The lunch bell rang.
For the students, it was a break from the tyranny of lectures. For Arion, it was the only honest thing in the building. It didn't judge him. It just promised carbs.
He shuffled into the Grand Cafeteria, looking less like a student of the mystic arts and more like a conscripted soldier after a week-long march. The morning's encounter with the Student Representative had drained his spirit. Sophia's lecture had drained his will to live.
He just wanted bread.
He navigated the sea of pristine uniforms and expensive cologne. The cafeteria was a battlefield of egos, a place where bloodlines mattered more than appetite. He ignored them all—the dukes, the scholars, the posturing heirs. They were background noise.
He had a destination.
He headed straight for the back corner, right next to the magical waste disposal chute. It hummed constantly and smelled faintly of sulfur and ash.
"Perfect," Arion muttered.
He dropped his tray onto the wobbly wooden table. The lunch was a tragedy: a slab of gray meatloaf, a scoop of sad potatoes, and a cup of green jelly that vibrated with menace.
"Beautiful."
He sat down, the chair groaning under him. He didn't care that he was the only person in the room without a family crest. He didn't care that the tuition here cost more than a kingdom's ransom.
He just wanted twenty minutes of silence.
He picked up his spoon. He scooped up the potatoes. He opened his mouth.
Thud.
A manicured hand slammed onto the table. The green jelly shivered violently.
Arion froze. The spoon hovered inches from his face. He closed his eyes.
Please be a hallucination caused by hunger.
"Excuse me," a voice sneered.
It was nasal. High-pitched. The voice of someone who had never been told "no."
Arion sighed, the sound rattling in his chest. He lowered the spoon. He looked up.
Standing there was a boy with blonde hair so stiff it could probably deflect arrows. His uniform was tailored tight enough to cut off circulation, and two lackeys stood behind him, trying very hard to look intimidating.
"If you're selling charms, I'm broke," Arion said flatly. "If you're lost, buy a map. If you're looking for a fight... wait until I finish my jelly."
"Who I am matters little to the likes of you," the boy scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. "And I certainly do not wait for jelly."
Arion blinked slowly. "Okay. Great talk." He looked back down at his spoon. "Can I eat now?"
"You're in my way," the boy hissed.
He pointed a manicured finger toward the distant window, where a sliver of the royal gardens was visible.
"I am trying to enjoy the roses," the boy sneered. "But every time I look up, I see you. Your slouching is ruining the scenery. You look like a sack of wet grain. Move."
Arion stared at the window. Then at his food. Then back at the boy.
"Kid," Arion said, his voice heavy with fatigue. "There are two hundred seats in this hall. Pick another angle."
"I do not pick angles," the boy snapped.
He leaned in, his cologne smelling like crushed lilies and money.
"You are a commoner. A stray without a surname. You do not belong in the same air space as the nobility. If you want to sit here, you must prove you have the culture to appreciate it."
Arion rubbed his temples. A headache was blooming behind his eyes.
"Listen," Arion said. "My food is getting cold. Can we reschedule this oppression?"
"Stand up!" the boy shouted, drawing the attention of the entire room. "I challenge you!"
Arion groaned, letting his forehead hit the table with a soft thud.
"I just want to eat," he mumbled into the wood. "Why is that so hard?"
"A duel," the boy announced.
Arion didn't lift his head from the table. "Rock, paper, scissors? My back hurts."
"A Duel of Dignity," the boy declared, pulling a pristine white glove from his pocket. "The Stationary Exchange."
The cafeteria went silent. Forks froze. Even the scholars stopped reading.
"The Stationary Exchange?" someone whispered. "That's a High Knight's test. You have to deflect magic without moving a single inch."
The boy smirked, hearing the fear in the room. "We stand ten paces apart. We cast. First to move their feet loses. If I win, you leave this cafeteria and eat in the stables where you belong."
Arion finally lifted his head. "And if I win?"
"I will leave you be," the boy scoffed.
Arion looked at his sad, green jelly. Then he looked at the boy's table in the center—the one with the roasted pheasant and sparkling juice.
"Boring," Arion said. "Raise the stakes."
The boy blinked. "Excuse me?"
"If I win," Arion pointed his spoon at the boy, "you pay for my lunch and dessert for a month."
The crowd gasped. The audacity.
"Deal," the boy laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "As if a brute like you has the mana capacity to hold a shield against me."
"Then let's do it," Arion said, cracking his neck. "Right here."
"Unauthorized combat is prohibited in the dining hall."
The voice cut through the noise like a blade of ice.
The crowd parted instantly, chairs scraping against the floor as students scrambled to get out of the way.
Standing at the entrance was the Student Representative. Grey hair, grey eyes, and a presence that lowered the room temperature by ten degrees. She didn't walk; she glided.
The noble boy stiffened, straightening his posture. "Representative! I was merely—"
"I don't care," she said, her voice flat. She looked at the boy, then down at Arion, who was hurriedly trying to shovel the rest of his jelly into his mouth before something bad happened.
"If you intend to discharge magic," she said, "you will do it in the Training Grounds. Not where people are eating."
"Excellent idea!" the boy beamed, regaining his confidence. "To the Training Grounds! We shall settle this with proper space!"
He marched off, his lackeys trailing behind him. The crowd followed, buzzing with excitement.
Arion stayed seated, holding his spoon. He looked at the Student Representative.
"Do I have to?" Arion asked. "It's a ten-minute walk."
The girl stared at him. She didn't blink. "Move."
The news hit the hallways faster than a lightning spell.
"The Famous Failure is fighting!"
"Who? The old guy?"
"Yeah. Stationary Exchange. Training Grounds. Now."
In the library, Exousia Ignis snapped her quill in half.
"He's doing what?"
Across the table, Sebastian Ambrose didn't look up from his book on advanced mana theory. "He accepted a challenge from a Senior. Apparently, the stakes involve dessert."
Exousia stood up so fast her chair screeched against the stone floor. Smoke curled faintly from her hair, singing the edge of her notes.
"That idiot," she hissed, grabbing her bag. "He doesn't use chants! He doesn't use circles! He's going to get turned into a scorch mark!"
"Concerned?" Sebastian asked, finally closing his book with a soft thump.
"Hah!" Exousia laughed, a sharp, high-pitched sound. "I'm not concerned! I'm... insulted! If he dies before I prove he's a fraud, my investigation is ruined! I'm going to watch him lose. That's all!"
She marched toward the door, her face bright red.
He stood up, grabbing a fresh notepad. "I need to record this."
Meanwhile, the walk to the Training Grounds was suffocating.
The Student Representative didn't speak. She walked with a perfect, gliding stride, her back straight, her grey hair shimmering like spun silver. Students parted like the Red Sea as they passed, terrified of making eye contact with her.
Arion trailed behind, looking less like a duelist and more like a man being escorted to prison. He could feel her white eyes scanning him, looking for the "Anomaly" she had identified.
"Why did you accept?" she asked suddenly. She didn't stop walking.
"He started it," Arion said. "And he promised me food."
She stopped.
The sudden halt made Arion almost bump into her. She turned, her grey eyes locking onto his. Up close, the pressure she radiated was heavy—the memory of that mental ocean lapping at the edges of his mind.
"You are risking expulsion," she said, her voice flat. "For meat?"
"It's really good meat," Arion said solemnly.
She stared at him. Her pupils—those strange whirlpools—spun slowly. She was calculating. Evaluating. Trying to solve the equation of a man who risked his future for lunch.
"Illogical," she stated.
"That's my middle name," Arion grinned.
She narrowed her eyes. For a split second, the emotionless mask cracked, revealing a tiny flicker of annoyance.
"Walk faster," she commanded, turning back around to hide the fact that she didn't know how to categorize him. "You're wasting my time."
"Tyrant," Arion muttered, picking up the pace. "Cute, but a tyrant."
The girl's step faltered for a fraction of a second. But she kept walking, her ears turning a very faint shade of pink.