The East Tower is a strange place.

  If the Central Tower smells of beeswax and old paper, and the Diamond Tower smells of sulfur, then the East Tower smells... of turpentine.

  Mira sat on the wooden floor covered with colorful paint stains. In front of her, a red apple was placed on a bench. Her task was simple, according to Laich Klippenberg: "Don't draw the apple. Draw its hunger."

  Two hours had passed. Laich himself was snoring behind a pile of canvases in the corner of the room, his face covered by a straw hat, while his mouse, Spoony, was busy arranging crumbs of cheese into small pyramids.

  Mira stared at her sketch paper, still clean. She didn’t understand art. In the south, an apple is food. You take it, you bite it, you’re full. There’s no philosophy behind hunger.

  “You’re thinking too hard,” Laich murmured from beneath his hat, without opening his eyes. “Your left brain is too noisy. Turn it off.”

  Mira sighed, putting down her pen. The bracelets on her wrists felt cold and still, a stark contrast to the burning frustration in her head. Being Rhea Ashart was apparently more exhausting than hunting monitor lizards in a tropical storm.

  Then the lunch bell rang. Laich immediately woke up, sitting upright as if struck by electricity. “Lunch. Go there. Bring back any leftover meat if there is any.”

  Mira packed up her things with relief. She needed fresh air. And she needed real meat, not philosophical apples.

  ***

  The Veinara Academy Cafeteria is not like a cafeteria. It is a Ballroom.

  Crystal chandeliers float from a ceiling painted with moving clouds. Long tables made of polished mahogany are filled with silver plates that are constantly refilled by waiters.

  But for Mira, this place is a battlefield. The social hierarchy here is sharper than a wolf's fang. Senior students sit at the tables near the windows (best view). Pure element students (Fire, Water, Earth, Air) sit in the middle. And students from the "discarded" departments like Art, History, or Magical Logic are pushed to the corner near the kitchen door.

  Mira picked up her silver tray. She walked alone. Her neat uniform and the Ashart emblem on her chest drew attention, but the 'stay away' aura she radiated made people keep their distance.

  She was just about to sit at an empty table in the corner when a shadow fell over her steak plate. The temperature around her spiked dramatically. The sharp scent of rose perfume mixed with the smell of burning smoke.

  “This seat is for humans, not for dolls,” a sharp female voice rang above her head.

  Mira looked up. A girl stood there. She was beautiful, in a dangerous way. Her hair was blazing red—its natural color, not dyed—falling in waves to her waist. Her emerald green eyes stared at Mira with a mixture of disgust and superiority. On her uniform, an element of Fire (Ignis) badge and a noble family pin bearing the emblem of a Phoenix were pinned.

  Lysandra Eriallve.

  Behind her, two of her followers, also wearing Fire badges, smirked slyly, ready to laugh at whatever was about to happen.

  “Is your name written on this seat?” Mira asked flatly, returning to cut her meat.

  "No," Lysandra replied. She placed her hand on the table. The tips of her fingers smoked, leaving black burn marks on the clean white tablecloth. "But your name isn't on the official student admission list either."

  The chatter in the cafeteria slowly died down. Every head turned. Noble drama was the favorite pastime in Veinara, far more captivating than history lessons.

  "My father donated two new libraries so I could take the entrance exam," Lysandra hissed, leaning her face closer. "I've been practicing fire magic since I was five. I've burned my own skin thousands of times to master Fire Dance. And you..."

  Lysandra's green eyes scanned Mira from head to toe.

  "...you come from who knows where, with the second-highest noble family in the kingdom, wearing counterfeit jewelry on your hands, and you just waltz into the elite class without a written test? Disgusting."

  Mira paused, chewing. She gently put down her fork. She understood this type. In the south, there were people like this, too, the Alpha males who felt threatened by newcomers. They bullied to defend their territory.

  "You're jealous," Mira said simply. Not as a question.

  Lysandra's face flushed, matching her hair. "Jealous? Of a parasite?" Lysandra laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "I'm not jealous, Princess Ashart. I'm offended. Your very existence insults all our hard work."

  Lysandra picked up a glass of water from Mira's table. The temperature of the water in the glass suddenly rose. The water boiled within seconds, then evaporated completely, leaving a crystal glass from the heat.

  "Meet me at the Old Garden in ten minutes," Lysandra challenged, her voice echoing throughout the cafeteria. "Unless you want to admit in front of everyone that you're just a pretty doll bought by Lord Dalt."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Lysandra turned around, her red hair whipping across Mira's face, leaving the scent of burnt roses. "Don't be late. I hate waiting."

  Mira stared at Lysandra's back as she walked away. She saw Lukas sitting at a far table, watching the scene while sipping his orange juice with a bored—perhaps amused—expression.

  Mira looked at the steak on her plate. It was still half-eaten. "What a pity," she murmured. She stood up. The youngest daughter from the south never declined a challenge, especially if it involved territory.

  ***

  Old Garden is the remains of an old castle ruin located at the back of the academy. The place is rarely visited by teachers because it is sunken underground and covered with wild vines. It is an unofficial duel arena for the students. A place where blood is shed, and egos are destroyed without any academic record.

  When Mira arrived, Lysandra was already waiting in the middle of the grassy field surrounded by broken stone pillars. Dozens of students had gathered on top of the wall ruins, becoming impromptu spectators. The news spread quickly in Veinara.

  Lysandra stood with her hands folded. Around her, the air vibrated from the heat. The grass beneath her feet began to yellow and wither.

  "You came," said Lysandra.

  "Let's finish this," said Mira, walking casually down the stone stairs. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket, touching her cold Igniter bracelets.

  "The rules are simple," shouted Lysandra. "Whoever faints, gives up, or gets thrown out of the pillar circle, loses. No teachers. No house points. Just pain."

  Lysandra stretched out her hands.

  Two fireballs the size of human heads appeared in her palms. The flames weren’t ordinary red, but bright orange with white cores.

  "Dance, Ashart!"

  Lysandra threw the first fireball. Her movements were quick. The fireball shot out like a cannonball.

  Mira didn’t jump. She just twisted her upper body slightly. The fireball passed ten centimeters from her shoulder, hitting the stone pillar behind her. The pillar blackened and cracked. The heat reached Mira’s cheek.

  She’s seriously trying to kill me, Mira thought. Good.

  "Just dodging?" Lysandra sneered. She threw a second, third, and fourth fireball. Fire Style: Fireball Barrage.

  Mira ran. She weaved in zigzags between the pillars, using her physical agility. Explosion after explosion shattered the ground behind her. Shards of stone flew through the air. Smoke filled the garden.

  In the eyes of the spectators, Mira looked cornered. She was just a mouse running from a dragon.

  But Mira was calculating. Her attack pattern was linear. She was aiming at where I was, not where I would be. She was emotional. Her breathing was starting to become heavy.

  Mira hid behind a large, half-destroyed pillar. She looked at her bracelets. Sixty seconds. She had to end this now. She couldn't play with Lysandra's fire forever.

  Mira closed her eyes for a moment. She remembered Laich's lesson from that morning. Imagination is memory rearranged. Art is a visual trick.

  Mira didn't need big weapons. She needed something invisible. She imagined a spider web. But made of glass. Thin. Sharp. Almost invisible.

  "Come out, coward!" shouted Lysandra. She concentrated Intian in her hand, forming a three-meter-long flame whip. "I’ll burn that expensive uniform of yours!"

  Mira stepped out from behind the pillar. She raised her right hand. Her bracelet glowed dim blue.

  Imagination Style: Glass Filament.

  Dark blue liquid oozed from her fingers, but this time it didn't solidify into a large object. The liquid stretched, thinning into threads of glass finer than human hair, yet as strong as steel wire. The threads floated in the air, reflecting sunlight in such a way that they almost vanished.

  Lysandra didn't see it. She only saw Mira standing still with her hands raised, oddly. "You're dead!" Lysandra swung her fiery whip. The tongue of fire twisted through the air, aiming for Mira's neck.

  Mira slammed her hand down. The invisible glass threads moved according to the will of her fingers.

  Lysandra's fire whip... snapped. The fire magic was cut mid-air as if struck by an invisible sword. The severed flames burst into harmless sparks.

  Lysandra’s eyes widened. “What—?”

  Mira pulled her fingers back. The glass thread wrapped around Lysandra's right leg. Mira jerked her hand.

  “ARGH!” Lysandra screamed. Her leg was forcibly pulled. She fell face-first onto the hard ground. Fresh blood seeped from her ankle, where the glass thread had cut through her skin and pierced her expensive sock.

  Lysandra panicked. She tried to get up and shoot fire again. But Mira has already moved.

  Mira ran into the smoke. Within two seconds, she was already on top of the lying Lysandra. Mira didn't make a sword. She didn't make a hammer. She pressed her knee against Lysandra's chest, holding the girl's breath.

  Mira's right hand gripped Lysandra's neck. Not suffocating. But on the tip of each of Mira's fingers, the two-inch-long pointed glass nails grew elongated. The sharp tip of the glass nail pressed right on the artery of Lysandra's neck. One more touch, and the blood will squirt.

  The hot temperature in the garden vanished instantly. The fireball in Lysandra's hand went out.

  The red-haired girl froze. She could feel the cold of the glass on the sweaty skin of her neck. She looked into Mira's eyes. Amber's eyes had no emotion. There is no anger. There are no wins. Only the blank gaze of a predator considers whether or not its prey is worth eating.

  "You..." Lysandra's voice choked up, tears of pain and humiliation pooling in her eyes.

  Mira brought her face closer. "Your training is fifteen years," Mira whispered softly, her voice hoarse. "Defeated by 'trash' in thirty seconds."

  Mira pressed her glass nail slightly. A drop of red blood appeared on Lysandra's white neck. "You have a fire, Lysandra. But you have no intention of killing. You just want to show off. Me? I don't show off. I'm solving the problem."

  Mira straightened her body. The glass-like claws on her hands shattered into a beautiful blue dust, falling to sprinkle over Lysandra’s pale face.

  The bracelets on Mira’s wrist stopped buzzing. 45 seconds. Still plenty of time left.

  Mira stood up, brushing the dust off her skirt. She looked around. The spectators were silent. They had just witnessed a high-level Fire element noble being incapacitated without a single explosive spell. Only with threads and claws. Brutal. Efficient.

  Mira glanced at Lysandra, still lying on the ground, clutching her slightly bleeding neck. “Heal your leg. If it’s infected, you won’t be able to attend the end-of-year dance.”

  Mira turned and walked away, parting the crowd of students who stepped back to give her a path, their faces filled with fear.

  ***

  Behind the shadow of one of the distant, crumbling pillars, Lukas Askagarg leaned back casually. He had watched it all. He saw the nearly invisible threads of glass. He saw the doubt in Lysandra's eyes and the absence of doubt in Mira's eyes.

  Lukas pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. He opened the page that read: Subject: Rhea Ashart.

  Under the note 'Suspected Type-C Anomaly,' he crossed it out. He wrote a new line in black ink: Adventurer Type: Assassin (Maybe). Psychology: Dominant. Threat Level: High.

  "Not just a puppet," Lukas murmured, closing his book. A rare, thin smile appeared on his face. "Finally, this year won't be boring."

  Lukas turned, disappearing into the shadows of the academy corridor, leaving the Old Garden now smelling of blood and scorched embers, a silent witness to the birth of a new Queen in Veinara's food chain.