The day after the school festival ended, news of Adelaide joining the student council swept the campus like wind over tall grass.

At first, most people were fogged in and unsure. As Adelaide met each club and spoke for small groups before the board, a lantern lit the halls: the council had a gentle senior who put students first.

Ice thawed fast. In the corridor, distant bows turned into greetings, then into starry-eyed watching, like frost giving way to spring buds.

By the end of third year’s second term, her name rang through the school like bells at dusk. After Laya graduated, Adelaide won the presidency by a landslide, as steady as the tide.

No one was surprised, and she didn’t waste that trust; her smile was a quiet torch in the rain.

It proved true—she made a good president, calm as moonlight on a lake.

Under her watch, the number of council events doubled like wheat after rain. She also lifted the heavy stone of fees that had weighed on commoner students.

Campus air shifted because of her, like a room opening its shutters. Students grew busy; after-school chatter turned from test complaints to tomorrow’s bright plans.

No one knew who started it, but soon people added a respectful “Lady” after her title, a laurel wreath Laya hadn’t won.

Adelaide stayed humble, warm as spring tea, treating everyone gently, like an angel with clean wings—pure, kind, poised, untainted by the smoke of the world. Of course, that halo was a silk veil she put on herself.

But she did hit her mark; the arrow thudded into the center.

In just a year and a half, she rebuilt her standing, as soft and steady as a river carves stone. She became the delicate, saintly type in everyone’s eyes—gentle, capable, and always carrying a motherly grace.

As planned, that goodwill flowed with her into Holywell Academy, like a current carrying leaves through a new gate.

On her first day at Holywell, before introductions began, she felt the weight of many gazes, moths circling a lantern in dew-fresh air.

Holywell, the Sarman Empire’s highest academy, was a tapestry of regions and races stitched under one sky.

Some faces in class were familiar; some came from other schools. Their looks held admiration and curiosity, but a careful distance stayed like a line drawn in sand.

New classroom, new desks, even the air felt new. She knew first steps in a new place are stones under cold water, so she waited, patient as tea steeping.

Sure enough, before the first lesson began, a girl from her old class hopped over like a sparrow to a windowsill.

“P-President, my Lady, sharing a class with you again this year—I’m honored!”

She bowed so fast she nearly headbutted Adelaide’s desk, like a reed bent by a sudden gust.

Adelaide motioned, and Anisa lifted the girl gently, hands steady as willow branches. “Please don’t, Miss Sophie. I’m not president anymore.”

The girl blinked, then murmured, warm as an ember, “She remembered my name…”

After a beat, she bobbed again. “Then… Lady Adelaide!”

“Adelaide is fine,” she said, with a smile like a small spring breeze.

The onlookers saw her easy way of speaking, no pedestal at all, and courage sprouted like clover. They edged in until they ringed her like petals around a center.

To the overflowing warmth, Adelaide looked a bit overwhelmed, like a swimmer in sunlit waves. Inside, her mood soared; the current was moving exactly as planned.

But she wasn’t the only one with a crowd in this school.

While she fielded questions, a shriek from the window cut the air like a gull’s cry.

She turned and saw a knot of people at the gate below, hemming in two young men until not even a thread could slip through.

One wore gold-rimmed glasses and a crisp white suit, its gold accents restrained like a quiet sunrise, intellect gleaming like polished ivory.

Beside him, the other man seemed all flame to his water. He wore a light short-sleeve shirt, showing sculpted muscle lines, and his handsome face carried a roguish grin like a blade’s bright edge.

Both were rare beauties, the sort that stop footsteps like bells at midnight. Still, the girls screamed most for their pale gold hair, bright as sunlight poured through straw.

Seeing that flash, Adelaide’s pencil lead snapped like a twig between fingers.

“Isn’t that Prince Samir and Prince Neprah?”

Sophie hurried to the window, eyes wide as saucers, and groaned. “Ugh, if even one of them were in our class! We finally got into the same year as them!”

“Even if you did, you wouldn’t get close,” her friend said, dry as sand.

“I-I know! I just want to watch from afar,” she bubbled. “Imagine seeing them chat with Lady Adelaide every day—beauty and grace, a painting for the eyes!”

She drifted into her rosy fantasy and giggled, until her friend bonked her forehead with a crisp thwack.

“Don’t say your delusions out loud!”

Her words flipped a switch. Many gazes slid from the window back to Adelaide, like swallows turning midair.

At the same time, Anisa spoke softly, yet clear enough for everyone nearby. “Miss, shall we greet Prince Samir and Prince Neprah? You haven’t seen them in a long time.”

Adelaide tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear, eyes on her textbook like still water. “No need.”

Her voice carried no warmth, a breeze gone silent; the surrounding murmurs stilled, leaves falling without a sound.

Her smile was gone, like a cloud tugged off the sun. Anyone with eyes and ears could tell something stood between her and the princes.

By the second day, the rumor of Adelaide’s discord with the two princes leapt through the grade like sparks into dry grass.

“I heard the royal family originally wanted Prince Samir engaged to her at birth,” one student whispered under the eaves. “But years ago, a fire burned the Douglas Family’s home. The royals didn’t help; they kicked them while they were down. So maybe…”

“You mean Lady Adelaide holds a grudge against the crown?”

“I didn’t believe it at first, but first year’s nearly over. She’s a big name who’s everywhere, yet no one’s seen her say a word to Prince Samir. I can’t imagine gentle Lady Adelaide acting cold to anyone—except them.”

Adelaide passed another class’s doorway and heard the murmur, a river under boards. Behind her, Anisa paused with the wheelchair, worry a shadow on her face.

“Miss, is this really alright…?”

“Don’t mind it, Anisa,” she said, voice calm as falling leaves.

If the rumor hadn’t spread by year’s end, that would trouble her more; silence is bad soil when you need things to grow.

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” Anisa said, concern like a tight knot. “I’m only worried it might affect the upcoming council elections.”

“My good Anisa, do you doubt I’ll be vice president?” Adelaide’s mouth curled, playful as a cat, not a hint of tension.

“Miss is unquestionably excellent,” Anisa said, firm as a pillar. Even so, her eyes carried a thread of worry.

“It’s just… people say Laya, your senior from the same school, will also run for vice president. She enrolled a year earlier, and the recent magic appraisal confirmed a rare top-tier wind affinity. Her popularity is high—”

“Shh~” Adelaide put a finger to Anisa’s lips, affectionate as a sister, and cut the flow of words like a ribbon.

“Don’t worry about that. She won’t run.”

Anisa couldn’t speak, the seal gentle as a petal, but her eyes stayed doubtful, like clouds refusing to clear.

It made sense. Laya had been president, and she was still a force in campus activities. Anyone would doubt a claim without proof.

Yet, when the candidate list went up on the board by the gate, people saw no Laya on the paper, clean as a blank page.

Laya didn’t explain, only said she was tired of that life, her tone like dusk closing a window.

With her exit, the election became a calm river with no rocks.

Samir became president on schedule, like a play hitting its cue. Without Laya as the main rival, the vice-presidency turned into a one-sided current for Adelaide.

Some students still debated why Laya stepped away, like sparrows chattering in a tree. But soon, attention jumped to something else: at the results ceremony, Adelaide and Samir delivered their inauguration speeches together.

It was the first time students saw them speak face to face in public, and the air wasn’t warm; it felt like shade under a stone.

No sparks flew, no blades were drawn. Adelaide stayed cool and barely met his eyes, frost on glass. Samir, famous for calm, looked distracted, as if chasing thoughts like clouds.

Their strange demeanor fed the rumor like rain on wild grass. The campus buzzed, and people started picking sides, banners raised in their hearts.

That chaos lasted until the day before summer break, when Adelaide and Samir met to hand over student council work.

The handover itself flowed smooth as ink, but the pressure around them hung heavy, a storm sitting on the roof. Others couldn’t bear the elephant in the room; after finishing tasks, they scattered with excuses, like birds fleeing a branch.

In the end, only Adelaide and Samir were left in the council room, silence pooling like still water.

With no one else there, the air turned awkward. Only the brush-brush of pens moved like crickets.

After a while, Samir’s pen fell silent, a line ending.

“Vice President Adelaide.”

Her pen stopped too. She finally lifted her face and met his eyes, cool as a winter blade.

“Does Your Highness need something?”

Samir pushed his glasses up, a habit like a bell—serious mode.

“I understand you have deep issues with the royal decisions. Because of that, we need to speak openly.”

“Oh? The future king wants frankness?” Her tone carried a rare slice of irony, sharp as a thin knife. “How could the Douglas girl refuse?”

“Please don’t be like that, Adelaide. I’m not your enemy,” Samir said, steady as a stone under stream.

“I don’t agree with how the royal family treated the Douglas Family. I’ve wanted a chance to meet you for years.”

He sighed then, air leaving like wind through a hollow reed.

“Yet every letter I sent came back untouched, like leaves blown to my door. If you’d read them, you’d know the Douglas Family’s mistreatment is a passing cloud.”

“Passing? Like Mira’s surname, written in chalk and washed by rain?”

Adelaide cut him off like a blade through silk, as if she’d heard a joke crack in cold air.

“I don’t care what tricks you used to sideline my father and mother; my heart cares for one thing— you tore my sister from my arms like a hawk snatching a dove.”

She pressed out the last words one by one, beads of ice dropping from her tongue, her face winter-still and hard as stone.

A faint noise brushed the student council room door like a moth’s wing, but she let it drift away like smoke.

“You didn’t just stain her hair the wheat of your court. You changed her name from the Douglas Family to Belial, and you caged her on royal ground under the banner of ‘training,’ denying her even a doorway home— stains that won’t wash, Your Highness Samir.”

“We didn’t imprison—”

Samir’s words guttered like a candle in wind. He saw the frost in Adelaide’s eyes and let the argument die.

After a breath held taut like a bowstring, he pushed his chair back with a reed-dry scrape and stood.

“Adelaide von Douglas. Allow me, as a man, to offer my apology to you and your family.”

He bowed deeply, bending like a pine under snow.

Had a minister been here, he’d have clutched his chest like a startled bird, shocked by the First Crown Prince’s descent.

He’s first in line to the throne, sunlight poised above his brow; by law and by sentiment, he shouldn’t bow to a noblewoman with title but no teeth.

Even so, Adelaide’s face stayed water under frost, unruffled.

“Apologies are smoke in the wind, Your Highness.”

“I know. Because of that, I—Samir Alexander Belial—swear before you, with my future crown like a seal pressed in wax:”

Samir set his fist to his chest like a shield, the oath-still stance of the Sarman Empire.

“When I inherit the throne, I’ll cut every bond the royal house has knotted around Mira. Then, whether it’s her engagement or her surname, the choice will rest in Mira’s own hands.”

To nail down his resolve, he didn’t look away while Adelaide weighed him, his gaze fixed like iron set into timber.

They stared, wordless, the air stretched tighter than any moment before.

At last, Adelaide folded her eyes shut like a fan, let out a small hum like a thin thread, and seemed finally satisfied.

“Since Your Highness has come this far, it seems my cup was too shallow.”

A glint flickered behind Samir’s glasses like morning ice; his shoulders eased, armor unlaced by a breath.

“Then for the days ahead, please guide me in student council affairs, Vice President Adelaide.”

“Of course. I’m not foolish enough to call us even over empty words that weigh less than ash. I’ll stay at your side for a time like a shadow, to see if you can make your promise real— show me with deeds carved in stone, President Samir.”

Samir answered with a nod, a pebble dropped into still water. Watching his steady calm, she couldn’t help laughing inside, a bell muffled behind silk.

As the script said, he’s stern like a straight pine yet never wooden, sincere yet fair like balanced scales.

Most of all, he sinks into his own sense of justice like a swimmer in bright water, blind to the shore around him.

Like now— the small sounds beyond the student council room door.

First, the wood creaked under a cautious hand like an old swing. Then, footsteps tiptoed away like a cat on soft earth.

Hearing them, Adelaide let a thin smile bloom, a dusk petal few would notice.