Corvis Eralith
"Corvis, wake up! It's morning."
Tessia's voice rang from behind my door—bright, energetic, far too awake for my liking.
I blinked, groggily pulling myself upright before opening the door.
She stood there, fully dressed in her school uniform, bag slung over her shoulder, ready to go.
I squinted. "Am I dreaming, or are you actually the one who woke up first?"
Her grin widened. "I can be responsible when I want to be."
I huffed a laugh. Well, she had been the Student Council President in the original timeline—she had always taken her studies seriously.
Then, her expression shifted as she examined my face more closely.
She frowned. "What have you been doing all night? You have bags under your eyes."
I hesitated. Right…
I had spent the entire night finalizing the blueprints for the radio repeaters—plans I intended to hand off to Gideon, either before school or during class.
He was still a professor at Xyrus, after all.
"I was… drawing," I finally admitted.
Tessia sighed. "Whatever. Just wash up and get ready—I don't want anyone seeing my twin in such terrible shape."
She really sounded like an older sister sometimes.
I rolled my eyes. "Yes, sister."
———
The scholar mage uniform was undeniably elegant. It spoke of tradition, intellect, and belonging to the prestigious halls of Xyrus Academy.
It was also, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable garment I'd endured in either of my lives. The high, stiff collar chafed my neck, the tailored woolen trousers felt restrictive, and the jacket seemed designed to impede any natural movement.
It was the armor of an academic, and it weighed heavily, amplifying the low thrum of anxiety already vibrating beneath my skin.
"Tessia, where are you going?" My voice sounded tighter than intended as I watched my sister peel away from the flow of students heading towards the grand auditorium.
She was veering purposefully towards the familiar path leading to Cynthia's office tower. "Aren't we supposed to head to the auditorium? The assembly starts soon."
"Yeah, precede me!" she called over her shoulder, barely slowing. "I just have to tell Master Cynthia a few things real quick!" And with that, she was gone, swallowed by the throng, leaving me standing alone in the bustling corridor.
Alone. The word echoed in the sudden quiet of my own mind amidst the surrounding chatter.
Corvis, why are you so anxious? I mentally chastised myself, squeezing the strap of the leather satchel containing my meticulously organized (and largely theoretical) course materials—which I have actually made myself to respond to any kind of unexpected questions from a professor.
You've been plotting continental defense strategies, negotiating with Gideon, and warning Cynthia about a Vritra retainer. This? This is just walking into a room full of middle-school-aged teenagers. It's a walk in the park. A stroll through the palace garden on a sunny day. Utterly trivial.
The self-pep talk rang hollow. My palms were slightly damp against the smooth leather. My heart beat a persistent, slightly too-fast rhythm against the stiff fabric of the uniform jacket. The air in the corridor felt thick, the mingled scents of polished wood, old stone, nervous sweat all mixed together.
No wait, a cold realization dawned, cutting through the forced bravado. I am the shy kid on his first day of school. The persona of the calculating prince, the meta-aware strategist, felt like a brittle shell here, amidst the raw, unvarnished reality of adolescence and social expectation.
Twelve years old, surrounded by peers, exposed. The vulnerability was acute, unfamiliar, and deeply unsettling.
Taking a steadying breath that did little to calm the fluttering in my chest, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the auditorium. The scale of the room hit me immediately—tiered rows of dark wood seats rising steeply towards a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate murals depicting historical magical breakthroughs.
Sunlight streamed through tall, stained-glass windows, painting colored patterns on the polished floor and the heads of hundreds of students already finding their seats. The air hummed with a low, anticipatory buzz—excited chatter, nervous giggles, the rustle of new uniforms.
An assistant stood near the entrance, holding a clipboard and a box of badges, calling out names in a clear, projecting voice.
Students shuffled forward, received their badges denoting their year and course affiliation, and were directed towards their assigned sections. My silver hair and pointed ears, stark against the predominantly human and dwarf first-years near the entrance, drew immediate glances. Whispers followed me like a trailing shadow.
Eralith. The name carried weight, expectation. It was a beacon, making anonymity impossible.
"Corvis... Eralith," the assistant announced, her voice cutting through the nearby murmurs. I saw her eyes flick down the list, likely to the column denoting affinities. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me. Exposure. Humiliation. Day one. Before she could utter the damning "None" or whatever bureaucratic term they used for the coreless—which should exist for me only in Xyrus' registers—I stepped forward swiftly.
"Thanks," I said, my voice thankfully level, cutting her off as I smoothly plucked the offered badge from her hand. It was cool metal, embossed with the Xyrus crest and the number '1'. I pinned it to my lapel, avoiding her slightly surprised gaze. Crisis averted. For now. The near-miss left my pulse pounding in my ears.
Finding my assigned seat in the section marked for first-year scholar mages felt like navigating a minefield. Curious eyes followed my progress. A few students—elves recognizing my royal lineage, humans drawn by the novelty, dwarves observing with curiosity—leaned forward, clearly intending to strike up conversation.
I offered polite but distant nods, a carefully constructed wall of princely reserve, effectively waving them off. Their interest felt transactional, born of status, not genuine connection. Talking to people my age held little appeal. Tessia was the exception, the only true peer—not considering Grey, but he was reincarnated like me—and she was… off reporting to Cynthia.
I sank into the hard wooden seat, the discomfort of the uniform magnified by the rigid posture I felt compelled to maintain. The murmurs continued, a sea of unfamiliar faces and burgeoning cliques forming around me. I felt profoundly isolated, an observer adrift in a current of youthful energy I couldn't fully comprehend or join.
My focus turned inward, dissecting the schedule in my satchel. History of Mana Theory. Principles of Artificing. Practical Exercise... Subjects I theoretically understood better than all professors, yet attending them was a minefield.
Every practical demonstration, every question probing elemental affinity, every group project risked exposing my secret. Against the Tragedy felt like a hidden brand beneath my sleeve, a constant reminder of the precarious facade I had to maintain.
While I understood the necessity of being here—proximity to key figures like Gideon, Cynthia, Curtis, Kathyln, potential allies—the prospect of daily classes filled me with a profound, weary dread. The practicality was undeniable; the social gauntlet was exhausting.
Finally, Director Cynthia Goodsky ascended the stage. Her presence commanded immediate silence, the weight of her authority and power settling over the vast room like a tangible blanket. She began her welcome address, her voice clear and resonant, speaking of Xyrus's legacy, the importance of unity in these changing times, the pursuit of knowledge and excellence.
I listened with half an ear, my mind still churning over logistical concerns and the lingering sting of Tessia's unexplained absence. Cynthia mentioned the vital role of the Student Council in fostering community and upholding the academy's values. Then she gestured towards the wings.
My breath hitched.
Tessia walked onto the stage.
Not as a student. Not as a first-year finding her seat. As the Student Council President.
She moved with a confidence that seemed to radiate outward, her scholar mage uniform worn not as a constraint, but as a mantle of authority. Her silver hair was neatly tied back, her expression composed, her eyes scanning the auditorium with a calm assurance that momentarily stole my ability to process.
How? The question screamed in my mind. In the narrative framework of the perfect instance I knew, this position came later, after a year of observation and mentorship. Here, she had spent crucial months adventuring, away from the academy's internal politics.
She had never even hinted at this ambition!
"Greetings everyone, and thank you for being here today," Tessia began, her voice carrying effortlessly through the silent hall. It wasn't the bright, sometimes petulant tone I knew; it was measured, resonant, imbued with a gravity that silenced even the faintest rustle. "My name is Tessia Eralith, and I will be serving as your Student Council President this year."
A wave of reaction swept through the auditorium. Gasps of surprise, murmurs of recognition, and then, notably from sections of male students, enthusiastic cheers and whistles that carried undertones of admiration bordering on inappropriate fervor. I cringed inwardly, a familiar protective surge tightening my jaw.
Focus, I told myself, pushing down the instinct to glare. The puzzle of how she achieved this was momentarily overshadowed by the sheer shock of what she was doing.
"I want to congratulate all of you," she continued, her gaze sweeping across the tiers of students, "for earning your place within these prestigious halls. It speaks volumes of your dedication and potential."
Her delivery was polished, reminiscent of Mom's most formal addresses, yet infused with her own unique conviction. She really did absorb those etiquette lessons, I thought, a flicker of reluctant pride cutting through the bewilderment.
"While I am a first-year student, just like many of you," she stated, acknowledging the inherent strangeness of her position without flinching, "I have the profound honor and responsibility of leading the Student Council."
The crowd was captivated. Her poise, her unexpected status, her royal lineage—it was a potent combination. She commanded the room effortlessly. That's where she went, I realized, the pieces clicking. To prepare for this. To claim this. A wave of brotherly annoyance washed over me—She could have told me!—quickly followed by a deeper, more complex emotion: awe.
Her expression shifted then, the composed welcome hardening into something sharper, colder. The warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by a flinty resolve that sent a jolt through me.
"For this upcoming year," she declared, her voice losing none of its clarity but gaining an edge like honed steel, "I do not merely wish you a good stay here at Xyrus Academy." She paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy with anticipation. "No. In fact, I stand before you today to denounce a shameful practice that stains the very name of our institution."
The air crackled. You could hear a pin drop.
"It is known," she stated, each word deliberate, cutting, "that discrimination between battle mage and scholar mage students is not some baseless rumor. It is a reality." Her gaze swept the room again, challenging, unflinching.
"For that, I issue a warning—here and now—to anyone who dares to disrespect, bully, or look down upon their classmates within these walls. To anyone who believes the color of their uniform or the nature of their magic makes them superior."
What is this fire? I thought, stunned. The cold authority in her voice, the fierce protectiveness radiating from her—was this the same sister who whined for pastries and teased me relentlessly? This was a leader, a force.
This was the girl who'd faced down mana beasts and navigated the Beast Glades with Grey. This maturity, this righteous fury… it felt both alien and intensely familiar, a facet of her I hadn't fully witnessed until this moment. This was Tessia Eralith, the Student President, the Adventurer, not Tessia Eralith the Sister or Tessia Eralith the Daughter.
"If mere differences in uniform or magical discipline cause such division among you," she continued, her voice dropping slightly but losing none of its power, the question hanging like a blade, "do you truly possess the integrity, the empathy, the worth required to become the leading figures Dicathen needs?"
The silence that followed was absolute, profound. It wasn't the quiet of boredom, but the stunned hush of hundreds of minds grappling with the weight of her words, the directness of her challenge. Then, it broke.
Not with the raucous cheers from before, but with a rising wave of applause—loud, sustained, and resonant with genuine respect and a palpable sense of wariness. It was the sound of a student body acknowledging not just a president, but a power. Tessia stood tall on the stage, the embodiment of unexpected authority, her initial speech transformed into a declaration of war against pettiness and prejudice.