The grand auditorium of the academy unfolded before Beatrice like a stage from a dream.


    It resembled an opulent opera house, with gilded balconies curving elegantly along the walls and a sweeping mezzanine lined with polished wooden railings.


    Overhead, a massive chandelier hung suspended, its crystals refracting the warm glow of lights powered by the blue stone energy that illuminated every ornate detail of the hall.


    The air carried a faint hum of anticipation, mingled with the distant murmurs of students settling into their designated seats.


    Beatrice sat alone, poised in her seat at the very back of the section reserved for her class.


    The chair, upholstered in deep velvet with intricate mahogany armrests, was luxurious enough to make any commoner—or even a low-ranking noble—shift uncomfortably.


    Yet, Beatrice sat with an effortless grace, her back straight, her hands folded lightly in her lap.


    Her green eyes, flecked with gold in the ambient light, flickered shut as she absorbed the atmosphere.


    Though her expression was serene, her solitude stood out starkly in the crowded hall.


    The rows around her, grouped in clusters of three seats divided by narrow aisles, only amplified the distance between her and her classmates.


    On either side, the seats flanking her were conspicuously empty, as though an invisible barrier had been erected between her and the others.


    The nearest students sat far ahead, their backs turned to her.


    While she could have taken a few steps forward to bridge the gap, the thought alone made her stomach tighten.


    She clung to her seat as though it were a sanctuary, her years of sheltered upbringing weighing heavily on her.


    "How would I even begin to speak to them?" she thought, her lips pressing together in a faint, nervous line.


    The idea of starting a conversation seemed impossible—an insurmountable wall built from years of silence and solitude.


    Instead, she let her gaze wander over the room, taking in the grandeur that surrounded her.


    A sudden tapping sound echoed through the hall, drawing Beatrice''s attention to the stage.


    A woman, dressed in formal academy robes, adjusted the microphone at the center.


    As she spoke, a faint blue glow rippled outward from the device, tracing intricate lines of energy that disappeared beneath the rows of seats.


    The hum of the audience quieted as the voice of the announcer emerged, clear and precise, from small, inconspicuous boxes beneath each chair.


    The sound was so crisp it felt as though she were speaking directly beside Beatrice.


    "Welcome, new students," the announcer began, her tone steady and authoritative.


    "We are honored to begin this academic year with the guidance of our esteemed Student Council President, who will deliver the opening address.


    Please welcome Lady Dorothea Alexandra Evangeline Caerwysg."


    The room stirred as the name echoed through the auditorium, carried by the flawless acoustics.


    A wave of murmurs rippled across the rows, a mix of awe and curiosity.


    Beatrice''s hands tightened slightly in her lap, her green eyes lifting toward the stage.


    She already knew who would step forward.


    Dorothea emerged from the shadows at the side of the stage, her figure commanding attention the moment she appeared.


    Her golden hair, styled with loose curls framing her face, gleamed like molten sunlight under the stage lights.


    The ruby-stone brooch pinned to her uniform caught the light, a symbol of her noble lineage and status.


    Her blue eyes, sharp and steady, scanned the audience with a cold, unreadable expression.


    She walked with measured precision, every step deliberate, as though she were crossing the floor of a royal court.


    To those in the audience, she appeared untouchable—an embodiment of grace and authority.


    But to Beatrice, she was something else entirely.


    Her cousin.


    A girl she had once known as cheerful, clumsy, and quick to cry, though always trying to hide her tears.


    Yet the figure on stage now seemed a world apart from the Dorothea she remembered.


    Dorothea began her speech, her voice steady and resolute, filling the hall with an air of authority.


    She spoke of responsibility, tradition, and the values the academy upheld, her tone cold yet commanding.


    In the row ahead of Beatrice, a few students whispered among themselves, their voices hushed yet sharp enough to carry faintly to her ears.


    "She''s terrifying," one muttered.


    "So arrogant," another added, her voice tinged with disdain.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Beatrice frowned slightly, her instinct to defend her cousin stirring within her.


    They don''t understand her.


    They don''t know her like I do.


    Yet, as she continued to watch, even she couldn''t deny how different Dorothea seemed now.


    Her movements were precise, her gaze calculated.


    Beatrice hadn''t seen her in over a year—not since their last family gathering—and the distance between them, both physical and emotional, suddenly felt wider than ever.


    Then, in the midst of her speech, Dorothea''s eyes shifted.


    For the briefest moment, her gaze flickered toward the back rows.


    It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Beatrice noticed.


    Her breath caught as their eyes met—or so she thought.


    In the front row, a girl nudged her friend, misinterpreting the glance entirely.


    "Did she just look at us?" she whispered, her voice hushed with a mix of nerves and excitement.


    "No way," her friend replied dismissively.


    "She''s just scanning the room."


    Beatrice, unaware of the exchange, felt a small, warm smile tug at her lips.


    It wasn''t much, but it was enough to reassure her.


    Maybe she hasn''t forgotten me, she thought.


    Dorothea, her expression unchanging, returned her focus to the speech.


    Whatever had passed between her and Beatrice, it was fleeting, leaving Beatrice to wonder if it had been real—or just her imagination.


    As Dorothea''s voice continued to fill the auditorium, Beatrice''s attention wavered, her thoughts drifting back to her earlier resolve.


    I have to make a friend today.


    The goal felt more distant with each passing moment, especially as her gaze shifted to the students around her.


    From her position at the back, Beatrice could see her classmates scattered throughout the rows ahead.


    To her right, separated by two empty seats and an aisle, a girl sat with serene poise.


    Her long, silky black hair cascaded over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, gleaming faintly in the soft light.


    In one hand, she held a folding fan, its delicate pattern of blossoms and golden threads catching the light as she flicked it open with a graceful motion.


    The fan moved with the same unhurried elegance as its owner, accentuating her every gesture without a word spoken.


    Her posture was impeccable, her movements deliberate yet effortless, as if every gesture—down to the faint tilt of her head as she listened to the speech—was a performance of elegance.


    When she tapped the edge of the fan against her palm in an almost contemplative rhythm, it seemed less an idle habit and more a deliberate expression of thought.


    Beatrice felt her heart sink slightly as she observed the girl.


    She seems... too perfect.


    Further down the row, another girl caught her eye.


    Her dark, short hair framed her face with a practical charm, and she leaned back slightly in her seat, her posture relaxed but exuding confidence.


    A faint smirk tugged at her lips, as though she found the proceedings more amusing than inspiring.


    There was a casual energy about her that Beatrice couldn''t quite place, but it left her feeling even more out of her depth.


    She''d probably laugh if I tried to speak to her.


    On the opposite side of the room sat a brunette with a sharp gaze that seemed to pierce through the air.


    Her hair was neatly styled, her uniform immaculate, and her demeanor radiated precision.


    She sat perfectly upright, her chin slightly lifted, her eyes scanning the room with quiet judgment.


    Beatrice quickly looked away, feeling as though the girl could see straight through her if their eyes met.


    Too intimidating.


    Beatrice''s gaze softened as it landed on a large boy seated awkwardly near the middle rows.


    His broad shoulders seemed too big for his seat, and he shifted uncomfortably, as though hyperaware of how much space he took up.


    Despite his unease, there was a kind, almost bashful look on his face as he focused on the stage.


    For a moment, Beatrice considered him, but the sheer size of his presence left her feeling dwarfed in comparison.


    Maybe not.


    Lastly, her eyes lingered on a slender boy near the front, pale and slight.


    He adjusted his glasses repeatedly, each motion precise and methodical, as though he were fine-tuning an instrument.


    His gaze never left the stage, and his stillness gave him an air of detachment, as if the room around him didn''t exist.


    Beatrice hesitated.


    He seems lost in his own world.


    Her hands tightened in her lap as doubt crept in.


    Every face she observed seemed to carry its own unspoken hurdles, their confidence and individuality leaving her feeling small and invisible.


    The thought of reaching out felt more impossible with each passing moment.


    She sank slightly into her chair, her earlier determination faltering.


    Maybe this was a mistake.


    Unbeknownst to her, a few students in other sections had turned their attention toward her.


    From their vantage point, her composed posture and quiet elegance gave her an air of mystery.


    To them, she was untouchable, a figure of nobility whose distance was not one of shyness but of grandeur.


    They whispered quietly, wondering who she was, their speculations painting a picture far removed from Beatrice''s own self-doubt.


    Beatrice''s thoughts were interrupted as the announcer''s voice rang out once again, drawing the hall''s focus back to the stage.


    "And now, to close this segment, we welcome the Saint''s Scholar for this year''s incoming class.


    Representing Class 1-A, please give your attention to Belle."


    Beatrice straightened, her attention sharpening at the mention of the title: Saint''s Scholar.


    The prestigious designation, awarded only once every three years to a student of exceptional promise, had always gone to someone from a noble house.


    For a moment, her thoughts raced.


    If Dorothea had entered high school this year, she would likely have been the one standing there, yet the timing had not aligned.


    Her intrigue grew as the freckled girl from the garden stepped onto the stage.


    The memory of their brief encounter resurfaced, and Beatrice''s heart lifted slightly.


    It is her.


    Belle''s appearance was a stark contrast to the nobles who had spoken before her.


    Her uniform, though neat, lacked the tailored perfection that adorned the others.


    Her hair, tied into two low buns with a simple scrunchie, gave her a youthful, almost unpolished look.


    As she stepped forward, her movements were hesitant, her gaze flickering nervously toward the crowd.


    The audience stifled chuckles as she stumbled slightly on the raised platform, her footing faltering for a moment.


    A flush crept up Belle''s cheeks, but she steadied herself, lifting her head with a flicker of determination.


    Beatrice felt a pang of sympathy at the sound of quiet laughter rippling through the room.


    She must be terrified.


    Belle gripped the podium with both hands, her knuckles whitening as she began to speak.


    Her voice wavered at first, faltering under the weight of the hall''s collective gaze.


    But as she continued, her tone grew steadier, driven by a raw earnestness that captivated some and unsettled others.


    Her words were bold, unconventional, and uncompromising, striking at the heart of unspoken tensions.


    Beatrice leaned forward slightly, her green eyes fixed on the freckled girl as ripples spread through the room.


    In the row ahead of Beatrice, the reactions were varied.


    The sharp-eyed brunette frowned, her expression stiffening as if threatened by the speech''s implications.


    Across the aisle, the short-haired girl smirked, her lips curling in amused agreement, though her eyes hinted at skepticism, as if finding the words naive yet intriguing.


    Elsewhere in the auditorium, a boy with sharp features and an intense stare leaned forward slightly, his presence striking even in stillness.


    His short-cropped hair, rough and slightly uneven as though hacked with little care, gave him a rebellious edge that seemed to mirror his piercing gaze.


    He watched Belle closely, his arms resting on his knees, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on his lips—not one of amusement, but of understanding.


    The way his fingers tapped lightly against his seat, as if in rhythm with his thoughts, hinted at a restless energy barely contained.


    From other sections, the reactions were no less divided.


    A high-ranking noble chuckled behind a gloved hand, while her companion smiled indulgently, clearly entertained.


    Dorothea, standing on stage alongside the teachers, sighed faintly, her composed expression revealing nothing of her inner thoughts.


    As Belle''s speech reached its crescendo, her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the sheer force of her words:


    "For too long, we''ve been told our place is set at birth.


    But that isn''t true.


    Our strength is in our will, not our bloodlines.


    And if we have the will, we can rise—higher than they''ve ever imagined."


    The room erupted into scattered murmurs.


    Some low-ranking nobles exchanged uneasy glances, while mid-ranking students whispered urgently among themselves.


    A few teachers nodded, their faces grave, while others frowned in open disapproval.


    Beatrice sat back, her thoughts swirling.


    Belle''s presence on stage had been clumsy, even awkward, but her words carried a resonance that lingered.


    She''s different, Beatrice thought.


    For the first time all day, a spark of hope flickered within her.


    Perhaps she''s the one.


    Perhaps I can make a friend after all.