CHAPTER 55: FRESHER BALL (3)

Chapter 54: Fresher Ball (3)

(Michael POV)

The dance ended. Applause scattered across the ballroom—polite, hesitant, almost brittle.

Maria Frostheart and I stepped away from the crystalline floor, but the quiet that followed clung like frost.

And then the nobles moved.

They didn’t draw blades or cast spells. They didn’t need to. Their weapons were sharper smiles polished to a mirror sheen, words dripping honey, footsteps weaving circles around us like predators tightening a noose.

"Lady Frostheart, such elegance this evening."

"Michael Willson, the Rank 1 of the first years... what an unexpected surprise."

"You both... certainly draw the eye."

Their compliments stung more than insults. Every syllable carried barbs hidden beneath velvet.

Maria’s response was flawless—her lips curving into that perfect Frostheart smile, cold enough to remind the room why her family’s name was feared. She didn’t bend, didn’t indulge, simply acknowledged with a nod that left them hanging in silence.

I chose the simpler route: curt nods, flat words. No more than they deserved.

To them, I was an anomaly. An intruder. A commoner daring to walk among royalty.

And they couldn’t decide whether to sneer, flatter, or crush me.

Maria leaned slightly closer, her voice pitched low, meant only for me.

"You’re doing well. Stand tall, don’t give them more than they deserve."

I arched a brow. "You sound practiced."

Her eyes glimmered faintly. "Every day of my life."

---

The circle shifted. New presences cut into the fray.

"Willson."

The voice was smooth, laced with the faintest chill. I turned, finding myself facing Alice Nightveil.

Her long black gown seemed to drink the rainbow light of the chandeliers, her pale eyes reflecting it back like moonlight. Frenick Rosella lingered a step behind her, forgotten in her shadow.

"You handle attention well." She studied me, as if cataloging.

"Few commoners last five minutes in a crowd like this without tripping over their own shoes."

"...Thanks, I guess."

Alice tilted her head slightly, not smiling. "Don’t mistake it for flattery. I’m curious."

Before I could reply, another voice cut in. Warm, strong, confident like a soldier entering a sparring match.

"Michael Willson. Rank 1."

Emily Lionheart. Her red dress shimmered like flame against her blonde hair, her fiancé Justin Emberheart steady by her side. Even among nobles, her presence commanded attention—daughter of the Lionheart house, and one of Arcadia’s most admired cadets.

She raised her glass faintly.

"That was an impressive entrance. And dance."

Maria’s expression didn’t change, but I felt her stiffen beside me.

Emily’s eyes flicked toward Maria briefly, then back to me. Her smile softened, genuine but edged.

"I’ll speak directly. You’ve shown you can stand apart. That’s rare. The Lionheart family values strength and loyalty, not just bloodlines."

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "...You’re offering?"

Emily didn’t hesitate.

"Yes. A position within my circle. Connections, resources, mentorship. You wouldn’t be just another cadet—"

Maria’s voice cut clean through, cold as steel.

"—He wouldn’t be another pawn, either."

The temperature between them dropped a few degrees. Emily’s eyes narrowed, her noble poise faltering just slightly before she chuckled. "I see. Frostheart doesn’t like to share her pieces."

Maria said nothing. The silence was answer enough.

Emily turned her attention back to me. "I won’t press. Consider it an open hand. Think carefully about who stands with you, Willson. A storm is coming—and standing alone rarely ends well."

Her gaze lingered on me, meaningful, before she drifted away with Justin, nobles parting for her as if for royalty.

Alice Nightveil remained a moment longer. Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and searching. Finally, she whispered, "The night hides more than shadows."

Then she, too, melted back into the crowd.

---

Maria exhaled softly beside me. "You see now?"

"Predators," I muttered.

"Circling the strongest prey."

I frowned at her. "You make it sound like I’m already on the menu."

Her lips curved, faintly amused. "You always were."

And she was right.

Because this wasn’t a ball. Not anymore.

It was a hunt.

------

(Michael POV)

The orchestra’s melody had barely faded when the air shifted.

It wasn’t magic. Not mana. Something far simpler, yet heavier.

Presence.

"Michael Willson."

The name cracked across the ballroom like a whip.

Conversations faltered. Glasses stilled midair. Even the dancers froze on the floor, turning toward the source.

He walked forward as though the hall parted for him by divine decree.

Magnus Draven.

The Duke’s heir. The leader of the Noble Faction. A man already notorious across Arcadia despite not having graduated. His reputation preceded him, whispered in corridors and etched into records: brilliant, ruthless, unyielding.

And he was heading straight for me.

The nobles nearest us stepped back, instinctively making way. The crowd rippled, parting like water before a black-iron prow.

Magnus’s suit shimmered faintly under the enchanted lights, runes stitched into the fabric pulsing with protective magic. Broad-shouldered, his movements carried both weight and elegance, as though every step reminded the room that he was born superior.

His gaze locked onto me, unwavering.

A predator acknowledging prey.

Or a king weighing a challenger.

Maria’s fingers brushed my sleeve once—subtle, fleeting—before she let go and stepped back half a pace. Her eyes narrowed, cold and calculating. She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected this.

Around the edges of the hall, whispers spread like wildfire.

"Draven himself...?"

"He never speaks to first-years."

"Is he going to recruit him?"

I kept my back straight, meeting his gaze as he stopped just short of me.

Magnus studied me from head to toe, then chuckled lowly. Not warm. Not mocking. Something in between.

"You are full of surprises," he said, his voice calm yet carrying across the silent hall. "A common-born boy who cut down the heirs of great houses in open duel. Rank 1. Aura user. And now..." His eyes flicked toward Maria briefly, "...escorting a Frostheart."

The murmurs grew sharper, louder, a mix of awe and scorn.

He tilted his head slightly. "Do you know what I admire most about you, Michael Willson?"

I kept my tone even. "...Enlighten me."

Magnus leaned in slightly, though his voice was pitched so that everyone still heard. "You have done what few dare. You spat in the face of noble bloodlines and rose above them. For that, you have my respect."

The word hung in the air.

Respect. From Magnus Draven.

The crowd stirred uneasily, as if unsure whether to clap or recoil.

But his smile sharpened. "Yet talent without direction is wasted. You stand at a crossroads. Continue as you are, clinging to independence, and you will find the path barred by walls you cannot climb. Nobles hold the keys to every gate in this world ,resources, guilds, land, armies. Without them, even the brightest flame dies in obscurity."

He spread one gloved hand, palm open. An offer.

"Join me. Join the Noble Faction, under my banner. With me, doors will open before you. Influence, wealth, recognition—all within your grasp. Rise higher than you ever dreamed... as long as you remember your place."

The last words were soft, but the chains in them clinked loud as iron.

I exhaled slowly. "...My place."

My family’s faces flickered in memory—the worn smiles through my smartwatch call last night, my father’s pride, my mother’s trembling voice. They’d celebrated me being Rank 1, a common-born boy standing at the top of nobles.

And this man wanted me to kneel.

I met his gaze squarely. "You admire me for standing above nobles. And now you want me to kneel."

The silence grew taut. Like a bowstring pulled to its limit.

---

(Leon POV)

I nearly snapped my goblet in half.

Draven. Talking to him.

To Michael.

Selena’s breath caught beside me. Elara’s eyes narrowed, and Aiden whistled low, tail swishing behind him.

"This... is bad," Elara murmured.

"Bad?" Aiden grinned wolfishly. "Looks like the pup just got invited to the wolf pack."

I clenched my jaw. That wasn’t what this was. Draven didn’t offer hands—he placed collars.

Michael...

If he accepted—

I didn’t want to imagine it.

---

(Michael POV)

Magnus’s smile didn’t falter. "Kneeling is not shame when it is before greatness."

Maria’s voice sliced through, sharp and cold. "Or perhaps it is, when the so-called greatness fears being overshadowed by someone born without privilege."

A ripple of shock passed through the crowd.

Magnus’s eyes flicked to her, then back to me, his smile tighter now.

"Sharp tongue, Frostheart. I see why you chose him."

The murmurs swelled. Some nobles sneered, others gossiped.

He leaned closer, his tone dropping.

"Think carefully, Michael Willson. The world is cruel to those who defy order. You may win duels, but wars? Those are fought with armies. And armies belong to nobility."

I didn’t flinch. "Then I’ll just build my own."

For the first time, his smile slipped. Briefly. His eyes hardened, calculating, as if memorizing me not as an upstart—but as a threat.

---

(Narrator POV – , Author’s Voice)

The hall held its breath. Nobles whispered. Commoners dared not.

Michael Willson stood, refusing a hand that had built empires.

And Magnus Draven, for all his arrogance, marked him not as a curiosity

but as an enemy.