I’ve never been good with goodbyes.

  Mostly because they’re awkward, too sentimental, and usually involve some adult trying to shove emotion down your throat like a force-fed goat.

  That morning was no exception.

  Cold & Sweet: The Wyrhart FarewellFather stood stiffly beside our carriage, arms behind his back, robes perfectly pressed. He handed me a leather-bound grimoire—red, old, and humming faintly with heat.

  “Intermediate Fme Control,” he said, not looking me directly in the eye. “Study the second circle carefully. If you overload your circuits, you’ll pass out. Or combust. Or worse—embarrass me.”

  Touching. Really.

  Mother, on the other hand, clutched my shoulders like I was shipping off to war.

  “Eat enough, sleep early, don't duel unless provoked, and don’t set fire to the undry. Again.”

  “It was one time,” I muttered. “And mostly contained.”

  They both smiled in their own way. My father’s was just a microscopic twitch of his lip. My mother’s was the kind that carried both pride and the unspoken threat of weekly letters.

  Then came Rielle’s mother.

  The Real Menace: Serena EltanSerena was in leather armor—why, I don’t know, maybe in case the marketpce decred war—and leaned far too close to me with that same rogueish grin she passed to her daughter.

  “Well, now that you two are adults,” she said with all the subtlety of a drunk bard, “you should start looking after each other properly.”

  “Uh... we pn to,” I said carefully, not knowing where this was going.

  She winked. “I mean emotionally. Physically. Romantically. You have my blessing.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “She’s strong, loyal, and definitely needs someone to keep her from getting stabbed in the face.”

  “I think she’s more likely to do the stabbing, honestly—”

  “Lucien,” she whispered dramatically, “take responsibility for my daughter.”

  “Why does this sound like a threat?”

  “Because it is.”

  Rielle, thankfully, was too busy yelling at a luggage cart to hear any of that. But I knew, deep down, Serena was going to make my school life even more confusing than it already was.

  Welcome to the Academy Dorms: Smells Like Stress and PotentialThe student dormitories were split by division:North Wing – MagicSouth Wing – SwordCentral Wing – Library, Cafeteria, and Social Battleground

  We were given a grace period of three days before official csses started. Time to settle in, meet roommates, and contempte which part of your soul would die first.

  My room was on the third floor of the North Wing.

  Small, cozy, stone walls ced with mana-glyphs for insution. Two beds, two desks, one wardrobe. The essentials.

  And my new roommate?

  “Yo!” said a loud, energetic voice. “You must be Lucien! I’m Gram!”

  I turned around to see a nky, red-haired boy with eyes too bright and a grin too wide. His robe was wrinkled, his satchel looked like it had exploded on the bed, and he radiated friendly chaos.

  “Hi,” I said warily. “You look like the kind of person who drinks alchemy potions just to see what happens.”

  “I do!” he chirped.

  Great. I'm living with a mana-addicted squirrel.

  Meanwhile in SwordndRielle’s dorm, of course, had windows facing the training field and was filled with sharp weapons and sharper personalities.

  Her roommate was a raven-haired duelist from the bordernds who reportedly introduced herself by challenging the dorm warden to a mock duel. They became instant friends, obviously.

  The Ceremony of Clichés: Entrance BeginsThree days ter, all first-years were summoned to the Great Hall—a vast cathedral-sized chamber that smelled of burning incense and ancient mana.

  Stained gss. Floating runes. Echoes of dramatic music probably enchanted into the stone itself.

  We sat in rows, divided by division—Magic on one side, Sword on the other.

  Then came the moment every fantasy story is legally obligated to include:

  The Bearded Headmaster.

  He emerged from a golden archway, beard longer than my patience, robes shimmering with consteltion patterns, and eyes like he’d seen every war, every monster, and every excuse turned in by te students.

  “Welcome,” he boomed, “to the Imperial Academy of Sword & Sorcery. I am Headmaster Orren Vael. I was casting spells before your great-grandfathers were conceived during wartime passion.”

  Someone coughed. Someone else appuded in awe. I just squinted.

  His speech went on. Tradition. Honor. Duty. Bh bh. “You are the future of the Empire.” “You may die in the process.” “Lunch is at midday.”

  Then—just as the crowd was getting restless—the double doors opened again.

  In came the real power.

  The Princess. The President. The Walking Plot Fg.She stepped in like she owned the floor. Long silver-blonde hair. Ceremonial red uniform. Sword on her hip that shimmered like a dragon’s scale. Eyes colder than the academy’s winter-css dorms.

  Princess Sylvaria Elion Wellstion.Top of her css. Student Council President.Royalty. And possibly allergic to joy.

  “Try not to drool,” Gram whispered beside me.

  “I’m not,” I replied.

  “Your face says you’re running mental background checks.”

  I was. Royalty equals trouble. And when trouble has a title, it’s the worst kind.

  Sylvaria gave the briefest nod to the crowd. “To the swordbearers, fight with honor. To the spellcasters, burn wisely. To the hybrids… try not to explode.”

  Then she turned, cape fluttering behind her like she’d cast Dramatic Exit.

  Somehow, that made the Sword Division cheer. Magic Division appuded politely. I just made a mental note to never be noticed by her.

  “Isn’t she amazing?” Gram whispered.

  “Absolutely not,” I replied. “She’s the kind of person who walks into your life and leaves behind a three-arc subplot and a near-death experience.”

  And then... of course...

  Enter the Chaos AgentRielle slid into the seat next to me, grinning like she’d stolen candy from a dragon.

  “Wow,” she said, gncing toward Sylvaria. “Do all princesses glow with smugness, or is it just this one?”

  “Let’s not get involved,” I said quickly.

  “Oh, you sweet summer nerd,” she snorted. “You think we have a choice?”

  As the ceremony ended, we were dismissed to enjoy our st “free day” before csses started. Free, of course, being code for “prepare to be traumatized by the academic calendar.”

  I gnced at Rielle, then Gram, then at my fire-serpent—who had snuck out of my cloak and was now coiled smugly around my arm.

  Magic. Swords. Royal headaches. Rivalry. Dorm life.

  I’d just stepped into a new life.And, apparently, a cliche checklist.