Three days after the training ground incident, the Crown Prince made his move.
Draven was in Advanced Combat Theory when it happened. Professor Helstrom—ex-military, scarred face, A-Rank veteran—was mid-lecture about tactical formations when the doors slammed open.
*BANG.*
Royal Guards. Six of them. Full armor, ceremonial but functional, hands on sword hilts.
Behind them walked someone Draven had only seen in paintings and at a distance during ceremonies.
Crown Prince Aldric Valtheris.
Tall. Blonde hair slicked back. Sharp features that would've been handsome if his expression wasn't so fucking punchable. He wore gold-trimmed royal blue, cape flowing, the whole pretentious villain aesthetic.
Conversations died. Every student turned. Stared.
"Prince Aldric," Professor Helstrom said carefully. "This is unexpected. How may I—"
"I'm here for Draven Arclight." Aldric's voice carried. Smooth. Practiced. "Stand up, bastard."
Draven stayed seated.
