“The opening ceremony’s in a bit. Heading out now?”

Adelaide let her breath steady like a quiet pond, then answered softly.

“Mm. Just going to catch some fresh air, like a breeze through pines.”

She slipped her maid’s hand from the wheelchair handles, a petal-light touch, and smiled as she shook her head.

“I’ll be fine alone. When the bell rings, I’ll find you like a bird to its nest.”

She rolled out of the student council room, her chair gliding like a small boat.

The corridors were empty as a dry riverbed; only the wheelchair’s faint creak threaded the hush.

She reached a tucked-away corner of campus, a shadowed cove with no sea of grass, no blooms pruned like clouds—only high walls, stone on stone, stacked like a gray cliff.

The abandoned old campus lay desolate, bleak as the CG from that dream, like frost on glass.

Adelaide moved forward, ears open like leaves in wind, tracing the invisible threads in the air.

She rounded the last corner and entered an alley where sunlight couldn’t swim, a strip of dusk between walls.

At the seam of light and shadow crouched a silver-haired girl, a moon at the edge of night.

A lively short ponytail, a uniform still stiff like new bark, a brown amber pendant bright as trapped dusk, and a fuzzy short-brim cap like a winter sprout.

Adelaide’s breath paused, a bird startled mid-flight.

In that tricky light, the girl’s hair looked just like Adelaide’s; only with careful eyes did the subtle shade shift show.

The Douglas Family’s white was snow-pure; the girl’s was metal-cool, a silver-gray like forged steel.

That inorganic chill met a smile as clean as spring water, and the cold cracked into warmth.

“Good, easy now~”

A small squirrel nestled under the girl’s hand, a chestnut pebble with a twitching tail.

She held a cookie to its mouth, then stroked its head with one finger like smoothing fur with wind.

Seeing its cheeks stuffed like little granaries, tenderness overflowed her golden eyes like honey in sun.

The black alley warmed, hearth-bright, because she was there.

“I’m so jealous of you, little squirrel,” she murmured, voice a feather in shade. “You eat so happily, and I’m lost like a leaf in fog… If only you could guide me to the hall.”

“Maybe I can help with that.”

The girl blinked at the squirrel, stunned, like a deer catching a bell-note.

“Eh? You can talk? Do the squirrels at Holywell Academy all do that?”

“No. I don’t think it talks.”

Only then did she realize the voice came from the other side, like wind around a corner.

She sprang up, wiped cookie crumbs on her uniform like dust off a leaf, and looked toward Adelaide.

“S-sorry, I—”

She froze mid-syllable, eyes fixed on Adelaide like stars pinning night.

“So, so pretty…!”

Praised out of nowhere, Adelaide felt awkwardness rise like a shy tide.

“Uh… thanks?”

Before she could breathe again, the silver-haired girl stepped close in two light strides and took her hand like catching sun.

“My name’s Skela—Skela Trinity Purdo. I studied at the Ha-Ten Church, and I transferred into second year this year!”

She rattled it off like beads, leaning closer as if drawn by warmth.

“So! You’re the angel sent by God to save me, right?”

Those star-bright eyes sparkled, and Adelaide felt as if a happy puppy had leapt to her chest, tail thumping like a drum.

A smile touched her lips like dawn on snow.

“Sorry to disappoint. I’m not an angel.”

“Eh! But your hair’s so white, and your eyes are so pretty!”

“I’m just a normal human,” Adelaide said, voice even as still water. “But even if I’m not an angel, I can still help you, Skela.”

She dipped her head to Skela, a willow’s graceful nod.

“I’m Adelaide von Douglas, Vice President of the Student Council at Holywell Academy. If you don’t mind, allow me to guide you to the assembly hall.”

“Eh?! Vice President?!”

For some reason, that title startled her like thunder after blue sky, rarer than angels in her mind.

“Mm. But if we go now, we can still catch the Headmaster’s speech.”

“Oh, right!”

She still seemed a little lost in the fog, but Skela followed obediently, like a corgi on a sunny path.

“Um, I lived at the church before coming to Holywell, so…”

“It’s all right,” Adelaide said, letting kindness flow like tea. “You’re not alone. I got lost my first time here too.”

Skela’s face brightened at that, a window lifting to light, and Adelaide thought, amused warmth rising like steam:

Truly, she’s exactly like a corgi.

They were delayed a little, but just as Adelaide had said, they slipped into place before the ceremony began, like swallows under the eaves.

Because Adelaide had to give a speech, they parted before the official start, two boats leaving the same shore.

But only hours later, Adelaide saw her again, across a hall bright as a mirror-lake.

The Magic Aptitude Appraisal—every second-year must pass through this gate, and transfers are no exception.

Skela looked half-confused, a moth circling a lamp; even after her name was called, she took a moment to realize she should step up.

When handed the knife, she asked, voice small as a reed.

“Um, can I not cut my finger?”

“…No.”

“What about hair? I’m scared of pain—”

“—Please don’t delay the others.”

The assistant’s look spooked her like a sparrow; she bowed and apologized in quick, fluttering beats.

Students below laughed, ripples across a pond.

They didn’t laugh for long.

As Skela’s blood drop touched the water in the appraisal vessel, a force not inferior to Mira’s rose like a storm.

The vessel trembled, sigils flared all at once like constellations, and the water boiled to the brink, as if about to burst like a thunderhead.

Was it multi-attribute “High” affinity? Or another “Extreme” variant, a twin star to Mira?

When the vessel calmed, everyone waited, breath held like fish beneath ice, to see what color the runes would bloom.

Against almost all expectations, they shone pure silver, like her hair under moonlight.

“No Magic Affinity — Extreme.”

Skela opened her eyes then—she’d shut them against the knife, a child in rain—and hadn’t seen the upheaval.

Facing the silent hall, she looked uneasy, like someone hearing distant thunder.

“Huh? Is that… bad? Am I going to be expelled from the Academy?”

The Headmaster seemed to wake from shock, then seized her shoulders with bright excitement, a man finding a phoenix feather.

“No, no no no—you're a genius. A genius!”

No Magic Affinity—despite the wording, it doesn’t mean one cannot use magic; it means the individual’s mana bears no leaning, like clear water in a clear bowl.

Usually, everyone’s mana tilts like wind toward a compass point; like type-O blood that can only receive its own, that tilt traps most people into certain kinds of spells.

But a few rare souls have mana so pure it ignores that tilt, so they can use any magic—save extreme mutations like Blood Magic—like a rainbow without gaps.

In other words, Skela was an all-attribute “Extreme” prodigy, a full sky of stars.

Ignoring innate magic domains, her aptitude outright crushed Mira’s, a mountain over a hill.

Two rarities in the same year—shock rolled through the hall like a breaking wave, and Adelaide matched it with a graceful mask of surprise.

As expected of the “female lead,” she thought, envy sweet and sharp as citrus, that unfair blessing of magic.

No, Adelaide wasn’t truly surprised—she’d known Skela’s real identity before their morning meeting, a map tucked up her sleeve.

Beloved by script and art both, a lucky one with the “script” buff, the absolute protagonist—Adelaide groused inwardly, yet her mood rose like incense.

The reason was simple: she had just snapped a flag fate had planted for this heroine, like breaking a twig before it could catch flame.

By the “script,” Skela should’ve wandered into the student council room this morning and been led to the hall by Samir, a thread of red tied by chance.

That was supposed to be the first affection point on Samir’s route; thanks to Adelaide’s morning detour, Skela and Samir now didn’t even know each other, blank snow where footsteps should be.

The plan was flowing smooth as a quiet stream. She only needed to keep nudging, little by little, without breaking the river’s course—just ensure the heroine never steps onto certain banks.

That afternoon, Adelaide “happened” to pass the second-year classrooms and heard the expected quarrel, voices clashing like blades.

“Um, p-please don’t raise your voices in the Academy…”

A student council member with a discipline armband spoke, trembling like a willow in wind.

Her fear was simple: before her stood Mira and Skela, two young comets in one small sky.

They glared at each other, eyes sparking as if flint met steel, ignoring the poor girl’s plea like rain ignored by stone.

“So bold to use that tone with me. Looks like this morning’s appraisal gave you courage, commoner.”

“It’s not about that! You badmouthed someone for no reason. You should apologize, like clearing soot from a window!”

“Apologize? Me?” Mira’s laugh was a cold bell. “Did I hear right? A mere commoner ordering me?”

“It’s not my order. It’s God’s teaching, the rule of sky and soil—noble or low, everyone should follow it!”

The discipline member was stuck between them like a leaf between eddies, helpless.

Adelaide felt no surprise; she knew this was their first clash, the meeting written in the margins.

Still, as Vice President, she had to step in, a reed easing the current.

She touched the discipline member’s shoulder, a small anchor, and smiled to say, leave this to me.

Relieved, the girl slipped aside like a fish. The combatants paused, their gazes turning to Adelaide, twin arrows in the same wind.

Before Adelaide could speak, Skela suddenly hugged Adelaide’s arm, a warm cat finding a lap.

“Hmph! Since you don’t want it, I’ll be Lady Adelaide’s little sister instead!”

…?

The line blindsided Adelaide like a gust from a hidden door, and she froze.

Across from them, Mira’s face darkened, a storm rolling over a lake.

She snapped her sleeve and turned away, a hawk’s back to the field.

“As you wish!”

She left on that word, footsteps sharp as hail; behind her, Skela stuck out her tongue, a playful face.

Adelaide stood there, blank as a fresh page.

After a beat, sense returned like a pendulum’s swing.

“Um, Skela?”

Unlike her thorn-to-thorn tone with Mira, Skela’s face turned sun-bright the moment Adelaide called her name.

“Mm! I’m here!”

“Did Mira… say something harsh to you?” Adelaide asked, worry like a soft cloud.

“Hmm? I think so? She said I shouldn’t study at Holywell Academy.”

Skela shrugged, casual as a drifting cloud. “The old grandpa who brings bread to the chapel says the same thing; I’ve heard it till my ears grew calluses, so it’s fine.”

“…You’re not angry?” The question slipped out like a reed in wind.

“I’m very angry!” She pouted, her voice rising like steam. “When I said she’s Lady Adelaide’s sister, she suddenly spat thorns.”

Adelaide’s smile froze like frost on glass.

This is going off‑script, like a cart veering off the gravel path.

Wasn’t it supposed to be Mira insulting a commoner student, the heroine stepping in, and conflict blooming from that? Why did the shadow flick to me?

A bad premonition bubbled up like cold springwater in Adelaide’s chest. Just then, hearty laughter rolled from the crowd like a drum.

“Looks like our Red Orchid Society just gained another comrade, boys!” His shout cracked like a banner snapping in wind.

The crowd split, opening a path like reeds parting for a boat.

As expected, it was Neprah, broad as a boulder.

“You hate that arrogant one too, right? Join the Red Orchid Society; let’s teach her a lesson and leave a mark.”

Usually, Adelaide clicked her tongue at him in disdain, but hearing that meathead now, she let out a quiet breath like untangling a knotted ribbon.

At the start of the “script,” the heroine picks among three paths, like stepping onto one of three stones. Join the student council, join the Red Orchid Society, or join nothing.

It doesn’t decide the final route, but it shapes the common route like a riverbed. On the Red Orchid path, there are more affection choices with Neprah. On the join‑nothing path, she spends more time with the third prince, Rahman, like shared dusk hours.

Adelaide needs to keep the heroine off the student council route, to cut the thread of her plan to grind favor with Samir.

Right now, even if the reason Skela and Mira clashed skewed like sparks flying askew, she doesn’t know Samir yet, so there’s no reason to join the council—

“No. I want to join the student council.”

“Huh?” “Eh?” The two dumb exclamations rang together like stones dropped into a pond—one from Neprah, one from Adelaide.

“Why… would you think that?” Adelaide beat Neprah to it. The corner of her mouth twitched like a leaf, and her smile almost tore.

But Skela hugged Adelaide’s arm tighter, eyes bright like stars, her face full of yearning.

As if she wanted the whole school to hear, she declared, voice clear as a bell.

“Because I want to become a woman like Lady Adelaide—gentle as moonlight, mature as autumn, and beautiful.”