The accounting records—chaotic, overwritten, and utterly nonsensical—were, without a doubt, Aaron O'Brien's final gift. Felix flipped through the heavily altered pages in silence, expression unreadable. Across the table, Elliott sorted through a fan of crookedly stapled receipts and commented, almost lazily.
"We should take bets. How long until that disciplinary committee accepts defeat? I give them three days."
"You dislike them that much?"
Felix didn't have high expectations, but Elliott's disdain for them was far more blatant. Elliott sniffed sharply. "Of course, I don't like them. Most of them aren't noble, not by any measure. The very fact that they think they belong in this academy... Honestly, it's the height of arrogance."
The offhand manner of his words didn't soften the clear contempt in his voice. He leaned toward Felix, lowering his tone.
"I simply can't stand commoners who don't understand their place."
"Yes. I am well aware."
Most students at Serendia Academy came from noble families, but many were still from the lesser aristocracy—some even from wealthy commoners. Technically, anyone could enroll as long as they could pay. But people like Elliott viewed this accessibility as a flaw, not a merit.
"Still," Felix said, closing the ledger, "don't you think you're being a little harsh? Do you realize how many classrooms face the rear gardens? Expecting them to investigate all of them is...ambitious."
"It's still better than us doing it ourselves and being seen," Elliott countered. "And that doctor's assistant...just who does she think she is, interfering in matters that aren't her business? I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up being Aaron's accomplice."
His narrowed, drooping eyes held an unmistakable reprimand. Felix knew Elliott disliked being kept out of the loop. But Felix merely returned the stare coolly and dragged a feathered pen across the page in front of him.
"I want academy troubles handled quietly. The last thing we need is Duke Crockford getting involved."
Duke Crockford—Felix's maternal grandfather—was one of the empire's most powerful nobles. Serendia Academy fell under his direct oversight. Letting a scandal erupt here would be equivalent to shaming the duke. Felix would never, could never, allow that.
Even if others whispered that he was merely the duke's obedient lapdog, Felix had no choice. Disobedience was unthinkable.
"And more importantly..." Felix's tone sharpened just slightly. "As Felix Arc Castina, I cannot allow anyone to question my competence."
Elliott opened his mouth to reply, but a soft knock at the student council room door cut through the tension.
Sun-golden blond hair, carefully smoothed down with hair oil, caught the light as they entered. It was a man with a gaze as hard as stone, lips pressed into a firm, uncompromising line.
Though his brows were drawn together in a faint crease, his posture remained impeccably straight. He looked...irritated, perhaps—but even that simmering displeasure couldn't diminish the elegance that clung to him. Everything about him radiated dignity.
Felix recognized him immediately—the head of the disciplinary committee, the only child of Serranova, a family that values tradition above all else, and of course the heir... Ricardo Stefano Salvator.
Feeling some pity for the young man after Elliott's bullying, Felix gently called out to him. "Hello, Ricardo. Made any progress?"
It had been only a few hours, so progress was unlikely. Felix hadn't been expecting anything from the man in the first place. However, the man, stone cold as ever, nodded and said, "We know who unscrewed the sign and threw the pot to harm Your Imperial Highness."
.............
Selma Karsh had always known her place in the academy's glittering hierarchy—somewhere behind the girls who smiled sweetly while handing her their errands. She clung to them anyway. For someone with nothing, even false warmth felt like salvation.
"A sudden illness, is it?" one of the girls whispered behind her fan, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "How unfortunate that your fiancé had to leave school, Selma."
"Truly!" another chirped. "And he'd just become student council accountant, too. Poor you."
Their words were light, but every syllable stung.
"Everyone knows," the girl with the fan added, lowering her voice, "that Aaron was absolutely smitten with Lady Bridgt."
"While being engaged to Selma?" a third girl gasped theatrically. "Well...Bridget is beautiful. Unlike—"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to. Selma forced a gentle smile. "I'm sure it's a misunderstanding."
Her friends exchanged looks that said they believed none of it. But Aaron O'Brien—distant, indifferent Aaron—was all she had. If he slipped away from her, too, then she truly had nothing left.
So when a certain person whispered to her, "Only you can help him," Selma hadn't hesitated. If she could protect him, just once, maybe he would look at her. Even once would be enough.
Hours later, in the stillness of the student council room, Selma stood trembling before the prince. Second Prince Felix leaned back slightly in his chair, but his voice was cold enough to frost the air.
"Lady Selma Karsh. Do you know why you have been summoned?"
Selma lowered her head. Her hands, hidden in pristine white gloves, clenched tightly. "I...I believe I do, Your Highness."
Ricardo, standing beside Felix, frowned. Elliott Howard, the secretary, stood with arms folded, gaze sharp. Two days ago, a signboard had nearly crushed the prince before the entrance ceremony. Yesterday, a flowerpot had shattered at his feet. Now, all eyes were on Selma.
Felix tapped the desk lightly. "According to the investigation, the flowerpot was dropped from music room two, on the fourth-floor balcony."
Elliott added sharply, "And the only person who applied to use that room during the time of the incident was you, Selma."
Selma's shoulders tightened. Felix continued gently, "A dirty flowerpot was placed upside down near the railing—the culprit used it as a stepping stool. Only someone small would need the extra height. And the gloves, Lady Karsh..."
Selma froze.
"In the powder room garbage bin," Felix continued, "the cleaning staff found a pair of gloves with your initials, stained with soil."
A tremor ran through Selma. Her knees buckled.
"I...I—" she gasped, then the words burst out of her in a wail. "Yes! It was me!"
Elliott let out a hiss of disbelief. Tears streamed down Selma's pale cheeks as she looked up, her expression twisted in anguish. "I dropped the flowerpot... I pushed the signboard... And I—I was the one who urged Aaron to use the funds! Please, please, punish me instead!"
Felix's voice was quiet but merciless. "Lady Karsh, Aaron O'Brien has already confessed his involvement. You cannot erase his crimes."
"But he didn't mean to!" Selma sobbed. "He only wanted to be worthy of Bridget! He—he was never mine to begin with, but I—" her voice cracked as she pressed her hands to her eyes. "I thought...if I helped him, he would look at me! Just once..."
Elliott's brows knitted. "He used you, Selma. He spent that money on other women."
Selma let out a broken, breathless laugh. "I know. I know...but I love him. Even if he never would..."
The room fell silent. Lillian, who had been watching all this through Nero's eyes, was unable to understand—yet struck by the rawness of her devotion. To throw away everything for a love that barely acknowledged her...it was tragic, foolish, and painfully human.
Felix stood, his cloak settling around him like a shadow. "Your actions endangered lives, Lady Karsh. There will be consequences."
Selma closed her eyes, tears slipping silently down her face. "If...if he is spared even a little...I'll accept anything."
But no miracle came. And Selma, collapsing on the polished floor, understood that she had lost everything—her love, her future, and the fragile hope she had clung to so desperately.
....................
"Here are the accounting records you requested," Ricardo said, setting a heavy box of documents on her desk with a soft thud.
"Thank you."
Lillian rose to prepare tea, the familiar motions calming her as she arranged the tray with warm cups and an assortment of sweets. When she returned to the sofa, Ricardo was already seated—back straight, shoulders squared, as though the weight of the Serranova legacy rested naturally upon him.
Even exhausted as he looked, the atmosphere around him was unmistakable. Not the gentleness or boyish charm she remembered from childhood—but the steel-spined dignity of a man raised to embody centuries of unbroken tradition. An heir who could not bend. A noble who would not waver.
He's changed… so much.
The mischievous boy she used to know had long vanished. Yet, as she watched him take a quiet, appreciative bite of a sweet, she couldn't help the faint smile tugging at her lips.
At least his fondness for sugar survived puberty.
She placed his tea before him. "Thank you again for your hard work. So… what will happen to Lady Selma?"
Ricardo exhaled slowly, his expression settling into the cool severity expected of his station.
"The signboard and the flowerpot—both were assassination attempts against royalty. Under normal circumstances, she and her family would receive the harshest penalty possible." He paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his cup. "But publicizing the incidents would cause unnecessary turmoil. It is far more convenient to announce she has withdrawn due to ill health."
His gaze drifted toward the window, softening.
"And… seeing her throw away everything for the sake of someone she cherished." A faint, almost sad smile crossed his lips. "It was strangely moving, wasn't it?"
"If that's how you choose to see it," Lillian replied quietly.
For Lillian, Selma's devotion had been nothing short of terrifying. To gamble her life, her future, her family name—on a man who offered her no guarantee of affection.
Lillian understood attachment. But only to things that were practical, solid, reliable. People outside her family were far too unpredictable to invest such emotion in.
Ricardo broke the silence by nodding toward the box on the table. "And those accounting records? What will you do with them?"
"I'll review everything," she said. "It shouldn't take more than a few hours. I'll drop them off at the committee room before returning to the dormitory."
"That fast…?" Ricardo huffed a quiet laugh, admiration flickering openly in his eyes. "I should've expected nothing less from you."
He helped himself to another bite of cake—this time unable to hide the pure delight on his face.
"Oh, by the way, Lillian," he said, brushing crumbs from his gloves. "There's something I've been meaning to ask. What exactly do you know about the drug circulating in the capital?"
He had originally come to the academy to interview the assistant medical officer, but finding Lillian there had been a surprise even for him. One question had led to another, and eventually, they struck a deal—she would trade information for access to the student council's accounting books.
Lillian set down her teacup, her voice lowering. "The drugs are coming through military channels."
Ricardo shot to his feet. "What!?"
His teacup rattled against its saucer, the shock momentarily cracking his noble composure. And Lillian knew…their quiet conversation had just become the beginning of something far more dangerous.
....................
The boys' dormitory was quiet by the time Felix climbed the final staircase. Lantern-light drowsed in the hallway, casting long, warm shadows across the polished floors. After hours of council work, testimonies, and endless paperwork, his shoulders ached for rest. He opened his door.
"Welcome home, Your Highness."
A familiar voice. A voice exactly like his own.
Felix exhaled a soft laugh. "Isacc, if you call me 'Your Highness' the moment I walk into my own room, I'm throwing you out the window."
His identical double—in a perfectly tailored butler's uniform—stood beside the tea table, pouring hot tea with practiced grace. He looked up with a smirk Felix knew all too well.
"Then I shall address you as 'Felix.' Welcome back, Felix."
"Better," Felix said, loosening his collar. "Considerably less pretentious."
Isacc stepped back and gave him an easy nod. "Long day?"
"You have no idea."
"Oh, I do," Isacc said lightly. "I listened through the door when you dragged yourself in yesterday as well. Your sighs were truly spectacular."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "…You were eavesdropping?"
"I was monitoring your well-being. There's a difference."
Felix walked in and collapsed into the nearest chair. Isacc placed a warm cup into his hand without being asked—of course he did. Isacc always knew.
"You even brewed the cinnamon blend," Felix said, surprised.
"You looked like you needed comfort tea," Isacc replied. "And possibly a nap. Or three."
Felix let out a tired groan that melted into a laugh. "Honestly, what would I do without you?"
"Perish dramatically," Isacc answered immediately. "Probably on a pile of unfinished paperwork."
Felix snorted. "You know… that's probably accurate."
Isacc took the seat across from him, not as a servant but as someone who belonged in that room. Someone who had always been there.
"So?" Isacc asked, folding his arms. "Did the flowerpot culprit confess?"
"Spectacularly." Felix rubbed his temples. "There were tears. Sobbing. A dramatic attempt to take all the blame. Elliott almost choked on his own disgust."
Isacc laughed—genuinely, warmly, a sound Felix always found grounding. "Drama truly follows you, Felix."
"Don't remind me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, steam from the tea curling between them. Then Isacc leaned forward. "Did you eat dinner?"
Felix hesitated.
Isacc's eyes narrowed. "That is not a yes."
"I was busy—"
Isacc stood immediately. "Sit. I'll bring you a tray from the kitchen. You can't conquer anything on an empty stomach."
Felix smiled—small but sincere. "Thanks, Isacc."
Isacc paused at the door, glancing back with the faintest smirk.
"I'm your double," he said. "Your shadow, your extra set of hands… and your better-looking half."
Felix threw a pillow at him. "Get out!"
Isacc dodged effortlessly, laughing as he left the room to retrieve food. Felix leaned back, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. Yeah… having him here made everything easier.
Felix hummed a tune under his breath as he walked toward his desk. With a fluid motion born of habit, he slipped a small brass key from his pocket and fit it into the drawer's lock. The mechanism clicked softly.
He pulled the drawer open and retrieved a thick stack of essays--neatly bound, painfully long but incredibly detailed and revolutionary.
Isacc, who had just returned with a tray of dinner, paused at the doorway with an expression of polite horror.
"Felix," he said slowly, "please tell me you are not planning to read them again tonight."
Felix flipped though the pages with a look not out of duty but of pure unfiltered delight. "Unfortunately for you, I am." he announced, almost glowing. "I asked that used bookshop near the east plaza to track these down for me. And they delivered beautifully."
Isacc stared at the stack as if it were a pile of live explosives. "Beautifully? Felix, those are essays."
"Not just any essays," Felix corrected, tapping one page with reverent enthusiasm. "This one is by the Silent Witch. She details the positonal coordiinates and their dynamic shifts for extremely advanced magecraft. Look--here, the calculations are elegant. Genius-level elegant."
Isacc pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I share a face with you."
A few months ago, they were on undercover business in the eastern territories but the east was in chaos because of the black dragon and the crowds of people evacuating their villages and towns had slowed them down.
They'd blended in with them to avoid anyone realizing who he was, and in a stroke of misfortune, he'd run right into the horde of pterodragons. And that was when he'd seen it.
The pterodragons blotted out the sky. Their shrill, ear-piercing cries were hostile, making plain their fury. If one was to impulsively glide down, a simple scrape from its talons would be enough to fell thick trunked trees. The horde itself was like a natural disaster with a mind of its own. And these were large pterodragons—each of them bigger than a civilian house. The sight of them swarming in the air in such a huge group was nightmarish.
But a moment later, a gate opened up in the sky—the grand spell to summon Sheffield, King of the Wind Spirits. Wind rushed down from the gate's open maw, glittering white, turning into spears and piercing each of the pterodragons between the eyes.
The pterodragon cadavers plummeted toward the earth, but the shining white winds engulfed them, slowing them, sending them fluttering into a pile on the ground like snowflakes.
Ah… Such a quiet, beautiful spell.
The two had seen the Silent Witch several times before at ceremonies. But she'd always kept the hood of her robe low over her eyes, so he'd never gotten a look at her face. What's more, she almost never appeared in public, hence her reputation as a particularly plain, inconspicuous member of the Seven Sages.
And yet, she is able to use such incredible magecraft!
Felix's thoughts racing with the memories of what he had seen in Count Kerbeck's dominion. He ignored Isacc's plea to eat, practically vibrating with excitement as he spread the essays out.
"She even annotates the deviation patterns in her own handwriting! Do you know how rare that is? The theory alone could revolutionize—"
Isacc placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back into his chair. "Yes, yes, revolutionize the world, bend the laws of magic, rewrite the history books—I've heard the monologue." He sighed. "Fine. But if you fall asleep drooling on these pages again, I'm hiding them for a week."
Felix gasped. "You wouldn't."
Isacc smirked. "Try me."
Felix clutched the essays to his chest as if protecting small, delicate children. "Your cruelty knows no bounds."
"And your obsession knows no rest," Isacc shot back.
But when Felix leaned over the table, eyes shining as he reread the Silent Witch's intricate notes, Isacc couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at his lips. For all the madness, it was good to have him back in the room—alive, excited, utterly impossible.
...................................
"Argh, I swear...What is the prince thinking?" muttered Cyril Ashely as he looked over the documents that Ricardo returned.
Felix hadn't ordered him to carry out a review. The other student council members had already returned to their dorms. Cyril had taken it upon himself to stay and look through them because he couldn't bring himself to trust an unknown third-party review.
Ricardo said that person reviewed all past documents, but there was no way they could have done that in the few hours. It must have been a mistate, and so Cyril was in a frenzy, searching for any sighs that the other person had done a sloppy job.
Unfortunately, the more he reviewed, the more he came to realize how perfect it is. The person had pointed out very minor numerical mistakes that even Cyril would have overlooked. At this point, he had to acknowledge their ability is nothing less then incredible, but...
"I still don't like it."
How dare they order Felix, the second prince himself, and take away the documents he is working on. It was a slight against royalty. He grew irritated, recalling the scene. But as he was cleaning up the papers, he suddenly noticed something. The numbers, they're written like...
All those inperfections Lillian had discovered, he got the feeling they'd increased after a certain year. And Cyril had an idea as to whose handwriting it was on the added lines. The numbers were written with a rightward slant, very common for a left-handed person.
Could it be? No, but wait, that's now...
Cyril checked the documents several more times, then stood up without a word. He needed an answer to this question. With the documents in hand, he left the student council room and headed for...
In front of the student council room door, Cyril came back to his senses. What had he just been doing? Oh, right. I needed to lock up and go return the council room key to Mr. Thorn. The key was in his hand, but as he looked down at it, he felt something was off.
He hadn't been holding a key but some sort of documents. Then he remembered...yes, something about the documents had caught his eye and so he'd...
Suddenly, his head started to sting. Cyril put a hand to his temple and leaned against the wall. He must have been tired. He'd probably zoned out because of that. Maybe I should go to sleep early tonight. Still holding his throbbing head, he started walking towards the faculty room.