The dorm reserved for the royal heirs was a haven of quiet luxury. Marble walls were etched with silver veins, deep blue drapes trimmed in gold hung gracefully, and the faint scent of sandalwood mingled with the morning air.
Caelan Crowndread sat at his writing desk, posture immaculate. Steam rose from a porcelain cup of tea, drifting lazily as sunlight streamed through tall glass windows. His academy uniform looked perfect; every thread was in place, and not a wrinkle marred its surface.
He appeared every bit the ideal prince, and that was the intention.
The Monarch Trait allowed for no imperfections. Every gesture and every breath exuded the dignity of royalty, even as his mind stirred restlessly beneath the calm exterior.
He took a sip, his eyes narrowing slightly.
'This world's plot… I remember fragments. Names, battles, bloodlines, betrayals—most of it had faded, leaving him partially blind in a story that should have served as his guide. '
The Saintess… Seraphina.
Golden hair, silver eyes, and a temper she tried to conceal beneath a facade of holiness. She had healed him, studied with him, and laughed with him. That much was real.
'She trusts me again. '
A small, private smile flitted across his lips.
'Good. She'll be useful later. '
A knock broke the silence.
"Enter," he said, his voice calm and crisp.
The door opened to reveal his attendant, a nervous young man with auburn hair clutching a folder.
"Your Highness… the results."
Caelan gestured lazily for him to continue.
"First place in the theory examination," the servant reported, bowing low.
A pause followed, with the faintest smile beginning to surface on Caelan's lips. "Expected."
"And seventh in the practical."
Silence.
The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain as Caelan carefully set his cup down.
"Seventh," he repeated, as if to himself.
The servant bowed deeper, sensing the change in the atmosphere—not magical, but a weight of restrained irritation.
"Have the report archived," Caelan finally instructed, his tone steady but sharper around the edges. "And send word to the Saintess candidate. Tell her I request her company in the east gardens."
The servant bowed and hurried away.
Caelan leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
"Seventh," he muttered again. "I'll accept it… for now but I need to be stronger if I want to survive."
Outside, the sunlight grew warmer, gilding the corridors in quiet splendor. As Caelan stepped onto the garden path, the barely perceptible hum of mana in the air mixed with birdsong and the scent of roses.
Seraphina stood near the fountain, her ceremonial robes catching the light like woven dawn. The faint glow of divine magic around her shimmered in the daylight, giving her an almost otherworldly presence.
She turned as he approached, her smile gentle yet cautious.
"You called for me, Your Highness?"
"I did," Caelan replied, maintaining a level voice. "The results are in."
"I heard," she responded softly. "First in theory… and seventh in practice. Not bad."
His lips curved in mild amusement. "Not enough."
"You're impossible," she sighed, stepping closer. "Most people would celebrate being in the top ten."
"I'm not 'most,'" he replied smoothly. Then, softer, "I can't afford to be."
Her eyes remained fixed on him, catching a flicker beneath his mask—not weariness of body, but something deeper.
"You know," she said quietly, "when we were kids, you sulked just like this after losing a spar."
Caelan blinked, caught off guard for a moment.
Memories that didn't fully belong to him washed through his mind—a smaller boy, breathing hard with a wooden sword; a girl, clutching a glowing staff as she rushed to heal him.
He didn't remember it all, but he felt it—her laughter, her warmth, the strange comfort she once gave him.
"Back then," Seraphina continued, her eyes soft, "you used to thank me with wildflowers. The palace gardeners hated you for it."
A low chuckle escaped him. "So I was a menace even then."
"You were… human."
That word lingered between them like a delicate thread.
"I wonder when that changed," she said softly, almost to herself.
He didn't respond. His trait allowed for no cracks, but something flickered in his gaze—a hint of regret or nostalgia that wasn't entirely his.
"We all change, Seraphina," he said finally. "Some of us simply forget what we used to be."
Her expression softened. "Then maybe it's time you remembered."
Before he could answer, the clock in his pocket chimed.
"Duty calls," he said, inclining his head. "We'll continue this later."
He left her by the fountain, the sound of falling water fading behind him as his steps echoed down the marble walkway. By the time he reached the carriage bay, the shift from sunlight to shadow mirrored the change in his expression—warmth exchanged for calculation.
The grand commerce chamber of the Silverveil Consortium awaited him—filled with gold chandeliers, polished oak, and the scent of ink and ambition. At the far end of the table sat Elenor Veyne, the adopted daughter of the consortium's head—poised, clever, and dangerously composed.
Caelan entered without fanfare, his stride steady and presence commanding.
Elenor rose, her curtsy exact. "Your Highness. A pleasure."
Her tone was smooth, but he detected an edge of skepticism.
"The pleasure," Caelan replied with a faint smile, "will depend on whether this meeting profits us both."
She gestured for him to sit. "A pragmatic royal. That's… rare."
"Flattery or a warning?"
"Observation," she answered.
He slid a document across the table. "A proposal. A joint venture— a commercial plaza under royal sponsorship, managed by the Silverveil Group."
Her eyes scanned the page. "Funding by the Crown… management by us… profit split 49–51."
A pause. Her brows raised. "You'd concede majority control?"
"Control is relative," he said. "Perception often holds more power than percentages."
Her gaze sharpened. "What do you gain from perception, Your Highness?"
He smiled—a calm, sharp smile. "Influence. And the power to move capital without drawing political blood."
Elenor's expression didn't shift, but her mind was already recalculating. He's not the fool they said he was.
Still, she tested him. "An ambitious plan. But forgive my bluntness—it sounds… whimsical."
"I expected that response," he replied.
He set another item on the table—a black ledger, old yet familiar.
"The Silverveil hidden accounts," he said casually. "Or rather, a copy."
Her pupils constricted. "That's—impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," Caelan murmured. "Only undiscovered."
Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Finally, Elenor exhaled and let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "You're dangerous, Your Highness."
"Competence is often mistaken for danger."
Her lips curved, faint but genuine. "Very well. Let's discuss terms."
What followed was not a meeting but a duel—words as weapons, each clause sharpened to perfection.
When the ink dried beneath their signatures, Elenor looked up.
"You've secured a profitable alliance, Prince Caelan. But also a very watchful one."
"Good," he said, standing. "I prefer allies who stay alert."
As he departed, her gaze followed him—curious now, no longer dismissive.
Perhaps the third prince isn't what the rumors suggest.
By the time Caelan returned to the palace grounds, night had fallen. The corridors glowed softly under blue mana lamps, their hum steady and familiar. He changed without a word, leaving his cloak folded on the chair, and stepped into the training hall.
The vast chamber was empty, save for the quiet rhythm of his own breathing. He drew the royal sword—the relic from his coming-of-age—and let mana flow through his veins. Water rose around his arms like ribbons of liquid glass, catching the faint light.
Each swing was smooth, deliberate, almost meditative.
Water Step—his body blurred as he moved forward, slicing through the air.
Water Spear—the blade extended, a lance of condensed mana.
Water Bullets—droplets shot from his fingertips, puncturing wooden dummies with ease.
He paused, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
"Mana synchronization… eighty-two percent. Still not enough."
He extended a hand, focusing. A training dagger trembled on the rack, lifted an inch, wavered—and then fell with a dull thud.
"Progress," he murmured.
His body ached, but his mind burned with clarity—Thought Acceleration sharpening every detail.
"Telekinesis… hybrid water forms…" His eyes gleamed faintly. "Let's see how far I can push this gift."
A knock disrupted the silence.
Caelan lowered his sword, droplets scattering like shards of glass.
"Enter," he said, his tone calm yet curious.
The door creaked open, and moonlight framed the silhouette of someone waiting at the threshold.