Maribel's voice cuts through my sleep like a knife at exactly six bells, which according to her schedule means optimal wake time for maximum daily productivity.

  "Fifteen minutes for morning routine begins now. I've taken the liberty of setting a timer."

  I pull the pillow over my head. "It's too early for this."

  "Six bells is standard Academy wake time. Anything later reduces available study hours."

  "I hate you."

  "Your emotional response is noted, but it doesn't change our schedule."

  From the other side of the room, I hear Freya make a sound that could be laughter or crying. It's hard to tell. "Just do what she says. It's easier than arguing."

  "I refuse to accept that this is my life now."

  "Just 14 minutes left," Maribel says.

  I drag myself out of bed and immediately face the problem I've been dreading: getting my academy robes. I'm not talking about the simple traveling clothes I've been wearing, but the actual formal student robes with about seventeen layers and a fastening system that makes no logical sense. There's an underdress, an overdress, a robe that goes on top of both, and some kind of decorative sash situation that I'm supposed to wrap in a specific pattern that indicates year and house affiliation.

  "How do people wear this every day?" I ask, wrestling with the sash.

  "Practice," Freya says, already dressed and looking put-together. "You get used to it."

  "I don't want to get used to it. I want clothes that make sense."

  "That's not the right sash pattern," Maribel points out, keeping her eyes on her own detailed preparation. "You're using the third-year version. Fourth-year needs the doubled loop with the offset clasp."

  "The what?"

  "Here." She walks over and shows me how it's done with the kind of patience usually reserved for teaching small children, hands moving through the wrapping sequence with practiced efficiency. "Over, under, through the left loop, secure with the silver clasp, not the gold one. Gold is for fifth-years."

  "This is ridiculously complicated."

  "Yes, but this is tradition."

  She finishes the sash and takes a step back to look at me. "Acceptable. Though your collar is crooked."

  "My collar is fine."

  "I still notice it's three degrees off-center."

  "No one's going to notice three degrees."

  "I noticed."

  "You don't count. You notice everything."

  "It's important to appreciate accuracy, not dismiss it."

  I fix the collar because arguing seems pointless, and by the time I'm fully dressed, the fifteen-minute timer is going off with a cheerful chime that makes me want to throw it out the window.

  "Good," Maribel says, making a note in her schedule book. "We're heading out for breakfast in twelve minutes. That gives you enough time to get ready."

  "What final preparations? I'm all set."

  "Material organization, mental preparation for morning classes, review of overnight notes—"

  "I'm going to breakfast. You can stay here and prepare mentally if you want."

  "Not using time in the best way."

  "I'll risk it."

  Freya follows me out, and we head to the dining hall, where Celine and Vivienne are already saving seats. The hall is packed with students at different levels of energy. Some look focused and ready to go, while others seem to be getting by on caffeine and a bit of attitude.

  "You made it through Maribel's morning routine?" Celine sees me collapse into the seat next to her.

  "Barely. She has a timer. It's an actual timer for getting dressed."

  "She had one last year too," Vivienne says. "Her previous roommates complained to student services. Twice."

  "Did it help?"

  "No, the Academy is all about academic excellence, and Maribel's the top-ranked student. People think her organizational methods are just her own thing."

  "That's a fancy way of saying they won't do anything about it."

  "Essentially yes."

  I grab food—bread, cheese, and real fruit that actually tastes like fruit instead of the wax replicas from grocery stores—and try to wake up properly while Vivienne explains our schedule for the day.

  "First, we'll take Magical Theory with Professor Thorne, then it'll be Practical Applications, lunch, Advanced Spell Construction, and Magical History to wrap things up."

  "That's a lot of magic."

  "It's a magic academy."

  "Fair point."

  We finish breakfast and head toward the lecture halls, walking through corridors that are quickly filling with students moving between classes. This is where you can really see the social dynamics at play. You can see who commands space, who lets others take the lead, and how unspoken hierarchies show up in posture and positioning.

  "See that?" Vivienne lets out a quiet murmur and gestures towards a group of students heading down the hall. "Traditionalist faction. Penelope Ashworth is in the center."

  I watch as the group approaches, the students wearing expensive robes with family crests embroidered in silver thread, and the way other people just automatically move aside to let them pass. Penelope's in the center, just like Vivienne mentioned, with blonde hair in an intricate updo, looking calm and a bit superior, and her entourage follows in perfect formation, like a well-rehearsed routine.

  "They look like they're on parade," I mutter.

  "They basically are. Public appearances are performances for the old nobility."

  The Traditionalist group passes, and I notice how the corridor rearranges itself; Meritocrats clustering together in defensive formation, Independents pressing against walls, everyone creating maximum distance while trying to look like it's casual.

  "This is exhausting, and I've only been watching it for thirty seconds."

  "Imagine living it for four years," Celine says quietly. "You know, it's like every hallway is a negotiation, and every social space is contested territory."

  We reach the Magical Theory lecture hall and I stop in the doorway to take in the space. It's gorgeous in that academic way: high vaulted ceiling with magical lights floating like stars, rows of heavy oak desks arranged in tiers facing a raised platform, blackboards that shimmer with residual chalk magic, and actual levitating inkwells positioned at each seat. The architecture is practical and beautiful, with a design that's all about function — and that's right up my alley.

  But the seating arrangement is pure social warfare.

  Traditionalists have claimed the right side of the hall, Meritocrats are consolidated on the left, and the center section is this weird neutral zone where Independents and uncommitted students sit. At the very front, isolated from both major factions, is a smaller group that I recognize as scholarship students and minor nobles—people with enough status to be here but not enough power to pick sides safely.

  And sitting alone at the edge of that group is Enid Fairfax.

  She's got books spread across her desk, actually studying before class starts, and the way other students flow around her is like water avoiding a stone. Nobody sits directly next to her. Nobody makes eye contact. She's being excluded so carefully that it looks almost natural unless you're paying attention.

  "Wow brutal," I say quietly.

  "That's what happens when you attract royal attention without the social capital to handle the consequences," Vivienne responds. "Penelope's faction is making sure everyone knows associating with Enid means becoming a target."

  "And what about the prince?"

  "Hasn't arrived yet. He usually comes in right before class starts."

  We find seats in the Independent section, not too close to any major faction but where we can see everything. I'm just about to relax when I see Maribel come in. She doesn't hesitate, she walks right for the front row center, right in the middle of the zone, and sits down like she owns the place.

  "Does she not care about faction politics?" I ask.

  "Maribel considers herself above faction politics," Celine says. "She's publicly stated that academic merit is the only hierarchy that matters and social posturing is inefficient."

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  "How's that working out for her?"

  "People mostly leave her alone because arguing with her is exhausting and she's too valuable to antagonize."

  Students continue filing in and I'm watching the social choreography when movement catches my eye. Penelope's entourage is making their way through the desks, and one of them—a girl with dark hair and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes—passes by Enid's desk and somehow manages to knock her books onto the floor.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," the girl says, her voice full of fake concern. "How clumsy of me."

  Enid doesn't say much, she just starts collecting her books quickly and efficiently, like she's done this a bunch of times before. No one's offering any help. The Traditionalists watch with satisfied smirks while everyone else studiously ignores it.

  Classic bully lackey behavior. I recognize this trope from every school drama ever made.

  Before I can decide if I should help, the door opens again and the conversation drops to whispers. Prince Matthias enters with his usual perfect posture and neutral expression, scans the room once, and moves toward his seat in the Royalist section. He passes Enid's desk, sees the dropped books, and pauses for a second.

  Then he bends down and grabs a quill that rolled under a desk, handing it to her with a little smile.

  "You dropped this."

  The entire hall goes silent.

  Enid grabs the quill with a quiet "thank you," and the prince goes back to his seat like nothing happened, but the damage is done. Penelope's expression has gone cold, her entourage is whispering furiously, and I can practically feel the social temperature drop ten degrees.

  And there it is. Event 1-A. The "Kindness of the Prince" flag has been raised.

  I slump in my seat. "This is actually happening. It's like a real-time otome game plot."

  "A what?" Celine looks a bit puzzled.

  "Nothing."

  Professor Thorne comes in just as she's about to ask more questions, and everyone falls silent. He's got his formal teaching robes on today, looking more imposing than during orientation, and he's giving the class the kind of attention that makes it seem like he notices everything.

  "Welcome to Advanced Magical Theory. For those of you who are new or require reminder, this course covers the theoretical foundations that underpin practical magic. We'll be looking at mana structure, elemental affinity, casting optimization, and the math behind magical phenomena." He waves his hand, and symbols appear on the blackboard. They're complex equations that make my head hurt just looking at them. "Today we begin with mana efficiency and the relationship between internal reserves and external output."

  He launches into a lecture that's actually interesting despite being heavy on the math, explaining how mana density affects spell strength and why control matters more than raw power for sustained casting.

  I'm taking notes when he stops mid-sentence and looks right at me.

  "Miss Shadowmere. As our most recent transfer student, perhaps you could demonstrate the basic mana-shaping exercise for the class."

  Oh no.

  "I'm sure there are better examples—"

  "Your evaluation results suggested significant aptitude. I'm curious to see how you approach the fundamentals."

  This is a test. He wants to see if I can really back up that defensive barrier or if it was just a fluke. And the entire class is watching, including Penelope who looks like she's filing away information, and Maribel who's taken out a separate notebook specifically for observations.

  I head to the front of the class, where Professor Thorne has conjured a visualization sphere, a magical construct that makes internal mana visible to observers.

  "The exercise is simple," he explains. "Shape your mana into a stable geometric form within the sphere. Maintain it for thirty seconds. We're assessing control and efficiency, not power."

  Simple. Right. Except if I do this at my actual skill level it'll be immediately obvious I'm way beyond fourth-year capability, but if I do it too poorly it'll contradict the evaluation results and raise different questions.

  I need to calibrate for "talented but not exceptional."

  I put my hand near the sphere and start channeling mana, forming it into a basic cube because that's the simplest geometric shape. Keep the edges stable, don't over-reinforce the structure, aim for solid but not perfect.

  The cube forms and holds, edges slightly uneven in a way that looks like I'm working to maintain it. I keep it stable for the required thirty seconds, and I let it waver a bit near the end to give the impression that I'm running out of focus.

  "Adequate," Professor Thorne says, which feels like a criticism disguised as an assessment. "I've noticed your mana flow is pretty stable, even though it seems to be under a lot of pressure. Most students show changes in their channeling at this stage."

  Shit. He noticed.

  "I practice meditation techniques. Helps with focus."

  "Interesting. What techniques specifically?"

  "Um. Breathing exercises? Visualization?"

  "I see." He's watching me with that analytical expression again. "You may return to your seat."

  I head back to my desk, and Celine leans over. "That was weird."

  "What was?"

  "He never asks transfer students to demonstrate in the first class. He usually takes a week to assess the skill levels."

  "Maybe he's just curious."

  "Or maybe your evaluation caught more attention than we thought."

  Class continues and I try to pay attention to the actual lecture, but I'm hyperaware of being watched. Maribel keeps glancing at me and making notes. Penelope's faction whispers among themselves. Even Enid looks over once with an expression I can't quite read.

  When class finally ends, I'm ready to get out, but Professor Thorne calls out as the students are filing out.

  "Miss Shadowmere, a moment please."

  Everyone else clears out except Vivienne and Celine who linger near the door, and I approach the professor's desk trying to look casual.

  "Your mana control is exceptional," he says without preamble. "Exceptionally controlled, to be precise. Most students with your apparent power level seem less stable because they don't have the training to manage it properly."

  "I had good teachers."

  "You brought that up during the evaluation. I'm curious about these teachers. Advanced barrier theory isn't commonly taught outside of specialized programs."

  "Family tradition. Passed down through private instruction."

  "The Shadowmere family isn't known for barrier specialists, though."

  How does he know that? I thought we picked an obscure enough family that nobody would have details.

  "Extended family, you know, um, distant relations. It's complicated."

  "I'm sure it is." He's still watching me with that assessing expression. "I'll be monitoring your progress closely, Miss Shadowmere. Students with unusual talents often need extra support to reach their full potential."

  That sounds like a threat dressed up as mentorship.

  "Thank you, professor."

  I escape to where Vivienne and Celine are waiting and we head toward the next class. We're halfway down the corridor when someone calls out behind us.

  "Miss Shadowmere. How convenient to run into you."

  I turn and it's Penelope Ashworth, flanked by two members of her entourage, and the smile on her face is the kind that never reaches the eyes.

  "Lady Ashworth," I say, because I remember enough of Vivienne's etiquette lessons to know you acknowledge higher-ranked nobles formally.

  "I wanted to introduce myself properly. We didn't have opportunity during orientation." She moves closer, maintaining that perfect noble posture. "House Montclair's sponsored student. How generous of them to take interest in provincial talent."

  "They've been very kind."

  "Kind indeed. Though I confess curiosity about your background. The Shadowmere family is pretty reclusive. One hears very little about them at court."

  "We prefer privacy to politics."

  "How quaint. Though one wonders what kind of education a reclusive provincial family provides that results in the kind of barrier work Professor Thorne was so impressed by."

  She's fishing for information, using that passive-aggressive conversation style where everything is technically polite but clearly an interrogation.

  "Comprehensive education," I say vaguely.

  "I'm sure. And your demonic heritage—you're half-demon, right?—that's got to present some interesting challenges."

  "Not particularly."

  "No? I find that surprising. Demonic blood has certain... associations. Historical precedent suggests caution in such cases." Her smile gets a little sharper. "But, of course, that's just old-fashioned prejudice. We're way more progressive now."

  "How enlightened."

  "Indeed. Though I do hope you understand that some doors remain closed regardless of sponsorship or talent. Miss Shadowmere, at this Academy, bloodlines matter. They matter at court. And some things, like horns, are impossible to hide under a fancy family name."

  There it is. The veiled threat wrapped in political niceties.

  "I appreciate the advice, Lady Ashworth."

  "Not advice. Merely observation." She glances at Vivienne and Celine. "And I see you've already made friends among the Independent faction. How... strategic."

  "We prefer genuine to strategic," Celine says, her voice tight with controlled anger.

  "Do you? How refreshing." Penelope's attention is totally on Celine now. "Lady Montclair. I trust your father is well? I heard he was supporting several progressive initiatives this session. Such a bold position for a house of your standing."

  "My father supports what he believes is right."

  "Admirable. Though risky in the current political climate. I do hope his boldness doesn't result in unfortunate consequences."

  The threat isn't even veiled anymore. She's basically saying that Celine's father's political positions might have some consequences, and that our association with me could be used against House Montclair.

  This girl is way smarter than the typical otome game villainess trope.

  "We should go," Vivienne says quietly. "We'll be late for Practical Applications."

  "Absolutely. Don't let me keep you." Penelope steps aside with ease. "I'm sure we'll have many more opportunities to talk, Miss Shadowmere. The Academy year is quite long when one has so much to learn."

  We walk away and I don't relax until we're around the corner and out of sight.

  "That was terrifying," I say.

  "That was Penelope being friendly," Vivienne corrects. "When she's actually hostile, it's way worse."

  "Friendly?"

  "She was gathering information and establishing dominance without causing a scene. Actual hostility involves social destruction and political maneuvering that ruins lives."

  "Great. So basically, I'm on the radar of the most dangerous person in our year."

  "You were on her radar the moment you walked into that classroom," Celine says. "Half-demon transfer student sponsored by a politically active house? You're interesting to the Traditionalist faction."

  "I don't want to be interesting!"

  "Too late. You made an impression at evaluation and Professor Thorne is clearly paying attention. Penelope notices when faculty take interest in new students."

  We reach the Practical Applications hall and I'm starting to understand why Vivienne kept emphasizing how complicated Academy politics would be. Every interaction has layers of meaning, and every social space is contested. I've somehow managed to attract attention from multiple factions despite actively trying to stay under the radar.

  "This is going to be a long year," I mutter.

  "Welcome to the Academy," Vivienne says. "Where everything is political and everyone is watching."

  "I can't stand it here."

  "You'll get used to it."

  "People keep saying that."

  "Because it's true."

  We enter class and I find a seat, trying to shake off the encounter with Penelope and focus on whatever practical demonstrations we're supposed to be doing. But I can't stop thinking about her parting words.

  Some things are impossible to hide under a fancy family name.

  She knows I'm hiding something. Maybe not what specifically, but she knows there's more to my story than the official version suggests. And she's smart enough to be dangerous about it.

  I glance across the room and spot Enid sitting alone again, books already open, studiously ignoring the social dynamics playing out around her. The girl at the heart of this whole romantic drama is probably just trying to survive being caught between a prince and his fiancée.

  And here I am, accidentally inserting myself into the same mess by being too competent at magical evaluation and attracting the wrong kind of attention.

  This really is an otome game plot.

  I'm just not sure what role I'm supposed to be playing in it.