The Imperial Academy had finally begun. To my surprise, Sylvia, Kalix, and I were placed in the same class for our first year. To conceal our true identities, we relied on enchanted powders—one to mask the color of our hair, and another to alter the hue of our eyes. With these, no one could recognize us unless they had already seen me unveiled.
For myself, I used a deep black powder to cloak the natural silver strands that betrayed my bloodline. Sylvia, whose golden hair gleamed like sunlight, had darkened hers as well. The illusion was flawless. To the world, we were just ordinary students—though in truth, there was nothing ordinary about us at all.
The Academy was unlike any other institution in the empire. Its program spanned only two years, yet within that short time it was said to Mold the very pillars of the future—nobles, commanders, diplomats, and healers alike. When the two years ended, a grand celebration would be held. The halls would be filled with parties and pageantry, with honours awarded to those who had excelled, and with whispers about who among the graduates would ascend to prominence.
The structure of study here was strikingly flexible. Each student was free to choose their courses—Embroidery, Military Strategy, Basic Etiquette, Medicine, or Diplomacy. Ambitious ones even dared to take them all, crafting schedules that tested the limits of their endurance.
The Academy itself was steeped in history, established two hundred and thirty years ago during the days of the Old Vesperianth Empire. To walk through its marble halls was to feel the weight of centuries pressing down, a reminder that every step carried echoes of the rulers, soldiers, and scholars who had walked here before.
And now, I was among them. Not as a princess. Not as the future queen. But as Seina of House Delian.
Before, future queens were free to walk openly among their peers. They could laugh, study, and forge bonds without fear, their identities never questioned. But that freedom died with the assassination of the king. Since then, the crown has wrapped me in shadows. For my own safety, I must spend these two years behind a mask, concealing my name, my bloodline, my very self. The Imperial Academy was meant to be my chance at freedom—yet here, freedom can only exist if I pretend to be someone else.
Seina of House Delian—eighteen years of age—chose not one path, but all of them. Embroidery, Military Works, Medical, Diplomacy—every subject the Academy offered except Basic etiquette, I claimed as my own. To my classmates, it looked like ambition, a hunger for knowledge that exceeded reason. But behind the mask of diligence was a secret vow. I wasn't here merely just to learn. I was here to sift through whispers, unearth hidden truths, and follow the faint, dangerous threads that led back to the night the king was murdered.
The corridor of the Imperial Academy thrummed with quiet chatter, the kind of murmurs that ripple through water before a storm. I walked between Sylvia and Kalix, my head slightly bowed, mind already lost in the day's schedule—until I noticed the shift. Dozens of eyes flicked in one direction, hungry with curiosity.
"If the prince is here, will the princess also be here?" someone whispered. "He's so handsome," another breathed. "I wonder if he'll be with a Princess at break…"
Their voices brushed against me like cold fingers. My stomach twisted. That magnetic pull in the hallway could only mean one thing.
Prince Ashen.
He moved like a blade cutting through the crowd, every student's gaze trailing behind him as though he carried the entire Empire's attention on his shoulders. My pulse stumbled. Oh, Saints… and don't tell me—he's with my brother?
Damn it. Damn it. My life might actually end here.
Sylvia and Kalix reacted at once, stepping aside with me. We all bowed, heads dipping low in practiced grace, praying to any god who'd listen that he wouldn't notice us. I began to lift my head—just enough to breathe again—when a shadow fell across me.
Someone was standing directly in front of me.
No. No, no, no. My heart nearly punched through my ribs. I could see only the edge of his boots but that was enough to freeze my blood. Even without looking up, I knew those shoes.
Prince Ashen.
"Raise your head, please."
That voice. I knew that voice. My blood turned to ice, and yet I obeyed. Slowly, I lifted my chin, and Sylvia and Kalix followed suit.
Prince Ashen's gaze locked onto mine, sharp as a blade and just as dangerous. "May I know your name?" he asked, voice smooth but heavy with something unspoken.
My breath caught. Of course he'd ask that. Of course he'd test me here, in front of everyone. Did he already know? Was this his way of forcing me to expose myself? My heart screamed in my chest, but my face—my carefully trained mask—did not betray me.
"Seina of House Delian, Your Highness," I said, bowing slightly as I spoke, giving the fake name a confident weight.
He smirked, the corner of his lips curling upward, eyes glinting like he'd won some unspoken game. That infuriating smile—mocking, teasing, as if he enjoyed seeing me squirm.
Behind him, Zein let out a quiet laugh, and I clenched my fists at my sides. Wonderful. Perfect. Exactly what I needed—an audience for my humiliation, complete with a brother providing commentary.
The whispers ignited again, slithering through the corridor like wildfire. "How can he notice her?" "I wonder what the Princess would do if she saw this…" "I'm so jealous, oh my gods!"
Damn these people. They knew the Princess was here—somewhere—but not who. Not me. And yet, here I was, under Ashen's gaze, my fragile disguise already trembling on the edge of collapse.
"Seina of House Delian," he repeated, lips curling faintly. "Interesting. Nice to meet you."
My body went rigid. He bought it? Or was he just playing along? The hall fell into stunned silence. Even Sylvia and Kalix—usually quick to cover for me—were too shocked to speak.
I bowed once more, lifting my chin just enough to let my eyes meet his. The glare I gave him was sharp, cold, deliberate. A silent warning: Don't push me further. I've had enough of your games.
He only smirked deeper, as if my annoyance amused him. "Then," he said smoothly, his voice echoing in the heavy quiet, "I hope to see you again."
My stomach twisted. There was something in his tone—half challenge, half promise—that I didn't like one bit. Still, I forced a smile, the kind I'd perfected over years of pretending. Elegant, polite, utterly false.
"Yes, Your Highness," I answered, every syllable dripping with restraint.
Ashen finally stepped away, his presence withdrawing like the tide, and the crowd immediately surged into a frenzy of low, frantic chatter.
Kalix instantly stepped to my side, his hand brushing mine in a signal. "Move," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the din.
Sylvia took the other side, her face finally losing its shock and settling into controlled urgency. "We need to get to the Embroidery class, my lady. Quickly, before the crowd solidifies."
As we hurried away, navigating the sea of envious and curious faces, my thoughts screamed louder than the whispers that rippled through the hall. Damn you, Ashen. Why do you always make me feel like I'm walking straight into your trap? He didn't just meet me by chance. He sought me out. The question was, why?
The Academy was supposed to be my escape. Instead, it felt like the most dangerous place in the Empire, and the Prince was its warden.
Embroidery class smelled faintly of linen and pressed flowers, the sun filtering in through tall glass windows. The room was quiet save for the low, steady voice of the professor as she explained the art of stitches—thread tension, loops, the delicate patience required.
Kalix sat off to the side, in the corner like a misplaced shadow. The class, after all, was intended only for women, but he refused to stray too far from me or Sylvia. He'd rather endure an hour of stillness than risk something happening while he wasn't there. His eyes never strayed from us, sharp and watchful, though he pretended to be merely observing.
I, however, wasn't as focused. My needle hovered over fabric, half-listening, half-distracted by the girl seated at the first table. There was something painfully familiar about her profile—the way her hair fell forward as she bent to listen, the faint tilt of her chin when she responded to the professor's instructions. I frowned, chasing the ghost of memory that refused to surface.
The lesson droned on, and my mind wandered further. She reached forward to collect her equipment—the pristine threads, the golden needles, the silken squares provided by the Emperor himself. And then it clicked. The memory came rushing back like a sharp breeze.
My eyes widened. Her.
"Luzelle De Camira," the professor announced, glancing at her list as the girl accepted her tools with practiced grace.
Of course. I had seen her before. She wasn't some stranger. She was the commoner I'd encountered in the House of Silken Dreams, the one I had noticed while choosing my gown for the palace party.
Now, here she was—no longer a nameless face among bolts of silk, but seated under the Academy's banner.
I gripped the edge of my fabric tighter. What is she doing here… and why do I feel like her presence means something more than coincidence? Should I make her my friend?
"Seina of House Delian," my professor called.
I rose from my seat, smoothing the folds of my skirt as I made my way to the front. The room for Embroidery was bright and airy, but suddenly it felt like a spotlight was trained solely on me. The professor's eyes followed me closely—not harsh or calculating, but steady, as if she were studying something fragile under glass. She was beautiful in her own way, with soft features that carried both elegance and kindness. She looked more like someone's mother than a strict instructor, I thought as I reached her desk.
"Seina," she said again, this time in a low, almost secretive tone.
"Yes, Madame?" I answered, offering a polite smile as I accepted the embroidery equipment from her hands.
Her gaze lingered on me, too long, too deeply. "Your skin… it is so different from ours. And your eyes… your face—it is new to me."
I froze for the briefest moment. My fingers tightened around the silken threads she handed me. Her words struck too close, far too close. The people of Elyndralis were known for their distinct colouring—mine, while certainly noble, was subtly different, distant lineage that had been carefully hidden and was now serving as my "House Delian" cover.
Did she suspect?
"Madame?" I asked, keeping my voice calm though my heart rattled in my chest. If she asks another question, what detail of my false backstory do I use?
She smiled softly, almost wistfully. "I was just wondering, sweet child. The princess is said to be among the students this year. I only wonder if she might also have taken my class. Ah, how I wish to see her one day…" Her expression grew warm, almost dreamy, as though the idea itself filled her with joy.
A wave of sharp, potent relief washed over me. She wasn't an inquisitor; she was merely curious and star-struck. The danger wasn't malice or knowledge—it was simple human curiosity about a myth.
I forced a small smile, though my throat tightened. "I… would like that too, Madame. I wonder what she looks like, what kind of person she is. It would be… wonderful to be her friend." The lie came out smooth and easy, masking the truth beneath a layer of innocent longing.
Her eyes lit with delight, and she gave me a gentle nod before dismissing me back to my seat.
I bowed deeply, masking the sharp rush of relief that flooded through me, and returned to my place. Yet even as I sat, I could still feel her eyes lingering on me—kind, curious, and far too perceptive for my comfort.
I immediately lowered my head, staring at the brightly coloured thread in my hands. The biggest danger wasn't being recognized by a political enemy with a file; it was being seen by a kind-hearted soul who simply noticed the tiny, telltale details that set me apart.
My physical appearance is the greatest flaw in my cover, I realized with a jolt. I needed to blend in, to become as unremarkable as the fictitious House Delian I claimed. I had mastered the art of political invisibility in the palace, but out here, simply existing was a constant risk. I had to ensure that the friendly, well-meaning eyes of people like the Professor never landed on me again.
''Sylvia Of House Delavine'' my professor called after me.
The whole class had started stitching and embroidering. It took us about an hour, yet we still weren't finished when it was already time to move on to the next class. The air, once fragrant with thread and linen, now held a faint scent of nervous concentration.
"Okay, so we can continue this next time—or tomorrow, if you have an embroidery class. Thank you, and good luck with your next subject," our Madame said, her voice soft but clear, as we all bowed together before leaving the room.
I gathered my simple tools and thread quickly. As we stepped out into the bustling corridor, Sylvia immediately took her familiar post to my right, her face meticulously blank, but her shoulders were rigid.
"An hour of silence for a single flower stem," Kalix muttered dryly from my left, tossing his needlework kit into his satchel with more force than necessary. "A poor use of an investigator's time, my lady."
"On the contrary," I countered, adjusting the stiff, unflattering collar of my 'Delian' uniform. "It was a perfect use of time. No one expects the future Queen to be capable of something so tedious. It's camouflage."
Our next class was Diplomacy, a subject carved into the marrow of every noble's life. Unlike embroidery or medical practice, this one was not optional. Every heir, every child of a House—whether minor or imperial—was expected to master the art of words as deftly as they would the blade.
As we walked the marble hall toward the Diplomacy Building, I noticed a familiar figure among the cluster of students moving in the same direction. Luzelle De Camira.
Her presence caught me off guard again. Twice now she had appeared where I least expected. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if she, too, would enter the hall with us, take her place among future rulers and court speakers. It was a purely democratic thought, one born from my desire to see the Academy as a place of merit, not just birthright.
But then, just before the tall archway that marked the building, she turned left. A quiet step, subtle but deliberate, leading her away from us.
My eyes followed her until she vanished into the adjoining corridor. That was when I remembered—Basic Etiquette. Of course. That class was a requirement for commoners, especially for those here on scholarship. They were given fewer choices, their education bound tightly by rules and expectations. Their schedule wasn't tailored to curiosity or ambition—it was dictated by what the Empire deemed sufficient for them.
The realization hit me with the quiet force of a reprimand. My own expansive, self-designed curriculum was a luxury available only to the privileged, even to a pretend minor noble like Seina Delian. Luzelle's life, even inside this Academy, was defined by the strict boundaries that my own blood allowed me to ignore.
Still… Luzelle's calm poise, the way she carried herself—it didn't match the label "commoner" so neatly. She moved with a confidence that spoke of innate self-worth, not forced compliance.
I shifted my gaze back to Sylvia and Kalix, who kept walking silently beside me, and we entered the Diplomacy hall. But the image of Luzelle lingered in my mind longer than I cared to admit.