Arila Vellion awoke to a horror worse than exams, surprise magical affinity quizzes, or a world without sugar. Her room was covered in gifts. Boxes of enchanted macarons teetered dangerously on the windowsill, pastel colors gleaming under the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Gold-trimmed congratulatory scrolls littered the floor like noble confetti, their elegant calligraphy proclaiming admiration and praise in scripts that shimmered faintly with subtle magic. Silk robes lay folded carefully on the chair, their delicate embroidery catching the light, and custom-brewed teas filled the air with scents ranging from rose petal to exotic spice. Enchanted perfumes emitted soft glows and bursts of floral notes whenever the air shifted. Amidst this bounty glittered what looked suspiciously like a glowing engagement tiara, sitting atop a velvet cushion like an artifact of both beauty and awkward implications, its jewels twinkling as if anticipating courtly drama.
And in the middle of it all, Lira was having a panic attack with the efficiency of someone trained by royal disaster butlers. Her usually composed demeanor was cracked, a rare sight, as she flitted about, clasping scrolls and making hurried gestures with the precision of a seasoned crisis manager.
"Lady Arila, wake up! Wake up! We have a minor—not even minor! A catastrophic PR situation!" Lira's voice was both urgent and trembling, the kind of alarm that usually meant someone had set fire to the royal library or offended an elemental spirit.
Arila blinked blearily, dislodging Ninko from where he'd been snoozing like a feather boa of vengeance draped across her pillow. The nine-tailed kitsune gave a disgruntled stretch, tail flicking with mild irritation as if to say, Really? Another crisis?
"Did I die and reincarnate again into the gift route of a dating sim?" Arila muttered, rubbing her eyes. The soft weight of her divine white-and-gold cloak felt less comforting today and more like a glittering shroud of unwanted attention.
"You're engaged to Prince Lucien!" Lira announced, gesturing wildly to the piles of scrolls that practically sang of noble declarations and courtly intrigue.
Arila sat straight up so fast her hair turned into static, crackling slightly as it rebelled against the sudden movement. "I'm sorry. I'm WHAT now?"
Lira waved her hands emphatically toward the numerous gold-trimmed letters and glittering gift boxes. "He healed you with royal light magic. In public. With prolonged hand contact! That's a magical declaration of intent among royalty! It's basically a formal proposal, whether you signed the contract or not!"
Ninko flopped dramatically onto Arila's head, his tails draping down like a furry crown of exasperation. Arila whimpered, "I thought I was just getting a bandaid, not a wedding license!"
With Lira's determined help, she dressed in her usual armor of emotionally repressive fashion: the black blouse with its dramatic collar that could have starred in a gothic opera, the dark skirt that always ended just above the knee for maximum practicality, the inevitable black sneakers that defied every notion of noble decorum, and of course, her divine white-and-gold cloak which seemed to radiate both justice and mild despair.
She stomped out the dorm door with the posture of a girl who had seen too much, too soon. Her eyes scanned the hallway—a battlefield of stares, whispers, and suppressed squealing. Nobles bowed in exaggerated courtesy. Some curtsied with barely concealed excitement. One first-year spontaneously fainted, collapsing dramatically against the polished marble wall. The echo of their fall rang like a somber bell of courtly chaos.
"Thank you for the engagement fruit basket," Arila muttered to a passing butler holding a tray of fancy juice glasses adorned with edible flowers and glowing runes.
"May your union be blessed!" the butler beamed, voice dripping with sincere enthusiasm and the faintest hint of dread at what was coming next.
"I haven't even unioned!" she hissed under her breath, dodging another well-meaning congratulatory curtsy.
By the time she reached etiquette class, Arila was halfway through a chocolate bonbon and fully ready to throw it at the next person who uttered the word "congratulations." The bitter-sweetness was a welcome distraction from the surreal reality she now inhabited.
Lucien sat at their usual table, as unreadable and princely as ever. His silver eyes glinted with amusement and something softer, something almost like concern. "Morning," he said, glancing up as if nothing had happened except the accidental launch of an engagement.
"Did you accidentally propose to me yesterday?" she asked flatly, jaw tight around the remaining bonbon.
Lucien tilted his head, thoughtful. "Technically?"
Arila shoved the bonbon in her mouth, muttering between bites, "You owe me a new kitchen and several therapy bills."
Before she could retort further, Julian exploded into the room two seconds later with the enthusiasm of someone announcing the royal wedding before the invitation was even written. "Ah, behold! The royal couple graces us with their coordinated aesthetic!"
"We match because I wear black and he's made of regret," Arila muttered dryly, rolling her eyes as Julian struck a dramatic pose.
Felicia stumbled in after him, cheeks flushed with excitement. "You're engaged? That's so romantic!" She tripped over a chair leg and fell into Vincent, who caught her with dead-eyed reflexes that masked his internal amusement perfectly.
Etiquette class began with a lecture on how to not offend a foreign duke while pouring tea—an exercise in patience that tested Arila's willpower as she tried to ignore the butterflies that fluttered stubbornly in her stomach. Ninko curled on her shoulder like a judgmental scarf, occasionally twitching a tail in apparent disapproval.
Across campus, Clarissa Blackbrook was not doing well. Whispers swirled about Lucien and Arila like a storm cloud of rumors and scandal. Her teacup shattered in her hand, porcelain fragments scattering across her marble vanity. Her two loyal besties hid behind a curtain, whispering prayers and clutching charms to avoid collateral emotional damage.
Clarissa's eyes gleamed with fury. Dark magic flickered at her fingertips, unnoticed by all but her own reflection in the cracked mirror. "No one appreciates what I do," she hissed, voice low and venomous. "But I will make them see. Starting with her."
As classes switched rooms for the exchange period, Clarissa stormed into etiquette class like a hurricane of hair spray, glitter, and menace. Her entrance was cinematic—a perfect blend of fury and royal wrath.
"Arila Vellion! I challenge you to a formal duel!" she declared, voice ringing clear across the suddenly silent room.
Dead. Silence.
Arila looked up from her snack, brow raised in amused disbelief. "Okay, but what kind of duel are we talking? Fisticuffs? Cupcake bake-off? Competitive sarcasm?"
Clarissa scowled, eyes narrowing. "A magical duel. If I win, you will renounce your claim on Prince Lucien."
"That implies I claimed him like a shiny trading card. I just got healed," Arila replied dryly.
Julian leaned toward Vincent, whispering with a grin, "Is it bad I want popcorn right now?"
Felicia gasped, "Are duels allowed before lunch?"
Arila shrugged, nibbling on a biscuit with the calm of someone accepting the inevitability of chaos. "Fine. Duel it is. But I'm not renouncing anything unless you bring receipts."
Clarissa smirked and turned on her heel—but not before a flicker of dark energy danced at her shoulder like a warning flare.
Arila's eyes narrowed. There it was. Villainess arc: unlocked.
Later, the group gathered in the shade of a marble balcony, the afternoon sun casting long shadows and painting the scene with golden light.
"She challenged her in public," Darian muttered, arms crossed with mild concern.
"She's going full rival arc," Julian added, pulling an imaginary violin bow across the air. "Someone cue the dramatic violin."
"She might actually be dangerous," Vincent said quietly, his usual stoicism tinged with something like respect.
Lucien said nothing, gaze fixed on Arila with an unreadable expression.
Meanwhile, Arila sat cross-legged on a stone bench, calmly eating a nougat and thinking, So. This is the turning point. The dating sim route is engaged. The villainess has triggered. The demon lord is probably stirring. And I just wanted to bake.
Far, far away in the demon realm, a tomb cracked. A clawed hand twitched. The Demon Lord's awakening was nigh.
By lunchtime, the dueling chamber was filled with eager students and suspiciously well-dressed professors, their eyes glittering with anticipation and a hint of dread.
Arila stood on one end of the room, arms crossed, a lollipop perched defiantly in her mouth and Ninko curled protectively around her shoulders like a furry suit of armor.
Clarissa stood at the opposite end, radiating rage and luxury, her every movement dripping with the promise of a dramatic showdown.
The duel had not yet begun, but the tension was thick enough to cut with a ceremonial dessert fork.
To be continued...