Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Pieces in MotionThe room was silent, but not empty.

    Tall windows let in soft morning light, painting long shadows across polished darkwood floors. Rich crimson curtains were drawn just enough to cast the interior in a warm glow. The scent of ink, parchment, and blooming winter roses filled the space—a subtle blend of diplomacy and discipline.

    Seraphina of Valor stood at the center—no throne behind her, no guards at her side, no need for pretense.

    Just her, a long table, and a dozen carefully arranged documents.

    Student performance records.

    Faculty assignments.

    Event schedules.

    Social charts.

    A folded copy of the academy charter sat at one corner, sealed with gold thread.

    She scanned the material in silence, long fingers resting lightly on the edge of a dossier marked with the names of high-performing first-years.

    Her expression was neutral.

    Her mind was not.

    "They back Dior because he’s a son. A boy. But I’ll be the one they follow because I’ll give them something to believe in. Not just tradition, but Direction."

    She turned to the window, gazing out over the eastern courtyard where students had begun to gather for the day.

    Her reflection was barely visible in the glass.

    Not that it mattered.

    She wasn’t here to admire herself, like others like always when they see their reflection.

    She was here to win.

    "I need the favor of the future generations," she murmured aloud, voice calm, deliberate.

    "So I need to become the council president."

    Seraphina walked without guards, but no one dared to block her path.

    Two attendants followed at a respectful distance, carrying a leather case with her personal documents and a clipboard with notes from the Imperial Liaison Office. Neither spoke. They knew better.

    She passed through the outer courtyard slowly, letting her steps dictate the pace of the academy around her.

    Eyes followed her wherever she went.

    Not just because of her title, or her presence—though those things helped.

    But because she watched everything.

    Each cluster of students.

    Each hierarchy in motion.

    Marcus and Clara, laughing with a pair of upperclassmen.

    Laziel and Garron exchanging notes under a tree.

    Selene sparring at a distance, drawing a small crowd.

    Dior, standing on the steps of the eastern wing, surrounded by nobles. His smile was polished. His posture casual. But his eyes scanned for weakness like a predator trying not to look hungry.

    ’You are a snake, my dear little brother,’ she thought. ’Let’s see how much time you can have that mask on.’

    Then—

    Impact.

    Someone rounded the corner at full speed, boots scraping stone. The body hit her shoulder hard. Seraphina didn’t move an inch.

    The boy staggered, caught himself against the wall, chest heaving.

    She turned.

    Eyes locked.

    Sweat clung to sharp features, tension coiled beneath his skin, and behind those composed eyes burned a wild, untamed energy.

    Noel Thorne.

    His back straightened instantly.

    "...You should watch where you’re going." Seraphina said.

    His voice was dry, direct.

    No panic.

    No awe.

    Just words.

    "Yeah. Sorry."

    He didn’t wait.

    Didn’t explain.

    Didn’t ask.

    He passed her with controlled urgency, cloak brushing her side as he moved.

    "Can’t be late."

    Then he was gone.

    She stood in place, gaze still on the space he’d occupied seconds before.

    Her aide shifted beside her.

    "Should we—"

    "No."

    She turned, walking forward again, but her thoughts lingered.

    On the way he moved.

    On the way he didn’t break eye contact.

    ’So this is what you look like.’

    She kept walking.

    But a name surfaced quietly in the back of her mind.

    Noel Thorne.

    The private chamber used by the student council wasn’t opulent, but it was precise.

    Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled not with spellbooks but with ledgers, schedules, and thick volumes of academy policy. Mana lanterns hovered just above the long oak table at the center, shedding soft, amber light. Everything smelled faintly of ink, lemon oil, and paper.

    Elyra sat at the table, one leg crossed over the other, reading through a report with her usual silent focus. Her uniform was immaculate—black, silver-trimmed, the red insignia of the council embroidered at her shoulder.

    Seraphina entered without knocking.

    Elyra didn’t look up.

    "You’re early," she said calmly.

    "You’re always here," Seraphina replied.

    She closed the door behind her, let her attendants wait outside, and approached the table with smooth, measured steps.

    There was only one other chair.

    She sat.

    Silence lingered for a few seconds. Sear?h the n??el Fire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    Then Seraphina broke it.

    "I’ll run for president—because I need to be the one."

    Elyra looked up, blinking once.

    "Not surprising, I already imagined that."

    "He will too," Seraphina added.

    Elyra didn’t ask who "he" was.

    She knew.

    Dior, the Imperial Prince of Valor.

    Seraphina leaned forward slightly, folding her hands over the table.

    "I need allies the council listens to. Important voices. People who’ll help me change things."

    "Then you’re in the right room."

    Seraphina almost smiled at that.

    Almost.

    Good. She’s still sharp as always.

    She scanned the pile of papers in front of Elyra.

    Then, casually:

    "Tell me about Noel Thorne."

    The room shifted.

    Not physically.

    But the energy changed—subtle, but immediate.

    Elyra’s fingers stopped moving. Her expression didn’t.

    But she blinked once. Slowly.

    "That’s... oddly specific."

    Seraphina’s voice didn’t change.

    "He didn’t attend the honor ceremony when I was gaving the medals, so I am a bit curious about him."

    Elyra leaned back in her seat.

    Still calm.

    But the pause before speaking said enough.

    "He was injured pretty badly."

    Seraphina tilted her head.

    "During the academy banquet?"

    "Yes." A pause. Then:"He saved a lot of people, but he didn’t took the credit he earned."

    Seraphina leaned back in the chair, hands folded behind her head as she glanced toward the ceiling.

    "Oh, that wasn’t mentioned in any of the reports. That’s useful to know—thank you for telling me and you’ve spent some time around him."

    Elyra gave her a look.

    "You’ve been watching me?"

    "Maybe, I’m still new here but I like looking around."

    "Well, he doesn’t like bringing all the attention"

    "Thats rare around here?"

    "You tell me, girl. I think you’ve already seen how things work around here. People jump at the slightest chance to stand out—they don’t hesitate for a second."

    Seraphina grinned.

    "Fair."

    Elyra continued, tone thoughtful but relaxed.

    "He seems like a cold person, but he’s actually calculated and kind—even if he acts tough and cold. He doesn’t like wasting time, and he also seems to push himself way too hard."

    Seraphina tilted her head.

    "Sounds useful."

    "He is—but don’t make it sound like he’s just a tool."

    A pause.

    Seraphina eyed her sideways, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

    "Oh? I didn’t know you were into boys now. Is that your professional opinion?"

    Elyra gave her a flat look.

    "Don’t start."

    "Just saying. You’re not usually that generous when describing people, men to be specific."

    "Because most people aren’t worth the effort."

    "And he is?"

    Elyra didn’t answer immediately.

    She sipped her tea, eyes narrowing just a little.

    "...I haven’t decided that yet."

    Seraphina smiled again, but didn’t push further.

    That was enough—for now.

    The tension had faded. Now they sat comfortably—two young women born around power.

    Elyra set her tea down.

    Seraphina tapped one nail lightly against the table.

    "I’m going to need your help."

    Elyra raised an eyebrow.

    "Finally decided to say it."

    Seraphina leaned back slightly, eyes on Elyra over the rim of her teacup.

    "You know me well enough—I don’t like asking things from people."

    Elyra gave a soft snort.

    "I do know. Fifteen years of watching you fake patience at every family dinner says enough."

    Seraphina smiled.

    "Fair."

    Elyra set her cup down, her voice calm but edged.

    "But you also know nothing comes free from the Estermonts."

    "Of course. I wouldn’t expect it, dear friend."

    Seraphina straightened, her tone shifting to something quieter—but heavier.

    "If I become the next queen, the Estermonts will have exclusive rights to supply resources to the royal family."

    Elyra blinked once. Then raised an eyebrow.

    "That’s... generous. Even for you, Seraph."

    Seraphina smirked.

    "It’s smart. Having Valor’s strongest family by my side is tradition. I see no reason to break it."

    Elyra tilted her head.

    "So... I assume you want me to support your bid for student council president?"

    "Among other things."

    Elyra sipped her tea.

    "I should make you beg a little."

    "You won’t."

    "No," Elyra said with a quiet laugh. "Don’t worry, that was a joke."

    The room fell into an easy silence again.

    The deal, though unstated further, was already done.

    The Class S dormitories was quiet at night.

    Silence wasn’t just preferred there—it was expected. Guards patrolled without sound. Mana lanterns dimmed to a soft glow. Every inch of marble and velvet whispered of power held back, not flaunted.

    Inside her room, Seraphina sat at her desk.

    The curtains were drawn. The candlelight flickered over a thick leather-bound journal, opened halfway. Her handwriting was sharp, even, elegant without a single flourish.

    One page was labeled with a single header, centered at the top in fine black ink:

    Potential Allies – Phase I

    Below it, a list

    Marcus: strong, visible, respected by peers.

    Clara de Nivaria – capable, composed, useful under pressure.

    Selene von Iskandar: Genius of the North.

    Elena von Lestaria – high prestige, popular, ideal for public face if needed.

    Her pen hovered for a moment.

    Then, just below the last name, she wrote:

    Noel Thorne – unpredictable, dangerous, doesn’t seek influence. Observe closely. Potential love interest of my best friend???

    She paused.

    Tapped the end of the pen once against the corner of the page.

    "You are a curious one."

    Seraphina closed the book slowly, running her hand once across the cover.

    Tomorrow, things would begin to shift.

    And she’d be ready.