Velaria University wasn't built like other schools.
It wasn't built at all. It bloomed.
Atop a floating isle tucked between clouds and stars, it rose with silver towers, spiral gardens, and ancient libraries that breathed magic with every breath of wind. Spells slept inside the stone. The hallways whispered. The trees listened. And every corner of Velaria held history in its bones.
It was beautiful. Powerful. Alive.
And for Ayra, it was boring.
She walked through the campus like it was a palace — and she, its only true heir. Her hair shimmered obsidian under the enchanted sunlight, her robes always perfectly tailored, her stride slow and cruel like a melody played out of spite.
Everyone knew her name.
Not because she was kind.
Not because she was noble.
But because Ayra Ilyan never lost — arguments, duels, or hearts.
Especially not hearts.
She was sharp-tongued and golden-skinned, born from one of the most feared bloodlines in the realm. Her voice could tear through rooms, and her silence did worse. Professors spoke carefully around her. Classmates tried not to stare too long. And those who dared to flirt with her were left dizzy, obsessed, broken.
Yet none of it satisfied her.
Not the praise. Not the power. Not the endless stream of admiration dripping from every hallway like perfume.
Because Ayra didn't want to be worshipped.
She wanted to feel something.
And Velaria — with all its spells and spark and shimmering faces — gave her everything but that
A week passed.
The season shifted.
Rainclouds floated lower.
Lanterns began to light themselves earlier in the evening, and the air grew heavy with approaching autumn storms.
Ayra had already claimed her seat in every class. She dominated discussions in Elemental Theory, outdueled the lightning prince from the North, and rejected three different letters of affection without so much as opening them.
It was routine. Repetitive.
Predictable.
Until the day he arrived.
It was a quiet morning. The kind where fog clung to the windows and the halls smelled like old books and cold air. Ayra entered the lecture hall fashionably late, robe fluttering like a cape behind her, and noticed something strange:
A new presence.
Someone she hadn't seen before.
He sat at the far corner of the room, tucked beneath the stained-glass shadow of the goddess Aethra. Hood drawn low. Fingers wrapped around a cracked leather book. Not speaking. Not looking. Not moving.
Ayra raised a brow.
New students were rare at this time of the year — especially ones who didn't immediately try to introduce themselves to the most powerful people in the school.
He hadn't even glanced at her.
She didn't know his name.
Didn't know where he came from.
Didn't know why, suddenly, the air in the room felt heavier.
But somehow… she felt it.
The story had just begun.
And for the first time in a long time—
Ayra leaned back in her chair, smirking to herself.
Finally. Something she couldn't predict