The Celestial Royal Academy had once stood for brilliance. Only the brightest minds could walk its halls. But things had changed. Money had become its new standard. Wealthy families paid their way in, sending children who barely studied. Still, the Academy's name carried weight. And for those born without privilege, the annual scholarship was a dream that could rewrite a life.
Every fall, fifteen students were chosen. Their letters arrived sealed in gold, promising a future most could only imagine.
Zelas was a strange country. It had only two seasons—winter and spring. Winter ruled for ten long months, while spring came and went like a brief sigh. In the northern mountains lay Albury, a town of rain, pine trees, and damp wind. The Academy stood at its heart, surrounded by clouds like a castle hidden from the world.
Inside a small convenience store at the edge of Albury, a pale girl scanned items under a flickering light. The scanner beeped in steady rhythm, the only sound breaking the silence. Her red curls hung limp around her face, and her skin looked thin enough for the veins beneath to show. The dark circles under her eyes made her look half awake, half gone.
An old lady placed her groceries on the counter and studied the girl for a moment. She clicked her tongue softly, then pulled a box of chocolate milk from the rack.
"Here, sweetheart," she said, placing it near the register.
Jujube blinked, her face blank. She looked at the milk, then back at the woman. Her lips moved but no words came out.
The old lady gave a kind smile before leaving. The bell above the door jingled, and the shop went quiet again.
Jujube stared at the milk for a while, then set it aside. Another customer entered, forcing her to move. She scanned, packed, counted change. Beep. Beep. Beep.
By the time the clock hit six, her shift was nearly over.
The door burst open. A young man ran in, drenched from head to toe. His blond hair stuck to his forehead, jacket dripping on the tiles.
"It's almost time," Jujube said without looking up. She stepped away from the counter, heading for the back room.
"What's with the cold shoulder?" the guy asked, grinning. Stark—son of the store owner, part-timer, and loud.
He unzipped his jacket and shook out the water, making a small puddle near his shoes. When she returned, Jujube was in a grey hoodie, sweatpants, and a pink beanie pulled low over her hair.
"I leave," she said, reaching for her bag.
"Wait!" Stark called. He rummaged through the drawer and held up a cream envelope with engraved corners. "Mail for you. Came this morning."
She stopped. Looked at him. Then at the envelope.
Slowly, she walked closer and took it, careful not to brush his hand.
"Thanks," she murmured.
Stark blinked. "You actually talk."
She didn't answer. She was already at the door when he spotted the chocolate milk still sitting on the counter. He chuckled, reaching for it.
Before he could touch it, a pale hand swiped it away.
"This mine," Jujube said, voice flat. Stark froze. "Okay! Not stealing!"
She tucked the milk into her bag and walked out.
The air outside was cold and damp. Jujube stood under the awning, clutching the envelope. The rain drummed against the roof above her. She ran her thumb along the seal, then broke it open.
Her eyes caught the first line.
"You have been sele—"
She stopped reading. Folded the letter neatly. Slid it back into her bag.
Through the glass door, Stark watched her with mild curiosity. Her face stayed blank, not even a flicker of emotion crossing it. He'd already seen the seal on the envelope — Celestial Royal Academy. Everyone in town had been talking about that school, so he didn't need to open it to know what it meant. But the way she looked at that letter, as if it were nothing more than a grocery receipt, made him mutter under his breath, "What a freak. Even a statue has more expression."
She'd appeared out of nowhere two weeks ago, quiet and pale, her expression never changing no matter what anyone said. Abby, the part-timer before her, had been hospitalized after an accident, and this girl had shown up to fill in while she recovered. Stark had gathered only that they were friends. Beyond that, she was a mystery.
In two weeks, she'd said less than thirty words. Maybe less.
---
"Young Master!"
An elderly man rapped on the tall wooden door of a grand bedroom. There was no answer. After a long moment, he exhaled and quietly turned the handle.
The sight that met him was one he'd grown used to over the years — the room was a battlefield of clothes, shoes, and empty bottles. On the king-sized bed, two figures lay tangled beneath the sheets, their breathing slow and heavy from a long night.
"Young Master, it's time to rise," the man said calmly. The forms on the bed shifted, and the young man finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. His dark hair was a mess, his voice low and rough with sleep. When his gaze lifted, the morning light caught the deep brown of his eyes.
"Grace? Why are you in my room?" he mumbled, then turned his head to see the half-asleep woman beside him. "Oh... she's still here?"
Grace, the butler, didn't flinch. He handed his Young Master a robe with the quiet precision of someone long accustomed to chaos. Kingston stretched, slipped the robe over his shoulders, and cast one last amused glance at the woman. He gave Grace a lazy wink before strolling into the bathroom.
Kingston Reid was known as the Academy's resident playboy — sharp-tongued, dangerously handsome, and infuriatingly charming. His grin could melt hearts and start rumors faster than wildfire.
At Grace's clap, a few maids entered the room. The woman on the bed stirred, her makeup smeared, her confusion apparent. She sat up quickly, clutching the sheet to her chest.
"Don't worry, Miss," Grace said coolly, his expression devoid of warmth. "The maids will assist you."
His polite tone didn't match the chill in his voice. It was enough to make the woman's throat tighten.
Grace had been at Kingston's side since the day he was born. He served no one else, cared for no one else, and showed kindness only to the boy he'd raised.
When Kingston returned from his shower, his room was spotless, his clothes prepared, and his attendants waiting in silence. As they buttoned his shirt and adjusted his cuffs, Grace stepped closer.
"Young Master, you have been absent from the Academy for an entire week," he reminded softly. "Your father grows concerned."
Kingston didn't reply. His mind was somewhere else.
"Did you handle the woman's situation?" he finally asked.
"Yes, Young Master," Grace replied.
"Any trouble?"
"None. Her requests were granted. She has been sent off."
Kingston sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "No woman these days seems to know when to walk away with dignity," he muttered, dismissing the servants with a flick of his wrist.
Grace tried once more. "About the Academy, sir—"
"I'll return when something there is worth my attention," Kingston interrupted. His smirk returned as he reached for his cufflinks. "Until then, my absence is hardly a tragedy."
And with that, he left the room — the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air long after he was gone.