Adelaide sat in the school garden, a swan-white glass table before her like a tiny stage set with delicate tea and porcelain.

She sipped black tea; its lingering warmth braided with jasmine in the air, a soft breeze against a crowded heart.

Comfort tempted her like shade at noon, yet ease wasn’t hers to claim.

Fitting into class had gone smoothly, but the path to her goal still ran long like a road wet with dew.

She watched her face tremble inside the ruby tea, and she combed through that dream’s thread of facts like fingers through silk.

If the script kept running true, the next wave would be the king’s assassination.

In the common route, King Richard would fall to a blade, and the heroine, framed like a scapegoat led to market, would run from hunters while tracking the real killer to clear her name.

More than that twist, the court would name the First Crown Prince, Samir, as king to calm hearts like oil poured on storm water.

Unlike other tales, Holywell Academy never promised that the route you chose crowned your favorite; the throne didn’t bend to romance like grass to wind.

Every prince held a set place in the struggle, and even the second prince, Neprah—who loved to cross Samir like thunder crosses sun—would end up at his brother’s side.

Which meant that no matter the path, the land’s future fulcrum would be her little sister’s fiancé.

Winning his support would be one stone she had to place to cross the river ahead.

Thinking it through, her old plan reached for the same shore.

She’d moved against Mira because Mira’s parents wanted their daughter, not Adelaide, to be Samir’s betrothed—chess played with silk gloves.

It backfired; her push sped up Mira’s engagement to Samir, and the Douglas Family behind her had their real power stripped like bark from a tree.

Fury rose; the joints of her fingers cracked around the cup like ice breaking on a lake, and ripples warped her smile in the tea’s red mirror.

She drew a long breath in, then let it go like mist on a cold morning.

No losing her composure—she tasted tea again, and her face cooled like stone under rain.

If a petty, proud god had tossed her the script like a coin, she’d be a fool to let it sink.

With these facts, the moves she could make bloomed like lanterns at dusk.

First, a path to Samir.

To temper the crown heir, the royal house would set him as student council president once he entered Holywell Academy, a forge wrapped in ivy.

Knowing that, Adelaide would aim for vice president at Holywell Academy.

That seat was his nearest orbit, her best bridge to him, and a chance to steal back the place of fiancée like a kite tugged back to hand.

To do that, she needed the next year and a half before graduation to rebuild her name like scaffolding around a ruined hall, and ready herself for the campaign to come.

A soft clack came from behind, the garden’s glass door opening like a ripple in still water.

Adelaide set down her cup and turned; a tall girl stood there, ponytail clean as a blade, skin a warm palm-brown.

“Good afternoon, Michelle.”

“Ah—good afternoon, Adelaide.”

Michelle’s eyes lit like lamps; she came over in two quick steps with her lunch in hand.

“Um, can I sit here today too?”

“Of course.” Adelaide nodded with a leaf-light smile.

They weren’t classmates, but they’d shared garden lunches for a while now, a routine as gentle as noon shade.

Michelle had grown from shy “chance meetings” to sitting with ease, chatting about school the way wind skims water.

“By the way, isn’t Anisa with you today?”

“Mmm… I lingered in bed a little this morning.”

Heat pricked her cheeks; Adelaide dipped her head like a blossom after rain.

“I rushed out and forgot my textbook, so I had to trouble her to fetch it.”

“Eh, is that really okay? We’ve got a quiz this afternoon. And, um…”

Michelle glanced at Adelaide’s wheelchair, worry bright as a folded fan opening.

“It’s fine. I’m ready for the quiz. As for these useless legs—”

Adelaide slid a porcelain plate of oat cookies toward her like an offering. “I’ve got you, don’t I, Michelle?”

“I can’t afford a bribe from you.”

Michelle snorted a laugh; the sound hopped like a pebble on water, then sank.

A thought shadowed her; she sighed long, like wind through reeds. “I’m not confident I’ll even pass… I’m so jealous of you. You ace everything like it’s nothing.”

“That’s not quite true.”

Perfect scores felt as simple as breath—she almost said it, then let the pride melt like sugar and kept the truth under glass.

Thank the dream’s Jiaqi; a failed life maybe, but a mind sharp as a whetstone.

With the knowledge Jiaqi had poured into her, these classes—easier than a freshman syllabus—felt like walking a flat road after rain.

With almost no effort, she stood at the top of the year like a banner in clear wind.

“And you’ve got that beautiful white hair, and your manners and poise are flawless… Unlike me, a commoner who’s good at nothing.”

Michelle sighed again and wilted onto the table, a flower with too much sun; words drained away.

The garden fell quiet; after a while, a wet shimmer clung to the corner of her eye like dew.

Adelaide knew her noons of waiting had finally bought trust, a seed sprouting under warm soil.

Time to harvest what she’d sown.

She laid her hand gently over Michelle’s on the table, a calm tide over pebbles. Michelle jerked up, and saw worry gleam like red lacquer in Adelaide’s eyes.

“Tell me what’s weighing on you, Michelle.”

As expected, silence held for a beat; Michelle bit her lip like holding back a storm, then the swell broke, and she choked up right there.

Once you show a soft underbelly, the need to speak rolls like a river and won’t be dammed.

That day, Michelle poured out every snag she’d hit while trying to found a magic club, troubles tumbling like beads from a broken string.

Adelaide listened with patient stillness, a lantern steady in wind, until Michelle, embarrassed, wiped at the pink rims of her eyes.

“Sorry. It’s just… you’re always so gentle, and you listen so patiently.”

She ducked her head and murmured, voice small as a moth, “Like… an older sister. That’s why I can’t hold it in.”

Adelaide didn’t soothe her right away; she let her gaze drift to the distance like a bird in thought, and made a show of weighing paths.

“Maybe… I can help you, Michelle.”

“Huh?”

A saxophone solo curled through the hall like smoke at midnight, when the man by the dance floor raised his glass to Adelaide.

“After tonight’s talk, I see the Douglas Family’s young lady deserves her name. So young, yet as keen as they say.”

Red wine swayed in his crystal, and the hall’s soft, courtly lights cast a blood-tinged sheen over the war medals pinned to his costly suit.

Adelaide lifted her own glass and dipped her chin, a bow like a petal falling.

“You flatter me, Duke Berlik. Those ideas for your new casino were just childish sketches.”

“Not at all. They helped a great deal. Even trained architects don’t always see that deep. Tell me honestly—where did you learn all this?”

She couldn’t say there was a civil engineering geek living rent-free in her head.

So she smiled, and let “a personal hobby; I read a book or two while convalescing” float between them like incense.

When Duke Berlik moved on, Anisa stepped in, steady as a willow, and helped Adelaide back into her wheelchair.

“The ball’s gone on two hours now,” she said, worry fine as thread. “Are you alright, my lady? If you’re tired, we can leave.”

“I’m fine. I only stood a little while, chatting with the duke.”

She answered while her gaze skimmed the floor like a hawk, hunting the night’s true mark: Raya, her school’s current student council president.

Raya stood tall, black hair sharp as ink, a handsome kind of beauty that drew eyes like lanterns in snow; Adelaide found her at once.

She only had to wait for the song to end, then catch Raya alone like a fish at the edge of the pond.

But a glint of gold halted her, a backlit strand that snagged her sight like a hook.

Most in the Sarman Empire wore black or brown hair; the Douglas Family was known for white, a color like snow and moonlight, a sign of blood and rank.

Gold meant the same—only royal blood wore that pale sun.

That wasn’t why the gold pinned her, though.

It was the little bells fastened there, a pair bent out of shape, their fine face marred like old armor—yet unmistakable, the birthday gift she’d made for her sister with her own hands.

Her breath caught; she heard a dull, muted chime, and the night filled with drifting sparks woke in her mind like a fire rekindled—jealousy, joy, and bitter grit rising like a tide.

The golden figure slipped into the crowd and was gone, and her thoughts broke like foam.

Three years apart; she was more shaken than she’d ever planned to be.

She sat numbed, and missed the moment Raya left the floor.

“My lady… are you truly alright?”

Anisa’s voice tugged her back like a hand on a sleeve; only then did she see Raya heading alone toward the terrace.

“I’m fine. I just want some fresh air. Anisa, could you take me to the terrace?”

Anisa had no reason to refuse.

On the way, the thought kept tugging like a loose thread. Calm returned, and with it a wrong note.

In her own memory, Mira had worn black hair; yet at the sight of royal gold, her heart had leapt and named her without a doubt.

The dream again, wasn’t it?

In Holywell Academy, Mira appeared with gold hair from the first scene, sunlight written into her.

That clash of memories rasped at Adelaide’s mind like a jagged saw.

She shook her head, knocking Mira and those scenes from her mind like water from sleeves.

Now wasn’t the time to think of her.

Either way, if her hair had truly changed, the script still held its line like a river in banks.

There was only one thing to do: keep the plan moving.

At the terrace entrance, she sent Anisa away. Then she guided her chair forward, wheels whispering like moth wings, to the place where Raya stood looking up at the sky.

She seemed caught in thought. Moonlight pooled over her face like water; her gaze drifted like mist. She didn’t hear the whisper of Adelaide’s wheels.

“After a winter away, the full moon still pulls at you like a tide, no matter how many times you look.”

“Yeah...” Laya murmured, voice thin as wind through reeds, almost as if she spoke to herself.

“On a night like this, people drift to thoughts of home, of brothers and sisters, and of the one their heart keeps like a lamp.”

Adelaide paused, a held breath between words. She waited until Laya’s eyes returned to her, then asked, “What do you think, President?”

“Miss Douglas... what brings you here?” she asked, her voice cool as moonshadow.

Seeing the guard rise in Laya’s eyes like a lifted shield, Adelaide feigned late realization. “Ah, seems I’ve been misunderstood. Still, I do have a favor, President—”

“—Then you didn’t need to come to a place this empty, hollow as a grove with no birds. If you have a proposal, email the student council, and we’ll handle it.”

Irritation pricked like a sand grain under silk; Adelaide clicked her tongue inwardly, yet her smile stayed porcelain-perfect. In her “dream,” Laya was just as forceful as the heroine’s best friend.

“But the matter I want to discuss breaks the rules just a little—really just a little, like a hairline crack in ice. Besides...”

Laya frowned, a shadow folding between her brows. “Besides?”

“Besides, I think the terms I’m offering are ones you won’t want others—especially a certain member of the council—to hear,” her words curling like smoke with a hidden edge.