We merged into the main crowd flowing into the Central Arena, finding a spot near the middle of the tiered standing area. It was a sea of students thousands of them. The noise was deafening, a cacophony of a thousand different languages, dialects, and animalistic grunts.

  "Too loud," Roc-ta whimpered beside me, her sensitive ears flattening against her skull. She pressed closer to my side, seeking an anchor in the chaos.

  Suddenly, a gong sounded.

  GOOOONG!

  It wasn't just a sound; it was a magical shockwave. It vibrated in my chest, rattled my teeth, and silenced the crowd instantly. The air shimmered as a heavy silence descended, heavy with expectation.

  On the massive floating stage in the center of the arena, Headmaster Solon materialized from a beam of white light. He looked exactly as he did in the brochures: young yet ageless, with silver hair and eyes that looked like mirrors reflecting the sky.

  "Silence," he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it echoed inside my head. Telepathy.

  “Great. Another invasion of privacy.”

  "Today is a historic day," Solon announced, his face grave. "After a decade of isolation, Aeridor opens its arms to our neighbors."

  He gestured grandly to the massive black doors on the far side of the arena. They were twice the size of the entrance gates, reinforced with obsidian and iron.

  "Behold. The delegation of Nox."

  The doors groaned open. KRRR-THOOM.

  A cold, unnatural mist rolled out, spilling over the feet of the students in the front rows like dry ice at a cheap theater production. The temperature in the arena dropped ten degrees in a second.

  "Oh, please," I muttered, crossing my arms. "Fog? Really? Could they be any more dramatic?"

  From the mist, a group emerged.

  There were heavy, armored guards that looked like walking fortresses, their faces hidden behind dark visors. There were tall, elegant figures in dark, flowing robes that seemed to absorb the sunlight.

  And leading them was a boy.

  He walked with a regal, fluid grace, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wore a long coat of dark fabric with intricate silver embroidery that caught the light. His hair was black with a deep blue sheen, perfectly styled.

  But it was his face that made my blood run cold and then immediately boil.

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  It was him.

  The guy from the Arrival Hall. The one I had crashed into. The one who had looked at me as if I were a stain on his existence.

  "No way," I whispered, my jaw tightening.

  "It's him," Roc-ta whimpered, hiding behind my shoulder. "That's Prince Demian! Look at him! He looks like he could kill us with a thought!"

  I stared at him.

  I didn't see a killer. I saw a peacock.

  He stood in the center of the stage, letting the gaze of thousands wash over him. And his expression... it was the thing I hated most in the world.

  It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger.

  It was boredom.

  His purple eyes scanned the crowd with an expression of utter, crushing indifference. He looked at us at the terrified students, the hopeful ones, the curious ones like we were insects. Uninteresting, buzzing insects that were wasting his precious time.

  I knew that look. I had seen it on Count Davelon when he kicked a beggar out of his way. I had seen it on the Bishop when he burned books he hadn't read.

  It was the look of someone who believes, down to their very marrow, that they are inherently better than you.

  "Arrogant jerk," I hissed.

  The crowd didn't share my cynicism. They shared Roc-ta's fear. And that fear quickly turned into aggression.

  "BOOOO!"

  It started as a murmur, then swelled into a roar.

  "Go back to your hole!" someone shouted from the upper tiers.

  "Murderers!" a girl near me screamed, tears streaming down her face. "You killed my grandfather in the Border Wars!"

  "Monsters! Freaks!"

  Demian stopped. He stood there, letting the wave of hatred crash against him.

  He didn't flinch. He didn't look scared.

  Instead, he slowly raised one eyebrow. Just one.

  He looked... disappointed. As if we were a poorly cooked meal at a dinner party he was forced to attend. He brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve, looking more concerned with his coat than the thousands of people screaming for his blood.

  That gesture that tiny, dismissive flick of his hand ignited a fire in my chest that had nothing to do with magic.

  I hated him.

  I didn't hate him because he was a Demon. I didn't care about the wars or the history.

  I hated him because he was Elite.

  He was everything I had just lost. He was the embodiment of the "Golden Cage." He radiated privilege. He had never had to fight for a scrap of bread, never had to wonder if he belonged. He was born on a pedestal, and he looked down on us from it with that sickening, cool detachment.

  "Look at him," I muttered to Roc-ta, though I was mostly talking to myself. "He thinks he's untouchable. He thinks this is all beneath him."

  "He is untouchable, Val!" Roc-ta squeaked. "He's royalty!"

  "He's a plastic statue with a pulse," I snapped, my eyes narrowing. "He treats people like 'inferior beings' because he's never had a bad day in his life. He thinks the world exists to serve him."

  My hands balled into fists at my sides.

  "I bet he's never fixed a broken wheel. I bet he's never had to apologize. I bet he thinks his magic makes him a god."

  On the stage, Demian tilted his head slightly, listening to the boos as if they were a boring symphony. A faint, mocking smirk played on his lips.

  It was a smirk that said: Is this the best you can do?

  "Don't smile," I whispered, feeling the heat of my anger prickling under my skin. "Don't you dare smile at them like they're nothing."

  This wasn't just about the collision in the hall anymore. This was personal. He represented every noble who had ever sneered at my red hair, every courtier who had whispered "bastard" behind my back.

  He was the symbol of the world that had cast me out. And he had the audacity to stand there and look bored.

  "I am going to wipe that smirk off his face," I thought, the determination settling in my gut like a stone. "One day. I don't care if he's a Prince or a Demon Lord. I am going to make him care."