Elaria was speechless.
Whatever comeback she had—died on her tongue. Eyes wide, mouth parted, she stood frozen in place, stunned into silence.
Rage, disbelief, and something uglier—humiliation—clawed its way up her throat, bitter and raw.
Then—
"What?" Elaria hissed. "You little piece of sh—"
Julien stepped forward.
His gaze turned cold. The faintest shimmer of violet lit his eyes. Something unnatural. Unsettling.
The air around him felt tighter, heavier.
"Don't give me that sanctimonious crap," he said quietly. "About how you pardoned me. About how merciful you were."
He kept walking, slow and steady, until the distance between them shrank.
Now face to face, the height difference was obvious.
He looked down on her like a lion watching a barking dog—amused, unimpressed.
Julien leaned in, his voice low and even.
"You were forced to stay quiet."
"By your own family."
Elaria's breath hitched.
He turned then, the hem of his coat brushing past her thigh.
A beat. Then, without looking back:
"Remember this, Princess.No matter how loud you flaunt…you're still just a girl in luxurious clothing—standing beneath a Rothvale."
And with that, he walked away.
He didn't need old Julien's memories to understand why this was kept quiet.
Not when the truth was this obvious.
How else would someone like the old Julien still be breathing after disgracing a royal?
Because even if Rothvale was a duchy within the Reinhart Kingdom…
It wasn't a vassal.
Not some tamed hound wagging for scraps from the throne.
But a wild wolf.
No—a starving lion.
One that wouldn't hesitate to tear off the royal family's hand the moment it reached too close.
And Elaria?
The third princess.
A sacrificial pawn among pawns.
Far from the throne. Closer to the chopping block.
If sacrificing her could keep Rothvale at bay…
They'd do it with a smile.
Even Julien—weak, cowardly, the family's shame—was worth more alive than she was.
He kept walking, silent and steady, letting the last of Elaria's presence fall behind him like dust.
Mira quickened her pace to catch up, then quietly moved a few steps ahead, leading him deeper along the stone-paved path into the Academy grounds.
Then—without a word—she turned left.
Julien blinked, briefly confused.
In the fragments of old Julien's memory, the dormitory had always been on the right.
Still, he said nothing. Just followed.
They stopped in front of a building set apart from the rest—fenced in by iron railings, trimmed hedges flanking the path. It wasn't a dormitory. It was a small mansion in disguise.
Compact, elegant. Two floors of white stone and arched windows. The Rothvale crest gleamed above the door.
Inside, the scent of lavender polish clung to polished floors. The walls were lined with ornate sconces and soft light. A stairwell curled upward in quiet grandeur.
Beneath a hanging chandelier, two rows of maids and butlers stood in formation. Heads bowed. Hands folded. Still as statues.
Julien glanced once, then looked at Mira.
"I need paper and ink."
She quickly provided both.
He scribbled a short list, folded the note, and handed it to her.
"Have this done."
Mira nodded, then passed it to a waiting servant.
The man took it with silent understanding, bowed, and left.
A butler nearby stepped forward.
"Allow me to show you to your room, Young Master."
Julien followed, climbed the stairs to the upper floor and entered what was clearly the master's suite.
A wide bed, dark wood furniture, a desk, and a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Simple. Quiet. Enough.
He shut the door behind him—and locked it.
Then, to the servants outside, he said in a firm, final voice, "No one is to enter. Leave anything you bring at the door."
Hours passed.
When night finally fell, the requested items had been delivered—left silently outside his door, just as he'd ordered.
Then came a knock.
"Young Master…?" Mira's voice, soft. Hesitant. "You haven't eaten anything…"
Silence.
Another knock. Louder this time.
"I brought dinner."
Julien's voice cut through the door, sharp and cold. "Leave. I don't have time for dinner."
A pause.
Then—a third knock followed.
His patience snapped.
The door flew open.
Mira flinched. Her hands trembled as she held the tray—plain silver, stacked with a modest meal: meat broth, buttered rolls, boiled vegetables, and water to drink.
Julien stared at her.
At the way her fingers quivered. At how she couldn't quite meet his eyes.
She was afraid. And yet still tried to serve him.
He let out a breath. Long. Quiet. Tired.
"…Fine."
He took the tray from her hands.
Mira blinked, startled. Her expression eased—a faint flicker of relief crossing her face.
Julien couldn't help the small, crooked smile that tugged at his lips.
That same girl who spouted filthy things in the morning... now standing here, worried for him like a loyal pet.
"Hopeless," he muttered, more to himself than her. "Absolutely hopeless."
He stepped back, closed the door.
And ate in silence, seated at the wooden table.
Below him, etched across the stone floor, were patterns drawn in fresh blood—arcane rings, jagged sigils, and layered circles overlapping each other.
Julien finished his meal and set the tray aside.
Then reached for the items the servants had delivered earlier: two mana stones, a vial of unrefined oil, black salt, a shard of obsidian glass, and a raven's feather.
He laid them out with careful precision.
"Elaria…" he murmured, lips curling faintly. "There's a saying in the world I came from: if you're not a priest or a mage... don't ever dare mess with a dark mage."
He pressed his palm to the center circle—where her name had been etched in blood: Elaria Le Reinhart.
A pulse of icy pressure rippled through the floor.
The symbols shimmered.
Then—glowed.
Faint at first, then brighter. The glow crawled outward like veins of blue fire, racing across the ritual lines until every marking pulsed with dark mana.
From within the central glyph, a twisted shadow slithered free—coiling upward, formless and flickering. The dark spirit drifted through the room's wall like smoke, silent as death.
And then it was gone—slipping into the night toward the distant dormitories.
Julien leaned back, watching the light dim until only dried blood and scorched stone remained.
"I haven't even completed my first circle yet," he muttered. "So just wait. This is only the prologue. The real tale hasn't even begun."
A pause.
Then he glanced down at the mess.
His smile flattened.
"…And now I have to clean this shit up."
The next morning.
Mira stood outside his door, hand raised mid-knock—when it swung open on its own.
Julien stood there. Already dressed. Fully groomed. His uniform was crisp, black and silver, tailored to perfection.
His expression… oddly bright. Calm. Satisfied.
Mira blinked. "Y-Young Master…"
He gave her a small, cheerful nod.
"Come. Let's eat. I wouldn't want to be late on my first day."
And just like that, he strode past her.
Mira stood frozen for a beat, staring after him.
Yesterday he'd been a storm cloud. Now?
He's all sunshine.
'What is this… a mood swing?'
Down in the dining hall, Julien hummed quietly to himself as he ate—small, tuneless, and casual.
He spooned broth, tore through buttered rolls, and drank in steady sips.
Across the table, Mira watched. She wasn't alone—servants moved quietly around them, a few exchanging brief glances.
No one said anything. But seeing a cheerful Julien felt strange to the servants who only ever saw him crying or depressed—and even stranger to Mira, who had seen him cold and furious just yesterday.
Later that morning, his boots clicked sharply against polished stone as he stepped into the main hall of the eastern wing.
Sunlight streamed through high-arched windows, casting long shadows across the tiled floor.
Ahead, the central lecture chamber loomed—
Two golden double doors, already propped open.
Laughter and voices drifted from within.
He approached at a steady pace.
The lecture hall was massive. Built like a coliseum in marble and gold. Seats arched in rising tiers, velvet-backed and spacious.
Students lounged in their uniforms—black coats, silver trim, polished shoes—chatting, gossiping, idling.
At the bottom stood a wide wooden platform—empty for now. Chalkboards lined the wall behind it, faint scrawls from the last lesson still visible.
Julien paused just outside the threshold.
A single thought flickered across his mind, faint and fleeting:
'I hope Elaria liked my present.'
Across the campus, in the female dormitory…
Elaria jolted upright in bed.
Sweat clung to her skin—dripping from her neck, sliding between the soft swell of her bare breasts, and soaking through the thin white nightgown. No bra. Nothing to hide the hardened peaks beneath the fabric.
Her eyes were wide, chest rising and falling fast, fingernails digging into the sheets.
The bottom of her gown had ridden up during the night, bunched around her waist—exposing her smooth, bare thighs, also soaked in sweat. Between them, a pair of pale pink lace panties clung tightly to her curves—damp and delicate, the fabric thin enough to outline the small shape of her lower lips.
And though the sun had already risen—
She hadn't slept a single minute.