The infirmary was packed with students who were still shaking violently but the blood had stopped. It seems like they were still traumatized by the whole experience. Some continued to scream for help whiles others went through silent torture.
"They are fine." Princess Nyreal said with her arms crossed.
"They are?" Lucen asked.
"It is just the aftershocks. They will be fine soon enough." Princess Nyreal said, her tone still unforgiving.
"Princess Nyreal, allow me to apologize on behalf of these students." Headmaster Verill said, bracing himself for the the worse.
"That is not necessary. It was not your doing but theirs. If anyone is to apologize, it is them but unfortunately for them, I do not need their apology." Princess Nyreal turned to leave but turned after the first step, her head turned but not completely. "Are you coming?" She said, her voice stern causing what was meant to be a question to sound more like a command.
Lucen turned to Headmaster Verill then Monk Vaelen then to the students who were still in a coma before turning to Princess Nyreal. "Yes…My Princess." He said, his voice lingering longer than expected before he followed.
Princess Nyreal moved out only to meet the school president at the door, their eyes fixed on each other, a silent challenge in their depths.
"Well, hello there. You happened to be unavailable when the massacre happen. Do you have any knowledge on the fight? Preferrably… how it started?" Princess Nyreal asked, her eyes fixed and her intentions clear; this boy knew something.
The president bowed respectfully. "My apologies on behalf of the student body, My Princess. This seldom happens…"
"'Seldom happens'?" Princess Nyreal interrupted mid-sentence. "So it happens but 'seldom'?" She said with her eyebrow raised.
The president did not waver, his eyes still glued to Princess Nyreal's, for he knew the game she was playing. "I sincerely apologize, My Princess, but do not blame the students for your insecurities."
Princess Nyreal's eyes perked up as a slow smile appeared on her face.
"Do not blame your inability to perform your presidential duties on some delusional insecurities you have created. As a matter of fact, you should thank me for lending a hand. The job seemed too much for you."
She nodded and walked past him, then whispered, making sure it entered his skull.
"The next time I have to handle any of your students because of your incompetence, I will not only make sure that they are doomed, but that you also get a taste of their… delectable fate."
She said this and continued on her way.
Lucen walked behind Princess Nyreal, but could feel the president's silent glare as they walked.
Once they arrived at the Royal Chambers, Lucen turned toward his room, ready to collapse onto the bed after a long, soothing soak — to rest his aching bones after such a confusing, excruciating day. But his thoughts were immediately interrupted because…
"Lucen, my room, now!" Princess Nyreal demanded as she walked to her room.
Lucen stood there with a long sigh and dragged his feet after them, shoulders slumped as the weight of the day had doubled. The poor boy wasn't asking for much — just a bed, a blanket, maybe ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, and the sweet luxury of pretending the world didn't exist. But no — apparently, it was too much to ask because destiny had other plans, and none of them involved a nap.
Lucen entered the room not long after Princess Nyreal but she was already seated on the bed, legs crossed and eyes fixed on Lucen.
"Why did you insist that they be spared?" Princess Nyreal asked, her eyes fixated and narrowed. "You saw what I saw, did you not? Was it not disgusting to you?
"You wanted them dead?" Lucen asked, surprised.
"The price they had to pay was more than death, Lucen. What they did was repulsive and unforgivable." Princess Nyreal pronounced.
"But I could not let you go through with it. It would only spark a flame for war. Princess Nyreal, causing a large massacre on The Soulborne Academy grounds for no known reason." Lucen headlined.
Princess Nyreal's eyes perked up as the realization hit her. "That is why he stood there doing nothing." She said to herself, but audible enough.
"Who?" Lucen asked, confusion returning.
"The president… He was there the whole time." Princess Nyreal said, her eyes twitching with building rage.
"Is that why you said those things to him?" Lucen said, finally understanding.
Princess Nyreal nodded. "I would not be surprised if he knew something about that fight."
"Do you think this is the coup My King was referring to?" Lucen asked.
"Might be, but we can not be certain. I have to keep my eyes peeled from now on." Princess Nyreal said to herself. "You can leave. I need to think." She dismissed.
Lucen bowed his head and left the room.
He reached his room, confusion still clouding his mind like a storm that refused to break. Questions pressed against him, heavy and relentless. Would the people of Solara truly dare to plan another coup? Would the students, even after their predecessors failed miserably five times before, still rise against Noxmere? Could this attempt succeed where all others had collapsed in blood and silence? Would Solara finally breathe free, independent of Noxmere's shadow? And most unsettling of all — why was he thinking this much? Why did the thought of rebellion stir something inside him? Did he secretly long for Solara's independence, or did his loyalty lie with Noxmere, the conquerors who had shaped his fate?
The contradictions gnawed at him. His heart leaned one way, his mind another, and neither offered peace. Every possibility seemed to fracture him further. He was a prince caught between two worlds — Solara's desperate hope and Noxmere's iron grip — and the weight of both pressed down until even breathing felt like betrayal.
It was all so very confusing.
…
Meanwhile, somewhere on campus…
"The plan was perfect," one student said, frustrated, his fist striking the table. "Everything was executed flawlessly. How could we fail?"
"The peasant," another replied, arms crossed, gaze steady. "At first glance, I thought he could not care less about the people around him. But for some reason, he just had to care."
A third leaned forward, voice low. "That's what unsettles me. He doesn't belong here, yet he keeps interfering. It's as if fate itself bends toward him."
"Friends…" a calm voice interrupted. "Let us not think the plan was foiled. This is all part of it."
All the students turned to their comrade who sat among them, his tone measured, his eyes gleaming with calculation.
"Now we know the princess has a heart beneath all that darkness — fragile, unstable. And lucky for us, there is no special mechanism to shield her emotions. We have our task cut out for us. All we must do is magnify her weakness, use her immense power against her, make her downfall inevitable… and with her, all of Noxmere."
Silence followed, heavy and uncertain. Then another student spoke, hesitant. "But what if she resists? What if her bond with the peasant strengthens instead of breaks?"
"Then we turn it against her," the leader answered sharply. "Every bond is a chain. Chains can be pulled, twisted, snapped. If she clings to him, we make him the weapon that destroys her."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, though not all voices joined. One student shifted uneasily. "And if we fail again?"
The leader smirked, adjusting his shirt as he rose. "Failure is only a rehearsal. Each attempt teaches us more. This time, we strike at the heart. Next time, we strike at her crown. And when the crown falls, Noxmere falls with it."
…
Weeks passed before the students finally regained consciousness. The academy remained suspended in silence, its lessons halted, its corridors echoing with unease. Fear lingered like smoke after a fire — thick, suffocating, impossible to dispel. Some students went home, unable to endure the weight of memory. Those who stayed kept their distance, inventing diversions to occupy their minds, clinging to laughter that rang hollow, brittle, and short-lived.
In the Royal Chambers, Princess Nyreal withdrew into solitude, her presence veiled behind closed doors. Lucen, too, retreated, drowning himself in sound — his headset blaring at its highest volume, as though noise could erase the world. Yet no matter how loud the music, the visions replayed endlessly.
The fight itself haunted him: the cruelty, the despicable nature of humans revealed in desperation. But worse still were the visions Lumen had forced upon him. They returned in fragments — faces twisted in torment, bodies broken, souls crying out for justice. He could not decide if they were illusions meant to break his resolve or glimpses of reality too terrible to accept.
Did Lumen show him those horrors only to make him cave, to surrender and allow Her to destroy mankind? Or were they true — real people suffering, neglected, tortured, forgotten? If they were false, then She was manipulative beyond measure. If they were true, then humanity itself was drowning in agony, and his refusal to yield made him complicit in their pain.
The questions gnawed at him, relentless. His loyalty wavered, his heart torn between pity and defiance. He wanted to believe mortals deserved another chance, yet the images whispered otherwise. Each possibility was unbearable: if false, he was deceived; if true, he was powerless.
Lucen pressed the headset tighter, but the music could not drown the silence between beats. In that silence, he heard echoes of Lumen's words: "Destiny cannot be cheated… embrace your destiny." The phrase coiled around him like a chain. Was this torment part of that destiny? Was he meant to carry the burden of judgment, or resist it until it consumed him?
And in the quiet of his chamber, Lucen grew afraid. What was all this talk about destiny? He had heard it twice already, and each time the word pressed against his chest like a stone. It was suffocating. His mother had spoken of it before he entered these walls, and now even a divine echoed the same refrain. Was his destiny truly so terrifying? What was so dreadful about it that Judgment Herself had joined in the chorus, as though eager to remind him of what awaited?
True, they told him not to interfere — but their silence was no comfort. Instead, they left him with fragments, riddles, reasons to keep questioning, to keep resisting. Every warning felt less like guidance and more like a trap, pushing him to consider paths he did not want to walk.
The word destiny itself became unbearable. It was no longer a promise of greatness but a shadow that clung to him, whispering inevitability with every step. He wondered if destiny was not a gift at all, but a curse — one that pressed upon his soul, heavy and unrelenting, beyond even the gods' mercy.
He rose from his bed and paced the chamber, each step heavy with uncertainty. Was he meant to be savior or destroyer? Was his role to shield mortals from judgment, or to deliver them into it? The visions Lumen had shown him blurred with memory, twisting into nightmares that refused to fade. He wanted to believe he had a choice, but every breath reminded him that choice itself might be the illusion.
Outside, the halls of the academy remained hushed, but Lucen felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him. Perhaps destiny was not waiting in some distant future — perhaps it had already begun, unfolding in silence, shaping him without consent. And as the shadows deepened across his chamber, he realized the most terrifying truth: the next time he heard Lumen's voice, it might not be in visions, but in judgment.