Mud and Marble

Rain fell in sheets over the city of Valemire.

The royal capital was a place of gleaming marble towers, flying banners, and soft carriages drawn by steeds bred in gold-lined stables. But none of that reached the Lower Ring, where the streets were cobblestone veins and the homes looked like they'd been stitched together by desperation. Here, the rain didn’t trickle; it invaded.

Elian Thorne tightened his threadbare cloak and ducked under a crumbling awning, a satchel of books clutched tight to his chest. His entrance exam results were folded inside. The paper had been stamped, sealed, and — most improbably — signed.

Accepted.

To the Royal Academy.

The very idea still felt like a cruel joke. But the letter was real. He had read it twelve times.

The Royal Academy had never accepted someone from the Lower Ring. Not until now.

Elian reached his family's door. Rusted hinges. A broken lock. His sister opened it before he could knock.

"Did you get it?" she asked breathlessly.

He smiled, pressing the paper into her hands.

"Top five percent," he said. "Full scholarship."

Her scream echoed through the alley. Their mother, frail and worn from years of cleaning noble estates, emerged from the back room with tears in her eyes. She didn’t say a word. Just held him close.

The gates of the Royal Academy stood three stories tall, carved from obsidian and inlaid with silver. Elian stood among a sea of nobles, each one glancing at him as though he were a rat that had wandered into a ballroom.

He walked forward.

The courtyard was immaculate. Gardens in perfect geometric shapes. A fountain shaped like the kingdom’s crest. Students in silk uniforms, their family crests embroidered in gold.

Elian wore a black shirt and a gray vest. No crest. No wealth. No welcome.

"You must be the charity case," said a voice behind him.

He turned. The speaker was tall, blonde, and smiling in the way people do when they know no one will ever punish them.

"I'm Lord Darius Mavelle. You may address me as 'sir.' Most commoners do."

"I address people by their actions, not their blood," Elian replied.

The smile vanished.

Books scattered. Darius had slapped Elian's satchel from his shoulder and kicked it into the fountain.

"Clean that, commoner."

Elian stepped forward, jaw tight.

"Enough," came a new voice.

It was calm, commanding, and feminine.

The crowd parted.

She walked through them like she owned the world. And perhaps she did.

Princess Seraphina Valcrest.

Her uniform was the same cut as the others, but hers was woven from starlight and authority. Her crown braid glinted with polished stones. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the scene.

"Darius, is it? I was under the impression that the Academy accepted students on merit, not lineage."

Darius turned red. "He’s disrespectful."

"He defended himself," she said. Then to Elian, "Retrieve your things. Walk with me."

He blinked. "Pardon?"

"I don’t repeat myself."

He retrieved his bag, dripping and soggy, and followed.

The Princess walked fast, speaking as she moved.

"You’re the boy from the Lower Ring. Elian Thorne. You topped the entrance exams."

"You know my name?"

"I know every name worth remembering."

She led him into the library. It was larger than any building he'd ever seen. Books lined every wall, reaching toward a ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow.

She stopped before a shelf labeled Political Theory.

"Tell me, Elian Thorne. Do you believe in equality?"

He hesitated. "I believe everyone deserves a chance. But the world doesn’t give them one."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Good. Honesty."

He stared at her, unsure of the game.

"Why did you help me?" he asked.

"Because watching Darius throw his weight around is tedious. And because," she paused, "you interest me."

Elian flushed. No one had ever said that to him. Not like this. Not with such conviction.

"You don’t belong here," she said, "but that’s what makes you necessary."

The weeks that followed were brutal. Elian was mocked, ignored, excluded. Professors praised his work but avoided his name in public. The nobles sneered, whispering about "the rat prince" whenever Seraphina so much as glanced his way.

And she did.

She watched him. Challenged him. Debated him. Walked beside him when no one else dared.

Elian began to look forward to her interruptions. Her sarcasm. The way her eyes lit up when he argued back.

He knew better than to hope.

She was a princess. He was dirt beneath marble.

But sometimes, in the quiet between lectures, when she brushed past him and smiled...

Hope bloomed anyway.

One evening, just past dusk, he found her in the astronomy tower.

"You're early," she said without turning.

"You expected me?"

"You always come when you need quiet. And you always bring questions."

He stepped closer.

"Why do you talk to me, Seraphina? Really. Not for politics or rebellion. Why me?"

She turned to face him.

"Because you're the first person who sees me, not the crown. Because you argue with me like I'm not sacred. Because when you speak, you mean every word."

She paused.

"And because I'm tired of pretending that people like Darius are the future."

The silence between them thickened.

"You can't say things like that," Elian whispered. "It means too much."

"Then let it."

And she kissed him.

It was soft, uncertain, defiant. The kind of kiss that didn’t care if the stars above them fell.

But the stars did not fall. Not yet.

Only the world would.

Because the tower door creaked open.

And someone was watching.