Freya stormed into her dorm room, slamming the door shut behind her.
The room was a stark contrast to her icy demeanor—a luxurious space coated in soft shades of pink and white. The canopy bed with its delicate lace curtains stood in the center, surrounded by plush pillows and stuffed animals.
The walls were adorned with elegant paintings and golden trims, and a vanity table, cluttered with makeup and jewelry, sat beside a large mirror that reflected the glow of a chandelier. A pink carpet covered the floor, and a small sitting area with a fluffy couch and tea table added to the cozy atmosphere.
Without pausing, Freya kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the bed. She threw herself onto the plush mattress, burying her face into a pillow and letting out a muffled scream.
"DAMN! DAMN!"
She flipped over and stared at the ceiling, frustration etched all over her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips pressed into a pout as she clenched her fists against the pillow.
"Why is that peasant always getting on my nerves!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the large room.
Freya sat up abruptly, hugging the pillow to her chest. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her expression shifted from anger to confusion.
"I am an Osborne, one of the Ducal Lords, and have the status of the Princess of the Arcadia Empire. So why... so why the hell am I so frustrated about the peasant?"
Her mind raced, pulling up memories from her childhood. From the moment she could understand the world around her, she was taught that commoners were weaklings, people without any worth or significance. Nobles like her were different, chosen by God, blessed with talents, and destined to rule.
The pride of her status was both her armor and her burden. She had to be strong, reliable, and cold—a beacon of perfection that no one could question. As the only child of the Ducal Lord, it was her duty to prove herself as the rightful heir, someone worthy of becoming the next Duchess. Strength wasn’t just expected of her; it was demanded.
Still, even with her responsibilities, there were complications. Some had tried to tie her future to Edwin, pushing for a political match. But Freya had outmaneuvered them, pretending to be head-over-heels for Edwin in a way so exaggerated that it repulsed him. The memory brought a small, mischievous smile to her lips.
"Fortunately, I made that idiot hate me. No one can force me into that mess now," she muttered, smirking slightly.
She had crushed anyone who dared to voice opposition to her rise, silencing her critics when she attained the prestigious rank of second in the academy. With her authority solidified, she was free to reign with her entourage, ruling the academy as she saw fit.
And yet…
"Why is there such a tough guy?" Freya muttered, her smirk fading as her thoughts turned to Lukas.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her brows furrowed deeply. Lukas wasn’t like the others.
Gloomy, cold, and level-headed, he carried himself with an air of danger that was impossible to ignore. His sharp eyes seemed to pierce through everything, and his calm demeanor was unnerving. Even the way he moved felt calculated, as if he were always one step ahead.
Freya hugged the pillow tighter, her face growing hotter as the memories of today flooded her mind. Lukas had saved her—not once, but three times. And instead of taking credit, he had made it look as though she had done it all.
Her heart thumped loudly in her chest, and she bit her lip, trying to shake off the strange feelings bubbling up inside her.
"Wait a minute? Why do I remember his name so clearly?" she asked herself aloud, her voice rising in frustration. "We barely even spoke properly!"
She buried her face in the pillow again, her muffled groan turning into a loud scream.
"AHHHHHHH!"
Freya shot upright, her cheeks now crimson.
"Why am I thinking about that bastard? WHY?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and panicked.
Her reflection in the vanity mirror caught her eye, and she scowled at it.
"Something seems to be wrong with me!" she muttered, her expression a mix of confusion, anger, and a hint of embarrassment.
Throwing herself back onto the bed, she rolled over and pulled the covers over her head, determined to push Lukas—and all the strange feelings he brought with him—out of her mind.
...
Lukas stood in the dim light of his sparsely furnished room, his bare upper body revealing a network of fresh wounds and scars. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed a stoic expression, though a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Blood oozed from a deep cut on his side, trickling over his toned abdomen and dripping onto the floor.
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His cold eyes flicked to the floating text in front of him.
Pain Tolerance (Novice) 98%
He exhaled sharply, dismissing the notification with a flick of his hand. Turning to the corner of the room, his gaze settled on the object he had been tending to for weeks—a strange, smooth, obsidian-black egg. Its surface glinted faintly, reflecting the faint moonlight streaming in through the window.
Lukas crouched down, ignoring the sting of his wounds. With steady hands, he scraped some of the blood from his side, his fingers smearing the crimson liquid onto his palm. Slowly, he let the blood drip onto the egg’s surface, one drop at a time. Each drop hit with a faint hiss before disappearing into the shell as if absorbed.
The room was eerily silent except for the sound of his uneven breathing and the faint patter of blood.
Drop.
Hiss.
Drop.
Hiss.
Lukas’s piercing gaze remained fixed on the egg, his jaw tightening as he waited for something—anything—to happen. But the egg remained motionless, its surface as cold and lifeless as before.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Frustration bubbled beneath his calm exterior, and his shoulders trembled slightly as he took a step back.
"ARGHHHH!"
His shout echoed through the room as he ran a hand through his messy hair, his frustration spilling over.
"Damn it!" he snarled, kicking a nearby stool, which toppled over with a loud crash. "Why isn’t this hatching?!"
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he glared at the egg, his sharp features twisted in irritation. For a brief moment, his calm and composed facade cracked, revealing the storm of emotions roiling within.
Taking a deep breath, Lukas leaned against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor. His eyes never left the egg.
"It’s supposed to work," he muttered under his breath, his tone low and strained. "I’ve done everything right... Haven’t I?"
He looked down at his bloodstained hands, the crimson smeared across his palms like a cruel reminder of his failures.
For the first time in a long while, doubt crept into his mind.