Arrive as he is, hoping the Academy will understand.

The journey took two days through the moonlit forests of Aerlinor. Elion spent most of the ride fidgeting with the hem of his robe, glancing at his reflection in the carriage mirror. Every time he tried to rehearse a bold introduction—“I am Prince Elion, son of Seralyth”—his voice trembled into something barely above a whisper.

When the gates of the Academia Arcanum finally came into view, Elion’s stomach twisted in knots. The outer walls were carved with ancient runes, guarded by towering statues of famous Archmistresses. Students milled about the entrance—most of them girls, confident and lively, laughing in their uniform corsets and cloaks. The few boys in attendance either stuck together nervously or seemed to have resigned themselves to a more submissive role.

Elion stepped out of the carriage, immediately drawing attention. A group of older students turned to whisper, one of them boldly calling out, “New girl? You’re too pretty to be a first-year.”

“I-I’m not—” he began, but his soft voice failed him. His cheeks flared red.

Before he could explain further, a tall instructor with stern eyes and a clipboard strode over. “Name?” she asked brusquely.

“Elion, son of—”

“—Eliona?” she scribbled it down. “Ah, good. A noble family. You’ll be in House Selanil—mostly noble girls. You’ll fit right in.”

Elion’s protest caught in his throat as he was whisked away into a flurry of introductions, dorm assignments, and sizing for his Academy robes… which, much to his horror, included lace and corsetry.