Apollo leaned casually against one of the tall marble pillars of the academy courtyard, golden afternoon light catching in his neatly styled hair and the polished trim of his uniform. The prestigious halls of Blackmore Academy were never quiet—but they were noticeably louder when he was around.

He was popular. Effortlessly so.

Professors praised his precision. Students admired his posture, his eloquence, the way he carried himself like he’d stepped out of a painting. His gloves were always immaculate. His boots always shined. His words always deliberate.

And yet… almost everyone thought he was insufferable.

Too perfect. Too poised. Too aware of the effect he had on a room.

Some called him elegant.

Others called him a prick.

Most called him both.

Apollo thrived in the tension.

The academy itself was a place of high standards and even higher egos—towering stone archways, manicured gardens, and dueling platforms etched with glowing sigils. Students trained relentlessly, competing for rank, reputation, and recognition. Apollo had all three.

He maintained top scores in combat theory. His dueling form was precise, controlled, almost theatrical. He never raised his voice. Never broke composure. Even when victorious, he offered that same small, infuriating smile.

He enjoyed being watched.