Chapter 6

Royal Voltara Academy

First Grade Classroom

Two months, three weeks, five days left.

Professor Eterport shuffled into the lecture hall with his usual air of disarray, a bundle of mismatched notes clutched under one arm. His spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose as he set the stack on the podium and squinted at the top page like it was written in some dead tongue.

“Ah—yes, right. Bouts. Preparatory bouts. For the… Caperonu Mountains.” He tapped the word with a bony finger, then glanced up at the class with all the enthusiasm of a sleepwalker. “That’s… in the syllabus, I think. Yes. Very important. Monsters. You know, the Caperonu Spring.”

Someone in the back raised a hand. “Professor, why do the monsters spawn in such numbers at this time of the year?”

Eterport frowned, rifled through a sheaf of papers, and muttered, “Ah, that’s… let me see… ecological… no, no, reproduction cycles… hm. Well, it’s common knowledge. Look it up.” He coughed into his sleeve. “At any rate, they breed, they overrun, and we… stop that. You lot will be learning. Fighting. Practical experience. Grandees of the South are… very appreciative of the Academy’s diligence.”

Valery stood up, "Yes indeed, professor... If I may," she said, taking over Eterport, who waved his hand as he read something else, a bit relieved, "Monsters, beasts afflicted with an unnatural flow of mana in their bodies, and mutated into violent creatures, are concentrated in four distinct areas across our realm. Patricians, Chieftains, Counts, Grandees, Barons... these nobility titles rose to prominence as nobles banded together in their respective regions to fight monsters and protect their subjects in the old days, before the land unified under the crown—"

"Under the Voltara crown," Abelard said with a smug, "How nice of you to remember your place..."

"I was just assisting the professor in his explanation," Valery scoffed as she sat, "History hardly defines anyone's place, whatever your grace meant."

The call-out shook the room, and silence followed, but by this point, everyone was accustomed to it. Tensions between the alleged "Duchess" and "Prince" factions had only spiked since Caden had begun his battery experimentations, and even worse, when Valery joined his training sessions with Gael.

What had once been the tragic duet of one muscle-obsessed lunatic and his reluctant disciple suddenly became the Academy’s strangest spectacle. Students peeked out of dorm windows at dawn only to witness a duchess, a sorry-looking boy, and a man built like a fortress sprinting through the courtyards, bellowing “SAFARRANCHOO!” with such conviction it sounded like a war cry from a forgotten tribe. Within two weeks, curiosity had eaten at the freshmen’s discipline like rot through wood, and a dozen of them had joined the madness. Soon enough, half the Academy grounds looked like a cult initiation site, echoing with guttural chants before sunrise—until the upperclassmen began complaining that first-years were turning into a mob of red-eyed zealots.

The announcement of the magical bouts caused a stir—half excitement, half dread.  A month away, and already the air of rivalry was thickening. 

However, the hunt itself was not Caden's main concern.

Hearts & Daggers had one distinct feature that punctured his mind like a mild headache—a factor he could not control at all. 

Customization. 

The start of the game allowed the player to customize their heroine. It wasn't too deep nor too varied, as the developers had three pre-determined templates for her, alongside her background and her motivations to enroll in Voltara Academy.

Three backgrounds, three motivations—the Caperonu Spring was one of them. If he recalled correctly, seeing the Royal Academy students fight monsters was what motivated one iteration of the heroine to enroll.

His thoughts were interrupted as Eterport raised his head suddenly, as if remembering an afterthought. “Yes, also. A class representative must be chosen to… oversee… things. Administrative necessity, you know? Um... to... yes, to better coordinate for the Caperonu event.” He scanned the room with a vague look, as if unsure what a class representative actually did. “So... Nominations?”

The room didn’t hesitate: Prince Abelard and Duchess Valery.

Caden rolled his eyes. More trouble. There was nothing worse than garnering attention because you have to pick sides, and there was no way Caden would vote for that pesky Prince.

"Great!" Eterport said, "Then... let's raise our hands in support for our desired candidate, and that should be it—"

"Mr. Eterport!" Valery interrupted, "Shouldn't we give a speech to persuade or galvanize our classmates into voting for us?"

"Speech? I-it says nothing here about a speech... um," Eterport flipped pages, panicking.

Valery sighed, "It'll give you some time to sit and check your notes..."

Eterport's eyes glowed, "Sit down? Can I do that?"

Prince Abelard's eyes furrowed, "What are you up to, duchess?"

"Why is everything that comes out of my mouth a plot to you, my prince?"

"Force of habit, I guess..."

"Well, if you wish to give a speech, please, then by status... um... yeah, I suppose Prince Abelard Voltara will stand now."

"You suppose?" Abelard said while rolling his eyes. He stood up, adjusted his coat, and tied his tie, "Well, I suppose I've got some things to say..." 

Abelard cleared his throat, his voice carrying the self-assured weight of his title. Before he spoke, he darted his eyes towards Caden, then to Valery, and a bit to Gael.

“Fellow classmates, allow me to speak plainly. Our first year has already been colored—no, corrupted—by a most disruptive practice, and the worst thing is, we haven't even finished a trimester. I am referring, of course, to these… clandestine rituals held at ungodly hours under the pretense of training. What began as two people's eccentric, somewhat eerie, yet obsessive pursuit of exhausting themselves before breakfast has spread like a disease. And what’s worse—what’s far worse—is that many of you, bright-eyed and impressionable, have chosen to follow."

The class looked at each other in discomfort, either because they were targeted or because they were looking at someone who fell into such an accusation. Bertrand noticed how Valery turned to see how Caden was faring by being the focal point of such rhetoric. The feeble-looking, sleep-deprived yet fair kid was indeed suffering as he had to bear most of the classroom's looks. Their eyes crossed, and the duchess gave him a tender smile,  assuring him his trust in her would not be wasted.

Caden gave her a reciprocal smile, but deep down, the fact that he was the fuel to their rivalry made him even more uneasy.

Moreover, he felt a growing bloodlust stirring from behind. Bertrand was looking at him from his place in the last row now that he had that little interaction with Valery.

"Let us be serious: what good is it to run across the Academy grounds shouting ‘SAFARRANCHOO!’ at the break of dawn?" Abelard continued, his voice catching a fire of frustration, "Do you think the faculty admires it? Do you think the second-years and third-years, who pass us in the halls, see discipline and promise? No. They see a pack of maniacs startling the crows and trampling the flowerbeds like a cult of sleep-deprived fanatics. I have heard the whispers—first-years are called ‘the barking dogs of the sunrise.’ Dogs! That is the reputation you are earning!

"Abelard's hands began to twitch as he gripped them, his teeth gritting. "And what about rest? Has it occurred to any of you that our bodies need sleep to grow, to focus, to function? The curriculum already demands hours of study, drills, and magic exercises. Yet some among us would rather fling themselves through the courtyards before the sun has even risen! What does it achieve? Bruises? Blisters? Perhaps louder lungs? I assure you, there is nothing noble in stumbling into class red-eyed, reeking of sweat, and barely able to hold a quill steady."

His eyes shot, madness taking over.

"But perhaps the cruelest injustice of all—yes, injustice!—is that their shouting reaches the dormitories. My dormitory. At first, I dismissed it. I told myself, ‘Prince Abelard, do not trouble yourself with the howling of fools.’ But day after day, the chants grew louder. Every morning—without fail—my sleep is stolen by that wretched cry, ‘SAFARRANCHOO!’ It pierces through the windows like a dagger to the brain. Tell me, how is a man supposed to dream, to think, to lead, when each dawn begins with a warcry echoing in his skull?"

Caden couldn't help but chuckle at those comments, regretting it instantly when Abelard's eyes widened and focused only on him, reputation be damned. Now he knew he was in trouble.

"I tell you, enough is enough! If elected class representative, I swear before the Sainted Crown itself—I will end this plague of morning madness. I will see to it that our first year is remembered not as the year of dawn lunacy, but as the year of order, of refinement, of proper scholarship. For the sake of our dignity, for the sake of our futures, and—forgive me—for the sake of my sleep, this must end!”

Snickers and nods followed. Abelard sat, eyes flashing in Valery’s direction, then at Caden.

Valery stood, graceful yet firm. 

"Classmates, if I may offer a different perspective. We entered this Academy not as finished knights or scholars, but as apprentices. Apprentices must experiment, must stumble, must sweat before they shine. To say that morning training is unbecoming—ludicrous, even—is to say that growth itself is unbecoming. And forgive me, but I would sooner stand beside those who dare to better themselves, however clumsy or loud they may appear, than those who cling to comfort and appearances alone.

"Prince Abelard argues that these sessions tarnish our reputation. I say the opposite. What do the upper-years see when they glance our way? They see energy. They see determination. Perhaps even envy. Is it truly shameful that some among us refuse to waste the best hours of the day under their blankets?

"And as for the shouting—yes, it is loud, yes, it is spirited. But if that is what it takes for certain of our classmates to find courage, then perhaps we should not mock it, but admire it. For courage is never quiet at the beginning. It begins awkward, unpolished, even embarrassing. Only later does it refine itself into strength worth remembering.

'I do not ask you to join. I only ask that we respect the freedom to try. Because if we strip that away, if we say ‘you may not rise early, you may not test yourself, you may not even be seen striving lest it disturb my dreams’—what sort of future knights, nobles, and leaders are we?

The Academy will challenge us more cruelly than any morning run. The Caperonu Mountains will be harsher still. So if my peers wish to face a bit of hardship early, I say let them. Let them sweat, let them stumble, let them shout their lungs raw. They are not dragging this class down. They are, in their own way, carrying it upward."

The class erupted into chatter, voices rising until Eterport coughed once, dryly, like a door hinge. “Enough. Voting... um, I suppose that we'll go with the duchess first... all of those voting for her raise your hands.”

Hands shot in the air. Naturally, Caden raised his hand for Valery, albeit with a bit of a sigh. A ripple coursed through the room, whispers sparking like kindling. “The Duchess’s lapdog,” someone murmured. Caden’s jaw tightened. Bertrand raised his hand, hoping that the duchess would notice—and she did. A spark of hope lit up his eyes as she nodded in appreciation. He worked hard to contain it as the prince looked at him with shock.

"Now for the prince... please, raise your hands?" Eterport asked as he took note of the number.

Eterport counted all hands, then again, because he got distracted. Then, again, because he felt he had not counted Zara's hand yet... and he wondered if he had counted another boy's hand. He nervously wrapped up his numbers before everyone started doubting him (even if everyone already doubted him).

“Prince Abelard is… representative,” Eterport announced flatly, scratching it onto his notes as though it barely mattered.

A corner of the classroom cheered, clapping loudly for their new rep, while the other half muttered darkly, Duchess Valery sitting tall and expressionless as though nothing had happened. Abelard rose at once, puffing his chest, his smile thin and victorious. 

“Excellent. Then let us begin,” His voice cut through the chatter as he started listing tasks and dividing study groups for the coming expedition, his every word brimming with that rehearsed princely poise. And then, with a final flourish, he dropped the edict: “As for the so-called morning practices, they are henceforth banned. If you wish to run about and sweat yourselves half-dead, you may do so after classes, when it does not disrupt your peers or degrade our reputation—so yelling SAFARRANCHO or any other nonsensical word around the school will not be permitted.” He adjusted his gloves smugly. “From this day forward, common sense will prevail, and our class will march into the Caperonu Spring unified.”

The bell rang, clear and merciful, cutting short the tension like a blade through a taut string. Desks screeched, students rose in unison, and chatter immediately filled the air. Bertrand was quick to stride over, his polished boots echoing, his posture all noble grace as he inclined toward Valery. “Duchess Sarashen, my condolences for losing the voting. I was wondering if you could, perhaps,  honor me with your company for lunch and tea, as a gesture of my support?”

Valery barely turned her head, her eyes already sliding past him. “Ah, Bertrand… it is... incredibly kind of you. Unfortunate timing, however, as I already have plans.”

Bertrand blinked. “Plans?”

“Yes.” She glanced across the room, her lips curling into a sly little smile as her gaze settled on Caden. “With him.”

"With him?" Bertrand echoed.

The room seemed to tilt. Caden, caught mid-yawn, almost dropped his satchel. “W–wait, what?”

"With... him..." Bertrand hissed.

“You heard me,” Valery said sweetly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Lunch. Tea. With me.”

Bertrand’s smile froze, thin and brittle. His jaw clenched, and behind his polite facade, something black and burning stirred. He felt his chest tighten—a mastodon of envy awakening, stamping in rage.

Caden’s eyes darted from Valery to Bertrand, catching the shadow that crossed his classmate’s face, and a nervous laugh slipped out. “Uh—I appreciate it, duchess, but don’t think—”

"Do you have a tea preference for a Tuesday afternoon?" she said, dismissing his words as she turned to put her notes in her satchel.

Caden rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to avoid the frozen colossus between them. “Look, Duchess, I really don’t think—”

Valery stopped, then leaned closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “You do think. Too much. And if you’re smart, you’ll realize this is the safer choice.”

“Safer?” Caden asked, glancing nervously at Bertrand’s stiff shoulders as he stalked away.

She arched a brow, her smile sharp. “Would you rather eat with Abelard, who will corner you the moment you sit down? At least with me, you get food and shade.”

“That sounds… oddly threatening.”

But then he spotted Abelard across the room, waiting by the door, his sharp eyes narrowed after overhearing Caden’s chuckle earlier. The prince’s arms were crossed, his lips pressed in a displeased line. The kind of look that promised pain—the fiery kind.

“Not threatening. Practical.” She lifted her chin, the gold of her hair catching the light. “Besides, didn’t you say once that pain was an opportunity to grow stronger? Well, here’s your chance. Let his highness fume. You sit with me, and suddenly you’re not their target—you’re my ally.”

Caden frowned. “That makes me sound like a shield, not a friend.”

Her smile softened, just a little. “Then be both. I take care of what’s mine, I've told you that.”

"Mine—"

"Don't dab too much on it, you're an investment, my investment. Mine."

That last word landed heavy. Against his better judgment, Caden swallowed hard, muttering, “...Fine. Lunch and tea it is.”

“Good boy,” Valery whispered, satisfaction glittering in her eyes as she swept toward the cafeteria, "Come then, there's a reservation for us ready at the balcony."

"The balcony? That's the exclusive and expensive area... There are only three of them!"

"And one's for us."

Bertrand’s face went pale as frost as his crush and this... weakling walked past him. His hand twitched at his side, knuckles whitening, a cold sweat trailing down his temple.

"I... wanted... to eat... at... the... grrr... balcony with... Duchess Sarashen..."

His dreams and illusions were shattered so hard that everyone seemed to notice his internal struggles.

Abelard noticed, for sure. He noticed everything. With leisurely steps, he closed the distance to Bertrand, resting a deceptively gentle hand on his shoulder. “Walk with me,” the prince murmured, his voice low, calm, yet coiled with venom. “We have… much to discuss.” His eyes gleamed with ill intent, and Bertrand, trapped between rage and dread, could only obey.