Ace woke up late.
The sharp rays of morning light stabbed through the slit in the curtains like spears, burning against his face. His body groaned in protest as he threw the covers off and sat up, his pulse sluggish, yet heavy with adrenaline already brewing beneath his skin.
"Shit," he muttered.
Today wasn't just any day.
Today was the First-Year Exam.
The infamous test. The one with stories of breakdowns, students fainting mid-paper, dreams shattering in five torturous hours. And he was late.
Ace dressed quickly, his hands moving out of muscle memory. Shirt. Buckle. Boots. Blade, hidden neatly beneath the coat, a precaution, nothing more. His reflection in the cracked mirror revealed a tired but familiar face—wild dark hair, eyes just sharp enough to hide the exhaustion.
The Academy's main hall was worse than he'd imagined.
A storm of anxious murmurs buzzed through the air. Students clustered like frightened sheep, clutching notes, fingers trembling, eyes hollow. They flipped pages, whispered questions they barely understood, chewing their lips raw.
Ace's boots echoed across the marble floor as he walked in, slicing through the tension like a blade.
Klaus was there, hunched over a textbook, his face painted with desperation.
"What's up?" Ace asked, voice deliberately careless.
Klaus jerked his head up, pupils wide, panic leaking through every pore. "Don't 'what's up' me! Applied Mathematics—two chapters left! The exam's in twenty-five damn minutes!"
Ace grinned lazily, stepping away. "Alright, alright. Stress yourself to death alone, then."
His eyes found her next.
Elara Flavosky.
She stood like a porcelain blade amidst the chaos. Untouchable. Composed. Dressed in cold perfection, violet eyes sharp as glass.
Ace approached, every step deliberate.
"Madam," he greeted with a mock bow, smirk curling his lips. "Prepared to crush the weak today?"
Her eyes flicked to him, analyzing, dissecting. "Better prepared than you, Dragnell," she replied. "You missed classes."
"Some of us work for a living," Ace shot back, tone light, but his eyes never left hers.
Elara's lips twitched—a faint, calculated smile that barely touched her expression. "Don't fall behind, especially after that arrogant display in class."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ace replied.
The Academy bell tolled.
A thunderous, metallic clang that sliced through the building like a guillotine.
"See you inside, Madam," Ace said.
"Try to survive, Dragnell," she retorted, turning away.
The examination hall loomed, suffocating in its silence. Students took their seats like prisoners to their fate. Ace's bench was near the back—perfect view, perfect escape route.
The Guard Instructor entered, face carved from stone, eyes scanning the room like a hawk seeking weakness. The stack of pristine papers in his grip seemed heavier than steel.
"Begin," the Instructor commanded.
A hundred quills scratched parchment.
Ace flipped the first page. His eyes skimmed the questions. A heartbeat later, his pen moved, answers spilling forth with mechanical precision.
But as his hand flew across the paper, a frown ghosted his lips.
"This?" he whispered under his breath. "This is the infamous hard exam?"
He glanced around.
Faces twisted in horror. Numb fingers clutched quills like lifelines. Sweat pooled. Some students had already frozen entirely.
Klaus scribbled desperately, his face pale, eyes trembling.
Theo Harnest? The highborn snob was mid-breakdown. Fury, confusion, panic—all mixed into one pathetic grimace as his quill hovered aimlessly.
Ace's smirk returned.
"Okay," he muttered. "A little hard, maybe."
His pen danced.
Page after page filled. Calculations sharp. Arguments clean. His hand a blur of quiet defiance.
Three hours and fifteen minutes in, Ace stopped.
Done.
The hall still reeked of fear. Nobles hunched, drowning in failure.
Ace stood.
The Guard Instructor's brow arched. "Certain you're submitting early?"
"I'm certain," Ace answered, handing over his paper.
Whispers ignited like wildfire.
"Giving up?"
"Typical lowborn arrogance."
"All bark, no bite."
Elara's quill paused.
Her eyes betrayed the smallest flicker of disappointment before steeling over.
Ace ignored them all.
He walked out.
Outside, silence reigned. His boots crunched gravel as he wandered the Academy grounds, tension peeling off like dead skin.
A secluded stream beckoned.
Ace sat, listening to the water's quiet murmur, his pulse steady.
Time passed.
The hall emptied—faces drained, bodies limp.
Klaus found him first.
"What the hell, man?!" Klaus's voice cracked with disbelief.
"What?" Ace replied, smile as sharp as a blade.
Elara appeared.
Her stare sliced through him. "I'm disappointed," she declared, voice cold, stripped of playful sharpness. "You could've tried."
Ace shrugged. Her gaze lingered, unreadable.
"Past is past," he told Klaus as they walked off.
Lunch was quiet. Klaus mumbled frustrations, Ace devoured his meal, unbothered.
Night fell.
The next day dawned with brutal normalcy. Training. Classes. The air buzzed with caged tension.
Results day.
The crowd choked the courtyard. Parchments pinned to the board like execution orders.
"Don't stress," Klaus muttered, mistaking Ace's calm for defeat.
They pushed forward.
Names.
Ranks.
Ace's eyes found his.
And the entire Academy's perception shattered.
The results were… unexpected.
The wolves had underestimated the lone stray.
The wolves were wrong.
The bell had tolled.
And it wasn't for him.