The third floor of Westdentia Academy, specifically the east side, was referred to as the Crown Room. House to the older students. With arched windows, high ceilings, and walls lined with crests and portraits of past valedictorians, the room carried an unspoken weight. It was where the top classes were held, where the most promising were placed, where teachers walked a little taller and students sat a little straighter.
Alexander Smith sat toward the middle, where the balance of visibility and distance was just right. He leaned into his chair with his usual ease, tie slightly loose, eyes lazily drifting toward the frost-bitten windows. The late-morning light spilled through them like melted silver, brushing over his ash-blonde hair.
Beside him, Lester Reinhardt scribbled something across his notebook—his brow furrowed, lips pressed into a line of concentration. Though his posture looked relaxed, he took his work seriously, as if every answer was another brick toward a goal only he fully understood. He wasn't trying to impress teachers. He wasn't trying to compete. He wanted to exceed. Not anyone else—just one man. His father.
"You're scribbling like it's a war plan," Alexander said under his breath, one brow raised.
Lester didn't look up. "And you're watching the window like the sky's going to hand you the answers."
"I'm practicing strategic detachment."
"Right. And I'm practicing winning."
A smirk pulled at Alexander's lips. The banter was familiar. Easy. Somewhere between rivalry and brotherhood, the two boys had carved out a rhythm that required no ceremony. It was the kind of bond built through long hours, more complex conversations, and unspoken respect.
At the front, Professor Ashcroft adjusted his glasses and launched into a lecture on pre-industrial trade law—dense material with barely enough spark to hold the attention of most fourteen-year-olds.
But attention didn't come hard to Vivianne Kilner. From the far left row, her pen moved with surgical precision, color-coded notes trailing behind her like a tapestry of ambition. She didn't just want to be the best—she needed it. Class president. Top scores. Perfect presence. Everything she touched was polished to shine just a little brighter than everyone else.
Alexander could feel her glancing over sometimes. Not in admiration—more like quiet measurement. She couldn't quite figure him out, and that only bothered her more.
And then there were the ones who didn't need the spotlight at all.
Toward the back of the class sat Seraphine Travers and her twin brother, Emile Travers. They had always been there—technically. But no one really paid attention. They kept to themselves, hovering in the blurred edges of the classroom. Never late. Never disruptive. Just... present.
Today, though, something felt different. It was as if the air had shifted, drawing invisible lines between people who hadn't spoken before.
Seraphine sat with her back perfectly straight, her eyes scanning the classroom without judgment. Her hair was pulled into a neat low braid, her blazer was spotless, and her demeanor detached—calm in a almost calculated way.
Emile, in contrast, slouched slightly with a sketchpad resting between his textbooks. He doodled through the lecture—not out of defiance, but with that faraway look that made people unsure if he was paying attention or solving a puzzle in his head.
Lester nudged Alexander with a flick of his pen. "Did they always sit there?"
Alexander nodded once. "Yeah."
"They're like ghosts."
Alexander's eyes narrowed slightly. "They opt to stay out of sight."
Vivianne's gaze snapped toward the back row for a second. Her fingers paused over her notebook. Just for a moment.
Ashcroft turned to assign the project—group work on ancient merchant houses and how familial names secured dynasties beyond commerce. Lester leaned forward slightly, already drafting an outline in his head.
Vivianne, Alexander, and Lester were grouped together—as usual.
But this time, Seraphine and Emile were added to the mix.
Vivianne remained silent, but a spark ignited behind her eyes. A palpable tension simmered beneath the surface, both undeniable and electric, waiting to explode.
The five of them gathered around a corner table. Alexander dropped into his chair first, one hand resting loosely on his cheek as he watched Emile wordlessly draw a lineage tree of merchant clans without even glancing at the notes.
Seraphine was already flipping through the material, diligently annotating with a sense of calm determination.
"I suggest we begin with the Veles Cartel's bloodline records," she said. Her voice was soft but certain.
Vivianne, never one to be outdone, snapped open her file. "We'll need the Dominion Guild history to support the claim. You can't isolate a lineage without proving its influence."
Seraphine glanced at her, expression unreadable. "Assuming you're not looking to defend influence over impact."
Vivianne froze for half a second. Lester tilted his chair back and let out a quiet whistle. "Looks like I won't have to stir this pot. It's already bubbling."
Alexander remained silent, his gaze shifting between Seraphine and Vivianne. He could already sense that they were not strangers. Something sharp was beneath their words—perhaps shared history or just two people too similar in the wrong ways.
"You're good," Lester muttered, leaning in.
Emile only gave a small shrug. "I remember what matters."
Alexander noticed the faint scar near Emile's collarbone. It looked old, barely visible, but it was the kind that didn't come from childhood clumsiness.
The project moved forward. Seraphine and Vivianne clashed gently but consistently—every suggestion was weighed, challenged, and debated. Lester offered the occasional middle ground, careful to keep things from derailing. Alexander watched, contributed in small bursts, but mostly listened. He was good at that, noticing the spaces between words.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped back, and pages were shuffled into folders. Emile quietly returned to his desk, sketchpad in hand. Seraphine didn't linger. She turned to leave but cast one final glance at Vivianne—nothing mocking, just acknowledgment.
Vivianne stood stiffly, lips tight. She didn't say anything to Alexander or Lester as she passed. She just walked out.
Lester exhaled, stretching out his arms.
"Well, this year's going to be fun."
Alexander tilted his head slightly. "They've been here the whole time. But no one ever asked why."
Lester's smile faded a little. "Guess we just found out how deep our class runs."
They stepped into the corridor, their shoes echoing softly against the polished stone. The air outside the Crown Room felt thinner somehow, like the rest of the school didn't know a storm had just brushed past.
Inside, Emile continued drawing.
And Seraphine?
She had already disappeared down the hallway, quiet and unbothered—her shadow merging with the light, like she'd never been there at all.