Morning sunlight filtered through the dormitory windows, casting soft gold across the polished wooden floor.
Noel stood in front of the tall mirror, still toweling off his damp hair. The bath had done its job. His body felt light again, the aches and cuts of the last few days reduced to fading memory.
The briefcase on the bed sat open, its contents neatly folded.
He reached in and pulled out the uniform.
Dark navy coat, tailored to precision. White button-up shirt with a silver-accented collar. Slim black tie. Clean, durable trousers. Everything smelled faintly of enchanted starch and cold magic—like the wardrobe of someone important.
He dressed without ceremony.
One piece at a time.
Shirt. Tie. Coat. Gloves. Boots.
When he finished, he looked at himself in the mirror.
And blinked.
The man staring back didn't look like someone who had slit throats in a forest three days ago.
Didn't look like someone who'd ever bled, ever vomited from panic, ever run for his life.
He looked like a noble.
Sharp.
Poised.
Dangerously quiet.
Noel adjusted the tie slightly and raised an eyebrow at himself.
"You wear the uniform better than you wore a hospital gown," he muttered.
He turned away, grabbing the folded campus map and slipping it into his coat.
He didn't need to prepare a speech. He wasn't planning to impress anyone.
Just listen. Observe.
And blend.
For now.
He opened the door.
Time to meet the world.
The moment Noel stepped outside the dormitory tower, he felt it.
Movement. Life. Power.
The main courtyard of the Class A sector was already bustling. Students walked in clusters along the paved paths, some chatting, others simply moving with purpose. Dozens of uniforms flashed between the trees and arches—neatly pressed coats, polished boots, embroidered house sigils.
And it wasn't just humans.
He paused at the top of the steps and took it all in.
A pair of dwarves passed by, laughing in deep voices, their uniforms slightly modified to fit their broader frames. Two elven girls glided down a side path with unreadable grace, their platinum and snow-white hair catching the light like thread spun from starlight. On the edge of the training grounds, he caught sight of a trio of beastkin—feline humanoids, sleek and agile, tails swaying behind them, eyes like cut gems scanning the campus with wariness.
It was one thing to read about other races.
It was another to see them.
To be among them.
And yet, Noel kept his expression neutral. No staring. No second glances.
'You're not here to gawk. You're here to learn.'
Even if part of him, buried deep beneath all that cold calculation, still whispered:
'Goddamn. They really do look like the art pages… but better.'
He adjusted his gloves and kept walking.
Sixty students, at least, already mingling. All of them Class A. All of them considered the best.
That meant this year was packed with potential.
Or competition.
Maybe both.
The lobby of the Class A dormitory was quieter than the courtyard, but no less refined.
High ceilings arched overhead, carved with the academy's crest in silver and obsidian. A pair of magical lanterns floated in place near the reception desk, casting gentle light over marble floors and velvet-lined benches. Students passed through now and then, some carrying books, others chatting in low tones.
Noel scanned the room until he spotted him.
Gareth Wren, his guide and dorm overseer, stood near the hallway to the administrative wing, speaking with a staff member. His posture was relaxed, but every movement efficient—this was a man who remembered everything and missed nothing.
Noel made his way over, waiting politely until Gareth noticed him.
Just as Gareth turned—
A voice spoke from behind.
"Pardon me, are you Gareth Wren?"
Noel stopped mid-step and turned slightly.
A young woman had approached from the opposite corridor.
She was… striking.
She was tall, poised, and walked like the floor adjusted itself beneath her steps.
Elena von Lestaria.
Noel recognized her instantly—not from memory, but from description. From pages.
Her platinum-blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light like threads of moonlight. Her skin was fair, almost porcelain, and her amber eyes... gods, they didn't just glow. They watched. Like a scholar dissecting the room with a single glance.
The elegance wasn't forced. It was her.
Noel instinctively stepped back to let her pass, raising a hand with the slightest incline of his head.
"After you," he said, tone smooth but reserved. "Ladies first."
She paused—just a heartbeat—then offered a gentle nod of acknowledgment.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was calm. Refined. Controlled without sounding cold.
Gareth, now noticing both of them, smiled politely.
"Ah—Lord Noel Thorne, and Lady Elena von Lestaria. Two of our newest Class A residents."
Elena's eyes flicked to Noel. There was a brief pause—calculating.
And maybe… curious.
Noel met her gaze evenly, unbothered.
For a moment, the academy's marble halls felt like the opening scene of a play. Two leads, just now meeting on stage.
"I imagine you both have questions about dorm policies," Gareth said, his voice practiced and pleasant.
Noel and Elena nodded almost in sync.
"Good. Let's keep this simple."
He gestured toward the hallway behind him, though they didn't move. His tone shifted just slightly—more formal, almost administrative.
"For Class A, there are no curfews. You may come and go from your rooms as you wish. There are no restrictions on study hours, visitors, or how you personalize your space—within reason."
Noel tilted his head.
"So long as we show up to class on time."
"Exactly," Gareth confirmed. "Failure to maintain attendance or behavior consistent with Class A standards may result in reassignment to a lower rank."
Elena was already nodding, absorbing everything.
"But one rule," Gareth continued, his tone hardening just a fraction. "And this one is enforced."
Both of them glanced at him.
"We do not get involved in personal disputes between students—especially those of a romantic or family nature. If something arises… it's a matter for your House. Not the Academy."
There was a brief pause.
Noel raised a hand slightly, polite.
"You mean… dating?"
Gareth gave a short, measured nod. "Yes. Relationships are permitted. But any fallout—public drama, scandals, family backlash—it's all on you."
Noel glanced at Elena.
She said nothing, but the corner of her mouth lifted—amused, maybe.
Noel gave a slight shrug. "Noted."
With the rules explained, a brief silence settled over the trio.
Elena turned slightly toward Noel, her amber eyes narrowing—not unkindly, but inquisitive.
"You're Noel Thorne," she said. Not a question. A confirmation.
Noel nodded once. "That's right."
"I expected someone... different," she added, head tilting just slightly. "The rumors didn't mention manners."
That caught him off guard.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She smiled—just enough to shift the atmosphere between them.
"It was meant as one," she replied.
Her tone was polite, but not distant. The kind of grace that came from someone used to being studied—someone used to expectations, and skilled at managing them.
Noel bowed his head slightly. "Then I'm glad to have exceeded at least one."
She inclined her head in return, then excused herself with quiet elegance.
As she walked off, Noel watched her go.
'Exactly like the book described,' he thought.
'Except more real. More… sharp.'
Elena's footsteps faded into the quiet hum of academy life.
Noel remained still for a moment, watching her disappear around a corner, before turning back to Gareth.
"My laundry," he said, tone returning to neutral. "Is it ready?"
Gareth, already a step ahead, nodded. "Of course."
He stepped into the nearby office and returned with a folded bundle—clean, pressed, neatly tied with string. Noel accepted it with a nod.
"Thanks."
He turned to leave—then paused.
"…One more thing," he said, glancing back. "The rumors. I've heard they exist, but not the details. What exactly are they saying about me?"
Gareth hesitated.
Not out of fear. Just… diplomacy.
When he spoke, it was careful.
"They say you're here because of your name. Not your talent. That you're… a noble with no prospects. A political favor."
Noel's grip on the bundle tightened, just slightly.
Gareth met his gaze. "They call you the 'useless noble.' I don't say that to offend you—only because I imagine you'll hear worse eventually."
Noel's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak.
Didn't argue.
Didn't lash out.
He just nodded once.
"I see."
And without another word, he turned and walked away—his boots clicking against marble, the quiet fury in his steps masked by the stillness of the hall.