Morning came soft and golden over Arcadia Academy, as if the world was trying to pretend nothing had happened the night before.

But word had already spread. Faster than magic. It's louder than war.

Some had seen the scene unfold firsthand. Others had only heard the whispers: Renee Ducart was never real. She was Renee Arcadia Nosfera—the third princess—the demonblood heir. The girl Elias tried to humiliate. And failed.

By noon, even the dust knew her name.

Still, not everyone was paying attention.

The cafeteria buzzed with nervous energy. Old power structures shifted like tectonic plates under students’ feet. People stared when Renee walked in, but they didn’t point or laugh. Most just watched, unsure if they should bow, wave… or run.

She sat down at an empty table near the center. She was too exposed for comfort, but she didn’t mind. Xavier slid into the seat across from her, and Damien dropped his heavy jacket over the back of his chair before stretching.

“I’m starving,” Damien grunted. “Want me to grab your usual?”

Renee nodded. “No onions this time.”

“Noted. You coming?” Damien asked Xavier.

Xavier glanced at her, unreadable. “She will be fine. For three minutes.”

He followed Damien toward the food lines.

Christofer, a few steps behind them, paused as his comm buzzed.

“Need to take this,” he said, already stepping away. “Don’t start a war while I’m gone.”

Renee smirked faintly. “No promises.”

She sat alone for a moment, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her glass. The room chatter was distant, almost gentle.

Until it wasn’t.

“Move.”

The voice was sharp. Feminine. Spoiled.

Renee looked up to find a she-demon standing before her—tall, elegant, radiating entitlement like perfume. Two other girls flanked her like mirror images. The demon’s eyes were red, but not ancient. Not earned. Just flashy.

“This is my table,” the girl said, chin lifted. “You’re in my seat.”

Renee blinked. Slowly. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

The girl scoffed, lips curling. “Of course you didn’t. You’re still playing knight, aren’t you? Didn’t they teach you how nobility works?”

Renee tilted her head. “Is this the part where I curtsy, or are you just here to overcompensate?”

The girl’s smile thinned. She pulled her ID badge from her neck and shoved it an inch from Renee’s face.

“Liana Ashborn,” she announced. “Top of the class. Demon House representative. This table belongs to me.”

Renee reached out and plucked the badge from her hand before she could stop her.

She examined it like it was a used napkin.

“Liana Ash… aw, my nose?” She squinted, feigning confusion. “That’s a fancy name. Almost sounds painful.”

The color drained from Liana’s face.

“Mutts like you should know their place,” she spat, raising her hand to strike.

Big mistake.

Renee’s smile vanished.

She still had the ID in hand, and before Liana could blink, Renee yanked her forward by the lanyard—fast, controlled—and slammed her face into the table with a sickening crunch.

Blood bloomed on impact.

Liana screamed and fell backward, clutching her nose, her voice high and trembling. “Ahh! My nose!”

The room went silent.

The two girls beside her froze, rage blazing in their eyes. One took a step forward.

Renee rose slowly, her aura leaking into the air like a storm rolling in. Her hair lifted slightly, eyes glowing the unnatural red of her Nosfera bloodline. The air bent around her, shadowy tendrils flickering like smoke just beneath the surface of reality.

She didn’t shout. She didn’t raise a hand.

She just looked at them.

“Go ahead,” she said, voice lower now. “Make the next move. See how far it gets you.”

The girls froze.

And Liana—bleeding, sniffling, confused—finally saw her. Not Renee, the captain. Not Renee, the fake fiancée.

Renee Nosfera. Royal blood. Demon nobility.

And infinitely above her.

“I—I didn’t know,” she mumbled, scooting back on the floor. “I didn’t… I didn’t know who you were.”

From the far side of the room, a shout broke through the silence.

“What is going on here?!”

Principal Sanchez stormed in, red-faced and rattled.

“Who started this? Who thinks it’s funny to turn my cafeteria into a war zone on the first day?!”

Then he saw her.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“P… Princess Renee,” he stammered, voice breaking.

Renee didn’t flinch. “So this is your school, Mr. Sanchez?”

“I—I wasn’t aware—”

“That your students throw their weight around like tyrants? That power here means intimidation, not merit? That noble girls corner others and demand obedience over lunch tables?”

He swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Her voice went cold. “You weren’t watching,” she said, cutting him off. “Fix it. Fast. Or I’ll fix it for you, and I assure you—my version of reform is far less polite.”

Sanchez paled and nodded. “Yes. Of course. I’ll—start today.”

Renee turned to the crowd, her voice louder, reaching them all.

“For those who’ve been bullied, shamed, or silenced—report it. Speak. File complaints. Don’t just survive. Demand better. Change doesn’t happen unless you move first.”

A silence followed.

Then, a murmur.

Someone clapped—awkwardly at first. Then, others joined in.

But not everyone was impressed.

A tall boy stormed forward, clearly one of Liana’s friends.

“You think just ‘cause you’re a princess, you get to throw people around? You don’t get to demand anything from us. This isn’t your throne room.”

And then he reached for her.

Before his fingers touched the fabric, Damien slammed into him from behind—like a wave of stone and fury.

He flipped the boy onto a table with a crash, one massive hand wrapped around his throat, pinning him.

“Touch her again,” Damien growled, voice like thunder, “and I’ll shatter your bones before anyone notices you’re gone.”

The boy choked out a wheeze, struggling.

Renee stepped in quickly, placing her hand on Damien’s arm.

“Hey,” she said softly, “he’s not worth the mess.”

She leaned in close and whispered something only he could hear.

Damien’s grip loosened. He let go.

The boy slid to the floor, coughing.

Renee took Damien’s hand and walked away.

Christofer returned just as they stepped outside, eyes narrowing at the small crowd filtering out after them.

“I leave for one call,” he muttered, “and you’ve already made enemies, started a student rebellion, and possibly traumatized the staff.”

“I didn’t start anything,” Renee said innocently.

He arched a brow, motioning toward the bruised kid on the table inside. “Then what’s that?”

Xavier answered dryly, “That’s Damien. Someone touched Renee.”

Chris exhaled and looked at Renee. “You need to teach me whatever you whisper to him to make him stop before he turns people into ceiling décor.”

Renee smiled, mischievous. “It only works coming from me.”

She winked at Damien, who grinned despite the storm still behind his eyes.

***

The next few days passed with a strange, almost eerie smoothness. Classes resumed. The Academy’s halls, once buzzing with gossip and secondhand whispers about the ballroom scene, slowly settled into a rhythm again.

But the air still felt different.

Not because Renee had changed her stride or tone—but because everyone else had. Respect, curiosity, and even unease followed her like invisible banners. Professors called on her more. Students stared longer. And no one dared rechallenge her—not out loud.

Thursday morning brought Magic Spelling Theory, one of the most advanced classes for senior cadets. Professor Andern, tall and grizzled with streaks of white in his dark beard, greeted the class with an unusual grin.

"Today," he began, “we’re pushing boundaries. This is no longer about learning spells. It’s about mastering them. Controlling them. Molding them beyond their raw form.”

He turned to Renee, Damien, Christofer, and Xavier. “You four will assist your peers today. Guide them through their highest-cast spells. Help them understand what control means.”

The four exchanged glances. Then Damien and Xavier broke off toward the eastern half of the room while Christofer stepped into the center.

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

The lights dimmed—not physically, but perceptually—as Christofer lifted a single hand.

“Inferno,” he said quietly.

Flames erupted—not chaotic, but elegant. They swirled upward like serpents of molten gold, then fanned outward into twin arcs, curling into a complex formation above the class.

“Inferno is the apex of fire magic,” he began, voice calm, low, and rhythmic. “Not because of its strength, but because of its risk. Cast incorrectly, it incinerates everything indiscriminately. Mastered... it listens.”

He extended both hands, splitting the flame into symmetrical columns. The temperature dropped noticeably—controlled suppression.

With a flick of his fingers, the fire condensed into small orbs that hovered, pulsing with heat.

Then, Christofer did something more advanced—he layered another spell into the fire, one normally incompatible. A wave of frost shimmered through the orbs without extinguishing them. Fire and ice intertwined.

Gasps followed.

“Inferno can carry other spells. Dual casting. Form manipulation. Temperature control. Distance regulation. This is what mastery looks like.”

Then, gently, the entire construct dissolved into glowing embers that floated to the ground like snow.

The room was silent. Even the air seemed reverent.

Christofer stepped back with a shrug. “Your turn.”

Renee moved through the back rows, stopping beside students as they cast. Most fumbled or pushed too hard, but with minor adjustments—posture, breath, intention—progress emerged. Her critiques were sharp but fair. When they reached the outer edges, she came to Lance.

He was alone, eyes closed, his arms tense with focus.

Dragonshifter.

She’d noticed him before—quiet, closed off. He was the type who made himself small so people wouldn’t ask questions. But power clung to him like a second skin.

“Dragon Force,” he said. “That’s my highest.”

“Then show me,” Renee said softly.

He opened his palms, exhaling.

Magic flared—violent, jagged, golden-orange—and spiraled down his arms. His veins lit with energy, and faint scales shimmered on his skin. For a moment, he held it.

Then it sputtered.

His arm jerked, and he grimaced.

Renee stepped forward and gently caught his wrist before it broke further.

“You’re forcing it,” she said. “That’s why it’s hurting you.”

Lance’s jaw tightened. “I’m doing everything I was taught.”

“Exactly,” she said. “But you were taught as a human trying to manage dragon magic. It doesn’t work like that.”

He stared at her, skeptical. “I’m a dragonshifter. You’re not. What do you know about it?”

Renee knelt beside him, speaking low but clear. “Dragon magic particles are larger than human ones. When you channel that mana through a humanized system, it clumps. Like clots in a vein. You think you’re casting, but really, you’re choking your channels.”

Lance blinked. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen it and fixed it. What you need isn’t more strength—it’s control. You have to guide each particle individually. Make them flow in sequence, not collision.”

He looked stunned. “No one ever told me that. Not even my trainers.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe they didn’t know. Or maybe they thought you wouldn’t understand. But you do, don’t you?”

Something flickered behind his eyes—a fragile kind of hope.

Renee gave him a nod and stood, moving on to the next student.

She spent the next several minutes offering feedback—correcting spell inflections, balancing postures, even adjusting a boy’s stance mid-cast before his shield spell backfired. Xavier gave her a subtle nod from across the room. Damien, too, paused just long enough to flash her a smirk.

Then it happened.

A low growl.

Renee turned instinctively.

Lance was shaking. His hands glowed violently. The air shimmered with unstable heat.

His Dragon Force had activated again—but this time, without intent.

Scales burst across his arms, crawling up his neck. His eyes lit like gold embers. Students began backing away.

“Get down!” someone shouted.

A girl was too slow. The flare shot toward her—

Christofer moved in a blink, shielding her with a protective barrier.

Renee didn’t wait.

She charged forward, drawing on the mark beneath her skin.

“Varkhaz’thar.”

Magic surged through her body.

“Dragon Possession.”

Spectral wings erupted from her back. Her aura deepened, radiating authority and ancient weight. Her voice, when it came, was not entirely her own.

“ENOUGH.”

Then she roared.

The sound wasn’t human. It was draconic. It echoed through bones and instinct.

Lance collapsed, gasping. The transformation melted away. The power receded.

He blinked up at her, dazed, stunned.

“You… you can use it,” he said hoarsely. “That was Dragon Force, wasn’t it?”

Renee’s expression softened, though her power still simmered. “Not exactly,” she said lightly. “It’s… something different.”

Lance stared at her in disbelief. “Still… you brought me back.”

She knelt beside him.

“I’ve seen people lose themselves to their power. I won’t let that happen to you. If you want help... I’ll give it.”

His voice cracked. “Please.”

She extended her hand. “Then let’s start over.”

He looked at her hand for a long moment, uncertainty flickering behind his eyes. Then, with a shaky breath, he took it.

"I’ve never had anyone offer," he said, voice rough. "Not really. Not without something they wanted in return."

Renee squeezed his hand gently. "Then this will be a first."

Lance blinked at her, searching for deception. But all he found was calm resolve.

His voice dropped. "Okay… I’m in. Just don’t give up on me."

"I don’t give up," she replied, standing with him. "Especially not on people trying to stand back up."