I didn't wait to check my reflection. I didn't wait to splash water on my burning face. I didn't even wait to breathe.

  The moment the main door clicked shut behind Demian, I bolted from the stall like a thief fleeing a crime scene. I practically scrambled over the pristine marble floor, my boots skidding on the tiles, desperate to escape the scene of my ultimate humiliation before he came back—or worse, before another male student walked in and saw the madwoman hyperventilating next to the urinals.

  I burst out into the hallway, my chest heaving, my eyes darting left and right.

  Empty.

  Thank the gods. The corridor was silent, save for the hum of magical sconces.

  I sprinted the five meters to the heavy oak door marked SQUAD 13. I reached for the handle, but then I stopped. My hand hovered inches from the brass plate.

  I couldn't go in yet. Not like this.

  I was shaking. My face felt like it was radiating heat intense enough to boil water. If I walked in there now, looking like a flushed, panicked mess, my new team would think I was insane. Or that I was hiding something.

  I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe, closing my eyes.

  "Compose yourself, Valerie," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You are a de Valois. You are the picture of grace. You did not just scream at a Prince while your pants were down. That was a fever dream. A hallucination."

  I took a deep, shuddering breath, holding it until my lungs burned, then exhaled slowly. I smoothed down the front of my travel tunic. I tucked a wild strand of red hair behind my ear. I forced my heart rate to slow down from 'rabbit-being-hunted' to merely 'student-with-anxiety'.

  Behind this door is safety, I told myself. Behind this door is my team. Roc-ta, the friendly wolf. Elara, the quiet Elf. Bram, the sturdy Dwarf. They are normal. They are safe. They have never seen me on a toilet.

  I put on my best diplomatic smile—the one I used when my father ignored me at dinners—and pushed the handle down.

  The common room of Apartment 13 was... surprisingly comforting.

  The Academy hadn't skimped on the budget, I had to give them that. I had expected a barrack, perhaps some bunk beds and a cold stove, but this was a home. It was a large, circular room with high, vaulted ceilings made of dark wood. A fire crackled cheerfully in a stone hearth that floated magically in the center of the room, casting a warm, golden glow over the mismatched but plush furniture.

  There was a smell of old books, pine resin, and roasting meat that immediately made my shoulders drop an inch.

  I stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind me, effectively sealing out the hallway and the horrors of the bathroom.

  I scanned the room, my analytical gaze cataloging my new roommates—my "Team."

  Roc-ta was easy to spot. She was sitting cross-legged on a fur rug by the fire, happily gnawing on a bone the size of her arm that she had presumably sourced from her luggage.

  "Mmm, marrow," she mumbled around a mouthful, waving at me with a greasy hand. "Hey Val! We saved you the good chair!"

  At the large, arched window overlooking the campus stood a stout, broad-shouldered figure. He was short, but his presence felt dense, like a boulder that had decided to take human shape. He wasn't wearing a tinkerer's apron; he was clad in heavy, rune-etched plate armor that gleamed in the firelight. His beard was intricately braided with copper wire, and he was currently sharpening a massive, double-headed axe with a whetstone.

  That must be Bram, I deduced. Dwarf. And judging by the heavy plating and the weapon, definitely a Battlemage. The muscle of the operation.

  He didn't look up as I entered. He just grunted, testing the edge of his axe with a calloused thumb. "Draft," he rumbled, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "Close the door properly. Changes the air density. Bad for the spell-work."

  Floating near the high ceiling on a velvet cushion that defied gravity was the third member. She was slender, ethereal, with skin like moonlight and long, pale blue hair that drifted around her as if she were underwater. Her ears were long and pointed, and she held a book that hovered in front of her face without her touching it.

  Elara, I thought. High Elf. Mage.

  She glanced down at me with silvery eyes that held centuries of aristocratic boredom. She gave a polite, barely perceptible nod—the kind one gives to a servant who has brought the tea on time—and went back to reading.

  "Greetings," she said softly, her voice melodic and distant.

  It was a motley crew. A wolf, a battlemage dwarf, an elf, and a human. It felt like the start of a bad joke, but it was my joke. It felt safe.

  And then... my eyes landed on the high-backed velvet armchair at the head of the heavy oak dining table.

  The chair was facing away from me, turned toward the fire. All I could see was a hand resting on the armrest—a pale, elegant hand clad in a black sleeve with silver embroidery.

  But then, I heard him.

  "This is ud-be-lieva-bull," a voice complained from the depths of the chair.

  I froze. My blood turned to ice in my veins. My hand was still on the doorknob behind me.

  The voice was deep, yes. It had the cadence of nobility, the rhythm of someone used to being obeyed. But it sounded... wrong.

  It sounded stuffed up. Congested. Thick.

  It sounded like a very angry duck trying to speak Common.

  "My dose," the voice continued, sounding incredibly nasal and miserable. "She hit my dose. It is throbbing."

  I felt a bubble of hysteria rise in my throat. It was a dangerous, manic pressure building behind my lips.

  My dose?

  "I am in agody," the duck-voice quacked dramatically. "She is a bavarian." (Barbarian).

  I couldn't help it. The tension, the lingering fear, the exhaustion, the sheer absurdity of the moment—it all snapped like a dry twig.

  I snorted.

  It wasn't a ladylike sound. It was a loud, undignified snort.

  Then I giggled.

  Then I slapped a hand over my mouth, but a loud, wheezing laugh escaped anyway.

  "Pffft!"

  The high-backed chair stopped moving. The complaint cut off mid-sentence.

  Slowly, ominously, the chair began to swivel around.

  It turned with the slow, dramatic grinding of a villain revealing himself in the final act of a play.

  And there he was.

  Facing me was Demian.

  He was holding a magical ice pack—a glowing blue bag of frost—to the bridge of his nose. His purple eyes were watering slightly from the pain. His nose, usually straight and arrogant, was currently swollen, bright red, and definitely tender. It wasn't broken—Demons were too sturdy for that—but it was definitely damaged.

  He looked absolutely ridiculous. The "Prince of Darkness," the boy who had terrified the arena, looked like he had lost a fight with a doorframe.

  Which, technically, he had.

  "Dyou," he said, pointing a finger at me.

  But because of the swelling, the "You" came out as a congested "Dyou."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, tears of laughter streaming down my face. I knew I should be scared. I knew he was powerful. I knew he hated me. But I physically could not take him seriously.

  "You sound..." I gasped, holding my stomach as spasms of mirth shook me. "You sound like... like a mallard with a head cold."

  Demian’s eyes narrowed. The purple light flared in his irises, a terrifying display of magical power that was immediately ruined when he had to sniffle loudly to clear his sinuses.

  "Do dot mawk me!" he shouted, standing up. ("Do not mock me!")

  "I'm sorry!" I wheezed, leaning against the doorframe for support because my legs had given out. "I can't help it! 'Do dot mawk me!' Oh my god, you sound so un-royal. Where is the terror? Where is the dignity?"

  Demian slammed his hand on the table. The wood groaned under his strength.

  "I will destwoy you!" he roared. "I will turn you into ash!"

  "Okay, okay, Daffy," I wiped my eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm down. "Just... sit down before you faint from the lack of oxygen."

  Then, the laughter faded as quickly as it had come.

  The reality of the situation crashed into me like a falling piano.

  I stopped laughing. I straightened up, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

  I looked at Roc-ta, who was watching us with wide eyes. I looked at Bram, who had stopped sharpening his axe to glare at the noise. I looked at Elara, who seemed mildly amused.

  Then I looked at Demian, standing in our common room, claiming the head of our table.

  "Wait," I whispered, the color draining from my face.

  I walked slowly into the room, pointing a shaking finger at him.

  "Why are you here? In this room? In this apartment?"

  Demian lowered the ice pack slightly, revealing the full glory of his red, swollen nose. He looked at me with a mixture of physical pain and existential loathing.

  "Because," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully to avoid the quacking, though the nasal twang was undeniable, "The Universe hates me. I am assigned to Squad 13."

  My jaw dropped.

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "But..." I looked around frantically. "But Roc-ta read the list! There were only four names! We celebrated! We were happy!"

  "There was a glitch," Demian hissed, wincing as his nose throbbed. "A 'Pending Assignment' at the bottom of the scroll. That was me. Apparently, the magic of the sorting system had trouble processing the magnitude of my mana signature alongside... whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at the rest of us.

  "Your magnitude?" I scoffed, my sarcasm returning as a defense mechanism. "Or was the system just struggling to fit your ego into the database?"

  "Whatever it was," Bram interrupted, finally sliding his goggles over his eyes. He looked at us with the weary expression of a man who realized his peaceful year of combat training was over. "You two are loud. Are you going to fight all night? Because I have weapon calibration to do, and your shrill voices are disturbing my focus."

  Elara floated down from the ceiling. She landed gracefully between us, holding her book like a shield, her feet barely touching the rug.

  "If I may interject," she said calmly, her voice like wind chimes. "The shouting is vibrating my tea. Perhaps we should start over? We are a team, are we not? Solon spoke of Unity. He spoke of bridging the divide."

  She gestured elegantly to the group, acting as the diplomat.

  "I am Elara. Of the Moonwhisper Spire."

  She pointed a slender finger to the Dwarf.

  "Bram. Of the Iron-Eye Clan. Battlemage."

  She pointed to Roc-ta.

  "Roc-ta. Of the Wilds."

  Then she looked at us, her silver eyes darting between my flushed face and Demian’s red nose.

  "And you two seem to have... a history. Despite having only been on campus for two hours. It is quite a statistical anomaly."

  "He's a stalker," I declared, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. "He followed me into the bathroom! I was seeking sanctuary, and he hunted me down!"

  "SHE!" Demian shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "She is a violent lunatic! She assaulted me while I was inspecting the facilities! Look at my face! My face is my fortune, and she smashed a door into it!"

  "Your face is a tragedy waiting to happen," I shot back, stepping into his personal space. "And if you ever come near me while I'm in a vulnerable position again, I won't use a door next time. I'll use a fireball. Or a plunger."

  Demian’s eyes bulged.

  "A blunger?!" he sputtered, the nasal tone returning with a vengeance. "You would dare touch a Prince of Nox with a blunger?!"

  Roc-ta stood up, wiping grease from her mouth. She looked between us, her tail giving a tentative wag.

  "This is great!" she beamed, misreading the room entirely. "You guys have so much energy! It's like... passion! You're already fighting like siblings!"

  Demian and I turned to her in unison, our voices blending in a perfect harmony of denial.

  "NO!"

  We glared at each other, horrified by the synchronization.

  "Stop copying me," I snapped.

  "Stop bweathing my air," he growled.

  Bram sighed loudly, hoisting his heavy axe onto his shoulder. "Great. Roommates with hormonal mana-leaks and unresolved tension. I'm going to need thicker shielding for my workshop."

  I looked at Demian. He looked at me.

  The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. We were stuck.

  I realized then, with a sinking feeling, that the Universe—or the Algorithm, or Solon—had a very twisted sense of humor. It wasn't enough to banish me. It wasn't enough to send me to a monster school. No, Fate had decided to look at the list of people I hated most in the world, pick the one at the very top, and make him my neighbor.

  "Which room is mine?" I asked, looking at the five doors leading off the common room. My voice was quiet now, defeated. "I want to be as far away from him as geographically possible within this floorplan."

  "West wing," Bram pointed with the handle of his axe without looking up. "East wing is his. Neutral zone in the middle."

  "Perfect."

  I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, my knuckles white.

  "Goodnight, Bram. Goodnight, Elara. Night, Roc-ta."

  I looked at Demian, who was gingerly touching the bridge of his swollen nose, wincing with every contact.

  "Goodnight, Your Highness," I said, unable to suppress one last, sharp smirk. "Try to sleep on your back. Whatever dignity you have left depends on you not snoring through that injury."

  "I hate you," he said. It wasn't a scream. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a soft, duck-like honk.

  "The feeling is mutual," I replied sweetly.

  I stormed to the West door and slammed it shut behind me.

  BANG.

  I leaned against the heavy wood, sliding down until I hit the floor. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would crack my ribs.

  He is my roommate.

  The Prince. The arrogant, self-obsessed, surprisingly nasal Prince.

  I buried my face in my hands, letting out a long, muffled groan into the silence of my new bedroom.

  "Twisted," I whispered. "Absolutely twisted."