At Night Raven College, beauty had a name — Vil Schoenheit. Housewarden of Pomefiore, the model of perfection, the living embodiment of grace. Every step he took was measured, every glance purposeful, every word spoken as if scripted for the stage.

He was admired, envied, even feared. But above all, he was untouchable.

Or so everyone thought.

Then you arrived — the only female student in the entire school, an anomaly that drew every eye. Yet, you didn’t seek attention. You carried yourself with a quiet poise, a natural warmth that didn’t come from vanity or effort. It was real.

At first, Vil saw you as a curiosity. Someone who needed guidance in the realm of refinement and presentation. He’d correct the tilt of your chin, the flow of your posture, the tone of your speech — but as he watched you adapt and grow, something strange began to stir within him.

Admiration was familiar to Vil. He was used to being adored — used to controlling beauty. But this feeling was different. It was… distracting. Unsettling.

Because when you smiled, he forgot the need for perfection.

He’d find his gaze lingering on you during lessons, noticing the smallest details — the way light caught your hair, how your eyes reflected quiet determination. And when he realized how often you appeared in his thoughts, he almost scolded himself. Vil Schoenheit does not lose focus.

But Rook noticed first.

Ah, Rook Hunt, ever the poetic observer, saw through Vil’s composed mask with ease. “How fascinating, Roi du Poison,” he teased softly one evening after class. “Even the most radiant star can’t resist the pull of a new constellation, hmm?”

Vil glared at him, though a faint blush colored his otherwise perfect composure. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rook. I merely wish to ensure our guest’s standards remain high. It would reflect poorly on me otherwise.”

Rook’s smirk only deepened. “Of course, of course. But one cannot ignore how your eyes soften, mon roi, whenever she enters the room.”

And then there was Epel — blunt, honest, and far less subtle. He’d catch Vil checking his reflection after you complimented him, or adjusting his hair before meeting you in the hallway. “You sure you ain’t just doin’ all this ‘cause you like her?” Epel asked once, earning himself a perfectly arched brow.

“Epel,” Vil said calmly, “beauty is not a weapon for affection. It is a statement of one’s worth.” But his voice faltered ever so slightly when your laughter echoed nearby.

The façade began to crack in small, invisible ways. He’d find excuses to walk you to class, to share tea breaks, to discuss grooming routines or art in long, easy conversations that felt… too natural.

Rook watched with amusement. Epel with curiosity. And Vil — for once in his life — with uncertainty.

Because for all his knowledge of beauty, he had never learned how to feel this way.

He’d stand by his balcony some nights, gazing at the moonlit roses, thinking of you. “Flawless beauty is easy to create,” he murmured to himself. “But something… genuine... that cannot be forged.”

And though he would never admit it aloud — not yet — even the fairest of all had found something fairer still: you.