The main hall of Grimveil Academy was packed. Students from every kingdom stood in neat lines, chattering and fidgeting like bugs caught in a jar. I clutched my wooden sword, already questioning my life choices.
Everyone looks like they were born lifting swords and casting magic. And I… can barely lift my arm without considering a nap.
The instructor at the front cleared his throat. "Attention, students! Today we formally welcome the representatives of the five greatest kingdoms attending Grimveil Academy."
A drumroll sounded magically (apparently, the academy liked dramatic flair).
"First," he said, "Prince Kaelen Veyr of the Veyr Kingdom!"
The doors opened. Kaelen strode in, armor gleaming, sword at his side, aura practically shouting: I am perfect. He walked straight to the front and raised a hand.
Oh no. The predator noticed the snack.
"Yes, Kaelen Veyr has also been elected as your Student Council President," the instructor added. Why does this always happen to me?
Next: "Princess Selene Arathia of the Arathia Kingdom!"
Selene glided in like she was floating on clouds. Mana danced delicately around her fingers, and her gaze scanned the students like she could see through walls—and probably their lives.
Yeah… I'm definitely not dying today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.
"Princess Syria Valcor of the Valcor Kingdom!"
Syria practically bounced through the hall. Sword in hand, energy practically radiating from her, waving at anyone who looked at her. She spotted me, and grinned.
"Hey, you! Don't trip!" she called.
Thanks for the confidence boost, random royalty.
Finally: "Princess Charlotte Lysithea of the Lysithea Kingdom!"
Charlotte entered silently, scanning every corner of the hall. Her eyes locked on me for a split second—and I might have imagined sparks flying off her stare.
Oh no. She's already planning how to assassinate me. Probably gently, elegantly, and with style.
I shifted awkwardly on my feet. Clutching my wooden sword, trying not to appear weak. Too late. Everyone already noticed.
Fantastic. I'm the highlight of the day for all the wrong reasons.
The instructor continued: "These students will represent their kingdoms in training, duels, and academy events. Remember: you will face the best of the best. And if you embarrass yourselves… well, it will be memorable."
I muttered under my breath: "Memorable is one way to put it. Hopefully for the right reasons… eventually."
Being from the Ashcroft family—a wealthy noble family with some respect in dueling circles—I felt slightly out of place. Not royalty. Not a prodigy (anymore). Just… Riven Ashcroft: professional embarrassment in training pants.
The instructor clapped. "Now, students! Proceed to the training yard for your first exercises! Survive, grow stronger, and don't die in front of royalty."
Survive… got it. Also don't explode laughing at my own clumsiness.
And so, with wooden sword clutched like a lifeline, I shuffled toward the training yard, tripping twice, wobbling once, and praying nobody noticed my flailing.
They may all be prodigies. They may all be royalty. But nobody knows I'm hiding the duelist genius of my past life.
Yet.