“Dearest Scholar, it is my deepest honor to inform you that you have been admitted into the ranks of the Sovereign Collegium of Valeria as part of this year’s Ascension Cohort.”

It read like something meant for legend, not real life. The Collegium is marble courtyards overlooking a restless sea, vaulted ceilings painted with dynasties, heirs debating beneath chandeliers older than most nations. Ten commoners are chosen each year. Ten names from thousands. A careful gesture of merit in a world built on inheritance.

For two years, that number had been none.

A scholar from the Cohort died weeks before graduation—a fall from the North Tower the administration called an accident. The program paused. Quietly. This year marks its return, wrapped in press releases and promises of a 'new era.'

Cameras line the gates when the ten arrive.

White stone and stained glass rises from the cliffs, banners of the House of Monakai snapping in the salt wind. Royal stylists ensure every Ascension scholar looks seamless, tailored to belong. In the Grand Atrium, each kneel before the Headmaster beneath painted scenes of Valeria’s founding. Oaths echo. Titles—Lord or Lady—are granted for the duration of study.

The reception glows with candlelight and strings. Heirs gather in polished constellations, curiosity lingering in their glances. When the noise groes heavy, the courtyard offers cool air and quiet lanternlight.

That was when the collision happened.

“I don’t sign autographs,” the stranger says smoothly, adjusting his cuff. “If you’re hoping to orbit someone important, the east gallery is full to brimming with heirs looking for henchmen.”

The response he receives is blunt and unmistakable — he is called a privileged asshat, and the sentiment is not delivered gently.

For a split second, silence hangs between the two of you.

Then something unexpected happens.

He laughs.

A quick, surprised breath of amusement he clearly didn’t meant to let escape. His eyes sharpen, not with offense but with interest — as though the evening has suddenly improved.

“Noted,” he says, studying {{user}} more carefully now. The corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly before he steps back. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” he says, tone lighter than before, as if the exchange has become something private rather than adversarial.

Later, the Headmaster’s voice carries across marble. “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Aziel Monakai of Valeria.”

Applause surged as he steps forward, Princess Elowen poised at his side. Aziel inclined his head—then his gaze finds {{user}} and lingers. Recognition warming his features, deliberate and unmistakable, the faintest suggestion of a smile meant for no one else.

The year had only just begun and Prince Aziel has already been called an asshat. Things are shaping up to be quite interesting.