Here is Chapter 7: The Mating Ritual and the Fatal Inkblot (Part 1).

  I have removed the Dutch text and focused on making the rivalries feel organic.

  * Bram vs. Pip: It’s an ancient clash of cultures. Bram (Dwarf) sees Pip (Gnome) as an annoying, buzzing insect that he wants to squash, while Pip uses his bureaucratic rank as a shield, completely unafraid but dismissive.

  * Roc-ta & Elara: They act as the

  The morning sun of Aeridor did not ask for permission to enter; it simply kicked the door down. Beams of blinding, golden light pierced through the enchanted glass of the West Wing window, hitting my pillow with the subtlety of a siege weapon.

  Sleep vanished instantly, replaced by the crushing weight of memory.

  The bathroom. The nasal voice. The Prince next door.

  A groan escaped into my pillow. If there were any justice in the realms, the floor would simply open up and swallow the bed whole, transporting me to a nice, quiet void where nobody had green eyes or swollen noses. But the floor remained solid, and the smell of roasting meat wafting under the door was a cruel reminder that life—and hunger—went on.

  Getting dressed was a tactical operation. I shoved the "Emergency Royal" satin nightgown to the bottom of the trunk, burying the evidence of last night’s shame. In its place, I pulled on the standard-issue grey tunic of the Academy. It was stiff, scratchy, and smelled faintly of starch and conformity.

  Perfect armor for a day of warfare.

  I took a deep breath, fixed my hair into something resembling order, and opened the door to the common room.

  The scene inside was a study in domestic chaos.

  Roc-ta was already at the table, or rather, on the table. She was perched on the edge, tearing into a pile of bacon that looked large enough to feed a small army. Grease stained her chin, and her tail thumped a happy, rhythmic beat against the table leg.

  Bram, the Dwarf Battlemage, sat by the window. He wasn't eating. He was glaring at a piece of toast as if it had insulted his ancestors. His heavy plate armor was gone, replaced by a leather smithing apron that smelled of oil and metal, but his massive double-headed axe was leaning casually against his chair, within easy reach. He looked like a boulder that had woken up on the wrong side of the mountain.

  And then, there was the elephant or rather, the Demon in the room.

  Demian sat at the head of the table.

  He looked infuriatingly composed. His black uniform was pressed to a razor’s edge. His hair was styled with supernatural precision. The only evidence of the previous night’s violence was a faint, purplish discoloration on the bridge of his nose, which he had clearly treated with high-grade healing magic.

  He was reading a broadsheet newspaper titled The Abyss Daily. He didn't look up when I entered. He simply turned a page with a sharp, dismissive snap.

  "Morning, Val!" Roc-ta chirped through a mouthful of pork. "Bacon? It's crunchy!"

  "Coffee," was my only response.

  The walk to the coffee pot felt like crossing enemy lines. The air in the room was thick with tension, creating a localized weather system of awkwardness. I poured a cup of black sludge that smelled like mana and caffeine, and grabbed a green apple from the fruit bowl.

  I sat at the far end of the table, as geographically distant from the Prince as possible.

  I took a bite of the apple. Crunch.

  The sound was loud in the quiet room.

  Demian lowered his newspaper slowly. He didn't turn his head. He peered over the rim of the paper, his purple eyes locking onto me. They were cold, deadpan, and filled with aristocratic judgment.

  "You eat with the grace of a starving mule," he observed dryly.

  I froze mid-chew.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The crunching," he said, returning his gaze to the paper as if the conversation bored him to tears. "It is deafening. Try to show some decorum. Unless, of course, the rumors are true and you were raised in a barn."

  The audacity was breathtaking.

  "I was raised in a palace, you overgrown bat," I snapped, swallowing the chunk of apple with difficulty. "And at least I don't go around kicking down bathroom doors and terrifying the plumbing."

  Demian slammed the newspaper down. "THAT WAS A TACTICAL ENTRY!"

  "IT WAS A CRIME AGAINST PRIVACY!"

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  I took another angry bite of the apple too big, too fast just to spite him.

  The chunk of fruit went down the wrong pipe.

  GACK.

  I started coughing. Violently. My lungs seized up.

  Demian watched my choking fit with an expression of mild scientific interest, as if observing a lower life form struggling with the basic concept of breathing. He slowly folded his newspaper, placed it on the table with deliberate care, and picked up a red apple from the bowl.

  "Breathe," Elara suggested helpfully from her floating cushion near the ceiling. She didn't look up from her book. "Oxygen is vital for human function."

  I pounded my chest, eyes watering, face turning a deep, violent shade of violet. Finally, the piece of apple dislodged. I gasped for air, wheezing.

  "Pathetic," Demian muttered.

  He took a bite of his own apple. He chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on mine.

  Then, he leaned forward.

  He leaned across the table, invading my personal space. The scent of ozone and apples drifted across the wood.

  "You have juice," he whispered, pointing a long, pale finger at a spot on my chin. "Right there."

  I flinched back, wiping my chin furiously with my sleeve.

  "You could have just said that!"

  "I did," he smirked, leaning back into his chair with the grace of a cat that had just pushed a vase off a shelf. "I just wanted to see if you would choke again."

  BAM.

  The main door to the dormitory flew open, bouncing off the stone wall.

  "GREETINGS, DORM C!"

  A small, frantic ball of energy bounded into the room. It was a Gnome.

  He had curly brown hair that looked like it had been styled by a lightning strike, small goat-like horns curling from his temples, and he wore a sash that read FLOOR PRESIDENT. He was carrying a leather satchel that looked heavy enough to crush him, and he moved with a jittery speed that made me dizzy just watching him.

  "I bring tidings! Paperwork! And bureaucracy!" the Gnome announced, his voice squeaky and fast.

  Bram, the Dwarf, dropped his toast. His face went from grumpy to thunderous in a split second. His hand shot out and grabbed the handle of his axe.

  "A Gnome," Bram growled, the word vibrating deep in his chest like a growl. "In my quarters."

  The Gnome stopped, adjusting his thick spectacles. He looked at the Dwarf not with fear, but with a sneer of intellectual superiority.

  "Ah. A Rock-Eater," the Gnome noted, wrinkling his nose. "I smell soot, stagnation, and obsolete technology. Wonderful."

  "Who are you, Gear-Grinder?" Bram stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He towered over the visitor, but the Gnome didn't flinch. "And why are you breathing my air?"

  "I am Pip!" the Gnome announced, tapping his sash. "Class President, Dorm Elder, Betting Pool Coordinator, and Supplier of Illicit Snacks! I oversee this floor. Which means I technically outrank you, Stumpy. So put down the can-opener before you hurt yourself."

  "Outrank me?" Bram’s face turned red. The veins in his neck bulged. "I'll show you rank when I disassemble your mechanical toys and feed them to the furnace!"

  "Gentlemen," Elara’s voice floated down, calm and commanding. "No bloodshed before noon. It stains the rugs."

  Pip ignored the threat entirely, bustling past the angry Dwarf as if he were a piece of furniture. He dumped five scrolls onto the table. Thud.

  "Schedules!" Pip chirped. "Course selection! Deadline is midday! If you don't submit, the system auto-assigns you to 'Sewage Maintenance!'. And trust me, the Slime Molds are very clingy this time of year."

  He looked around the room, his magnified eyes landing on the two figures glaring at each other across the fruit bowl: me, red-faced and coughing, and the smug Demon Prince.

  "Wow," Pip whistled. "The tension in here is thick enough to cut with a sawblade. I should charge admission for this show."

  "I’m putting 5 gold pieces on the first magical explosion happening before the weekend."

  Roc-ta stopped eating. She dropped a piece of bacon.

  She leaned forward over the table, her nose twitching rapidly.

  "Valerie," she said. "Your face is red. Your heart rate is skyrocketing. I can hear it from here. Thump-thump-thump."

  "I just choked on an apple, Roc-ta."

  Roc-ta didn't buy it. Her eyes narrowed investigatively. She looked from me to the Prince and back again. She looked at Bram gripping his axe and Pip checking his watch. Then she looked at Elara floating above it all.

  The social cues were clearly confusing her.

  "Do you like him or something?" she asked bluntly.

  SPWAAA.

  This time, it was Bram who choked on his coffee. Demian froze. The teacup he had just picked up shattered in his hand. CRACK. Shards of porcelain fell onto the saucer.

  "What?" the word came out of his mouth as a high-pitched squeak.

  Roc-ta continued, unperturbed, analyzing the situation with wolf-logic.

  "You guys are always screaming at each other. You throw things. You turn red when he's around. And you," she pointed a claw at Demian, "you smell like... ozone and attention-seeking."

  She tilted her head.

  "Is this some kind of human mating ritual? Is the door-slamming part of the foreplay?"

  Silence.

  Absolute, ringing silence descended on Dorm 13.

  My face felt like it was going to explode. Steam was practically shooting out of my ears.

  "WHAT?!" I shrieked, jumping out of my chair and waving my hands wildly in front of my face. "NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT! GROSS!"

  I pointed a shaking finger at Demian, who looked like he was about to vomit.

  "Him?! That... that arrogant buffoon?! That plastic mannequin with a god complex?!"

  I crossed my arms, making a violent 'X' shape.

  "Never! Not in a million years! Not if he was the last male on the planet and the survival of the species depended on it!"

  Demian stood up, brushing tea shards and droplets from his hand. He looked offended to his very core.

  "I assure you," he said icily, his voice regaining its dangerous edge, "the feeling is mutual. I would rather court a cactus. A poisonous, burning cactus."

  "Good!"

  "Excellent!"

  "Great!" Pip clapped his hands, breaking the tension. "So that's a 'maybe'. Moving on!"

  Bram sighed, the sound of a man who was already too old for this nonsense. He grabbed the pile of scrolls Pip had brought and slid them across the table, knocking the apple core onto the floor.

  "Enough about mating rituals," the Dwarf grunted, eyeing Pip with deep suspicion. "We have deadlines. And I need to get this Gnome out of my sight before I do something that violates the Treaty."

  He tapped his thick finger on the parchment.

  "Course selection. Lock in your schedules. Now."

  The scrolls were unrolled.

  COURSE SELECTION - YEAR 1

  The header glowed in gold ink.

  "I need to think," I muttered, grabbing a scroll.

  I looked at Demian, who was currently trying to clean tea off his pristine trousers with magic, looking thoroughly miserable.

  "I cannot think in this hostile environment."

  I grabbed an inkwell and a quill from the communal desk.

  "I’m going to my room to fill this out," I announced. "Somewhere away from... certain influences."

  "Run away, little human," Demian called after me, not looking up. "Try not to choke on the air."

  I stuck my tongue out at his back—a mature response fitting for a princess—and stormed toward the door to the West Wing.

  The door clicked shut behind me. Silence returned to the hallway. But the chaos of the morning was far from over.