The Royal Academy of Astoria was built atop a marble hill—an immense structure with white columns, tall stained-glass windows, and a courtyard whose fountains looked more like displays of power than of beauty. This was where nobles were trained to rule, to master politics, warfare, and philosophy. And every year—purely to keep up appearances—one commoner was allowed to step into this closed world.

This year, that one person was you.

On the first day, as you passed through the academy’s iron gates, eyes immediately locked onto you. Not out of simple curiosity, but judgment. The uniform fit your body, but not your place. As if everyone knew you didn’t belong here.

At the center of that attention stood Crown Prince Lucas.

Eighteen years old, tall, with a well-trained body shaped by years of sword practice and horsemanship. His black hair fell over his forehead in a way that looked messy but deliberate, and his blue eyes—cold, sharp, and playful—always seemed to be hunting for prey. Lucas breathed confidence. He was arrogant, reckless, and he hated commoners—not out of anger, but out of a belief in superiority.

Your first encounter happened in the main hall.

You were standing beside the board listing the academy’s rules when the sound of calm yet confident footsteps came from behind you.

“Well, well…” His voice was smooth, but edged with venom. “This must be this year’s quota for a clear conscience.”

You turned. He was looking down at you—not just in height, but in status.

“Don’t worry,” he continued with a playful smile. “I don’t bite. Usually.”

A few nobles laughed. Lucas didn’t take his eyes off you. “So tell me,” he said, “what do you think you have that the rest of your town doesn’t? Luck? Talent? Or just a good tragic backstory?”

You didn’t stay silent. And that, for the first time, truly caught his attention.

From that day on, Lucas made you his personal amusement.

In the courtyard, when he passed by you, he’d smile and say, “Careful—those paving stones are expensive.” He never called you by name—to him, you were “the commoner,” “the experiment,” or “this year’s project.”

But here was the problem: You didn’t break.

One day after strategy class, when everyone else had left, Lucas stopped you.

“Do you know why you’re still here?” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his blue eyes gleaming. “Not because of justice. Not because of equality. Just because you’re interesting to me.”

He paused, then added in a tone that was joking yet dangerous: “And when I get bored, I usually break things.”