Going back to school after nearly burning down an elven capital and being decred a hero?
You’d think there’d be a parade. A statue. Maybe a few holidays named after us.
Instead, we got theory exam results.
Yes. Theory. Because nothing says “glorious return” like opening a scroll that determines whether or not you understood the fourteen accepted duel formations used during the Second Rift War and how to bow properly when a high noble sneezes in your direction.
It was just another reminder that the Welliston Royal Academy doesn’t care how many tyrant kings you’ve vaporized. They care whether you remember if it's “Enchantment Css-B” or “Artifice Subcss-A” that counts as direct aura manipution under noble regution w 43-C.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
But I still pced 4th in the entire third-year rank list.
My scroll was pinned to the board, name glowing with royal-blue ink:
Lucien— Rank 4
I stood there staring at it, a half-eaten pastry in one hand, still recovering from post-vacation apathy.
“Smarty pants,” Eli muttered beside me, his own results scroll hanging limp in his fingers.
Reille leaned over my shoulder and squinted at my name. “He probably bribed a grader.”
“Or seduced one,” Eli added.
I held up my pastry. “I fed Gram five of these while he quizzed me for three days. That counts as hard work.”
Reille finally unrolled her scroll. Silence.
Reille — Pass
Barely.
She groaned, spping the scroll against my chest. “I was dodging spirit arrows and elven assassins. I didn’t have time for theorem memorization!”
“Excuses,” I said.
Eli ughed, fshing his own result.
Eli — Pass
Also barely.
“I passed while sleep-casting half the semester. That’s talent.”
“And delusion,” I muttered.
We all turned as Gram arrived, bouncing slightly in pce, like a dog with a new chew toy.
Gram — Pass
His smile was big enough to blind a sun spirit.
“I didn’t just pass. I didn’t fail. That’s a win! A win for science!”
We high-fived him. Because honestly? If Gram’s mind survived three months of blowing up his own potion b and still managed to pass exams, he deserved it.
Squad 7: barely educated, fully dangerous, and now officially third years.
We were seniors. Heaven help the school.
The New Princess in TownAs tradition goes, new first-years were welcomed by third-years. Or rather, herded like magical sheep through orientation gates while older students judged them silently from afar like cult leaders watching fresh sacrifices.
We stood near the main courtyard, watching the next generation arrive in their pristine uniforms and fresh optimism.
“Look at them,” Reille muttered. “So full of hope. Disgusting.”
“Do you think we looked like that?” Eli asked.
“No,” I said. “We looked like chaos with limbs.”
That’s when she arrived.
Unlike most first-years fidgeting with their colrs or staring at the sky like they’d never seen magic before, she walked through the gate like she owned it. Back straight. Gaze forward. Controlled posture. No dramatic fir, just… presence.
She was dressed in the dark navy of the Sarnhild Empire’s crest, which looked weirdly regal here, like a winter monarch had stepped into our summer festival.
Her name was announced by one of the faculty—loud enough that everyone stopped talking:
"Princess Celestia of House Erion, Heir of the Sarnhild Empire, First Rank of the Sable Court, Chosen of the Snowflower Sigil."
Subtle.
Celestia paused at the center of the courtyard, gave the exact bow a diplomat would use to a rival court—not too deep, not too casual—and then walked toward the third-year greeting line.
Which, unfortunately, included us.
Because the Headmistress thought it would be a great idea to have Squad 7 greet the first-years.
You know. The unhinged war-hero squad. Who once built a golem out of potatoes and made it a professor for a week.
“Here we go,” I murmured.
She stopped in front of us.
“Greetings,” she said. “I was told you are the famed Squad 7.”
Her voice? Smooth. Cold. Regal. Like iced tea poured into a golden goblet.
“That’s us,” I said. “Chaos Incarnate. Limited liability.”
Celestia blinked once.
“I was also told to be wary of your leader,” she said.
I frowned. “We have a leader?”
Reille elbowed me.
Celestia turned to her. “You must be Reille.”
“Yep. And that one’s Eli. And the one smiling like he licked a fairy is Gram.”
“Pleasure!” Gram beamed.
Celestia gave each of us a courteous nod.
I didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered on me. Not in a romantic way. More like a bird of prey wondering what kind of snake I was.
“I look forward to observing your squad’s performance this year,” she said.
I smiled. “We look forward to pretending we’re sane in front of royalty.”
She did not smile back.
As she walked away, I turned to my squad.
“She’s like Sylvaria,” I said. “But... reversed. All dignity. No chaos.”
“So a functioning royal,” Eli said.
“Exactly. An endangered species.”
Reille crossed her arms. “She’s too perfect. I don’t trust her.”
“You didn’t trust me either.”
“Exactly.”
We watched Celestia vanish into the main hall like a well-behaved snowstorm.
There was a long silence.
Then Gram said, “Do you think she eats normal food? Or like, powdered moonlight?”
“Stop before you fall in love,” Eli warned.
Later That DayWe were back in our old dorm room—now officially beled “Hazard Zone: Squad 7 Only” by the Academy Board after the st time Gram tried to boil alchemy slime in the kitchen.
“I can’t believe we’re third years,” Reille said, lounging on my bed like she owned it. (She probably did. I lost most arguments in here anyway.)
“I can,” I said. “I feel like I aged twenty years since st semester.”
“We technically saved an entire species,” Eli said, reading a combat manual upside-down.
“And we still have to study bow etiquette.”
Reille groaned. “I swear, if someone tells me again that I need to recite proper noble greetings in the middle of a battle…”
“We’ll just let you scream at them instead.”
Gram entered, holding a bottle of new potion.
“It makes people fall asleep for twenty minutes,” he announced. “Voluntarily.”
I stared. “So… a nap potion?”
“Yes. I call it: ‘Academy Survival Juice.’”
We clinked bottles in agreement.
