Alaric woke the next morning just in time to grab breakfast and make it to his first class on schedule. He dressed quickly in his uniform and headed for the school's cafeteria. There were better food options available for purchase, but he was completely broke. His father had given him no allowance, and with the rumors swirling around, he wasn't even allowed to leave campus anymore.
So, he settled for the basic meal plan offered to students in the swordsmanship course. It wasn't extravagant, but it was packed with protein, helping him maintain his physique despite the lack of variety. It wasn't the ideal start to his day, but it was all he could manage.
After grabbing his food and thanking the chef—one of the few staff members aware of his true nature—Alaric turned to head for his usual seat, a small table in an isolated corner with only two chairs. But to his immediate annoyance, two students were already occupying it.
He grimaced, deciding to sit somewhere else rather than cause a scene. As he started to head toward a vacant seat near his usual spot, someone suddenly blocked his path.
It was Princess Caitlyn. With her flowing pink hair, striking beauty, and an elegant yet commanding presence, she was hard to miss. A second-year student, she seemed to have some strange issue with him, though Alaric couldn't figure out why.
"Mr. Draymont," she said, her voice laced with thinly veiled disdain, "I'm sure you're aware that the student cafeteria has no assigned seats. You wouldn't happen to be on your way to harass two innocent students for sitting where you like to sit, would you?"
Alaric blinked in confusion. He opened his mouth to respond, but his mind went blank. All he could manage was a quiet, "No, I wasn't."
He quickly sat at another vacant table, leaving the princess standing there, her expression unreadable.
After a long pause, Caitlyn turned and walked off to get her own breakfast, but not before sending him a final, lingering glance. Alaric ignored it and focused on his food, trying to tune out the stares from the surrounding students who clearly found the exchange more interesting than his meal.
Alaric finished his meal and made his way to his first class: Understanding Mana 1. It was an easy class, but mandatory for first-years. At least the professor was nice, which made it bearable. As he walked to the lecture hall, he couldn't help but appreciate the simplicity of the class—it didn't require much effort, and that was just how he liked it.
Alaric sat through the Understanding Mana 1 class, taking notes as the professor explained the basics of mana theory. It was a subject he already grasped well, but he kept his focus, as he always did, making sure to maintain the appearance of a diligent student. The class was uneventful, and before long, it was over.
He quickly gathered his things and made his way to his next class: fencing. It wasn't a particularly challenging class either, but it was still something that required a little more focus and discipline. As he entered the changing room, he immediately headed for the lockers to change into his athletics uniform.
The uniform was simple: a tight-fitting shirt and pants designed for flexibility and movement. It was functional, nothing fancy, but it allowed him the mobility he needed for the rigorous drills and sparring sessions that awaited.
Once dressed, Alaric took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. His fencing instructor was strict, but fair, and Alaric had learned to expect little recognition for his skill here—after all, he wasn't trying to stand out. He just wanted to get through it and keep his grades perfectly average.
He gave one last glance at his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his uniform. He had to keep his composure. No matter how skilled he was, drawing attention was the last thing he needed.
Alaric glanced over and noticed his brother, Cedric, looking unusually smug. This was their only class together, and for the most part, they avoided each other. The professor often insisted they work together because they were brothers, despite their openly expressed dislike for one another. It was always an uncomfortable arrangement, and Alaric could feel the tension in the air whenever they were forced to interact.
As they entered the training hall, Alaric saw that a blackboard had already been set up at the front. Written on it were the words: "Sparring: Pair up and spar until I stop you." The professor sat off to the side, appearing to be asleep, but everyone knew better. The professor might have seemed relaxed, but he was always watching, his sharp eyes taking in every move, every interaction.
Alaric couldn't help but sigh, bracing himself for whatever awkwardness was about to unfold.
This time, his brother approached him with a smug grin. "Why don't we spar, Alaric? I feel like we haven't crossed swords in a while."
Alaric sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what his brother was trying to do—smack him back into place after he'd climbed a little higher than expected. It was a power play, a reminder of who was in charge. But declining would only draw more attention and make things more complicated. With a resigned nod, Alaric grabbed a training sword, silently preparing for the inevitable clash.
The moment the sparring began, Cedric took immediate control, his sword moving with practiced precision. He pressed forward relentlessly, his strikes fast and forceful, pushing Alaric back with each blow. Alaric's movements were careful, measured, avoiding his brother's powerful swings while trying to keep his distance. The sound of their blades clashing echoed through the training hall.
"You're getting sloppy, Alaric," Cedric taunted, his smirk widening. "You can't keep up at this rate."
Alaric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He was well aware of the game his brother was playing—forcing him to reveal more than he wanted. But he had to play along, maintaining the façade of the average student.
Cedric swung again, aiming for Alaric's side, but this time, Alaric miscalculated his brother's reach. In a split second, he saw an opening—a subtle gap in Cedric's guard. Instinctively, he took a step forward, guiding his sword past his brother's defense with a smooth, fluid motion. The tip of his blade grazed Cedric's shoulder in a clean, precise strike.
The room went silent for a moment.
Cedric froze, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What the hell was that?" he muttered, stepping back, trying to regain his composure.
Alaric blinked, realizing what had just happened. He had slipped past Cedric's guard effortlessly, his strike far more skilled than his grades—or his brother—would ever suggest. It was a mistake, one born of reflex rather than intention. He quickly lowered his sword, trying to mask the brief flicker of guilt.
"I… didn't mean to," Alaric said quietly, but the damage was done.
Cedric stared at him for a long moment, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. "You didn't mean to?" He stepped forward, his gaze narrowing, but the professor's voice interrupted before he could say more.
"That's enough," the professor called out, his eyes sharp despite his outwardly sleepy demeanor. "Both of you, stand down."
Alaric lowered his sword, his heart pounding. He could feel Cedric's gaze on him, but he didn't dare meet it.
Alaric knew he had messed up. His brother, Cedric, was acting smug as usual, but Alaric knew it was just an act. Cedric was cold and calculating, always one step ahead, and everything he did had a purpose—even his annoying smugness. It was a tactic, designed to push Alaric over the edge, to make him act out and reveal more than he ever intended. But Alaric had learned long ago how to control himself around his brother's games. He wasn't swayed by Cedric's provocations, not anymore.
However, the extra training he had been doing—training that no one knew about—had finally kicked in at the wrong moment. The years of pushing himself to stay sharp, to maintain his skills while remaining under the radar, had caused him to react without thinking. He'd bypassed Cedric's guard in an instant, an instinctive move driven by years of practice.
Once the strike had landed, it was too late. Alaric had tried to pull back, to temper his blow, but it was already done. His blade had found its mark, and he could still feel his brother's icy gaze burning into his back, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of Cedric's stare.
Alaric couldn't help but feel a pang of unease. It wasn't just the physical strike that bothered him, but the implications of what had just happened. His skill—his true skill—had slipped out, even if for just a moment, and it would only be a matter of time before someone started questioning it.
As he stood there, his sword still lowered, Alaric could hear the whispers of the other students. Their hushed voices buzzed around him, some curious, others skeptical.
"Did you see that? His strike was too clean. He's been hiding something, hasn't he?"
"He's been getting stronger in secret, I'm sure of it."
The murmurs spread quickly, and for a brief moment, Alaric felt the heat of the room shift. He knew that this wouldn't be easy to brush off. But before anything could escalate, the whispers were quickly shut down.
"Yeah, right. Dumb luck," one of the students scoffed, dismissing the idea as quickly as it had come up.
"Maybe he got lucky. It happens," another one chimed in, trying to redirect the conversation.
And just like that, the rumor died down, as quickly as it had emerged. But Alaric knew better. The seeds had been planted. Even if no one outright questioned his skills, the doubts were there now, lingering beneath the surface, waiting to grow.
He stood still, keeping his face neutral, trying to ignore the lingering tension in the air. He had to be careful. One mistake, one slip, and everything could unravel.
The rest of the class went smoothly. Alaric sparred with a few other students, keeping his movements calculated and controlled. No mistakes happened this time. He won against the students he was "supposed to beat" and lost to those he was "supposed to lose to," doing his best to keep up the façade of being an average fighter. His victories were just enough to avoid drawing attention, and his defeats were carefully executed to seem natural.
By the end of the session, Alaric hoped that any inkling of suspicion about him being stronger than he let on would be buried—at least for now. It was a delicate balancing act, but he had learned long ago how to walk the line. The last thing he needed was more rumors spreading, especially ones that could push his father's dangerous scrutiny onto him.