No one breathed in the room. Every person was both spectator and victim to the grand battle unfolding before their eyes. Even the windows seemed to hold their breath.

  “This can’t be…” gasped one, clutching his chest.

  “They’re really doing it. They’re actually doing it…”

  A girl crossed herself three times. Another blew into a paper bag, as if bracing through airplane turbulence.

  Metal utensils clattered as they were lifted and set down on the counters. Flour lay scattered like wasted cannon powder, eggshells discarded like broken bones—sacrificed in honor of this grand duel to the death.

  The two competitors worked on the final touches of their masterpieces, their young hands moving with methodical rhythm. Not even a machine could match their speed or precision. Their dirty aprons were their armor, stained with flour and splashes of battle.

  The professor—the judge of this clash—lifted his stopwatch. He pressed the button to stop it with an exaggerated inhale.

  “And… time! Drop your weapons, warriors!”

  TING!

  At his call, the two gladiators slammed their trays onto the table, presenting their war trophies to be judged by the merciless world.

  Gasps came from the crowd. Some students’ mouths watered; one felt his stomach growl like a hungry dragon.

  “They’re so cute!” a girl squealed, reaching for one of the cupcakes. “I want to try one already!”

  The professor raised an eyebrow. The clock still ticked away seconds that no longer existed, as though the universe itself needed extra time to digest the magnitude of what had just occurred.

  The two opponents locked eyes. Annya, hair slightly ruffled from tension, held her cheesecake as if it were a sacred relic. Across from her, her rival—a boy from the club with slightly crooked glasses and the aura of someone who had survived a thousand failed recipes—presented a tray of perfectly frosted cupcakes, each topped with a tiny hat of sugared cream.

  Silence held.

  The solemn judge stepped forward, dragging his shoes like an executioner approaching the gallows. His gaze drifted across both trays. The audience still held its breath. A boy even fainted, collapsing onto a pile of used whisks.

  “Both presentations…” the old man began, his voice rumbling like thunder over the crowd, “…are a crime against any diet.”

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  Annya clenched her fists, serious. Sweat dotted her forehead, and her wrists ached from all the whisking. Her rival bowed his head with the dignity of a samurai before a duel under the moonlight.

  The professor turned first to the cupcakes.

  “Interesting design, Brian…”

  He picked one up. Bit into it, raising an eyebrow at the creative design chosen by his student. The cream stuck to his neatly groomed brown mustache.

  Then, the judge extended a fork toward the cheesecake. He sank it in with surgical precision. The soft texture yielded with a creamy sigh. He tasted the bite slowly. Everyone waited for the verdict. His face remained unreadable.

  Silence again. Absolute.

  “…”

  A single tear of joy rolled down the professor’s cheek.

  “This…” he murmured, voice trembling. “…this is far too delicious...”

  The students screamed as if witnessing a public execution.

  “TIE!” someone shouted from the back.

  Annya exhaled, releasing a nervous laugh. She felt as though she’d survived the apocalypse. Her rival leaned on the table, exhausted, shoulders sagging, elbows on the messy counter.

  Then both of them looked up, smiled—and slapped their hands together in a flour-dusted high-five that scattered white powder across the “arena.”

  The judge, never losing his solemnity, raised his powerful and magical staff (a ladle).

  “I hereby declare that the Cooking Club… must eat everything as punishment for their perfection!”

  A roar of celebration shouted in the room. Students lunged at the table, fighting for a share like pirates over treasure. Someone yelled, “For pastryyy!” before falling face-first into frosting. Annya laughed, holding her spoon like a victorious sword.

  Brian, half-smiling, spoke between bites:

  “I admit your power, Oak… but next time I’m bringing double the sugar.”

  “Bring it,” she replied, wiping flour from her cheek, “because next round, I’ll shatter you into a million pieces.”

  Amid laughter, broken plates, and full stomachs, the legendary “Duel of Sweetness” went down in club history as the most delicious battle ever fought in all the Academy’s history.

  Annya cut herself a slice of cheesecake—the rest devoured by their classmates—and walked over to the far counter where Feralynn sat, elbow propped, chin in hand, watching the crowd from the corner. Far from the laughter.

  Her eyes lifted when she heard the porcelain plate set before her, eyebrow twitching in reflex.

  “I saved you a piece,” Annya said, with a soft giggle. "Hope you like it!"

  "Oh, uh...thanks, Annie..."

  Feralynn looked at the creamy base, the hypnotic swirl of cheese and the glossy crimson surface—just the shade of her friend’s freckled cheeks as she smiled.

  With a careful lift of the fork, Fer cut her slice in half, making sure to get all the layers of red fruit. She brought it to her lips, her nose catching the sweet scent that made her mouth water before the bite even touched her tongue. When it did, her eyes opened wide. Surprise stole a sharp gasp from her. The mousse melted over her tongue, a delightful tingling spreading through her tongue.

  Her lower lip trembled, failing to suppress a smile. Blushing, she covered her face with one hand and let out a sigh of defeat. Annya’s gaze never left her, waiting for her verdict. She laughed softly at Fer’s physical reaction but still wanted to hear her say it. She tilted her head insistently.

  “It’s… fine.”

  Only three words, dragged from her throat like heavy stones. Annya smiled, victorious, her strawberry-colored cheeks glowing. She knew that from Fer, “fine” meant “exquisite”. She grabbed the same fork Fer had used to taste a tiny bit of her own creation, careful not to steal too much from it.

  “Hmmm… needs a little more egg. The texture’s too soft—it lacks structure!” she analyzed like a scientist evaluating her own experiment, raising a finger for emphasis.

  Fer turned to glance at their classmates chatting happily in their little groups, enjoying the cheesecake and the Brian’s cupcakes. A small knot tightened in her throat as she watched them talk so easily, so casually—as if socializing were as natural as breathing. No worries beyond exams or missing the bus home.

  “Then tell them that,” she muttered, her bitter apathy serving as armor. Envy scratched invisibly at her throat. “Their judgment’s so warped they wouldn’t notice anyway.”

  She sighed through her nose, took another bite of cheesecake, and finished it with her eyes closed, shutting out the world.

  Annya went off to chat with the others, not before tapping Fer’s cheek playfully and laughing when the dark-haired girl growled like an annoyed hound.

  “Don’t forget to clean your stations, my kitchen gladiators,” said the kind old professor. “I need two volunteers to store all the trays and pots.”

  The students nodded, grabbing rags to wipe down the counters—flour, fruit peels, seeds. When the call for volunteers came, Annya’s hand shot up like a rocket.

  “Professor, me, me!” She waved wildly. Standing right beside Feralynn, she grabbed her friend’s hand without warning and raised it too. “And Fer as well!”

  “What?!”

  Fer tried to pull her hand back. She absolutely didn’t want to scrub pots or carry trays. And yet, of course, she was going to do it for her friend. She wasn’t even surprised that Annya volunteered—she’d planned to help her anyway. But feeling her hand taken so suddenly sent a tingling up her arm that she couldn’t tell was danger or… excitement.

  The professor nodded, pleased. Feralynn’s sharp ears caught a few mischievous giggles from a group of girls at the back of the club, whispering to each other as her face turned red. She frowned, confused. Her first instinct was to assume they were mocking her—the "freak fire girl.”

  The other club members packed their things once their stations were cleaned, most leaving their utensils neatly arranged out of courtesy so the two chosen volunteers could finish faster.

  The door shut behind them, finally leaving Feralynn and Annya alone. Their aprons were still stained from practice. They divided the room in half and quietly began drying and sorting the dishes, stacking pans and trays together to carry to the back room later.

  “Why do you always volunteer to clean up?”

  “To earn extra points. I want to become the club president.”

  “You won’t get there by doing slave work,” Fer snorted, half a sarcastic smile curling her lips.

  “With hard work, people always go far.”

  “Heh. Sure. Whatever you say.”

  Annya hummed softly to herself—a jingle from a cooking show she used to watch on TV.

  “You did well today,” she said calmly, stacking spoons and plates. “I liked your omelet.”

  “Don’t lie,” Fer replied, drying the knives with a cloth. “You made a face of disgust when you tasted it.”

  “It had too much salt~” Annya sang with a laugh. “But you’re getting better. You know, you could cook with your mom. That’s how I learned. Well, I was forced to, actually. Being the youngest of three has its downsides. Though, if they hadn’t made me, I wouldn’t know half of what I do now.”

  Fer shrugged. “She won’t let me. Says she doesn’t want me to get tired at home, that I should just focus on studying.”

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Annya finished storing some pots and smiled.

  “Such a spoiled kid,” she teased innocently. “You can tell she likes pampering you.”

  “Hey, I help her almost every day at the flower shop, and I don’t ask for an allowance all the time like someone,” Fer shot back, grin sharp.

  “These accessories don’t pay for themselves,” Annya replied, flicking the butterfly earring that shimmered under the kitchen light.

  With their arms full of kitchenware, Fer nudged open the backroom door with her shoulder, and they began stacking trays and dishes inside.

  It wasn’t a big room—just a warm little corner amid all the theory and mana. A cooking club in a magic academy wasn’t exactly glamorous, not when there were alchemy labs blowing up cauldrons weekly, summoner duels in the gym, or enchantment clubs turning mice into teacups for fun.

  Here, among old ovens and enchanted ladles that refused to wash themselves, the smell of butter and flour was almost rare. A small space, yes, but with a kind of calm no spell could replicate.

  They worked in sync, placing everything back where it belonged. The cold metal trays rattled lightly with each movement. Annya stole glances at her friend—it made her happy to see Fer focused and quiet. After spending every day with her in class and in the neighborhood, she’d learned to tell apart the two versions of that blank face: boredom, or concentration. The last option being the winner.

  “This week you haven’t tried talking to anyone,” Annya began in a soft, sing-song tone. “Well, except Rose and Jax, but they stick to us like glue every recess.”

  She smiled, tilting her head toward Fer.

  “If you keep following me around silently like this, people will think I hired you as my royal bodyguard.”

  She giggled at the thought—Fer in a ceremonial uniform, stoic behind her, and Annya in a noble’s gown waving to an invisible crowd of mere peasants.

  “I’m not good at talking,” Feralynn replied with her usual feigned indifference, continuing her work.

  “You’ll never be if you don’t try and fail~” Annya sang back. “What about Miria? Have you talked to her lately?”

  The name of the ice girl froze Fer’s hands mid-motion without a single spell.

  Miria…?

  Her mind repeated the name, recalling the exchanged glances during spellcasting classes where neither of them could participate. The bench they shared during their mandatory rest after the Bonnie incident.

  The brief greetings in the hallways—an indifferent nod. Or those moments at lunch, when their eyes met by accident across the cafeteria or the back courtyard.

  She bit the inside of her cheek, realizing she hadn’t socialized as much as she promised herself to on those sleepless nights when bad memories refused to let her rest.

  “I don’t know. Since that demonstration, we haven’t… you know.”

  She glanced at her right hand, the one with a scar still healing.

  “It’s hard to approach her when she’s surrounded by her little army of perfumed dolls. If she’s not with her powdered pets, she’s at her music club. Otherwise… who knows. She leaves the school fast.”

  Annya set down a ladle, thinking.

  “So that means you do want to talk to her, right?”

  Fer’s hand bumped a pot, the clang startling her into realization.

  “Yes. Maybe. I think. Probably?” she admitted, turning away, her cheeks tinged pink. “But what the hell am I supposed to even talk about? The weather?”

  She cleared her throat, preparing one of her trademark sarcastic impressions.

  “Oh, Lady Frostweaver. What an honor to stand beside you this fine day~” Fer bowed dramatically, making Annya burst into laughter that echoed through the cramped room. “Would you care for a stroll through the garden, my humble flower girl self at your service~”

  She clicked her tongue, finishing her side of the cleanup. Annya shook her head, still smiling, refusing to be soured by her friend’s cynicism.

  “You don’t have to talk about anything special. Maybe walking quietly in a garden would make you get along better than you think. Try it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  The softness of that thought lingered. Fer sighed—an old reflex from a new life where her biggest worries weren’t enemy soldiers or ambushes with gunfire, but whether she could get along with the rich, popular girl in class.

  “If she laughs at you…” Annya warned, flashing that mischievous smile that made her seem even sweeter, “I’ll bake her the prettiest cupcake in the world… with a special laxative surprise. Let’s see how funny she is when she has to sprint to the bathroom!”

  There was half a heartbeat of silence before Feralynn’s laughter exploded, ringing off the pans and trays. She pictured poor Miria bolting out of class, her elegance shattered by Annya’s innocent, diabolical prank.

  The baker girl laughed too, but Fer’s laughter was louder, rawer. It came from her whole chest—unrestrained, unfamiliar. Annya blinked in surprise; it was a real laugh, free of sarcasm. Harsh and bright. She didn’t care. Hearing it made her day.

  When Fer finally caught her breath, she wiped away a tear that had escaped her cheek. Her face hurt from smiling. She chuckled through the last remnants before settling back into herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that—if ever.

  “Okay, okay. Whatever. Let’s just finish putting this stuff away and get out of here. I don’t like cramped spaces.”

  “Shy and claustrophobic, huh?”

  “I’m not shy.”

  “The face you made with the cheesecake said otherwise~”

  “Annya, I swear I’m gonna—ugh.”

  A short laugh slipped from the baker—an expert in making her snap.

  “I’m kidding! Here, hold the chair so I can put these pots up. Oof, they’re a bit heavy.”

  She lifted the big cauldron cradling smaller ones inside, just like a matryoshka doll.

  “You sure you don’t want me to do it? No offense, but you’re weaker than Rose.”

  “Ha, please. I just need one more second…” Annya murmured, rising on her tiptoes atop the little chair, stretching to reach the upper shelf. “Ugh, just…stay still–”

  Balance betrayed gravity first. The next second was pure disaster: her foot slipped, the chair wobbled—and Annya let out a sharp little scream.

  “AAAH—!”

  Fer barely had time to react; she caught her by instinct, arms wrapping around Annya’s waist just before she hit the floor.

  Silence fell instantly.

  Only the sound of a pot rolling across the tiles echoed faintly in the background.

  Their faces were dangerously close, breaths mingling, Annya’s wide eyes locking with Fer’s, frozen in place as if time itself had stopped.

  “Uumm…” Annya stammered, cheeks blazing. “Nice… reflexes…”

  Feralynn, face burning red, tried to turn away, and failed awkwardly. Her heart was pounding like a drum.

  “Stop talking or… I’ll drop you.”

  “Y-Yeah, yeah, got it—but maybe drop me slowly, okay? I don’t wanna die this young.”

  A moment of awkward silence. Then, both broke into nervous laughter. The chair still lay on the floor, defeated, while their laughter filled the tiny room. It took Feralynn a second to realize she was still holding her.

  …

  …

  …

  The door of the cooking club slid open to let them out, leaving behind that brief, awkward moment—a small, unspoken memory that neither would forget no matter how much time passed.

  Side by side, they started down the castle’s long hallway. Afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, painting the stone in a soft golden glow that danced over the floor.

  Up ahead, a door opened and the theater club members spilled out in a group. Among them were Rose and Jax, dressed head to toe in black: simple clothes, no embellishments—the standard rehearsal attire, meant to erase distraction and let only voice and body speak.

  In Annya’s mind, they looked like a squad of ninjas; all they were missing were katanas and masks.

  Feralynn, on the other hand, watched in silence, and something in her posture shifted: that blackness reminded her of night missions, the weight of stealth, the metallic scent of fear when one becomes part of the shadows.

  Two gazes, two worlds—one saw play; the other, survival.

  The half-human, half-canine nose of the blond boy caught a familiar blend from afar: the sweet vanilla scent of Annya—her unmistakable essence even among crowds—woven with the rough trace of tobacco barely masked by cheap deodorant that betrayed Fer’s presence.

  A contrast so vivid that, to his nose, it was like watching light and shadow walk together down the corridor.

  He turned to wave with a smile. Rose, beside him, did the same—her expression calm and composed. They left the rest of the group behind and joined the two girls.

  They’d fallen into the habit, almost without realizing it, of meeting up each afternoon to take the bus together. They always ended up in the back seats: Rose spilling the day’s gossip to Annya in secret, and Jax reading the mangas Fer carried in her backpack like lucky charms.

  Both leaned over the pages, engrossed in the fight scenes that made Annya laugh, while Rose rolled her eyes with that mix of tired patience and affection reserved for friends who’ve become routine.

  As they chatted and caught up, Feralynn’s gaze drifted toward the big bulletin board in the hallway, covered in crookedly pinned flyers. Most were invitations to recreational activities—book clubs, minor sports tournaments, fairs. She scanned them indifferently until one in particular caught her eye.

  It was the announcement for the Annual Elemental Tournament.

  At the center of the poster, the Academy’s pentacle—the emblem sewn onto every uniform and carved almost on every classroom door—shone printed in golden ink, standing out among the colorful doodles and printer fonts.

  Unlike the others, this wasn’t just a school event. Just reading it made the air tighten. She knew it. She wanted to sign up. But fear crept in—the fear of losing control. She hadn’t had another incident since that first emotional channeling class, so why was she still terrified to try again?

  “I have to go.”

  Fer’s words were enough to stop the group. The three turned to her at once, puzzled by her sudden withdrawal.

  “Hm, quite intriguing you leave the group after classes. Where are you going without us?” asked Rose, adjusting her rectangular glasses.

  “I… I have private lessons with Romina now.”

  A brief silence followed. Eyes met. Jax tilted his head, he was the first to speak:

  “Really? Lessons in what?”

  Fer replied without thinking much.

  “Just some…uuhh, theory.”

  Her tone was so flat it was suspicious. Annya, however, caught on immediately—the slight brush of Fer’s fingers at the back of her neck gave her away. Her nervous tic whenever she lied.

  With practiced naturalness, Annya redirected the conversation.

  “Well then, we’ll let you study in peace,” she said, gently nudging Rose and Jax forward. “Come on, come on. If we’re late for the bus again, the driver’s leaving us. See ya, Fer! Remember to come to my house to keep translating the miracles book!”

  They waved goodbye, and Fer watched the three walk down the hall. Annya was the last to turn back, giving her a wink—the silent kind of understanding that exists only between close friends: Don’t worry, I’ve got you.

  The red-eyed girl smiled faintly, a melancholy curve on her lips. She watched them descend the stairs until they disappeared. Then she drew a slow breath. The air always felt different when she was alone. No trace of vanilla—just smoke. Just herself and her thoughts.

  She started walking purposefully through the corridors, though her steps betrayed the tremor she tried to hide.

  At a corner, she stopped to ask Choppi for directions to the classroom. The clown butler, ever courteous with his happy velvet voice, guided her with precise gestures and a painted smile. When they reached the door, he opened it himself and bowed slightly to invite her in.

  Feralynn swallowed hard. She didn’t really know what kind of extracurricular class she was about to have, and that uncertainty made her nervous. Her mother explained they were “emotional control” sessions—whatever the hell that meant.

  The classroom was the same one where Romina usually taught, but without the noise of students it felt different: larger, emptier. A silent courtroom with no jury, where only her conscience could testify, and her guilt would deliver the verdict.

  Romina had prepared everything neatly. Only two chairs sat in the room, facing each other, separated by a polite professional, polite distance. The woman turned as soon as Feralynn entered.

  “Lioness,” she greeted with a gentle smile. “Please, have a seat.”

  The clown closed the door behind her with a soft click. The sound echoed louder than it should have.

  Romina waited patiently, still standing, her gaze calm and unpressing. But Feralynn’s legs wouldn’t move. They stayed anchored to the floor, stiff as masts in a storm. She looked down. Her black boots—the ones she never cleaned—suddenly felt unbearably heavy, as if carrying every step she’d ever taken while running away.

  She clenched her teeth, her fists—everything she could to keep herself steady.

  Why do I need these classes? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt someone? Do I still scare Astera? Is it because of my dad? Do they finally know about my past? Does Smiley not trust in me? The seal he put on me won’t work as he promised?

  The questions tripped over each other in her mind, bouncing like echoes inside a cave. She wanted to speak, to ask, to run away—all at once. She wanted to be with Annya. Being with her calmed her mind better than any medicine, better than the Nullwine drops she took to sleep.

  Romina, meanwhile, said nothing. She simply waited, with the quiet understanding of someone who knows that sometimes silence is the first lesson a person must dare to give themselves to grow.

  You’ll never be good at it if you don’t try and fail.

  Annya’s words echoed again, refusing to fade.

  Feralynn inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with air—and courage. She closed her eyes for a moment. Felt the pulse racing beneath her skin, the tension in her fingers. Then, she let it all dissolve.

  Her hands loosened. Her heartbeat still burned, but it no longer led her—she did. One step forward. Then another. And another. Her boots struck the floor with a steady rhythm, like war drums reshaped into something new: determination.

  When she reached the chair, she let her backpack drop beside her. The thud sounded like a sword hitting the ground after a long battle.

  “I’m ready.”

  Romina blinked—mild surprise softening into a warm, proud smile. She took her seat across from her and nodded calmly.

  “Then… let’s begin.”

  …

  …

  …

  ?