Isabella Pyralis arrived at Lumina Academy with considerably less dignity than Elara Glaciem, and infinitely more style. While the Glaciem heir had glided in on a wave of cold precision, Isabella had blasted in on a wave of pure, unadulterated chaos. She rode, not in a carriage, but on the back of a young Cinder-Wyrm, a dragon whose scales shimmered like cooling magma and whose every breath left a trail of glittering embers in the air.
Technically, flying a dragon onto Academy grounds was against regulations. Technically, landing said dragon in the middle of the main courtyard with a ground-shaking thud and a shower of sparks that sent first-years diving for cover was also against regulations. But Isabella Pyralis operated on the principle that regulations were merely suggestions for people who weren't interesting enough to ignore them. No one, not a single instructor or sentinel, moved to stop her. A Pyralis was going to do what a Pyralis was going to do, and getting in their way was a good way to get flambéed.
She swung herself off the dragon's back with an athletic grace, her crimson hair flying around her like a banner of war. She was shorter than Elara, with a compact, powerful build that spoke of constant, rigorous training. Her amber-gold eyes, with their distinctive vertical pupils, scanned the courtyard, not with cold assessment, but with a hungry, predatory glee. She wasn't here to study. She was here to fight, to conquer, to burn.
"Alright, who's in charge of sparring practice?" she yelled, her voice a cheerful roar that echoed across the courtyard. "I've been cooped up on that flight for days and my fists are getting bored!"
She was immediately in her element. Within ten minutes, she had challenged a cocky upperclassman to a duel (and won), flirted outrageously with a handsome Elven archer from House Kaelum, and started an argument with a stuffy Glaciem prefect over the definition of "excessive force." She was making friends and enemies with equal, boundless enthusiasm. She was exactly who she appeared to be: a walking, talking, fire-breathing impulse.
And she was also not that at all.
Beneath the fire, beneath the battle-craving and the boisterous charm, was a keen and calculating political mind. Her father, the Lord of House Pyralis, had drilled it into her since she was a whelp. "Let them see the fire, daughter," he had told her, his voice a low rumble like a volcano about to erupt. "Let them think you are all heat and no thought. Let them underestimate you. A fool with a sword is a danger. A fool who is also a master strategist is a queen."
Her instructions for the Academy were simple and direct. One: Strengthen the Scorched Alliance. The Noctis heir, Elsa, was also in attendance. Isabella was to reinforce their family's pact, to present a united front of opposition to the throne. Two: Identify weaknesses in the other Great Houses. Find their pressure points, their hidden shames, their most valuable assets. Three: And above all, *watch the Imperials*. The Pyralis grudge against the Solarius Dynasty for their betrayal in the War of Sundering ran three thousand years deep. It was a fire that had been carefully banked, waiting for the right moment to be unleashed.
Her internal monologue was a chaotic symphony of impulse and strategy. *That upperclassman's stance was sloppy. Good power, no technique. Easy win. The elf was cute, but his eyes kept flicking towards the Headmaster's Tower. Probably an Imperial informant. Note that. The Glaciem prefect… ugh. Arguing with him was like trying to set water on fire. Pointless and frustrating.*
From across the courtyard, she saw the procession of ice-carriages arriving. She watched as Elara Glaciem descended, a perfect, frozen doll in the midst of her perfect, frozen entourage. A familiar spark of competitive rage ignited in Isabella's chest.
*There she is,* Isabella thought, a grin spreading across her face. *The Ice Queen herself. Look at her, all calm and logical. I bet she calculates the optimal number of breaths to take per minute. Someone needs to mess up her perfect little equation.*
She genuinely couldn't understand Elara. Why would anyone choose to be so… cold? So controlled? Where was the fun in that? Where was the passion? To Isabella, a life without fire, without risk, without the thrill of battle, was a life not worth living. She resolved to make it her personal mission to get a rise out of the Glaciem heir. It would be her pet project for the semester.
As she was mentally plotting ways to annoy Elara, her gaze drifted past the Glaciem procession and fell upon the entrance to Blackwood Hall. And she saw him.
He was just a figure, standing in the shadows of the doorway, half-hidden. But he stood out because he was so utterly, unnaturally still. While the rest of the courtyard was a whirlwind of motion and emotion—students greeting each other, instructors shouting orders, her own dragon impatiently scratching at the flagstones—this boy was a point of absolute tranquility. He was pale, dressed in black, with dark hair. A Mournblade, probably. They all looked like they'd just attended a funeral.
But it was his stillness that captured her attention. It wasn't the stillness of fear, or shyness. It was the patient, coiled stillness of a predator. A snake waiting for a mouse to wander too close. He was watching the chaos, the arrivals, the power plays, with an unnerving lack of reaction. He was just… observing. Recording.
Isabella, whose entire being was geared towards action and reaction, found the boy's absolute calm deeply unsettling. It was like a vacuum in the middle of a bonfire. Her instincts, honed on a thousand battlefields and in a hundred political sparring matches, screamed at her that this boy, this pale, still figure in the shadows, was dangerous. Not in the obvious, explosive way she was dangerous. In a quiet, subtle, hidden way.
*Who is that?* she wondered, her earlier thoughts of Elara completely forgotten. *The Mournblade second son, Damon, according to the roster.* She filed the observation away, tucking it into the part of her mind that dealt with genuine threats, not just amusing rivals.
The fire that burned in Isabella Pyralis was not just for show. It was also a forge, and in its heat, it could sense the presence of other, colder, darker elements. She had come to the Academy looking for a fight. She had a feeling she was going to find more than she had bargained for. And the thought made her smile.