Morning at Ashart's residence did not begin with the crowing of roosters or the sound of waves hitting the hull of a ship. It began with the scent of lavender, the gentle and polite chime of silver, and the soft hiss of steam from the kettle in the kitchen.

  Mira opened her eyes. In the first three seconds, panic began to grip her chest.

  Her hand brushed the sheets, and what she found was silk that was too fine. Not the thin silk from the south, but thick silk that provided a sense of comfort and warmth.

  Where am I?

  Then, her eyes caught the reflection in the large wardrobe mirror across the room. A strange girl was staring back at her. Her brown hair was shoulder-length, and her eyes had returned to amber. But not the old honey amber typical of Agnilith, rather a golden amber characteristic of Ashart.

  Mira sat down, staring at the school uniform hanging neatly on the wardrobe door. A midnight blue blazer with gold buttons, a perfectly ironed pleated skirt, and a silk tie.

  “All right, Rhea,” Mira whispered to the reflection in the mirror, her voice sounding hesitant.

  ***

  The Ashart family dining room looked more like a laboratory transformed into a five-star restaurant.

  The dining table was made from a single slab of black Ebony wood, floating thirty centimeters above a glass floor. At the end of the table, Lord Dalt was battling a complex mechanical device that looked like a cross between a toaster and a steam engine.

  “Just a little more… the thermal calibration has to be exactly 180 degrees…” Dalt muttered, his goggle glasses fogged up.

  A piece of toast shot out of the machine like a bullet, flying across the table, and landed perfectly on Mira’s plate, who had just taken a seat. The toast was already perfectly spread with melted butter.

  "Nice reflexes," Dalt praised without looking up, still busy turning a screw. "Our last guest got hit in the forehead by a hot piece of bread. First-degree burn."

  "Dalt, stop turning breakfast into a ballistic test," Henesa's calm voice came from the other end of the table.

  Lady Henesa Ashart was reading the morning newspaper while sipping her tea. She was already wearing the formal headmistress robe: a dark blue velvet gown with silver-thread embroidery forming constellations along the hem.

  Mira stared at her plate. Besides the flying bread, there was a perfectly peeled boiled egg, pieces of exotic fruit arranged symmetrically, and smoked sausages with an appetizing aroma. Her stomach growled. Loudly.

  Mira reached for her fork, ready to stab the sausage like spearing a fish.

  “Rhea.”

  One word. Flat tone. But Mira’s hand froze in midair. She forgot her manners as a noble.

  Henesa slowly lowered her newspaper. She looked at Mira, not with anger, but with an analytical gaze, like a teacher watching a student hold a pen incorrectly.

  “Elbow,” Henesa said softly. “Don’t put it on the table. Sit up straighter. And use that knife too. Cut, don’t tear.”

  Mira swallowed. She pulled her elbow back, straightened her aching back, and tried to cut the sausage with forced elegance. It felt extremely awkward.

  Henesa let out a short sigh, then set down her cup. She stood up, walked around the table, and stopped right behind Mira’s chair.

  Mira tensed. Was she about to be hit?

  Henesa's slender hand was outstretched. But instead of hitting, the woman tidied up the collar of Mira's blazer that was slightly folded behind the neck. Her movements are gentle, almost maternal. Her jasmine-scented fingers touched the nape of Mira's neck at a glance, providing a soothing, cold sensation.

  "Breathe," Henesa whispered in Mira's ear. "You're so tense. People will smell your fears faster than they will smell your perfume. In this world, confidence is half the battle."

  Henesa returned to her seat, but the atmosphere between them changed. The tension melted a little.

  "How's the bracelet?" asked Dalt, finally giving up on his bread machine and starting to eat the wheat porridge.

  Mira raised her wrist. "Heavy and strange."

  "That means it's still around," Dalt chewed. "Remember, as I said yesterday. Limitation." That man leaned over, his fork pointing towards the bracelet in Mira's hand.

  “Users of the Ashart family’s imagination style magic can maintain their magical constructs for three to five minutes. And you only have one minute,” Dalt repeated from his explanation yesterday.

  “That’s not enough for a long battle, Lord Dalt,” Mira said stiffly; that man in front of her was already her father, but she still felt very awkward.

  “Then don’t fight long,” Henesa cut in, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin. “Be efficient, be deadly. Finish before your enemy realizes you’ve only just started.”

  Henesa stood up. “The carriage is ready. Finish your bread, Rhea. Today, you enter the dragon’s den.”

  ***

  The journey to the Veinara Academy was made in comfortable silence.

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  This time, the Ashart family carriage was different from yesterday. It was now more enclosed. The interior was lined with dark blue velvet, completely soundproof from the hustle and bustle of Everiven city outside.

  Mira sat across from Lady Henesa. She kept tugging at the hem of her skirt, feeling exposed without her long dress or trousers and weapon belt.

  "You're nervous," said Henesa, and it wasn't a question.

  "I don't know anything about the history of magic," Mira admitted honestly. "Or the theory of Intian. Or who the king's great-grandfather is now. I'm going to look foolish."

  Henesa gave a thin smile. A smile she rarely showed.

  "Do you think those noble children know?" Henesa chuckled. "Half of them get in because of their parents' donations. The other half just memorize the names of their ancestors but can't cast the basic fire spell without burning their own eyebrows."

  Henesa leaned forward, staring into Mira's eyes.

  "You have something they don't have, Rhea. You have instinct. You know what it's like to fight directly. You know what it's like to be hungry. They learn to fight from books. You learn from mud."

  "The Second Domain tournament, that's still next year."

  "Your sister can wait. I'm sure she's safe. The library guardian said so himself, didn't he?" Henesa said confidently.

  That's right. Her sister is safe. Mira should believe that. Her sister is the most mature and independent among them. Sirra is the heir; she is Agnilith itself. She can adapt.

  But will her sister stay there for a long time?

  "Your sister's name is Sirra Agnilith, right?" asked Henesa.

  "Yes, Lady Henesa."

  "Vesthralia is a closed country. Both the entry and exit points are only opened once a year. And that is every spring. The tournament will be held in the spring. You still have three months to prepare for it. And believe me, your sister will be safe there," Henesa explained in a soothing tone. "And call me mother, Rhea."

  Mira nodded.

  Henesa reached out, squeezing Mira's hand that was located above her knee. Henesa's skin is smooth, but the grip is strong.

  "Focus on this one first, Rhea. And one more piece of advice, don't try to be the smartest academic out there. Be a reliable academic."

  The horse-drawn carriage slowed down. The sound of the crowd began to penetrate faintly.

  "One more thing," Henesa added, letting go of her hand and returning to cold headmaster mode. "In the academy, I was the Lady Headmistress. Don't call me mother or Henesa unless we're alone. Understand?"

  "Understand, Lady Headmistress," Mira replied.

  The carriage door opened. The morning sunlight poured in, followed by the view of the Veinara Academy gate.

  It was not just an academy. It was a small city dedicated to the pride of magic, knowledge, and the grandeur of a kingdom. Three giant towers floated in the air, spinning rainbows surrounding the central tower rooted in the ground. Rainbow waterfalls cascaded from the floating islands, looking like bright auroras every day.

  Hundreds of students in blue-and-gold uniforms walked through the twenty-meter-high massive iron gate. There were Sisilkka, humans, Elves, and even some Dwarves carrying books as big as their bodies.

  As Henesa stepped down from the carriage, the atmosphere changed. The crowd of students parted. The chatter immediately ceased. Hundreds of eyes turned to the Academy Queen and the girl beside her.

  Mira stepped down, her shoes clattering loudly on the marble street. She could feel their gaze. Probing gaze. Envious gaze.

  Who is that girl? Did she get off Ashart's carriage? Look at her eyes, Amber. She's one of them.

  Mira lifted her chin, mimicking Kars' haughty posture and Henesa's elegance. She put on a bored face. In her heart, she was counting down the seconds until she could escape.

  "Straight ahead," Henesa whispered without turning. "Your first class is in the Diamond Building, 3rd floor. Advanced Combat Theory Room."

  "You’re not taking me there?" Mira whispered, panicking.

  "A lion doesn’t lead its cub to hunt for life," Henesa replied flatly. "Good luck, Rhea."

  With that, Henesa turned toward the central tower, her cloak fluttering, leaving Mira alone in the sea of blue uniforms.

  ***

  The Diamond Building is made of red bricks that radiate warmth. Mira took ten minutes to find room 308, after getting lost on the stairs with unclear directions.

  She stood in front of the large teak door. Her heart was pounding.

  Mira pushed the door open.

  The classroom was shaped like a small amphitheater. The seats rose in rows towards the back, facing the teacher's podium below. The room was crowded with people Mira's age, but they looked more mature, cleaner, and more arrogant. And as Mira walked in, all heads turned.

  “Ah, you must be the transfer student the principal mentioned,” the voice of an old man sounded from the podium.

  Professor Gery was an old, wrinkled man with a beard made of living plant roots. He wore a moss green robe. “Come in. Introduce yourself. Quickly, we are discussing the dynamics of the seven types of magic.”

  Mira walked down the stairs. Whispers began to arise, like the sound of bees.

  “Ashart? Really?” “I heard their child died five years ago.” “Maybe an illegitimate child?” “Look at those eyes. They’re Amber’s eyes.”

  Mira reached the front of the class. She did not bow with noble etiquette. She only nodded briefly, efficiently.

  “Rhea Ashart,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, slightly too heavy and sharp for a noble princess raised in a golden cage.

  "Alright, Miss Ashart. Please take a seat in the empty chair in the third row. Next to Mr. Lukas... ah, sorry, I mean Mr. Askagarg."

  Mira walked up to the third row. She looked at the empty seat. And she looked at the person sitting next to it.

  He was a young man with jet-black hair cut neatly short, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. He didn’t turn as Mira approached. He was twirling a metal quill pen in his fingers with unnerving skill, his eyes fixed on the thick textbook in front of him.

  His uniform was slightly different—neater, more fitted, and there was a small silver pin shaped like a coiled dragon on his collar. The emblem of a high-ranking noble military family.

  Mira sat down. She placed her bag down. That young man stopped twirling his pen.

  He turned slowly. His blue eyes were fixed on Mira. The look was not one of admiration, not one of hatred. It was a look of boredom. The look of someone observing a new insect that had landed on their desk.

  "You're blocking my light," said that young man. His voice was soft, polite, but cold enough to pierce the bones.

  "The other chairs are taken," Mira replied, unwilling to back down. She had faced a bone scorpion and a giant worm monster; she was not afraid of a schoolboy with too much powder on his face.

  The young man raised his left eyebrow slightly. He seemed surprised that someone dared to talk back to him.

  His eyes then dropped. Scanning Mira. From her face, to her neck, and then stopping right at Mira's wrists. At the Igniter bracelets made by Dalt. It seemed the bracelets appeared because Mira had accidentally allowed a little of her Intian to flow, a sign that she still hadn't controlled her emotions.

  Lukas's blue eyes narrowed. He recognized the item. Or at least, he recognized the complexity of its artificing.

  "Interesting toy," Lukas murmured, the corner of his lips lifting into a thin, cynical smile. "Your father put a Limiter on you? Is he afraid you'll blow up the academy, or is he afraid you'll embarrass the family name with incompetent magic?"

  Mira's blood was boiling. This kid. Mira wanted to punch that sharp nose. But she held herself back.

  "Focus on your book, Mr. Talkative," Mira hissed quietly. "Before I turn your pen into dust."

  Lukas chuckled softly. The laughter didn’t reach his eyes. He returned to his book, but Mira could feel the young man’s aura change. His boredom vanished, replaced by a sharp intensity.

  "We’ll see about that later, Princess Ashart," Lukas whispered without looking up. "The practical class starts in one hour. I hope the ‘dust’ you mentioned isn’t referring to your own dignity."

  Mira gripped her skirt. The bracelet on her wrist buzzed hotly, responding to her anger. One minute. She only needed one minute to shut that arrogant mouth later.