The class was unusually quiet — not only because a certain princess was missing, but because this was everyone's favorite lesson. And by "favorite," I mean the one lesson where no professor showed up, no Talent was required, and no one pretended to be interested. It was Self-Realization, the only subject in the entire Academy that didn't have a dramatic, over-the-top name like Arcane Convergence or Elemental Transmutation. Just… Self-Realization. Simple. Honest. A nap disguised as education.
Each faction had it at different times to prevent the campus from turning into a collective snoring festival or worse. Even the Academy wasn't ready for that level of chaos.
And speaking of the Academy — guess it wasn't mentioned earlier, huh?
The Soulbourne Academy is, interestingly, proud for an institution. The "The" in its name isn't just for decoration; she lives up to it. There is no fixed timetable here. Sure, students receive a neat little schedule on their first day, but that's just to help them learn the names of their lessons and professors. After the first week? Straight into the unknown.
Every dorm room had a specially crafted orb mounted near the ceiling — a silent overseer that dictated the rhythm of a student's life. At dawn, it flickered awake and projected the lesson of the day, the professor assigned, and where it would take place. Students woke each morning with the same resigned thought:
"Where am I supposed to be today?"
Pretty gnarly, right?
Or so they say…
Anyway, back to our main man.
Lucen spent this period very productively — and by productively, I mean staring out the window with his headset on, volume cranked to the heavens, pretending to be absorbed in the scenery. But this wasn't one of his usual "What's outside the window?" sessions like the ones he had back home. No, his thoughts were full — painfully, overwhelmingly full — of Eiran.
Yes, you caught him. He admired Eiran far more than necessary. But honestly, who could blame him? Everything had happened so fast, and going back — emotionally, mentally — wasn't an option, even though he tried. That was one of the many reasons he had his headset blasting at max. Not just because he wasn't interested in the weird, random conversations happening around him — no matter how tantalizingly interesting they sounded — but because he needed to drown out the memory of meeting someone like Eiran.
Someone warm.
Someone gentle.
Someone who looked at him without judgment.
But two things bothered him deeply.
First: the conflict between what he knew his brother to be and what Eiran saw him as. Lucen didn't want to say anything — not when the prince was someone's mentor, someone's hero. It seemed to be working out for Eiran, and Lucen didn't want to ruin that.
Maybe Lucen was just… easier to hate than to love. Being from a house of Talents — a royal house, at that — but having none. But did that mean he deserved to be treated so poorly by his brothers?
Did they think their cruelty was some kind of push he needed to unlock the un-unlockable?
He had no Talent. He had accepted that. Why was it such a problem for everyone else? Why did something he had made peace with attract so much disdain — even from the kindest, softest of his brothers?
He always knew he was treated worse than strangers. But knowing didn't make it hurt any less. I mean, Eiran movement and stuff for example.
And then there was this Eiran.
Eiran, who seemed to think the prince was a beacon of hope. Eiran, who spoke of him with admiration and warmth. Lucen couldn't bring himself to shatter that image. The last thing he wanted was to scare off the first person who had ever looked at him like he mattered.
Friend…
The word felt foreign on his tongue. He had only ever seen it in books — the ones he devoured late at night — and heard it in the music he kept in his ears for hours. He always assumed those feelings described in stories and songs were fantasies written by lonely authors who dreamed of connection but never found it.
But it turns out they were real.
Every single word.
And Lucen…
Lucen wanted to drown in that feeling forever. It was extremely tempting and dangerously scary at the same time.
And that led us straight into Lucen's second bother: his fear.
Was this all not happening too fast?
Was Eiran not too good to be true?
Like seriously — everyone wanted to be Eiran's friend for their own reasons, reasons Lucen couldn't care less about. But for some inexplicable, cosmic, unfair reason… Eiran had stuck to him. Out of all the students in the Academy — the talented, the brilliant, the loud, the confident — he had chosen to sit with Lucen. To talk to him. To smile at him.
Why?
Did he want something?
Had he already figured out Lucen was a Royal and not a peasant?
Was this some elaborate plan to get close to Princess Nyreal?
Because honestly, who wouldn't want that? Princess Nyreal was a literal goddess wrapped in funeral cloth — sharp, ethereal, terrifyingly beautiful. If Eiran wanted to get close to her, Lucen wouldn't blame him. In fact, he could already imagine it: an angel and a devil in holy matrimony.
Lucen could practically hear the church bells ringing.
But beneath the humor, beneath the spiraling thoughts, there was a truth he didn't want to face.
He didn't mind if he was being used.
He didn't mind if Eiran had ulterior motives.
He didn't even mind if this entire friendship was built on a misunderstanding.
What terrified him — what truly, deeply terrified him — was the idea of letting his imagination run too far. Of letting this warmth, this attention, this impossible feeling settle into his bones. Of letting it become a part of him.
Because if he let himself believe in it…
If he let himself hope…
If he let himself feel even a fraction of what those books and songs had promised…
Then when the truth finally came — when reality greeted him with its usual cruelty — he would shatter.
And Lucen had been broken enough times to know he wouldn't survive another fall.
He had to play his cards right — keep the door ajar, keep his power leg out, keep himself ready to pull away without hesitation when things inevitably went south. That was the only way to survive something that felt this fragile, this new, this dangerously warm.
Those were his concluding thoughts as the final bell rang.
Lucen turned to the seat beside him, half hoping Princess Nyreal had slipped in unnoticed, but it was still empty. The absence tugged at him. He wanted to go search for her, to do his job, to make sure she hadn't burned the Academy down in a fit of righteous fury… but he hesitated. He had no idea if she had calmed down or if she was still a walking storm.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rising murmurs around him — specifically from the girls. He had only been here a few days, but he already understood the language of their volume levels.
Whispers meant they were discussing some series they watched.
Murmurs meant fashion or shopping.
But when murmurs rose into squeals and then into full-blown shrieks?
That meant one of two things:
Either one of the twelve princes had walked in…
Or someone whose beauty was on par with theirs had appeared.
And today, the squeals were getting louder. Almost painfully loud.
Lucen frowned. Who on earth had them this riled up? He looked up, gaze drawn to the doorway — and froze.
There, standing in the entrance, waving at him with a soft smile, was the boy whose presence always seemed to quiet a room — warm hazel eyes catching the light just enough to glow, his gentle features arranged in that calm, that made the girls squeal even louder, as though raising their voices would somehow earn his attention.
Eiran.
The entire class went chaotic. Shocked. Confused. Enchanted.
But none of them were more stunned than Lucen.
"He actually came", Lucen thought, heart, stumbling.
The boy whom most students found unapproachable — the boy who made half the Academy blush and the other half stare — had come to his class. For him.
Lucen didn't know how to feel.
He didn't know how to breathe.
He packed his things in a hurry and rushed to the door.
"What are you doing here?" Lucen whispered, painfully aware of the dozens of eyes burning into his back.
"I came to pick you up. My class ended earlier than expected," Eiran said simply. Then, with a small drop in his expression, "Why? You're not happy to see me?"
"Oh, it's not that… just unexpected," Lucen said awkwardly, hearing the girls behind him whispering in jealous rage.
Like, relax… he wasn't planning on 'stealing' him.
"Why are you here?" Lucen asked again, voice tight, discomfort rising.
Eiran blinked, confused — hadn't he just answered that? He stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Lucen's neck, then his forehead, checking his temperature. His touch was soft, careful, almost reverent.
"What's wrong? You're getting a fever…" Eiran murmured, worry threading through his voice.
Lucen swallowed hard at the delicate contact. "I am…?"
Eiran nodded. "Come on. You can rest in my room."
Before Lucen could protest, Eiran took his hand — warm, steady, grounding — and led him out of the classroom.
The scene felt unreal, almost like something out of a fairy tale.
So this was what it felt like…
A soft, gentle hand pulling you out of a world that felt foreign, hostile, and cruel.