Chapter 19: The Cover-Up and Forced Praise

  Prince Alistair von Aurelius was a paragon of nobility. His composure was unshakable, his elegance unmatched. As the future Emperor, he had been trained since birth to maintain grace in any situation.

  And yet.

  Standing before this, even he had to break his silence.

  “...What the hell.”

  The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. The ground was ripped apart, gouged as if something ancient and monstrous had torn through it. Monster corpses lay in mangled piles, some bisected cleanly, others crushed into pulp. The blood had already begun to dry, soaking the soil a deep, near-black red.

  The rest of the elite class stood just as stunned, trying to find an explanation.

  And in the very center of it all—standing in absolute, eerie serenity—was Jessica Moran.

  She was covered in blood.

  She was completely unharmed.

  And she did not care.

  Her posture was perfect. Her expression was placid, elegant, untouched by the devastation around her. She wasn’t even shaking.

  In that moment, something deeply unsettling settled into their chests.

  She was calmer than the prince himself.

  And for the first time in their lives, they felt like she was looking down on them.

  _

  The arrival of the instructors shattered the silence.

  Grandmaster Wolfram von Eisenwald stepped onto the battlefield first. His grizzled, battle-hardened gaze swept over the carnage. His brow furrowed.

  Then, Lady Isabeau de Montclair, their Magic Theory instructor, arrived alongside two more knight instructors.

  And all of them—every single one—came to an abrupt halt.

  The instructors had been prepared for casualties.

  They had not been prepared for this.

  “...By the gods,” Lady Isabeau murmured, covering her mouth. “What in the world...”

  One of the knight instructors let out a low whistle. “I’ve seen battlefields with less destruction than this.”

  Grandmaster Wolfram exhaled sharply. “Who led the charge?”

  At that question, a strange tension settled over the elite students.

  The instructors were expecting an answer.

  But the actual answer?

  No one.

  No one had led anything.

  They had fought in isolated groups, struggling against their enemies. They had barely survived, relying on brute desperation rather than tactics.

  But that was not the answer the instructors wanted.

  And so—instinctively, collectively—the noble students did what they did best.

  They lied.

  _

  “It was a group effort,” Seraphina von Aurelius declared smoothly.

  The instructors nodded approvingly.

  “Excellent,” Grandmaster Wolfram said. “This is why we train you—to prepare you for battle. This level of cooperation is commendable.”

  The students forced themselves to nod along.

  They could feel the side-eyes from their peers. No one believed it.

  But at the same time—no one corrected it.

  Because the actual truth was unthinkable.

  Jessica Moran had been alone.

  Jessica Moran had survived alone.

  Jessica Moran had done this alone.

  And that was unacceptable.

  _

  Through all of this, Jessica said nothing.

  She stood still, perfectly composed, and watched.

  They had abandoned her.

  And now, they were taking credit for the battle they had barely survived.

  It was actually funny.

  Not that she showed it.

  Her pristine noble etiquette, the one they mocked her for, was the only thing keeping them sane right now.

  If she had reacted, if she had gloated, if she had even smirked—

  They would have lost it.

  But instead, she simply inclined her head, as if none of this concerned her.

  And that was so much worse.

  _

  Alistair kept watching her, a deep unease settling into his bones.

  She was not shaking.

  She was not pale.

  She was standing in a war zone, in a pool of blood, and yet her demeanor was calmer than his own.

  That was not normal.

  That was not human.

  Beside him, Lucien von Hohenfeld, who had been silent this entire time, let out a slow exhale.

  “...This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered under his breath.

  The prince nodded absently. “No. It doesn’t.”

  _

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  The instructors gathered the students and recorded the event.

  The official report went as follows:

  ? The elite class faced an unexpected monster surge.

  ? The students showed commendable teamwork and pushed through together.

  ? Six trainees died in battle, but the rest survived due to the combined efforts of the class.

  Jessica Moran’s name?

  Barely mentioned.

  Just a small note at the bottom:

  ? Jessica Moran was separated briefly but survived.

  That was it.

  She had single-handedly fought a battle that matched or exceeded the entire class’s effort—and yet, as far as the official record was concerned, she was a complete non-factor.

  Not even worth a footnote.

  The actual truth was erased.

  And that?

  That was hilarious.

  Jessica, for all her eerie composure, found herself almost amused.

  They had been so desperate to believe she was insignificant that they had effectively removed her from their own history.

  It was pathetic.

  And yet—

  It was convenient.

  Because if they weren’t even willing to acknowledge her existence?

  Then they would never suspect the truth.

  Chapter 20: The Cost of Survival

  Jessica woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the distant murmur of voices. The world felt hazy, heavy, as if her body had sunk deep into the infirmary cot, unwilling to move.

  She didn’t try to sit up.

  She couldn’t.

  Her limbs ached in a way she had never felt before—deep, raw pain settled into her joints, her wrists, her ankles. The faintest attempt to flex her fingers sent a sharp twinge through her hands.

  She let out a slow, controlled breath. Overuse injuries. Hyperextensions. Sprains.

  Not from impact.

  From pushing herself too far, too fast.

  A healer’s hands brushed over her arms, cool magic seeping into her skin. The sensation was sharp at first, the pain spiking before dulling slightly.

  “Sprains in both wrists. Mild swelling in the left ankle, borderline severe in the right. Several joints overstressed. Bruising along the lower ribs, though nothing fractured. Your muscles have taken extensive strain.”

  Jessica’s gaze flickered toward the healer. Elaine Verdant.

  She was methodical, voice detached, though Jessica caught the faintest hint of frustration beneath it.

  “It’s remarkable that you’re even conscious. Most knights who overexert themselves like this wouldn’t be awake for at least a day.”

  Jessica just exhaled. She didn’t have the energy to argue.

  Elaine’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  “You’re lucky. The damage is severe, but recoverable. You need rest, or you’re going to tear something permanent.”

  Jessica hummed noncommittally.

  Elaine didn’t look convinced.

  _

  A shadow loomed over the bedside.

  Jessica didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  Tobias was standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Then—

  “Piercing them was easy, wasn’t it?”

  Jessica’s fingers twitched slightly against the sheets.

  Tobias wasn’t asking. He knew.

  “The monsters, I mean,” he continued, voice even. “You had no trouble cutting them open. But you struggled to pull your sword free from their bones.”

  Jessica’s jaw tightened.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  It had happened more than once—the blade piercing cleanly, but getting caught. She had wasted seconds wrenching it out of thick muscle, out of bone, out of places it should have slid through without resistance.

  She had adapted, of course. Kept moving, flickered when necessary, adjusted her angle.

  But Tobias knew.

  He knew exactly what the problem was.

  “You never liked your weapon,” Tobias murmured, more to himself than her. “Not even when it was slowing you down.”

  Jessica didn’t answer.

  Because he was right.

  And the unspoken comparison lingered in the air.

  If you had been using a heavier sword, your weapon wouldn’t have been caught.

  Jessica exhaled slowly, controlled.

  She wasn’t about to entertain that thought.

  Chapter 21: The Frost That Does Not Mourn Melting Tears

  The sky hung overcast above the academy courtyard, gray and indifferent, mirroring the students standing below. The official memorial service for the fallen had begun.

  Candles had been placed in careful rows. A table bore the names of the six lost students, their weapons or personal belongings placed in front of their respective markers.

  The students of the elite class stood gathered in small clusters, murmuring in low, restrained voices. Some stood in uncomfortable silence. Others spoke with bitterness—frustration, regret, and lingering blame curling into their words.

  Edgar stood apart from them all.

  His back was straight, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his posture so rigid it looked as if he might snap in half if he allowed himself to move.

  His rival, Roland, was dead.

  _

  “You’d be dead weight without your magic, Edgar.”

  Roland had said that to him once, sneering after beating him in a sparring match. It had infuriated him. It had pushed him to fight harder.

  It had made him better.

  But in the end, Roland was better.

  And now, Edgar would never get the chance to prove otherwise.

  They had always been equals. Even when one won, the other pushed back harder. That was the way it had always been.

  And then, when it mattered most—Roland had fought for him.

  Edgar should have been able to hold his ground. He should have been strong enough to not need saving.

  But in that moment, Roland had made the choice first.

  Roland had stepped in.

  Roland had died.

  And Edgar had lived.

  It should have been a victory.

  Instead, it was a defeat that would never be undone.

  _

  Hannelore stood at the edge of the gathering.

  She did not approach the candles. She did not kneel before the names of the fallen.

  She simply stood there, observing.

  She had seen grief before.

  She had witnessed noble funerals, ceremonies honoring the dead, the rituals of mourning. She understood the process of it—the way people were expected to act, the way the living carried their loss like an obligation.

  But she did not understand the feeling of it.

  Her father had told her once: “You must remain cold. Your ice will only stay strong if you do.”

  “Warmth melts what makes us powerful, Hannelore. Do not let it in.”

  Her mother had reinforced it. “The colder the mind, the sharper the magic.”

  It had made sense to her as a child.

  It made sense to her now.

  And yet—

  She looked at Edgar.

  He stood near Roland’s marker, rigid and silent, his hands curled into trembling fists. His eyes were dry, but his whole body looked as if it were barely holding itself together.

  His magic crackled around him—lightning, unstable, sparking just beneath his skin.

  Hannelore watched him for a long moment.

  What does that feel like?

  She knew the answer academically. She could list the physical symptoms of grief. But she had never felt them.

  Grief was not something she had ever allowed herself to feel.

  She could not afford to.

  _

  There was one other who had not stayed long at the memorial.

  Prince Alistair von Aurelius.

  He had stood silently at the beginning of the ceremony, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

  But when the names were read—his lips had tightened. His jaw had clenched.

  He had grimaced.

  And then, he had turned and left.

  No one questioned it. No one whispered behind his back.

  Because Alistair had an excuse.

  He was the prince. He could not afford grief. He could not afford weakness.

  That was simply how it was.

  But Hannelore?

  She was not a prince. She was not heir to an empire. She had no throne, no duty that required an unshakable mask.

  And yet—

  She had not grimaced. She had not clenched her jaw.

  She had felt nothing.

  And the others noticed.

  _

  “You’re just going to stand there?”

  Edgar’s voice was sharp, but it wavered at the edges.

  Hannelore tilted her head slightly, regarding him. “Yes.”

  Edgar turned, his expression twisted in something between frustration and disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Would you like me to say something?” Hannelore asked, tone as even as always.

  His jaw clenched. His hands tightened further.

  “Roland is dead,” Edgar snapped, his voice raw. “He was your classmate. We fought beside him. He died in front of us.”

  Hannelore regarded him for a long moment before answering. “Yes.”

  Something in Edgar cracked.

  “Is that all you have to say? ‘Yes’?” His voice rose. “That’s it? You don’t care at all?”

  Hannelore blinked. She processed his words carefully.

  Did she care?

  She searched herself for the answer and found—nothing.

  Not because she didn’t want to.

  But because she did not know how.

  “I do not understand why my presence here requires an emotional reaction,” she said at last.

  Edgar looked at her as if she had struck him.

  “Because you should care,” he hissed. “Because Roland died, and you’re standing there like it means nothing.”

  Hannelore tilted her head slightly.

  “Would it change the outcome if I grieved?”

  Edgar stared at her, disbelieving.

  “Would it bring him back?” she continued.

  His breath shuddered. “That’s not the point.”

  Hannelore didn’t answer.

  Edgar stepped closer. His lightning snapped in the air, raw, unstable.

  “How can you be this cold?”

  Hannelore stared at him.

  And for the first time, she told the truth.

  “Because I have to be.”

  _

  Hannelore did not look away from Edgar’s expression, from the burning frustration, the helplessness, the grief barely being contained beneath his tightly wound anger.

  She could not explain it to him.

  She could not explain that if she let herself feel too much, if she let warmth in, then she would lose control. That ice only formed in the absence of heat. That her power—her magic—demanded distance.

  She could not tell him that she was afraid.

  Because she didn’t know if that was even true.

  Edgar exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He looked at her like she was something foreign, something unnatural.

  “You really don’t feel anything,” he muttered.

  Hannelore hesitated.

  “I do not believe I am capable of feeling in the same way you do,” she admitted. “I was not raised to.”

  Edgar looked at her for a long moment, then scoffed, turning away.

  “That’s pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.

  For the first time, Hannelore’s chest tightened.

  She did not know why.

  _

  Hannelore did not stay much longer after that.

  The words lingered—not Edgar’s grief, but his disappointment.

  She told herself that it did not matter. That it did not affect her.

  But her magic was colder than usual that night.

  And for the first time in a long time, she was not sure if that was a good thing.