I strode along the academy's stone path, my heels striking the pavement in rhythm with my racing heart.

Sebastian's voice pursued me: "Arya! Wait! Let me explain!"


I didn't slow. Explain? What could he possibly say? I'd witnessed his betrayal with my own eyes and ears. His hesitation in the studio had been explanation enough—the cruelest kind.

He caught me at the entrance to the swordsmanship classroom, his fingers clamping around my wrist with bruising force.

"Let go!" I hissed, my voice glacial.


"No, you need to listen," he panted, anxiety contorting his features. "There's nothing between us! I just... I couldn't pass up the opportunity!"

"Opportunity?" I wrenched my hand free, lips curling in contempt. "The opportunity to aid a fraud, or the opportunity to become the royal court's laughingstock?"


"It doesn't matter if she's a princess or not!" He repeated desperately, reaching for me again. "I have ambitions too! Things I want to achieve! Why can't you understand that, Arya?"

I stared at his face—twisted with naked ambition—and felt I was looking at a stranger.

As he lunged forward, the swordsmanship classroom door swung open with a resonant creak.

A tall figure materialized before me, clad in white fencing attire, a practice rapier held casually in his hand, its tip angled precisely toward the ground.

"Classmate," his voice rang calm yet commanding, "I believe the lady has made her refusal quite clear."

Sebastian froze mid-motion. His eyes fixed on the gleaming steel tip, face draining of color as he instinctively retreated a step.

The stranger sheathed his blade, turned to me, and offered a warm smile. He had neatly cropped black hair and eyes that met mine with refreshing directness.

"Reynard, from the medical school." He extended his hand with easy confidence. "I overheard your discussion from inside."

Reynard.

The one who'd questioned Isabella's identity in the cafeteria.

Warmth bloomed in my chest. In this academy of the willfully blind, I wasn't standing alone after all.

I acknowledged him with a nod, not taking his hand, then turned my attention back to Sebastian.

Students had begun to gather, drawn by the commotion, pointing and whispering among themselves.

"Sebastian," I projected my voice to carry down the corridor, "You want forgiveness? Fine. Right here, right now, in front of everyone—tell them Isabella is a fraud. Declare there's nothing between you two."

I was offering one final chance—to salvage not just our relationship, but his own dignity.

Sebastian's face flushed then paled in rapid succession. His eyes darted between me and the growing audience, naked conflict and greed battling across his features. He didn't want to lose me, but he was even more reluctant to surrender the wealth and prestige promised by our fake "princess."

Finally, the conflict in his eyes resolved into desperate resignation.

He fixed me with one last penetrating stare—resentment and bitterness evident, but not a trace of love.

"If that's how it has to be," he said through clenched teeth, "then we're through."

With that, he shouldered through the crowd and fled without a backward glance—like a gambler who'd lost his last coin.

I watched his retreating figure, an invisible fist clenching around my heart. It hurt, yes—but beneath the pain lay something else: relief.

"He's not worth it," Reynard's voice came quietly beside me.

I turned to meet his concerned gaze. He offered no empty platitudes, just that simple truth.

I drew a deep breath and straightened my spine.

Indeed. Not worth it at all.

My pride—my heart—deserved better than a coward.