a rule that shaped the elite and crushed everyone else.
---
In the garden courtyard, the Five Saints gathered under the tall marble fountain.
"So," Light said, spinning his staff lazily, "which one of us is throwing hands this time?"
"I could go," Magna offered. "Wouldn't mind testing my blade."
Lilia folded her arms. "You're too reckless. They'd expect that."
"Then Yuuki," Light teased. "He's smart enough to trick them.,
Yuuki shook his head nervously. "I—I don't do well in front of crowds."
Everyone looked at Ragnar next. He stretched, pretending to think. "I'd rather not. The tournament's for glory, and I'm not interested in attention."
Alys scoffed. "Then I'll do it."
Her voice cut through the chatter like glass.
Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You know how serious these fights get. Some of those kids aren't holding back."
Alys crossed her arms, confidence radiating off her. "That's exactly why I'm going. If Saint High's reputation is on the line, it won't be anyone but me representing Class A."
The group exchanged glances — they knew there was no arguing with her when she got that fire in her eyes. Ragnar just smiled faintly.
"Fine. Then don't lose, Saint.'
She smirked. "I won't."
---
Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the academy towers, the view shifted to the Royal Palace of Valtoria.
A massive hall glittered with chandeliers and polished obsidian floors. Rows of nobles lined long tables, murmuring anxiously while the king's advisors whispered among themselves. The war had left the kingdom fragile, and now — with Nefaria's threats growing — the upcoming royal meeting would decide the country's next move.
Among the crowd stood Duke Voldric, a man in his fifties with sharp eyes and a cold smile.
"If Saint High falls in the tournament," he muttered to his aide, "it won't just be a loss in prestige. It'll be the first crack in the crown's influence."
The aide looked uneasy. "You think that school truly holds that much weight, my lord?"
Arclay's smirk deepened. "Saint High isn't a school. It's a symbol. Break the symbol… and you break the kingdom's faith."
The hall's doors opened. A single royal guard entered and announced in a booming voice:
"His Majesty will see you now."
And as the nobles bowed, the air turned cold — for the game of nations was about to begin.