Alaric barely slept that night, his thoughts replaying every moment of the fencing class and the Princess's irritating persistence. When his alarm buzzed the next morning, he groaned, dragging himself out of bed. After pulling on his uniform and grabbing his things, he trudged to the cafeteria, his mood as dark as the bags under his eyes.
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual morning activity. Students chatted in groups, their laughter and conversation blending into an unrelenting din. Alaric got his breakfast without fuss, nodded briefly to the chef, and headed toward his usual spot, a quiet table in the corner. But as he approached, someone stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
It was Seraphine.
Tall and poised, her ash-blonde hair tied back in its usual neat style, she regarded him with a steady, calculating gaze. Alaric tensed immediately. She wasn't someone who approached people casually; there was always a reason, and he doubted it was a good one.
"Alaric Draymont," she said, her voice calm and deliberate. "We need to talk."
Alaric blinked, his grip tightening on his tray. He glanced around, hoping for an escape route, but none presented itself. With a sigh, he relented. "Why?" he asked, his tone cautious, though his annoyance bled through.
Seraphine didn't answer right away. She simply turned toward an empty table and gestured for him to follow. Reluctantly, Alaric complied, setting his tray down and sitting across from her. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, doing his best to appear indifferent.
Seraphine wasted no time. "I saw you yesterday," she said, her voice cutting straight to the point.
Alaric's stomach tightened, but his expression remained neutral. "Saw me where?"
"In fencing class," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "That move you pulled against your brother—it wasn't just a lucky break, was it?"
Alaric took a moment before answering, carefully placing his words. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said evenly. "It was just a practice match. Things happen."
Seraphine leaned forward, her sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly. "No, things don't just happen like that. I've seen enough matches to know what's luck and what's skill. And that was skill, Alaric. Precision, timing, control. Those aren't accidents."
Alaric exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Look," he said after a pause, his tone measured, "it was one match. I slipped past his guard. That's all."
"And your grades?" she pressed, not giving him an inch. "Perfectly average in every class except one? That doesn't strike you as suspicious?"
Alaric hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Not everyone's gifted academically," he said, his tone flat. "I study enough to pass. That's it."
"Seventy-five in every subject isn't passing—it's deliberate," Seraphine countered. "You're hiding something, and you're not even subtle about it."
Alaric leaned forward now, meeting her gaze with a calm intensity that betrayed his inner frustration. "Why does it matter to you?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm. "What I do—or don't do—has nothing to do with you."
Seraphine tilted her head slightly, her expression softening but remaining serious. "Because it doesn't add up. You're too quiet, too careful. And that fencing match... it doesn't fit the image you project. People are starting to notice, even if they're brushing it off now. You can't keep hiding forever."
Alaric studied her for a long moment before leaning back in his chair again. "You've got the wrong idea," he said at last, his voice steady but distant. "I'm not hiding anything. Maybe you're just looking too hard."
Seraphine watched him for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. Keep pretending if you want. But just know—you're not as invisible as you think."
Alaric didn't respond. He stood, picking up his tray with deliberate slowness. "Thanks for the concern," he said dryly, "but I'll be fine." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, his steps measured, his expression unreadable.
Seraphine watched him go, her fingers lightly tapping on the table. Whatever Alaric Draymont was hiding, she was sure of one thing—she'd figure it out.
Alaric sighed, running a hand through his hair as he mulled over the morning's events. Maybe I've been too careful—too focused on being average, he thought, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. It's starting to backfire. People are noticing the patterns, and that's the last thing I need.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling of his dorm room. The idea of drawing less attention to himself seemed harder than ever. But then, a thought struck him, and a faint smile crept onto his face.
What if I let them see just enough?
The plan started to take shape. If I lean into my swordsmanship a bit more—just enough to get some positive attention—I could frame it as ambition. Show them I'm training hard to become a Royal Knight. Let them think that's my goal, and they'll stop looking for deeper answers.
He considered his grades next. I'll let them slip a little in my other subjects—not enough to fail, just enough to look like I'm spending all my energy on swordsmanship. That way, it's consistent. A student obsessed with one thing. No one would suspect I'm hiding something bigger.
Alaric chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. The irony of putting effort into looking less competent wasn't lost on him, but it was better than the alternative. This could work. Show off just enough in fencing class, let a bit of my real skill shine through. If I handle it right, maybe it'll even kill some of those stupid rumors.
The thought of redirecting the narrative, of taking control of how others saw him, was oddly satisfying. He could already see the pieces falling into place. All he had to do was play his part carefully—just like he always did.
With renewed determination, Alaric got up and began reviewing his training schedule. If he was going to sell the story, he'd have to commit to it, at least on the surface. But that was fine. For once, he didn't mind showing a little of what he was capable of. Just enough to keep the rest hidden.